Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (2 page)

Doucette wondered why. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug as he replenished their glasses, murmuring that in his opinion it was more than likely something better had come up. It happened all the time in the restaurant business. But at least it wasn’t a ‘no show’. That was the worst crime of all.

Having rounded off the evening with a generous portion of
tarte tatin
laced with
crème fraîche
from a bowl left on the table, goodbyes said, promises made to come back soon, cries of
bonne soirée
ringing in their ears, they had headed for home, following a route that took them across the Place de la Concorde – crowded as ever – and on up past the Gare St Lazare towards the Place de Clichy.

It was in the Place de Clichy that Monsieur Pamplemousse had his first intimation of there being something amiss. Normally on a Saturday night it was an area to avoid, but for once it was almost deserted and they were through it in no time at all.

Carrying on up the rue Caulaincourt, they passed Arnaud Larher’s pâtisserie on their left, and Doucette, her mind still dwelling on their meal, announced that on the morrow she would brave the downhill and back up again journey between their home and the shop to buy some lemon tarts.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mouth had watered at the thought. Larher’s lemon tarts weren’t simply the best in all Paris, they were out of this world. They positively melted in the mouth, leaving an exquisite aftertaste. The secret, so he had read, lay in baking the
petit sablé
pastry separately so that it retains its crunchiness, brushing it with egg yolk immediately it came out of the oven to seal it, before adding the lemon cream. But he was sure that was only half the story. Hard work and attention to detail played a large part too.

‘I shouldn’t bank on it,’ he said gloomily.

‘Why ever not?’ said Doucette. ‘I can phone ahead and make sure they keep some for me.’

Rounding a right-hand bend halfway up the hill, Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to the road ahead. ‘That’s why,’ he said.

It was piled high on either side with hailstones. In the pale light from the street lamps they looked for all the world like heaps of giant white marbles.

It was
extraordinaire
. He had never seen anything quite like it before. It must have been a freak storm, and despite the heat the ice showed no sign of melting. It was no wonder the people who telephoned the restaurant had abandoned the idea of going out.

A number 80
autobus
heading towards them in the middle of the road flashed its lights as a warning. Having pulled in to his right to let it go
past, he then had difficulty setting off again.

A little further on, past the brow of the hill and going down the other side, he made to turn into the avenue Junot on the final lap of their journey, and having got into a slide, came to rest with the near side of his 2CV jammed against a wall of ice.

That was it! Enough was enough. He decided to call it a day and leave the car where it was until morning. Woe betide any meter maid who gave him a ticket in the meantime.

Pommes Frites eyed his surroundings gloomily as he clambered out through the roof. He’d been looking forward to his postprandial walk after they got home and he’d had a chance to slake his thirst. Now it was clearly out of the question.

All around them there were signs of the storm. It was
incroyable
. There was no other word for it. Trees had been stripped of their leaves; in some places smaller ones were uprooted, lying on their sides as though having been plucked out of the ground by some giant hand.

Lights from the upper floors of surrounding buildings were on and people could be seen leaning out of their windows gesticulating to each other as they surveyed the damage.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath as the montage of events flashed past in what can have amounted to only a split second or two in real time, but felt as though it had gone on forever.

He must pull himself together. It was incumbent upon him to do his best.

All in all he was pleased with his oration so far. It seemed to have gone down well. It had been his original intention to mention that there had been a small round hole in the middle of Gaston’s forehead, but in the event that hadn’t proved necessary. Clearly all those present had been entirely happy with his toned-down version of what had taken place. Anyway, he’d had his orders not to say too much.

He was about to resume when … talk of the Devil … there was a momentary flash of light at the far end of the chapel, followed by a loud bang as the entrance door swung shut.

Heads turned, and following their gaze he saw the familiar figure of Pommes Frites hurrying down the aisle towards him. As always, there was a regal air about the way he carried himself, much like a Monarch of the Glen. It set him apart from other dogs, and a murmur went round the crematorium as the congregation followed his progress. A few, emboldened by hearing of the part he had played in finding Lefarge, and assuming it was yet another theatrical gesture on the part of his master, so far forget themselves as to applaud, but they were quickly silenced by those around them.

Thank goodness, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, Doucette had attached a black ribbon to his collar
before they left home. At the time he had considered it merely a token gesture, but clearly it hadn’t passed unnoticed, and went some way towards mitigating what others obviously deemed an embarrassing intrusion.

He was on the point of reaching for his silent dog whistle, but he had left it too late. Pommes Frites had other things on his mind. He was wearing his purposeful expression. Clearly he was perturbed about something. Head held high, looking neither to the right nor to the left, he went past his master without so much as a blink of recognition and headed straight towards the coffin.

Having reached it, his forehead furrowed in much the same way as the brows belonging to the hierarchy in the front row that were now fastening their gimlet stares on the intruder rather than Monsieur Pamplemousse, he paused for a moment.

Then, for reasons best known to himself, having placed both front paws on the bier, he lifted the black drape with his nose and gave a sniff which must have been clearly heard at the back of the chapel.

Slowly withdrawing his head he raised it, and in doing so allowed the cloth to hang about him like a shroud, the silver decorations adding a biblical air, not unlike the work of some early Italian master. At the same time it revealed what appeared to be a carved wooden replica of the
familiar shield with the words POLICE NATIONALE emblazed across the top; smaller versions of which normally appeared on the side of police vehicles.

Closing his eyes, Pommes Frites savoured the result of his investigation for a moment or two.

Such was his concentration he might well have been some ancient sommelier contemplating the bouquet of a rare vintage wine, awarding marks to an 1870 Lafite perhaps, whilst comparing it to a Margaux of the same year, drawing from a memory bank honed over the years by the consumption of a century and a half of lesser vintages.

It would have been a brave soul indeed to have risked dropping a pin at that moment, for the chapel had gone so quiet the sound would have echoed round it like the proverbial sledgehammer.

So intense were Pommes Frites’ thought processes, the whole congregation, which a moment before had been abuzz with mixed reactions to the scene being enacted before their eyes, now hardly dared draw breath as they awaited his verdict.

It wasn’t long in coming.

The furrows on his brow deepened still further as he dealt with some new and unforeseen problem.

He knew what he’d witnessed in the car park when the coffin arrived and was left unattended for a short time while the bearers received their instructions. He also knew all too well what he had just smelt.

There was no immediate answer to the first.
For the time being that would have to be put on what his master sometimes called ‘the back burner’. Undoubtedly all would become clear in the end.

That being so, he decided to concentrate on the latest development, which in his humble opinion was, without a shadow of doubt, not only the more important of the two, but needed addressing without further delay. Time was of the essence.

Backing away from the coffin, he turned to face the congregation, then he opened his mouth and let rip with a series of warning barks; barks so loud and unexpected followed the preceding silence, those who had the misfortune to be sitting in the first few pews were in imminent danger of collapsing onto their hassocks with shock.

Monsieur Pamplemousse, on the other hand, immediately recognised both the tone and the underlying urgency behind them. They spelt trouble with a capital
T
, and having at long last made contact with his whistle, he raised it to his lips.

Silent though it may have been as far as the congregation was concerned, the effect it had on Pommes Frites more than substantiated the manufacturer’s claims as to its efficacy.

The shroud covering his head fell to the ground as he performed an about-turn. Having given a double-take when he spotted the source of the call to action, he headed towards his master as though
his very life and the lives of all those around him depended on it.

Fearing the worst, Monsieur Pamplemousse instinctively grabbed hold of the lectern a split second before Pommes Frites cannoned into it. Holding on as tightly as he could as it rocked on its base he felt something cold and metallic under his right hand and realised to his horror that he had made contact with the very thing he had been at pains to avoid.

A gasp of horror rose from the congregation as the coffin slowly and inexorably began moving along its rails. Doors slid silently apart to allow it free passage. Then, as it disappeared from view, just as silently came together again, bringing the service effectively to an end.

Pommes Frites, who in fairness was as surprised as anyone by what had happened, let out a howl of such baleful quality a shiver ran through the congregation, and those nearest to him, most of whom had only just recovered from their first shock, instinctively cowered back in their pews.

Slinking out of the chapel a few minutes later, hardly knowing which way to look, wishing the ground would open up and swallow them both, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself accosted by one of the bigwigs; no less a person than the Chief Commissaire himself.

‘
A débâcle
!’ he boomed. ‘A
débâcle
, the like of
which I have never before encountered in the whole of my long career.’

‘An unfortunate send-off,’ agreed a smaller acolyte with a pencil moustache; a born ‘yes-man’ if ever Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen one. He disliked him on sight.

‘How could you possibly have allowed it to happen?’ continued the Commissaire. He glanced distastefully towards Pommes Frites, hovering discreetly on the sidelines. ‘If that is your hound, he should have been suitably tethered.’

‘I left him locked in my car,
Monsieur
.’

The Commissaire’s lip curled. ‘Are you telling me opening locked doors is another of his unhappy accomplishments?’

‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively, ‘during his time with the
Sûreté
Pommes Frites acquired many skills. If you peruse his records, you will find that not only was he a recipient of the Pierre Armand Golden Bone for being top sniffer dog of his year, he also attended a course on various means of escape including the ability to open doors. In any case, I had left the roof on my 2CV rolled back because of the heat …’

‘That is no excuse,’ broke in the acolyte.

‘Yes! Yes!’ The Commissaire was clearly becoming impatient with his underling too. ‘In most other respects your address was a model of all that it should have been. Save for a few unnecessary
excursions into the realms of sick humour it struck exactly the right notes.’

‘
Merci, Monsieur
.’

‘Tell me …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse never did get to hear what he wished to know, for at that moment the air was rent by a muffled explosion and the last he saw of the Commissaire was the back of his head as it disappeared beneath a mound of hangers on.

Trained to protect their superior in moments of danger, they flung themselves on top of him with a gusto reminiscent of a rugby scrum during an International at the Stade de France. Arms and legs flew in all directions.

Fortunately, as far as he could make out during the brief time at his disposal, all the relative limbs remained attached to their rightful owners. But that was about all that could be said for certain, before a cloud of dust slowly descended on them all.

In retrospect, when Monsieur Pamplemousse was asked to describe the moment, he remembered the explosion as being more of a flat bang, spreading shock waves in all directions from its epicentre somewhere inside the chapel. At the same time he was aware of a large hole appearing in one of the walls and the sky being full of birds. The eerie silence which followed was broken only by the patter of falling debris.

What it must have been like in the chapel itself was hard to imagine and his first thought had been for any staff who might be trapped inside, but to his relief a moment later he saw figures appearing one by one from behind some bushes. They looked as shaken by what had happened as did everyone else.

There was a surreal quality about the scene; it
was not unlike a battlefield, where some unseen General had blown a whistle signalling half-time.

All around him dazed people were slowly clambering to their feet, retrieving hats, brushing themselves down. An alarm bell started to ring, somehow bringing everything back to reality again. A man near him gave a wry laugh and muttered something about shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.

Only Pommes Frites looked relatively unshaken. Having been listening to the exchange of words between his master and the others with growing concern, pricking up his ears every time he heard his name mentioned, he was wearing his ‘I could have told you so’ expression.

He had known what he had known and events had proved him right. Had he not acted as he did, then half the hierarchy of the Paris police force would almost certainly have been blown to Kingdom Come along with a good few others, including both himself and his master.

As for Monsieur Pamplemousse, his evident satisfaction on Pommes Frites’ behalf for the way he had performed was tempered with the certain knowledge that a fuse had been lit; one which would be hard to extinguish. How long a fuse it was and where it would lead to was anyone’s guess, but one thing was certain: from now on there would be no going back.

‘I am not of the Catholic persuasion,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘but if I were, I think I would be inclined to subscribe to that branch of it known as Jansenism. Correct me if I am wrong, but as I understand it they believe in predestination.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse avoided the other’s gaze, partly because he was still in a slight state of shock himself, but also because it was a subject he would rather not dwell on for the time being.

His own and Mr Pickering’s paths had crossed more than once, and over the years they had become firm friends. However, much as he liked and respected his opposite number, he wasn’t always easy to read. As with many English people he had met over the years, Mr Pickering’s speech was peppered with
non sequiturs
and it was as well to pause now and then in order to look carefully between the lines in case you missed some vital piece of information. Before committing himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt he would like to know why his friend had been at Gaston’s funeral in the first place.

With that in mind he had suggested having lunch together before going their separate ways. He wondered whether the answer would come while they were perusing the menu or later on over coffee. In the event it wasn’t long after they had started on the first course that Mr Pickering dipped a toe into the water.

‘Take our meeting like this,’ he said. ‘The fact that you were reading the tribute …’

‘It was always Gaston’s wish that I should say a few words if anything untoward happened to him,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He would have done the same for me had the positions been reversed.’

‘But surely it isn’t as simple as that,’ persisted Mr Pickering. ‘There has to be some explanation over and above our get-together being merely the culmination of a whole series of extraordinary coincidences. That’s what I mean about Jansenism.

‘For example, who would have predicted a freak hailstorm in Paris on one of the hottest days of the year? Looking through the relevant press cuttings, certainly not the weather men.’

‘They were taken by surprise like everyone else,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and it was very local. When Doucette and I left home that evening it didn’t occur to either of us that we would need a coat. We were lucky to have escaped without a soaking.’

‘Another thing … take Pommes Frites finding the body as he did.’ Mr Pickering began ticking off the points one by one. ‘Also the fact that Gaston had been in your neck of the woods that evening in the first place. As I understand it, he lives … lived on the other side of Paris …’

‘That didn’t stop us seeing each other from time to time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Granted. But from all I gathered listening to your eulogy, you weren’t expecting to see him the night of the storm …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘We shall probably never know. Perhaps it was simply a matter of chance that he happened to be in the area.’ Reaching for a bottle of Muscadet, he topped up their glasses.

‘Besides, I might ask you the same question. What were you doing at the funeral?’

‘Like ships at sea, our paths crossed from time to time, in much the same way as do yours and mine.’ It was Mr Pickering’s turn to hedge. ‘Who would have thought a few days ago we would be sitting here having lunch together?’ He helped himself, first of all to a second helping of herrings, then some sliced potatoes from open dishes that had been left on the table.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to follow suit.

Both were as fresh as could be; the herrings, plump and of the highest quality, must have rested in milk first of all to remove the saltiness. Arranged head to tail in a flat open dish, they had been cooked in a Dieppe style marinade of white wine and vinegar, along with sliced onions, carrots, peppercorns and coriander seeds. A bay leaf or two, some sprigs of thyme, and some olive oil completed the ensemble.

The potatoes, firmly fleshed and waxy – from the pale creamy colour and the distinctive flavour of chestnuts he judged them to be ‘ratte’ – were still warm, and the olive oil that had been sprinkled over them was again beyond reproach. The bread, too, tasted fresh and was clearly from the second baking of the day.

The restaurant had been the first likely looking one they had come across. The view through the window of red-check tablecloths, gleaming copper pots and pans over the fireplace, sepia pictures of times past on the walls, had lured them in and they had not been disappointed. Despite the lateness of the hour, Madame welcomed them with open arms, bustling around like a mother hen, making sure they were comfortable.

He wished now he had thought to bring his notebook. The little bistro was a find and no mistake; worthy of a ‘wrought iron table and chair’ icon. Working as he did for
Le Guide
, France’s premier restaurant bible, it was an unwritten rule that no Inspector should ever be without a notebook. But, as Mr Pickering had just said, who would have thought it?

In the normal course of events he would have said his goodbyes to everyone and been heading back to Paris by now. Apart from which, he was wearing his best suit and it lacked the special hidden pocket sewn into the right leg of his working clothes.

He would have to rely on memory.

‘Now Gaston is no longer with us.’ Mr Pickering broke into his deliberations. ‘And if it hadn’t been for Pommes Frites, a good many others would have joined him.’

‘They do say that when people die their body fills with gas,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, anxious to move away from the subject. ‘And it was several days before Gaston was found. As you well know, Pommes Frites is blessed with extrasensory perception when it comes to smelling things out. Besides, he probably wanted to pay his last respects.’

‘Pull the other one,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘It’s got bells on.’

‘Qu’est que c’est
?’

‘Look, I know that Gaston had been shot.’

‘You do?’

Mr Pickering nodded. ‘Word gets around. It’s one of the reasons why I’m over here. The story goes that it wasn’t so much the scent that aroused Pommes Frites’ interest as the colour of the ice around the spot where Gaston had fallen before being submerged by the hailstones.

‘I also know he was on to something big. He didn’t say what when we last spoke; it was all very hush, hush.’

‘Big enough to warrant what happened back at the crematorium? You think the two events are connected?’

‘They have to be. My guess is the whole thing was intended more in the nature of a statement. Don’t play around with us – we mean business. It was a follow-up on the shooting of Gaston. He must have been on the trail of something in Montmartre and he paid the price.

‘I’m not talking body smells – I’m talking extra Semtex perception. By my calculation, there must have been a fair old quantity of it in or on the coffin; more than enough to blow a hole in the wall of the crematorium. Did you take a close look? It’s over a foot thick in places.

‘I take it Gaston didn’t make a habit of carrying that amount of explosive on his person, and even if he did, the funeral parlour would have been remarkably remiss not to come across it when they were laying him out.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse speared a chunk of herring and, having detached it from the whole, made play of busying himself by adding some onion and carrot to an already overladen fork.

‘So you think Semtex?’

‘Since Lockerbie it’s been the current favourite. It’s relatively easy to get hold of and has a good shelf life. It’s malleable so it can be moulded to fit any situation. It’s incredibly powerful for its weight. The original version had relatively little scent, so it used to be hard to detect. It even
looks
safe.

‘There was a case recently of a Scottish couple who set out for a holiday in France and the wife, not trusting that foreign muck, took along a packet of frozen pastry, planning to make some chicken pie. The airport police came across her unattended rucksack, took the contents for Semtex, and blew it up. The controlled explosion was rather less spectacular than expected and the Scottish couple went without their pie.

‘Forgetting basic questions like who was responsible for it, and why,’ continued Mr Pickering, ‘what do you think made Pommes Frites come into the church? He must have been on the trail of something.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had been listening to the story with only half an ear. It reminded him of the insignia resting on top of the coffin. He wondered. It would be perfectly possible.

‘Bloodhounds are like that,’ he said. ‘They have enormous determination. Once they pick up a scent they never give up – they can follow it for hours. Also, it doesn’t have to be fresh. It can be many days old.’

Privately, he didn’t think Pommes Frites
had
been following a trail. His sense of smell wasn’t that good. At no time did he have his nose to the ground. His gaze had fastened on the coffin as soon as he entered the chapel.

‘He seemed to be making a bee-line for the coffin,’
said Mr Pickering, echoing his thoughts.

‘One of their drawbacks,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is an abundance of loose skin. The folds sometimes restrict their vision so much they tend to bump into things by mistake.’

‘That must have been how he came to collide with the lectern and indirectly caused the coffin to be sent on its way.’

‘A lucky accident as it turned out,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘They’ve started adding ethylene glycol nitrate to Semtex to give it more smell,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘But if he hadn’t picked up on the scent, I wonder if he saw something happen in the car park? When did the coffin get to the crematorium?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse ran through his arrival ahead of the others in order to confer with the funeral director. He remembered it being placed in position while they were talking inside the chapel and he was being shown the lectern.

‘And Pommes Frites was still outside at that point?’

‘He wasn’t inside the chapel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Put it that way. I left him in the car.’

‘All of which points to the fact that the bomb must have been timed to go off at some arbitrary point during the service. It was only by a sheer miracle that because it was cut short and finished early we
all escaped with our lives. We might have ended up alongside Gaston.

‘Forgive me,’ he added. ‘One mustn’t speak lightly about an old friend and colleague.

‘It’s a miracle there were no casualties. I gather the staff at the crematorium was equally surprised at the coffin’s early arrival behind the scenes. They were all outside having a smoke. Taking a quick drag, as we would say back home.’

He gazed down at the recumbent figure half under the table. ‘I trust Pommes Frites’ devotion to duty won’t go unrecognised.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave another shrug. He couldn’t helping thinking it would be if the Commissioner’s acolyte had any say in the matter. It was a matter of some small satisfaction to him that he was clearly not alone in his dislike of the man. He had come off much the worst in the scrimmage outside the crematorium when the bomb went off. Others in the group had seized the opportunity to make a point or two with their boots while they were at it. Any self-respecting referee with his eye on the ball would have lost no time in reaching in his top pocket for some appropriate warning cards.

‘The Commissioner said he would be recommending Pommes Frites for some kind of award. I am not sure what he has in mind.’

‘Something more than a mere mention in
dispatches, I trust,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘A bar to his Golden Bone perhaps?’

‘To be honest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he would be much happier with a real bone. He is currently particularly partial to knuckle of veal. They are getting more and more difficult to come by these days. Most of them go to restaurants where they boil them down for stock. By the time they have finished with them they are fit for neither man nor beast.’

Reaching down he administered a pat on the head. Pommes Frites, who had opened one eye at the mention of the word ‘bone’, opened the other and responded affectionately. He had been hoping his master wouldn’t take too long over the first course. Herrings were not high on his mental shopping list of desirable comestibles and he could detect the unmistakable smell of
boeuf bourguignon
coming from the kitchen.