Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (3 page)

‘There speaks the true French dog owner,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘To answer your question …’

‘
Excusez-moi.
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse withdrew a mobile from his trouser pocket.

Expecting a call from his wife, his heart sank when he realised it was a text message from Monsieur Leclercq, Director of
Le Guide
. It was short and to the point: ‘
ESTRAGON
! Return to base immediately.
Bonne journée.
’

‘I am sorry.’ He held up the screen for the other
to see. ‘It will have to wait until another time.’

‘
Bonne journée
,’ repeated Mr Pickering. ‘You know, one of the things I love about your fellow countrymen is that in times of emergency you still retain your sense of politeness. We used to have it. Once upon a time, in 1871 to be precise, when the English explorer Henry Morton Stanley met Doctor Livingstone at Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika, he commemorated the historic occasion with the simple words “Doctor Livingstone, I presume”. I fear things have gone downhill since then. It’s every man for himself nowadays, and devil take the hindmost. You can stand outside Harrods all day holding the door open and no one even notices you’re there, let alone bothers to say “thank you”.’

He looked keenly at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Trouble back at the works, I assume? A little too much tarragon in the sauce somewhere or other?’

‘Something like that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely.

‘That’s another thing I admire about you French,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Your sense of priorities in times of trouble. Any other nationality would have considered an over-abundance of a herb in the sauce small beer compared with what took place this morning.

‘Having said that, I think if you don’t mind I shall stay put and finish off this excellent meal.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation
to explain that ‘
Estragon
’ was
Le Guide’s
code word for an emergency; one that was only to be used in exceptional circumstances. In simple terms it stood for ‘Drop everything. Come at once’. There were no excuses.

Removing the napkin tucked into his collar he called for the bill, at the same time signalling Pommes Frites to his feet.

Mr Pickering rose too and held out his hand.

‘That is very kind of you,’ he said. ‘I shall be heading for the Channel tunnel, but I have little doubt that we shall meet again soon. In the meantime I trust you will take good care of Pommes Frites. I know you always maintain he is well able to look after himself, but I strongly suspect he may have upset certain people today, or shall I say – a certain
body
of people, and he won’t exactly be flavour of the month.

‘I wouldn’t want him to suffer the same fate as Rusik …’

‘Rusik?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused.

‘Rusik was a Siamese cat,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘He belonged to a Russian acquaintance of mine who was stationed near the Caspian Sea for his pains. Among his many accomplishments, Rusik had a talent for sniffing out sturgeon and through that he ran foul of the Mafia, who were smuggling large quantities out of the country for the caviar. It’s a one-billion-pound market these days.

‘To cut a long story short, Rusik’s olfactory powers proved to be his undoing. Shortly afterwards he was run down by a car, the victim of a contract killing. The final irony being that it was one of the very vehicles which had aroused his suspicions in the first place.’

It was a simple, but sobering story, and Monsieur Pamplemousse spent most of the long drive back to Paris mulling it over in his mind. One thing was certain; what was done was done and there was no going back on it. Mr Pickering’s cautionary tale had taken place in a relatively lawless part of Russia and there was no reason to suppose it would be repeated elsewhere. Or was there?

Entering the vast Da Vinci underground car park beneath the Esplanade des Invalides, Monsieur Pamplemousse deposited his 2CV on Level 1, as near to the exit on the west side as possible. He checked the time on his Cupillard Rième wrist watch. They hadn’t done badly; in all probability they were still ahead of the news about the morning’s events.

Instinctively, he found himself looking around to make sure there were no figures lurking behind any of the pillars, but the area they were in was too well illuminated for that.

All the same, his mood communicated itself to Pommes Frites, who took it upon himself to carry
out a quick survey of the other vehicles, any one of which might have provided a temporary hiding place. But he, too, drew a blank.

A blast of hot air hit them as they climbed the exit stairs and emerged into the daylight. Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around, first at the thin scattering of trees surrounding the exit, then towards a nearby clearing where the usual small group of men were playing
pétanque
beneath what little shade was afforded by the branches.

It was ridiculous, of course, but the very vastness of the esplanade somehow underlined his own and Pommes Frites’ vulnerability, and despite the intense heat he felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he turned his back on the scene.

Pommes Frites was an unmistakably large target, and he would never forgive himself were he to be the unwitting cause of his friend and mentor coming to any harm.

Having said that, Pommes Frites clearly had no such qualms; he was much more interested in the boules.

Just lately Monsieur Pamplemousse had taken to carrying with him a set of balls Doucette had given him for Christmas. For some years he had been harbouring thoughts of joining the local club in Montmartre when the day finally arrived and he had to retire. Having no wish to be treated as
a beginner, he’d begun practising whenever he had the opportunity.

Pommes Frites had given his master a magnet on a string for picking up the balls when he got really old and could no longer stoop, but that day was far away. In the meantime he was more than happy to do the job for him.

It was a satisfactory arrangement on both sides. As far as Pommes Frites was concerned, Monsieur Pamplemousse threw the boules and at a given signal he went to fetch them. In return, despite the need to give them a good rub down with the small towel no self-respecting player was ever without (it was against the rules to play with a wet boule), Monsieur Pamplemousse was more than happy to let him join in. It was good exercise.

Talking of exercise … Instead of going straight into
Le Guide’s
offices, Monsieur Pamplemousse headed towards the southern end of the esplanade. After the longish drive he suddenly felt the need to stretch his legs a little.

Reaching the Place des Invalides, he waited while a never-ending stream of tourists on bicycles went past. They were closely followed by a dozen or so figures on the latest American craze to hit Paris: Segways – two-wheeled scooter-like platforms propelled by tiny electric motors.

Gliding single file along the pavement at a
uniform rate, looking neither to the right nor to the left, their helmets combined with their upright stance to make the riders look for all the world like robotic invaders from some alien planet. Oblivious to the traffic lights and the tooting of horns, probably because most of them were unable to stop in a hurry, they crossed the road, then disappeared up the rue de Grenelle in the general direction of the Eiffel Tower.

Doubling back down the Rue Falbert, Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped outside a huge pair of anonymous wooden doors, withdrew a plastic card from an inside pocket, and applied it briefly to a metal plate set in the stone wall. There was an answering buzz and a moment later a small door let into one of the larger ones swung open to admit them.

Having at long last reached the comparative safety of
Le Guide’s
headquarters, he began to feel more cheerful as the door closed behind them. Even old Rambaud, the Gatekeeper, not exactly noted for being a bundle of laughs, looked friendlier than usual.

All the same, he didn’t really begin to relax until they were safely inside the lift.

Exiting the lift on the seventh floor, wondering what lay in store for him, Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped on a door facing him, waited a beat, then opened it and went inside.

Expecting the usual warm welcome from the Director’s secretary, he was disappointed to find the room unoccupied; in fact, not simply unoccupied, but despite the warmth of the day outside, there was a distinct chill in the air.

Pommes Frites noticed it too, and for a moment he stared mournfully at the empty chair behind the desk.

Assuming she was probably ensconced with her boss, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried on across the room and tapped gently on the door to the Director’s inner sanctum. If the matter was urgent enough to warrant the use of
Le Guide’
s emergency codeword, there was no point in standing on ceremony.

Monsieur Leclercq must have been hovering on the other side, for the door swung open almost immediately.

Having first made sure his outer office was empty, he murmured something unintelligible and waved them in.

‘
Pardon, Monsieur
?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse cupped a hand over his ear.

‘
Entrez
,’ hissed the Director.

Trying to strike a jocular note, and mindful of Mr Pickering’s earlier anecdote, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a pleasantry in return: ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’

Monsieur Leclercq gave a start. ‘Don’t tell
me they have changed the code word already, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed.

It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to look confused.

‘They?’ he repeated

‘How much do you already know of what is going on?’ demanded the Director. ‘Have you been primed?’

‘I know a certain amount,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse cautiously. ‘I am not sure how much that is, compared with the whole, or even how much it is when viewed as being a part of the whole. I only know about those things that affect me personally. You must forgive me. I was wearing the English explorer Henry Morton Stanley’s hat for a moment. The one he was wearing on the banks of the Ujiji.’

‘The banks of the Ujiji?’ repeated Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Matters are worse than I feared. Do I know this Stanley person? Why was I not told about him? Who is he working for?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered his response with care. ‘Perhaps I should wait until Véronique returns to her office,’ he began. ‘In the circumstances, I thought …’

‘Alas!’ The Director calmed down. ‘Véronique is no longer with us,’ he said sombrely.

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his blood run cold. ‘She isn’t …’

‘Dead?’ For a brief moment Monsieur Leclercq looked a broken man. ‘No, Aristide, it is worse than that I fear. Far, far worse.

‘At a time when I need a secretary more than ever, I have been left totally bereft! Véronique has walked out on me!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears. ‘Véronique has walked out on you,
Monsieur
?’ he repeated. It didn’t seem possible. ‘Has she gone for good?’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I don’t know what I would do without her. My hope is that her absence is merely the result of a temporary aberration. I put it down to the hot weather, of course, but she swept out without even so much as an
au revoir
or
a
quel dommage
.

‘The simple truth is she objected to having her handbag searched when she came in to work this morning. When I insisted, she announced she was leaving before I inflicted on her the final indignity of carrying out a strip search. Something, I can assure you, Aristide, I had no intention of doing.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, perhaps you should have. Most women look on their
sac à main
as being private territory. In my experience it is a “no go” area. Many ladies I know would regard removing their clothes as being the lesser of two evils.’

‘That may be true in the kind of circles you frequent, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director, heading across the room towards his desk, ‘but it is certainly not the case in mine.’

While his back was turned Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but notice all the slatted blinds were drawn. He had never known such a thing to happen before. Monsieur Leclercq gained a great deal of pleasure from the panoramic view of Paris afforded by the enormous picture windows occupying three sides of his rooftop office. He was apt to spend much of his time gazing out at the world, or that part of it bounded by the
périphérique
; pinpointing the many restaurants whose names graced the pages of
Le Guide
, planning which ones might need a confirmatory visit. There was even a brass plate let into the stonework of the balcony wall indicating which establishments had been honoured with Stock Pot status.

Monsieur Pamplemousse also couldn’t help being aware of the fact that the single lamp on the Director’s desk had been turned to face the visitor’s chair. Surely he wasn’t about to be grilled?

Pommes Frites, who had been occupying the
intervening time searching in vain for the water bowl which was invariably ready and waiting for him whenever he visited the Director’s office, noticed it too, and having been caught in its beam, hurriedly sought refuge behind his master.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him a consoling pat. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t count on these things.’

‘Few things are certain in this life, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, overhearing the remark as he arrived at his desk. ‘In the present state of the world, nothing should be taken for granted. I trust he realises it is Véronique’s responsibility, not mine.’

‘We came as quickly as we could in response to your message,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but those of us who have no means of removing our outer cladding found the heat particularly enervating during the journey.’

‘Hmmph.’ The Director emitted a growl. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Particularly as from now on Pommes Frites must be kept in a constant state of readiness; all his faculties will need to be in peak condition in case they are required at short notice.’

While he was talking, he picked up a familiar looking form and in the manner of a conjuror seeking to impress his audience by making it vanish into thin air before their very eyes, held it up to a shaft of light infiltrating through a gap in the slatted blinds.

If that were indeed his intention, he was doomed to disappointment, and he eyed the document with increasing disfavour.

‘First of all, Pamplemousse, without naming names, I have to tell you that a certain person who is responsible for our wellbeing is worried about you.’

‘Matron has succumbed to the heat?’ queried Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She must be practically on her knees with half the staff suffering from dehydration.’

‘No, Pamplemousse,’ growled the Director, ‘I do not mean Matron. I am referring to someone who must remain forever in the shadows, but who has the safe-keeping and security of the entire population of France very much at heart. It is an onerous enough task at the best of times, but it seems a copy of your P27 arrived on his desk this morning and he is less than happy.’

‘My P27,
Monsieur
?’

‘Yes, Pamplemousse, the form containing your personal details. He wishes to know the meaning of the word “myob”.’

‘Myob?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director.

Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep repeating everything I say, Aristide. It appears you have entered it under the heading of “religion”. Teams of highly paid
researchers are even now scanning their computer files wondering if it is, perhaps, peculiar to some obscure African tribe. So far they have drawn a blank.’

‘I filled in the form when I first joined the company,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. ‘Nothing has changed during the intervening years.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said the Director, ‘it must have escaped my notice at the time. However, it has now become a matter of national security and the country cannot move forward until the matter has been resolved.’

‘Mind your own business!’

The Director went purple in the face. ‘How dare you, Pamplemousse!’ he boomed.

‘It is an acronym,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Each letter of an acronym happens to be the first letter of a different word …’

‘I am perfectly well aware of the meaning of the word acronym, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘But what is myob an acronym of? That is the question.’

‘I have just told you,
Monsieur
– Mind Your Own Business,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse, as patiently as could. ‘It happens to be a phrase much used by
les Anglais
, the acronym of which is myob.’

‘Les Anglais
!’ The Director appeared to have difficulty in swallowing, as though his worst fears had been realised.

‘It seemed a good idea at the time,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘I have an English friend, a Mr Pickering – funnily enough he was at the funeral this morning …’

‘Ah,’ said the Director, momentarily diverted. ‘How did that go?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say with a bang’, but it was no time for levity. One thing was clear, however; news of what had taken place had yet to reach Monsieur Leclercq.

‘Mr Pickering,’ he continued, ‘uses the word a great deal whenever he has a form to fill in, especially when the question infringes on what he regards as personal matters. I gather he found it very useful when he was in the army and had to state his religion. When pressed to explain it, he came up on the spur of the moment with what he thought was a suitable answer.

‘Subsequently, whenever there was a church parade and the command came for any Mid-Yugoslavian Original Baptists to fall out he was the only one able to respond and for ever after he was left to his own devices. You can hardly march to a non-existent church all by yourself. It proved to be an unforeseen bonus.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting I use the same explanation to the powers that be in France,’ said the Director. ‘Those in the higher echelons will treat it with the utmost suspicion. The fact that it is in
English will make it even harder to accept.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is Mr Pickering’s opinion that while the first duty of any citizen must be to his country, a person’s religion is his or her own business and no one else’s, and I would agree with that.

‘Our American cousins may wear their hearts on their sleeves, but there is something very fundamental in the way they bring their children up to revere the Stars and Stripes and reiterate their allegiance to it, hand on heart, at every opportunity, irrespective of their religious beliefs.’

‘Hmmph!’ The Director sought refuge in another grunt. He consulted a list on his desk. ‘Before we go any further there is one other matter which needs investigation.’

‘
Monsieur
wishes to know my mother’s aunt’s maiden name?’

‘No, Pamplemousse, that will not be necessary, although once again it has to do with your P27. Under the heading “distinguishing features” you entered the fact that you have a mole on your right knee. I have been charged with ascertaining whether or not that is so.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself mentally counting up to ten. He couldn’t help wondering what Dr Livingstone would have made of such a question all those years ago on the banks of the Ujiji. For two
pins he would have joined the Director’s secretary, wherever she was.

‘In these troubled times, Aristide,’ said the Director, sensing the other’s hesitation, ‘one cannot be too careful.’

‘Perhaps
Monsieur
would like to check me for hidden weapons while he is at it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I may have a nail file concealed about my person.’

Reluctantly he reached for his zip.

‘There is no need to remove your outer garments, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq hastily. ‘A cursory glance will be quite sufficient. Perhaps you could simply roll up the right trouser leg?’

Having glanced over his shoulder in order to make sure all the blinds were safely in place, he opened a drawer in his desk and produced a torch which he held aloft with a flourish between thumb and forefinger.

‘I find this whole business distasteful enough as it is. I have been drawn into it much against my will, but our country is in peril. We are up against forces that will stop at nothing and there is an amber alert. I would ask Matron to perform the task but this whole operation must remain top secret.’

Following the beam of light, Pommes Frites joined forces with the Director, gazing with interest at his master’s kneecap. There were times when there was no accounting for human behaviour. Unaware
of what the problem might be, he wondered if a good lick would help, although he had tried once before to remove the spot and nothing had happened.

‘Perhaps
Monsieur
would like to borrow my camera?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘That will not be necessary, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director stiffly. ‘My word will be sufficient.’

‘I hope the anonymous person, whoever he or she is, will be of the same mind,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he set about tidying his person.

‘We shall never know,’ said the Director soberly, ‘and I am not at liberty to ask. Suffice to say, he is second only to the President in terms of power.’

‘I hope he doesn’t ask to see Monsieur Chirac’s distinguishing features next time they meet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would not care to be in his shoes if he does.’

Ignoring the remark, Monsieur Leclercq crossed to his drinks cupboard on the far side of the room. Opening the door of a small ice-box inside he removed a bottle of Gosset champagne and two glasses.

‘I suggest a restorative is called for, Aristide,’ he said.

From the angle at which he was holding the bottle, Monsieur Pamplemousse deduced it was by no means the first glass of the day.

Gazing up at the portrait of
Le Guide’s
founder on the wall above the cupboard, he couldn’t help but
feel Monsieur Hippolyte Duval’s normally saturnine features would have looked even more forbidding had he still been alive and able to witness the current goings on.

‘I will have the whole sorry business decisionised by tomorrow,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, handing him one of the glasses.

Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears at the Americanism. It was usually a sign the Director had been in contact with someone from the other side of the Atlantic. At such times he was fond of peppering the conversation with the latest jargon.

He also liked nothing better than to lace it with references to what he called his ‘contacts in the Higher Echelons’ and his ability to pull strings when necessary, but clearly in this case the position was reversed; other people were pulling the Director’s strings and he wasn’t entirely happy with the situation. Given his other habit of playing his cards close to his chest, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering how many he possessed, or more to the point, when he would reveal his hand.

‘Am I to assume that my P27 is the only reason you wished to see me,
Monsieur
?’ he asked.

‘I fear not, Pamplemousse. That would be blue-sky thinking on your part.’

There it was again!

Monsieur Leclercq motioned him to sit down at
long last, and even went so far as to raise one of the blinds, letting in a stream of light.

‘We live in troubled times, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Unrest is rife in the world. Terrorism is everywhere. Hence my having to make sure you are who you say you are. I trust you are not offended.’

‘I doubt if the people we are up against go through the same rigmarole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In my experience many of them don’t even know who their father was, let alone if he had any distinguishing features.’

‘Countries of the so-called free world are surrounded on all sides by terrorism,’ continued the Director. ‘All nations have their soft underbelly. With America and 9/11, the twin towers, symbols of wealth and prosperity, were the target. Britain endured a similar attack on the London Underground railway. Russia continually finds itself embroiled with the Chechen rebels. In each case the enemy within strikes where it will hurt most. Over the years France has suffered at the hands of the Basque separatists …

‘Now, the target is the very heart of France itself. Intelligence has word from a reliable source that a terrorist group is planning to inject poison into the food chain. What that poison is, or into what part of the chain it will be injected, or even when it will happen, is not yet known.

‘As a nation we are caught between two stools.
On the one hand every precaution must be put in place to safeguard the population. On the other hand, in order to avoid the kind of panic that would do untold harm to the farming industry, it has been decided to avoid at all costs admitting there is the remotest possibility that such a thing could happen. For that reason alone the need for the utmost secrecy is paramount. Before you leave I must ask you to sign a document to that effect.