Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (4 page)

‘In the meantime, in order to explore all possibilities, the powers that be are setting up a “think tank” made up of leading figures in the world of gastronomy. I have been asked to suggest a name to be part of that team, and your own immediately sprang to mind. Given your background and the time you spent with the food fraud squad before joining
Le Guide
, you are an ideal candidate.’

‘When you say it is a reliable source,
Monsieur
…?’

‘
Impeccable
!’

‘And the others who are involved?’

‘The British, for the sake of
Entente Cordiale
. And the Americans. I imagine you are familiar with the name Claye Beardmore …’

‘Isn’t that the person who runs a cookery website? He has invented some kind of diet for people want to lose weight. I believe it is all the rage. He also has a column which is syndicated worldwide.’

‘Correct. Beardmore also happens to be a CIA agent. An interesting case. Like many members
of that ilk, Claye is what is known as a “sleeper”. Mostly they remain anonymous, leading a normal life – a garage owner here – a small shopkeeper there – until such time as they are called upon to serve.

‘Unfortunately, what started off as a relatively low-key cover job caught on. In some respects you could say it backfired. In short, it has become a worldwide success. The only saving grace is that since Claye’s picture never appears on screen, anonymity is preserved.’

‘The few pieces I have seen have always struck me as being very didactic,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Doucette finds some of the recipes depressing. A never-ending diet of raisins and rice is all very well if you have had the misfortune to suffer an arterial blockage, but there is little to recommend it otherwise.’

‘Claye Beardmore is an extremely didactic person,’ said the Director guardedly. ‘What our American friends would call a tough cookie. And a very successful one at that.

‘You must form your own judgements, but if you want my opinion Claye has been “downloaded” more times than you and I have had hot dinners.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the Director curiously. It was unusual for him to be on first name terms quite so early on in a relationship.

‘You have already met,
Monsieur
?’

The Director hesitated. ‘Briefly. Claye slipped into Paris late last night, ostensibly to take part in a recovery programme for food addiction. It is an occupational hazard. We rendezvoused and it was arranged that the two of you should meet up as soon as possible in order to exchange notes.

‘I will give you the name of the hotel.’ Reaching for a pad, Monsieur Leclercq scribbled a name and held it up for viewing.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a whistle between his teeth. The Pommes d’Or was one of a small band of Paris hotels boasting a restaurant that not only had three Stock pots in
Le Guide
, but three rosettes in Michelin.

‘It doesn’t sound a very suitable choice for someone suffering from severe food addiction,’ he said.

The Director held a match to the paper and watched it burn. ‘It has the advantage of being very central,’ he said enigmatically. ‘When you get there go straight up to suite 704. I suggest you take Pommes Frites with you.’

Catching sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gloomy expression, he made haste to soften the blow. ‘I would join you, but Claye wanted to see you in particular and three is a crowd.’

‘It would be four with Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, he is not particularly partial to raisins, or fruit for that matter.’

Something in Monsieur Leclercq’s avoidance of a straight answer set alarm bells ringing in his head. ‘Do you not think,
Monsieur
,’ he said, ‘that a rendezvous with someone at a higher level than me would be more apposite?’

‘No, I don’t, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely.

Avoiding the other’s gaze, and clearly revelling in his new role, he busied himself sweeping the ashes into his waste bin.

‘But since you have already met …’

Monsieur Leclercq ignored the interruption. ‘Bear in mind, Aristide, that what you are doing isn’t simply for
Le Guide
, it will be for France. I know you won’t let our beloved Marianne down. I can only wish you
bonne chance
!

‘Always remember, Claye Beardmore is a very influential person in the United States; arguably second only to Patricia Wells in the realm of food, and the world famous wine guru, Robert Parker. If we upset Claye, sales of
Le Guide
in America may suffer.

‘And now, before you go I must ask you to sign the document I mentioned earlier. As far as the outside world is concerned, this meeting never took place …and that applies to any future activities too! From now on, secrecy is paramount.’

Having escorted Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to the door, Monsieur Leclercq
hesitated, as though about to say more, then had second thoughts.

‘Before you leave, Aristide, I strongly recommend you do up the zip on your trousers. And if you want my advice I should ensure it stays that way for as long as possible.’

For the time being at least, there was nothing more to be said.

Largely on account of a mass demonstration by Parisian motorcyclists over the installation of a second speed camera on the
Périphérique
, Monsieur Pamplemousse took rather longer to reach the Pommes d’Or hotel than he’d intended, but in fact it served him well.

It was early evening by the time he arrived there and the foyer was crowded. The reception desk was awash with new arrivals and their luggage; residents heading for a night out on the town vied for use of the revolving doors with outsiders arriving for dinner. Add in a private function or two for good measure and the confusion was such that his own and Pommes Frites’ progress across the black-and-white marble floor to a bank of elevators on the far side failed to cause the raising of a single eyebrow.

Nor did the lift girl pass any comment as they entered her domain. As far as she was concerned, bloodhounds weighing in at around forty-seven kilos wanting to use the lift might have been a daily occurrence. The hotel could be full of them.

It might well be the case, of course, reflected Monsieur Pamplemousse. Times changed. For all he knew, the Pommes d’Or could have joined the growing band of hotels who were suffering a drop in the tourist trade following what Americans referred to as ‘9/11’. Many establishments now offered four-legged residents special facilities provided they were accompanied by a bona fide master or mistress.

It was a reversal of what had been the generally accepted norm. Once upon a time it was the French who’d had a reputation for cosseting their pets and treating them as human beings, much to the disgust of visitors from across the Atlantic.

According to one of his colleagues, Truffert, who had contacts in America dating back to his time in the Merchant navy, the Starwoods hotel chain had set the ball rolling with its ‘Love That Dog’ programme. With an estimated canine population of over sixty-five million and a thirty-one-billion-dollar pet product industry, dogs suddenly had a voice in the land and they wanted to be first in on the act.

Now France was following suit. He had read somewhere that the Trianon Palace at Versailles was offering a Heavenly Pets package deal where a pooch was able to share a de luxe double room with its owner and enjoy round the clock room service.

And it wasn’t simply hotels that were cashing
in. Dial 45 85 1274 and you reached Taxi Canine, which also ran a special ambulance service for
chiens
, perhaps aimed at those who had been living it up not wisely, but too well.

He wondered what the Pommes d’Or might have had on offer to tickle Pommes Frites’ fancy; a generous helping of
boeuf bourguignon
perhaps, to make up for the one he had been done out of at lunch time, followed by a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream? He should have checked beforehand.

‘Suite 704?’ he enquired of the girl as the lift doors opened.

‘
À droite, Monsieur
.’

Although she didn’t actually convert the movement into a sign of the cross, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a trace of animation as she gestured to her right. It was a classic case of eyes revealing what the lips concealed.

After the oppressive heat outside, the air-conditioned splendour within the hotel was something else again. The closely patterned carpet stretching ahead into seeming infinity wouldn’t have disgraced the first class deck of an ocean liner (not that he’d ever been on one!). On the other hand, the doors on either side of the corridor were too widely spaced for that, indicating as they did the size of the apartments which must lie beyond. Another pointer was the stainless steel, sand-filled containers for cigarette butts situated between them; so vast and
solid they wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Place Vendome.

It was another world.

Any security cameras, and doubtless they existed, were well and truly hidden. He guessed that perhaps not all of the sprinkler heads let into the ceiling were quite what they appeared to be.

A little way along the corridor they met a page escorting not one, but two immaculately coifed poodles on separate leashes. Heads held high, all three passed by without so much as a glance in their direction, leaving Monsieur Pamplemousse feeling aggrieved on Pommes Frites’ behalf.

Stopping outside 704, he pressed a discreet button let into the wall, wondering as he did so what lay before him. In his experience, the world of espionage was very much a closed shop. Members of the faceless coterie made their own rules and there was no such thing as ‘the norm’.

The Director had given little or no indication of what to expect; rather the reverse. He’d been unusually cagey on the subject, and had Monsieur Pamplemousse been asked to hazard a guess at which of the many possibilities it would turn out to be, he doubted if he would have come anywhere near the truth.

The last thing he expected to be confronted by when the door swung open was an old lady clutching a Zimmer frame.

The woman framed in the doorway had what appeared to be the contents of a large fruit bowl dangling from a chain round her neck. The second item which also stuck out a mile, contrasting strangely with a floor-length ball gown that looked as though it might have been worn by Margaret Dumont in an early Marx Brothers film, was a state-of-the-art, diamond-encrusted Harry Winston watch with an alligator band.

The whole was topped by a luxurious mop of blue hair reminiscent of a beehive. It had to be a wig.

The total effect reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse of a plastic figurine for a wedding cake. He knew a shop near the Place de la République that specialised in just such saccharine concoctions; often with near-the-knuckle variations calculated
to enliven any prenuptial stag party.

His heart sank. Monsieur Leclercq had said nothing about Claye having a mother, and for a moment or two he was lost for words.

‘I was looking for a Monsieur Beardmore,’ he said nervously. ‘Monsieur Claye Beardmore. We have a meeting arranged. Perhaps you could tell him I am here.’

The woman gave a cackle. It began life several fathoms below her undeniably impressive cleavage. Somewhat disappointingly, although it took time, the sound that finally emerged after a tortuous journey was not unlike a pile of rusty nails landing on a tin roof. He hoped for her sake she was taking something for it.

‘Boy! You’re gonna need some telescope.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘You mean …’

‘How about pressing the flesh?’ Letting go of the Zimmer frame with her right hand the woman held it out in a gesture of welcome. It felt cold to the touch; as icy cold as the coal-black eyes, both of which seemed to be measuring him for size.

‘The third Mr Beardmore and I are currently unravelling.’

‘
Excusez-moi
…’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to cover his confusion by removing his hand, but failed miserably in the attempt. Despite her advancing years, Mrs Beardmore had a vice-like grip.

At the same time he registered a voluminous handbag attached to the front rail of the frame, and for a brief moment he could have sworn he heard voices coming from it.

Reaching inside the bag with her other hand, the woman withdrew what appeared to be a tin of Coca Cola. ‘That’s the trouble with getting older,’ she said. ‘You keep leaving things turned on.’ She pressed the top of the tin with her thumb and the voices disappeared. ‘You suffer from that?’

‘Not yet … touch wood.’

‘You will,’ said Mrs Beardmore.

Monsieur Pamplemouse pulled a face. ‘Claye is a very unusual name,’ he ventured. ‘For a …’

‘For a girl?’ She gave his hand a final squeeze before letting go. ‘Men call me that because I’m like putty in their hands.

‘As for my ex. I met Newt at a tree-trimming party last Christmas, but he couldn’t keep pace. He was a grade one serial groper, I give him that, but that’s as far as it went. We stayed together through most of January. Then he started taking advantage, like wanting to outsource me for handling all his travel logistics, so I told him … if you can’t stand the heat – get outa my bedroom and make your own travel arrangements.

‘Where does that leave me? If he cares enough to book in with a behaviour modification specialist – and I tell him it still isn’t too late – we can maybe meet up
again for key holiday events. Otherwise, for the time being I guess I’m what you might call an empty nester.’

‘That is one of the sad facts of life.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt something was expected of him. ‘People expect too much of others. Often more than they are able to give.’

‘You can say that again.’ Mrs Beardmore executed a shrug which threatened to produce a few windfalls from around her neck.

No lightweight – at a guess she must weigh in at around ninety kilos – and demonstrating remarkable acceleration from a standing start, she shot past him and opened the door. He was reminded first of all of one of the Segways he’d seen earlier; then, as she leaned over to transfer a multilingual DO NOT DISTURB notice from the inner to the outer handle, of a pecking duck that once upon a time had been all the rage.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

Sliding the dead-bolt lock into place, she turned to face her guests. It all happened so quickly even Pommes Frites looked impressed.

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering if there were many power-assisted Zimmer frames on general sale, or whether hers had been made to order.

‘It’s a one-off,’ said Claye, beating him to the question.

Executing a perfect 180-degree turn, she spearheaded the way through another door into the room beyond. Pommes Frites so far forgot himself as to sniff the air as she went past. Having done so, he snatched a quick backward glance at his master, making his meaning abundantly clear before padding on behind.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but agree with his findings. Although he wasn’t able to put a name to it, the thought struck him that the perfumed trail Claye left in her wake owed more to liberal doses of aftershave than to the lilies of any valley he had come across during his travels.

Bringing up the rear, he found himself in an area rather larger than his entire apartment in Montmartre. It radiated an air of refined elegance. Deep-blue velvet curtains on two of the walls were tightly drawn, rendering the room to all intents and purposes virtually windowless. In consequence, only the light from several chandeliers suspended from the ceiling added a much-needed sparkle to the gold leaf adorning the Louis XVI-style furnishings. It was more a palace than a hotel.

A huge leather sofa, large enough to have taken up the whole of one wall in his living room, still left ample space for a desk with a fax machine and a top-of-the-range Dell laptop on one side of it, and a large plasma-screen Phillips television on the other. The laptop appeared to be open for business.

Over and above the splendour of the furnishings and the non-attributable oil paintings of scenes from a by-gone age, there were enough flowers distributed around the room to open a shop. If Mrs Beardmore was keeping up a front to the world at large it must be costing someone a small fortune. Madame Grante in
Le Guide’
s accounts department would have a fit if she saw it. Her scissors would have been working overtime.

Claye waved expansively as she passed through into what he assumed must be the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. ‘Excuse me while I freshen up. I’ve been taking a decompression nap. Make yourself at home.’

Taking advantage of his hostess’s temporary absence, Monsieur Pamplemousse did as she suggested and set off on a voyage of exploration. On a table near one of the windows there was a box of chocolates; small but expensive looking, it bore a name he didn’t recognise …
Etienne Malfont et Fils.

Pommes Frites gave vent to a loud sneeze. Cocoa beans always had that effect on him. The darker the chocolate, the louder the sneeze.

On a glass-topped table in the centre of the room there was another, much larger cardboard box. The lid was open, revealing a quantity of circular objects. They looked as though they were covered in some kind of glue.

‘Krispy Kreme doughnuts,’ volunteered Claye as she flitted past the open doorway. ‘Help yourself. You gotta great choice: Chocolate Iced Custard with or without Sprinkles, Dulce de Leche, Blueberry, Cinnamon Twist … you’ll find a list inside the lid.

‘If you’re a virgin Krispy Kremer, I guess you should try Original Glazed.’

Taking a closer look inside the box, Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a shudder. Closer inspection revealed the fact that some of the contents already had tooth-sized bite marks.

He hoped it wasn’t Mrs Beardmore’s idea of
diner à deux
.

‘Thank you,’ he said, fearing the worst, ‘but I think I would rather save myself for later.’

‘Sounds a great idea to me.’ Claye emitted another cackle. ‘It’s a free world. If you want some for home, let me have your address and I’ll have them pouched right over. But I gotta warn you – they can be addictive.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse declined the offer. He couldn’t begin to picture Doucette’s face were she to be confronted by a box of doughnuts minus her husband. Pouch or no pouch, addictive or not, he hoped they would be a poor substitute. Nor, for the time being at least, did he want to reveal his address.

‘Access the ice box if you wanna drink,’ called Claye. ‘You’ll find it inside the bureau. There’s a
bowl of water alongside for the pooch. I ordered it up specially.’

Following his master across the room, Pommes Frites registered a blue-and-white china bowl on the floor. Having given an ornate pattern visible beneath the water a cursory glance, he turned on his heels, clearly treating it with the contempt he felt it deserved.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to investigate the whereabouts of the refrigerator when he heard the doorbell.

‘That’ll be room service,’ called Claye. ‘Can you see to the door? I’ll be right out.’

Room service consisted of a large waiter pushing a very small trolley which, as far as Monsieur Pamplemousse could see, was bereft of anything remotely resembling food or drink. His heart sank as he stood back and watched while the man set to work.

Clearing away the box of doughnuts, he busied himself for a moment or two laying a snow-white cloth over the table. The hotel’s insignia – a golden apple – symmetrically placed to his satisfaction, he then set about a minimalist arrangement of silver cutlery at opposite ends.

Placing two upright chairs in position, he opened a small cupboard door in the bottom half of the trolley and withdrew two domed plates. A strong smell of toasted cheese wafted Monsieur Pamplemousse’s
way as they were put in place, and his taste buds suffered a further nose dive.

Admittedly, had it been a choice between acting as Mrs Beardmore’s escort for the evening in a crowded hotel restaurant, or risking all that might go with a meal
à deux
in her room, he would have been hard put to choose which was the lesser of two evils, but one by one the dreams he had been nourishing of the meal to come disappeared like so many will-o’-the-wisps.

Scanning the guides before leaving the office, he’d pictured toying with the Pommes d’Or’s celebrated
Ravioli de foie gras
, followed by their equally well regarded
carré d’agneau
; both helped on their way, perhaps, with a bottle of what one guide called their seductive Volnay 1
^er
cru ‘Fremiets’ from Annick Parent; a name new to him, and which he was anxious to try. The notion of rounding things off with a
Soufflé Grand Marnier
accompanied by a glass of Juracon Moelleux, both of which received honourable mentions in
Le Guide
(he detected Monsieur LeClercq’s hand at work on that particular entry), received equally short shrift.

‘One of my all-time favourites.’ Mrs Beardmore’s voice materialised from somewhere just behind him as the waiter lifted the domes. ‘Cheese on toast, Jamaican style.’

More than ever Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d stayed at home. Expecting he would arrive back
hungry after his day in the country, Doucette had prepared a navarin of lamb. As a special treat she had ordered two lemon tarts from Larher to follow.

He turned to find Claye had changed into a shimmering white dress several sizes too small for her. The most you could say about it was the colour went with the white fishnet tights.

‘I hear you use a Leica.’

‘I do in my work,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have it with me. Why do you ask?’

‘Because …’ trilled Mrs Beardmore, striking a pose, one hand behind her head. ‘I’m camera ready.

‘You know what they say …’ She took her seat. ‘You are what you eat.’

Recalling the box of half-eaten Krispy Kremes, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect on the truth of the saying. On the other hand … who was he to pass judgement? How about all those meals, both good and bad, he consumed annually on behalf of
Le Guide
? What did that make him?

He caught the waiter’s eye as the man backed out of the room with what could only be described as indecent haste. As with the lift girl, the look said it all. For a moment he felt tempted to follow him out, pleading some suddenly remembered urgent appointment. But he had left it too late. The man closed the door firmly, leaving him alone with Mrs Beardmore.

He gazed at the rapidly cooling object on his plate.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Claye. ‘You’re thinking how do I keep so young and slim with all those calories I got around me?’

It had been the last thing on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind, but the question demanded an answer.

‘Conducting,’ said Clay. ‘All you need is a CD of the Beethoven 9th. It beats having a work-out in the gym any day of the week. I like the Furtwangler version best. That guy really went for it. You ever seen a fat conductor?
And
you get to live to be a hundred.’

Wondering whether he should break the news that Wilhelm Furtwangler hadn’t made it beyond sixty-eight, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided against it and applied his knife and fork to a corner of the toasted cheese, noting as he did so that the bread was wholegrain from Poilâine. His spirits rose; stone-milled wheat flour, seasoned with crystals of pure sea salt, leavened with natural yeast – it was a definite plus. Someone in the kitchen must be taking the whole thing seriously. Closing his eyes, he placed the portion delicately into his mouth.

In fact … he savoured the taste … it wasn’t at all bad. In fact … it was surprisingly good.

He speared himself another portion, a larger one this time, and for a moment or two they both ate in
relative silence; the crunching broken only by a loud belch from Mrs Beardmore.

The dish was, in fact, an example of what, given first class ingredients, a skilled chef could do with even such a mundane dish as cheese on toast. It made a mockery of the old adage that you couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Small wonder the Pommes d’Or’s restaurant enjoyed three Stock Pots in
Le Guide.