Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (7 page)

‘I tell you, I was glad to get out of her suite in one piece. Do you know what her last words to me were?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. It was too early in the day for riddles.

‘She questioned my libido. She told me she thought I was probably an under-achiever!’ The Director sounded mortified by the experience. Clearly it had been the final indignity. ‘I trust you won’t repeat that to anyone, Aristide.’

‘Of course not,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, having already mentally earmarked it for the next staff get-together.

‘Did you,’ continued the Director, clearly anxious to change the subject, ‘did you glean anything concrete from your meeting with Mrs Beardmore, other than the fact that her appetites are not confined to the world of the kitchen?’

‘She seemed anxious to test a theory of hers that any attack when it comes might not be widespread; polluting the nation’s drinking water, for example, or tampering with the bread supply. Such things would be hard to bring about on a grand scale anyway, and would be counter-productive in that
they would alienate the population as a whole.

‘She put forward the idea that it could be something more esoteric, something aimed at those in a position of power. She mentioned in passing the fact that the truffle season is approaching …’

The Director went pale. ‘
Sacrebleu
! You realise what this would mean, Pamplemousse. Such a thing would strike at the very heart of the French establishment: politicians, captains of industry, the elite – all those in positions of power; the movers and shakers of this world.’

‘Mrs Beardmore’s very words,
Monsieur
.’

The Director rose to his feet and crossed to the window. Parting one of the slatted blinds, he stared out through the gap at the world beyond.

‘This is worse than I pictured in my wildest dreams, Aristide. After such a dry summer there is bound to be a grave shortage of truffles. That, in turn, will undoubtedly sharpen demand at the beginning of the season.’

He turned abruptly. ‘Did she offer any suggestions as to how it might be brought about?’

‘No,
Monsieur
. We were in the middle of discussing it when your telephone call came through.’

‘As you well know, Aristide,
maîtres d’hôtel
have a habit of bringing truffles to the table in a large jar, holding it up to each individual in turn as they lift the lid so that guests can concentrate on the characteristically heady scent emitted by the
tuber melanosporum
. Suppose the jars themselves had been infiltrated with some kind of nerve gas? Diners would be falling like flies all around them.’

‘Perhaps after the first two or three slumped over their table,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘any
maître d’hôtel
worth his salt would suspect that something was amiss.’

Monsieur Leclercq chose to ignore the interruption. ‘We must assume the worst scenario, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘At the very least, nasal organs could suffer irreparable damage. Besides, think of the harm it will do to the industry. The truffle growers of France will be decimated. It could mean the end of civilisation as we know it. We must move fast.

‘Whatever happens, these thoughts must not be communicated to the public at large.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared across the room at Monsieur Leclercq. There were times when the Director could be unbelievably self-centred. Also, he couldn’t help feeling he was jumping the gun more than somewhat.

‘It was only one possibility out of many,’ he said. ‘I suspect she was simply throwing up balloons to see how I would react. It could just as easily have been
escargots
. The garlic in
escargots bourguignon
would effectively mask the taste of practically any poison you care to name.’

If anything, Monsieur Leclercq went whiter still,
like a man suddenly staring ruin in the face.

‘Heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed. ‘Think of our logo, Pamplemousse. What would become of our two
escargots
rampant?’

‘I imagine they would be laid out flat as though they’d had a dose of strychnine,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse unfeelingly.

‘You could publish a special memorial edition of
Le Guide
showing two molluscs lying prone with a leg in the air as though they have both had a night out on the tiles,’ he added hastily, endeavouring to pour oil on decidedly choppy waters. ‘If it had a black border it might in time become a collector’s item.’

‘
Escargots
don’t have legs!’ boomed the Director.

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, they have one in the front. They use it to pull themselves along.’

Monsieur Leclercq brushed the interruption to one side. ‘It only serves to underline the urgency of the situation, Pamplemousse,’ he exclaimed. ‘We must concern ourselves, not with future possibilities, but with the immediate present.

‘First of all, I suggest you return to the Pommes d’Or and see what can be done in the way of damage limitation. I have spoken to the head of security and he is awaiting your call.

‘No doubt he will want to show you the film. I understand it doesn’t make for happy viewing, but at least it will give you a better idea of what actually
transpired. You must disassociate yourself as far as possible from Mrs Beardmore in case questions are asked. At all costs we must preserve her anonymity. As far as the hotel is concerned you were there in a professional capacity on behalf of
Le Guide.
I am aware that that in itself compromises our own anonymity, but in the circumstances it can’t be helped.’

‘That may not be easy,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If they have Pommes Frites on DVD, they may well have me on it too.’

‘That is for you to ascertain, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director.

‘I can hardly take Pommes Frites with me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you could possibly look after him while I am gone …’

Monsieur Leclercq gazed dubiously floorwards. ‘I suppose you are right,’ he said.

‘It is unfortunate,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that Véronique is no longer with you …’

The Director was cheered by a sudden thought. ‘Perhaps, Aristide, you could call her and explain the situation. That should do the trick. She will jump at the chance. She thinks the world of Pommes Frites, as we all do. She will know exactly what is required in the way of exercise and refuelling,
and
it will enable her to return without losing face.’

And without your losing face, too, if I do the dirty
work, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Then I can leave him with you,
Monsieur
?’ he asked out loud.

By way of an answer Monsieur Leclercq reached for a telephone, dialled a number and handed it to his subordinate.

‘It is all yours, Pamplemousse,’ he said.

André Bonnard, Head of Security at the Pommes d’Or, was clearly a man who had found his true vocation in life.

Well-built, fiftyish, hair greying at the temples, rimless glasses, dark grey T-shirt embroidered with an ‘I love Microsoft’ logo, he oozed
bonhomie
and technical expertise as he sat like a dedicated organist before a bank of monitors.

There were two other younger clones hovering in the background – both wearing identical T-shirts, but it was clearly Bonnard’s patch.

On top of the console, standing out like a sore thumb in the midst of all the state-of-the-art equipment, was an open box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Like a grown man who has bought his son a train set for Christmas so that he could play with it himself, Bonnard radiated unalloyed pleasure as he switched rapidly between various sources, producing in a matter of seconds a moving picture of what life in a big hotel was all about.

Assorted shots of the foyer gave way to pictures
of corridors with staff going to and fro; waiters pushing breakfast trolleys, cleaners at work, maids armed with piles of laundry. Such domestic activity then gave way to more mundane behind-the-scene shots of everything, from the huge boiler room in the depths of the building to the delivery area at the back, where vans were coming and going, and finally on to the underground car park.

‘We have automatic electronic registration of car number plates as they enter and leave,’ said Bonnard proudly. ‘And currently we’re playing around with face-recognition technology. It’s not perfect, but it’s improving all the time.

‘I tell you, everything needed for a surveillance society is already with us. The architecture in the way of hardware is in place and is increasing all the time. People who do their shopping in a
supermarché
and have a loyalty card forget their purchases are all on record back at the works. It’s getting so that in the not-too-distant future there will be CCTV cameras on every street corner.

‘The UK is top of the league with a total of over four million – that’s one for every fourteen of its inhabitants. It is theoretically possible for someone in London to go about their normal business, travel to the office, maybe do some shopping at lunch time, take in a football match in the evening, and end up the day having been on camera three hundred times or more. True,
different cameras and different systems belong to different organisations, much like an unedited film, but put them all together and it’s a sobering thought. It certainly proved its worth after last July’s terrorist attack on the Underground.

‘On the other hand there are always people who make it a point of honour to keep ahead of the game. Someone in the States has taken a leaf out of Archimedes’ book. Remember he kept invading Roman ships at bay with large mirrors reflecting the sunlight? This guy has marketed a cheap laser pointer intended to blind CCTV cameras.’

‘Times change,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Where will it all end?’

‘That’s only the beginning,’ said Bonnard. ‘Infiltrating people’s computers via “silent deploy” – an unwanted email or a fake greeting card which unloads a program without having physical access is getting to be old hat.

‘It’s now technically possible, using a laptop, to download information from mobile phones; lists of other people’s phone numbers, their contacts, who they are meeting and when; all the information they thought was personal only to them.

‘Wireless interconnectivity with computers is another way in through the back door; a window of opportunity, if you like. It is perfectly possible to read everything on someone’s computer screen from a van parked a street away; all kinds of
personal details, credit card numbers, you name it.’

‘Is there no way of putting a brake on it?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘You can’t stop people inventing things,’ said Bonnard. ‘It’s what’s known as progress. First of all you’ve got to find a manufacturer who admits his product is being used for illegal purposes. Once upon a time technology tried to keep up with people’s needs. Now it’s the other way round.

‘Anyway, it isn’t all bad. Take Echelon. It’s an automated global system intercepting over three billion emails a day, looking for key words that might constitute a security threat. Then there are global positioning locators, police and home security networks, all looking after you and me.

‘The down side is a lot of these things may seem relatively harmless by themselves, but add them all together … who knows what will happen when the software catches up and all this information gets to be pooled?

‘Talking of things that are on record, I gather you want to see the film we made of last night’s little how-do-you-do?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had been starting to think he would never get around to it. ‘Want’ wasn’t quite the word he’d had in mind, but he could hardly say no at this stage.

Turning to face another bank of recorders,
Bonnard pressed a button and Pommes Frites appeared on the screens, gathering speed as he raced down one of the corridors in hot pursuit of a Great Dane who was dragging a diminutive uniformed attendant behind him.

‘Funny thing – we missed him arriving. But as soon as we picked him up going down a corridor all by himself we knew it meant trouble. It’s one of the house rules; dogs must be accompanied at all times.’

‘So you don’t know where he came from?’

‘No, more’s the pity.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

‘It was a whirlwind chase, I can tell you. Given the fact that it was prime time for evening exercises, keeping up with it all was like a state-of-the-art computer game. That’s when we switched to record.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself losing count of all Pommes Frites’ encounters as he careered back and forth on the row of screens. Every sort of breed, from Afghan to Pekinese, seemed to be fleeing in all directions.

‘It could be worse,’ said Bonnard cheerfully. ‘Think what it would be like if we had sound.’

‘How many dogs are there staying in the hotel?’

‘At a guess, about half as many as there were yesterday. Most of them checked out first thing this morning, taking their owners with them.’

‘You don’t have cameras in any of the rooms?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘If only …’ Bonnard glanced back over his shoulder. ‘I should be so lucky. I could take early retirement on the proceeds if we did! Ask any of the maids. The management would be pleased, too, that’s for sure. Things disappear like magic; ashtrays, ice buckets, umbrellas, hairdryers … you name it. I swear some guests bring their own screwdrivers. It’s a disease. Holiday Inn Hotels lose over 560,000 towels a year, and that’s only a small part of it.

‘Are you thinking of any room in particular?’

‘Seven hundred and four,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Bonnard looked at him over the top of his glasses. ‘You’ve only picked our current number one item of interest. Funny couple.’

‘Couple?’

‘They checked in as Mr and Mrs Beardmore, but you never see them together. He eats in the hotel restaurant and she has all her meals sent up. We call her
“le Gros Fromage”.
That’s all she has – every day of the week – cheese on toast. One of the commis chefs does nothing else but prepare them for her. Even then she doesn’t always finish it.’