Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (14 page)

‘With respect,
Monsieur
,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced anxiously along the promenade – the old hag was getting nearer, ‘they will all take time. I think it will be cheaper in the long run if I make them from a call box. I will get myself a new
carte
.’

‘Ah, Aristide,’ the Director tempered his obvious disappointment with a beam of approval. ‘If only Madame Grante were with us now to hear you say that. I am sure she would …’ He broke off and gazed in horror at the approaching figure. ‘Pamplemousse, that person is waving at us! Don’t tell me, I can scarcely credit it. Is there no end to your intrigues?’

‘I think it must be you she is after,
Monsieur.
Perhaps she is in need of a lift.’

Oblivious to the Director’s protestations Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled to Pommes Frites and together they hastened along the
quai
in the direction of the shopping precinct. It wasn’t until they reached the safety of the shadows from the overhanging gables that he paused to see if they were being followed. Slipping into a shop doorway, he turned and looked back the way they had come, but the old woman was nowhere in sight. Perhaps even now she was importuning the Director.

There were occasions when retreat was definitely the better part of valour, and the present situation was one of them. Besides, the walk back to the hotel would do them both good and there was a lot to think about, not the least of which was the contents of the drawer in his room. Another trip to Nantes was indicated. After that? Who knew? It would all depend on the report of the chemist. Unless he was very much mistaken he had come across the classic recipe for manufacturing knock-out pills.

The National Anthem of both countries had been played by a contingent from the French naval base at St. Nazaire, the parade had been reviewed, formal greetings had been exchanged in front of the dirigible for the benefit of the world’s television cameras. A small group of children from a local school, dressed in traditional costume, performed a brief dance. Afterwards, a red, white and blue bouquet made up of poppies, cornflowers and marguerites was presented by the smallest child to the visiting Head of State. A battery of press photographers had recorded the event for posterity. Speeches of congratulation had been made, hopes for the future expressed, comparisons drawn between the present flight and that of an early pioneer, Monsieur Le Brix, an aviator from the Morbihan who in 1927, along with a Monsieur Costes, was the first to fly around the world.

Now, as lesser mortals withdrew to watch from a safe distance, the party got ready to board the airship. The ground crew, their white overalls immaculately pressed for the occasion, took the strain on the mooring ropes, although with only the lightest of breezes blowing it was scarcely necessary. The windsock hung limply from its pole, as did the flags of France and
Grande-Bretagne.

Monsieur Pamplemousse could see Commander Winters
and Capitaine Leflaix watching anxiously from their cabin window as more photographs were taken, this time of the two leaders posing in turn at the top of the aluminium steps. Capitaine Leflaix would not be pleased; they were facing outwards. No doubt both he and Commander Winters would be glad when they were airborne. At least their illustrious passengers were in for a better flight than he’d had to endure. Apart from a few wisps of strato-cumulus to the south the sky was totally blue. He almost envied them the experience.

Not for the first time that morning, Monsieur Pamplemousse found his attention wandering. He had woken with a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach that all was not well. Pommes Frites, ever sensitive to his master’s moods, had obviously caught it too. From the moment they arrived at the airstrip he had been twitchy. When he caught sight of the balloon he became even more ill at ease, no doubt fearing another parting of the ways. Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and gave him a reassuring pat.

He cast his eyes round the field as he did so. Security was as tight now as it had been lax a few days before. There were police and guards everywhere, their guns at the ready, walkie-talkies working overtime. A dozen familiar dark blue vans of the
Sûreté Nationale
were parked discreetly under the trees. As always, those behind the barred windows, having been kept in a state of enforced idleness for many hours, would be more than ready to wade in and take it out on those nearest to hand should anything untoward happen to mar the occasion.

The crowd of sightseers had been carefully selected; representatives of local government in their best clothes; heads of fish and vegetable canneries mingled with their workers. Nurses in uniform stood alongside patients in wheelchairs; boilermakers from St. Nazaire hobnobbed with building workers. A group of ubiquitous nuns kept themselves slightly apart from the rest, as was their wont.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had a lot on his mind. Like Commander Winters and his crew, he couldn’t wait for the
take-off so that he could get down to other matters. His suspicions about the contents of the envelope had been confirmed by a chemist in Nantes. The bottle contained the remains of some ethyl-chlorate; the white powder was calcium carbonate – common chalk; the flakes were tragacanth – commonly used as a binding agent. In short, all the necessary ingredients for manufacturing knock-out pills. The question was, had Christoph given one to Yasmin? And if he had, why?

If she’d been given one before the performance it would almost certainly have brought on sleepiness. Had he perhaps miscalculated the dose? Perhaps he had been hoping it would take effect sooner than it did; that was the charitable explanation. But even so, the very fact of going to the trouble of making the pills in the first place suggested something more than a spur of the moment act.

There was still a query hanging over the light-grey powder in the plastic bag.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was roused from his thoughts as the airship’s engines roared into life and the ground crew began removing the ballast bags. For a moment he had an uneasy feeling that Pommes Frites might take it into his head to indulge in another game of tug-of-war, but to his relief he seemed to have suddenly lost interest in the whole affair. He counted the bags; according to the handout there should be seven 10kg bags for each passenger. Fifty-six were removed. Complicated hand signals began between the cockpit and the ground-crew – they could have been selling stocks and shares in the Bourse for all the sense they made. A moment later, as the nose of the airship was released from its mooring, those manning the bow lines pulled the airship sideways towards a clear position ready for take-off.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own camera had been working overtime. There would be no shortage of pictures to accompany his article in
Le Guide’
s staff magazine; rather the reverse. Having filled the frame with a close-up of well-known faces peering out of the cabin windows, he quickly
changed to a wide-angle lens.

He was just in time. As the fans were rotated groundwards and the lines released, more power was applied to the engines. The naval contingent stood to attention, the band launched into ‘Anchors Away’, and a cheer went up from the assembled crowd as the dirigible rose into the air, nose down at first to ensure the lower tail fin didn’t make contact with the ground, then levelling out as it gained height. Slowly it executed a long and gentle turn before heading out across the sea towards the Golfe du Morbihan.

As the spectators began to disperse, drifting back to their cars and
autobuses,
Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the Director heading his way. He must have travelled with a good deal of luggage, for he was even more immaculately dressed than usual; the rosette of the
Légion d’Honneur
awarded for his services to
haute cuisine
was displayed in the lapel of his exquisitely tailored dark blue suit.

‘Congratulations, Aristide,’ the Director held out his hand. ‘I managed to feast my eyes on your handiwork and I must say it was impossible to fault. Taste buds will undoubtedly be titillated.’

‘
Merci, Monsieur.
I see you were also successful with the Château d’Yquem.’

The Director looked pleased. ‘I have my sources.’ Clearly they were not about to be revealed.

‘You tested the food personally, of course? It would be most unfortunate if it turned out to have been tampered with
en route
.’

‘
Monsieur
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows in mute reproof. He had done no such thing, of course. The food had arrived from Paris early that morning under police escort. It would have taken a braver man than he to have got within ten metres of it under the vigilant eyes of the men from Fauchon.
Défense de toucher
had been the by-word. Only the production of his
Guide
credentials and the fact that Trigaux had taken the opportunity of sending back his pictures in the same consignment had gained him permission to
photograph it. They had been right, of course, but as the one responsible for placing the order in the first place, it had been somewhat galling.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shaded his eyes as he looked up at the sky. He reached for his binoculars. The airship seemed to have slowed down over the Baie de Quiberon, almost as though it were treading water.

The Director followed the direction of his gaze. ‘No doubt they have slackened speed in order to facilitate pouring the champagne whilst overlooking the oyster-beds; a pleasing touch. We must add it to our press release. What was your final choice?’

‘A Gosset ’75,
Monsieur
.’

‘Ah, the ’75! A copybook vintage. A touch austere for some tastes, perhaps, but perfectly balanced. I wonder if they have any at the Hôtel du Port? We can have some over
déjeuner.
I have reserved a table. You look fatigued, Aristide. It will do you good.’

Although he privately doubted if the cellar at the Hôtel du Port would live up to the Director’s expectations, Monsieur Pamplemousse was more than happy to fall in with the suggestion.

Organising the meal on the airship had involved him in a non-stop round of telephone calls and other activities. It was only now, with his work virtually at an end, that he suddenly realised just how tired he felt.

‘Good! In that case, I suggest we make a move.’ The Director rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘If you follow me we will meet at the Hôtel. No doubt Pommes Frites will be joining us?’

It was a redundant question. Ever alive to the nuances and undertones of conversations going on around him, Pommes Frites was already leading the way. Apart from the stop on the journey down, and the unexpected steak, the trip had not, gastronomically speaking, been a memorable one to date. There had been a lot of talk of food, but very little evidence of it. ‘All words and no action’ would have been his summing-up
had he been stopped in the street by someone conducting a public opinion poll on the state of play to date. Not normally a fish lover (fish was indelibly associated in his mind with cats and therefore hardly worth considering) he had got to the stage when he would have settled for a bowl of
moules à la
marinière,
had one come his way. The sight of all the food laid out in the balloon, so near and yet so far away, had been the last straw. Putting food on display and then not eating it was beyond his powers of comprehension.

His disappointment was therefore all the more marked when, some half an hour later, having settled himself comfortably under a table, his taste buds working triple overtime as a result of listening to his master and the Director discussing at length and in savoury detail their forthcoming meal – its preparation, the sauces and other accompanying embellishments – there occurred yet another example of the strange behaviour patterns of human beings which, when they occurred, were hard to credit. The ordering of the food and then the abandonment of a meal before it even arrived was, in his opinion, a prime case in point.

The first Pommes Frites knew of impending disaster was the arrival of a pair of trouser-clad legs at the side of the table and the sound of voices, but his senses told him the new arrival was the bearer of bad news. Had he looked out from under the table-cloth and seen the expression on his master’s face as he jumped to his feet his worst fears would have been confirmed.

‘Monsieur Pickering!’

‘Aristide!’

‘I have been looking for you since the day I arrived.’

‘On the contrary, you have been avoiding me like the plague.’ Mr. Pickering allowed himself a brief, if somewhat enigmatic smile, then immediately became serious again. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me.’

‘Both of us?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Since it involves the airship, I think, yes.’

‘Forgive me.’ Mr. Pickering turned to the Director. ‘I know
of
you, of course, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you personally, although …’ again there was a faint smile, ‘that is not entirely true. A matter of paramount importance has come up and we may well be glad of your advice.’

Flattery got him everywhere. The Director was on his feet in a flash; the bib which a moment before had been tied around his neck in readiness for a
plateau de fruits de mer
abandoned along with his napkin.

Pommes Frites heaved a deep sigh as he rose to his feet and followed the others out of the restaurant. He glanced around hopefully as they left, but history did not repeat itself. There were no unattended plates anywhere in sight.

Crossing the road, they headed towards the
Mairie,
then turned down a side street towards the
Gendarmerie.

Mr. Pickering, having contented himself with generalities on the way, nodded to the duty officer at the desk and led them quickly up some stone stairs to a door on the first floor. Two guards standing in the corridor outside came to attention.

‘Excuse me, I shan’t keep you a moment.’ Mr. Pickering opened the door and disappeared into the room. There was a murmur of voices which stopped abruptly, then the door closed behind him.

The Director drew Monsieur Pamplemousse to one side, out of earshot of the guards. ‘Who is this man Pickering?’ he hissed. ‘What does he want?’

‘He helped me once when I was with the
Sûreté, Monsieur.
It concerned a matter affecting security and I was given his name and a London telephone number. He helped me again when I was involved with that girls’ finishing school near Evian. He is an expert on many things, but other than that I know little. As for what he wants …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal shrug.

He could have hazarded a guess; the uneasy feeling he’d woken with that morning had returned in earnest, but he was
saved the trouble. The door opened and Mr. Pickering beckoned them in.

The room was small but crowded. Heads turned as they entered, then swivelled back towards a man at the far end. He was standing in front of a blackboard to which a large-scale map of the area was pinned.

Monsieur Pamplemousse settled himself on a chair between Mr. Pickering and the Director, then concentrated his attention on what was going on. Without even seeing the faces of those already present he could have pin-pointed their rank and status. Just in front of him were two representatives of government; from the cut of their clothes he guessed they were products of one of the élite
Grandes Ecoles,
members of
les Grands Corps de l’Etat.

In the first row he picked out the local Prefect of Police. There was an army major alongside him. Behind them came a sprinkling of British – he’d seen them grouped under the Union Jack at the launch – they were probably from the Paris Embassy. The third row were mainly military. All the occupants of the room had one thing in common; they all looked tense.