it was made from Gloire de Dijon . Everything about it was sheer perfection. I daresay Madame Leclercq would like the recipe.’
‘I daresay pigs might fly,’ said Doucette. ‘I can’t picture her slaving over a hot stove. Anyway, he sounded upset about something. He wants you in his office as soon as possible.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. ‘It was supposed to be my week off.’
‘The devil also finds work for idle hands,’ said Doucette pointedly.
At least he looks after his own, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, making good his escape before any more questions were asked. Once Doucette got the bit between her teeth there was no knowing where things would end up.
On the other hand, the same could be said of the Director. It was a wonder he hadn’t been on the phone before. He must have arrived in his office rather later than usual for some reason. Perhaps his researches had taken him out of Paris.
Threading the Deux Chevaux through the tortuous maze of one-way streets leading down to the Place Clichy, he went over the previous day’s events in his mind.
After making good his escape from the Chavignol residence , he had taken refuge in the tiny gardens of the Square Samuel-Rousseau, marshalling his thoughts as he dried out while Pommes Frites kept watch.
His encounter with Claudette had been a mind- boggling experience; one he wouldn’t wish to repeat in a hurry. The Director had not been exaggerating. Once she got going she was like a woman possessed. There had been no stopping her. He told himself he should be thankful for small mercies; at least she didn’t have a spin drier concealed in her boudoir .
The last of the summer flowers were still in bloom and with only an occasional solitary figure entering or leaving the Basilique Sainte Clotilde at the far end of the garden to disturb the peace, he had gradually come back down to earth again.
His recovery lasted all of thirty seconds. His heart missed a beat as a sudden thought struck him.
Wondering whether to try and reach Monsieur Leclercq on his mobile, he remembered the Director saying he had another appointment. It was a busy time in the office. Preparations for next year’s guide were already getting into their stride and he was probably on his way to one or other of the eighteen restaurants in France singled out by the computer for the possible accolade of three Stock Pots.
‘A hard job,’ he was fond of saying, ‘but someone has to do it.’
With most people it would have been meant as a joke, but in Monsieur Leclercq’s case it was a serious statement of fact, and he had the waistline to prove it.
A quick call to Véronique confirmed his reading of the situation, and having persuaded her to put him through to the Director’s personal voice mail, he had left a short message containing the single word Estragon . Known only to a select few, it was Le Guide’s code word for an emergency, to be used only in extreme cases.
His second call had been to an ex-colleague from his days in the Sûreté . That, too, had been somewhat less than satisfactory. It wasn’t that Jacques was unhelpful; non-committal was more the word. Clearly, for whatever reason , he hadn’t wished to discuss the matter of Claude Chavignol’s death over the phone.
Summing up, practically the only good thing to be said for the day was that at least Doucette was out when he arrived back home, and he had been able to change his clothes in peace. Now even that was in jeopardy. He wasn’t out of the wood yet.
Some twenty minutes later, having left his 2CV in the Esplanade des Invalides underground car park, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off across the Rue Fabert with Pommes Frites at his side, mentally bracing himself for his coming encounter with the Director.
Véronique seemed unusually subdued when he arrived on the top floor of Le Guide’s offices. ‘I’ve no idea what’s up,’ she whispered as she opened the door to the holy of holies, ‘but whatever it
‘I daresay pigs might fly,’ said Doucette. ‘I can’t picture her slaving over a hot stove. Anyway, he sounded upset about something. He wants you in his office as soon as possible.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. ‘It was supposed to be my week off.’
‘The devil also finds work for idle hands,’ said Doucette pointedly.
At least he looks after his own, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, making good his escape before any more questions were asked. Once Doucette got the bit between her teeth there was no knowing where things would end up.
On the other hand, the same could be said of the Director. It was a wonder he hadn’t been on the phone before. He must have arrived in his office rather later than usual for some reason. Perhaps his researches had taken him out of Paris.
Threading the Deux Chevaux through the tortuous maze of one-way streets leading down to the Place Clichy, he went over the previous day’s events in his mind.
After making good his escape from the Chavignol residence , he had taken refuge in the tiny gardens of the Square Samuel-Rousseau, marshalling his thoughts as he dried out while Pommes Frites kept watch.
His encounter with Claudette had been a mind- boggling experience; one he wouldn’t wish to repeat in a hurry. The Director had not been exaggerating. Once she got going she was like a woman possessed. There had been no stopping her. He told himself he should be thankful for small mercies; at least she didn’t have a spin drier concealed in her boudoir .
The last of the summer flowers were still in bloom and with only an occasional solitary figure entering or leaving the Basilique Sainte Clotilde at the far end of the garden to disturb the peace, he had gradually come back down to earth again.
His recovery lasted all of thirty seconds. His heart missed a beat as a sudden thought struck him.
Wondering whether to try and reach Monsieur Leclercq on his mobile, he remembered the Director saying he had another appointment. It was a busy time in the office. Preparations for next year’s guide were already getting into their stride and he was probably on his way to one or other of the eighteen restaurants in France singled out by the computer for the possible accolade of three Stock Pots.
‘A hard job,’ he was fond of saying, ‘but someone has to do it.’
With most people it would have been meant as a joke, but in Monsieur Leclercq’s case it was a serious statement of fact, and he had the waistline to prove it.
A quick call to Véronique confirmed his reading of the situation, and having persuaded her to put him through to the Director’s personal voice mail, he had left a short message containing the single word Estragon . Known only to a select few, it was Le Guide’s code word for an emergency, to be used only in extreme cases.
His second call had been to an ex-colleague from his days in the Sûreté . That, too, had been somewhat less than satisfactory. It wasn’t that Jacques was unhelpful; non-committal was more the word. Clearly, for whatever reason , he hadn’t wished to discuss the matter of Claude Chavignol’s death over the phone.
Summing up, practically the only good thing to be said for the day was that at least Doucette was out when he arrived back home, and he had been able to change his clothes in peace. Now even that was in jeopardy. He wasn’t out of the wood yet.
Some twenty minutes later, having left his 2CV in the Esplanade des Invalides underground car park, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off across the Rue Fabert with Pommes Frites at his side, mentally bracing himself for his coming encounter with the Director.
Véronique seemed unusually subdued when he arrived on the top floor of Le Guide’s offices. ‘I’ve no idea what’s up,’ she whispered as she opened the door to the holy of holies, ‘but whatever it
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