Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines by Michael Bond

problem on his hands if he was hoping to get his negatives back by devious means. The place was like a fortress.
    ‘I still think it is an extraordinary coincidence that you should be at the studio yesterday evening,’ said Madame Chavignol when they were alone again. ‘Do you often go?’
    ‘It was my first visit.’
    ‘Well, then…’
    ‘Perhaps it was meant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.
    Catching her looking at him he elaborated. ‘Who is to say what is a coincidence and what is preordained?’
    ‘Who indeed?’ said Madame Chavignol thoughtfully.
    At least she seemed to have no idea of his connection with Le Guide . There was no reason why she should of course, but it made his task easier. Having said that, the plain truth was he had no idea where to lead the conversation . It was all very well for the Director, sending him off to spy out the territory. But having established a bridgehead as it were, what next?
    He was acutely aware of her surveying him across the top of her champagne glass. Her long legs were crossed, the upper one moving slowly up and down like a metronome. It was a well-known syndrome – he had come across it before. As ever he couldn’t help being reminded of the offshore oil derricks common to the West Coast of California; inexorable, regular, hypnotic, like the pecking ducks that had been all the rage in souvenir shops at one time.
    Under different circumstances he might have suspected her of doing it on purpose, but it didn’t feel that way. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those dark glasses. If anything she seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts, just as he was with his.
    It was hard to picture her sitting on top of a washing machine; those same elegant legs encircling Monsieur Leclercq, drawing him ever closer towards her; the Director holding on like grim death as the motor gathered speed. But then that was often the case with other people’s peccadilloes. The older he got the more he found nothing surprised him any more.
    ‘What are you thinking?’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse came to his senses with a start. She would probably be mortified if he told her the truth. Concentrate Pamplemousse!
    ‘May I call you Aristide?’ she continued. ‘I can’t keep calling you by your surname. Besides, you don’t look at all like a grapefruit.’ Her voice was soft and low. Perhaps she was musical after all.
    ‘Please do.’
    ‘Your name was in all the journaux this morning,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And your photograph. They all seemed to think it was something of a coincidence too. I gather you were very famous during your time with the Sûreté . One of them likened you to a dog with a bone. You never gave up.’
    ‘The media always fasten on these things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It gives an added edge to their stories. You shouldn’t pay too much attention to them…’ He didn’t know whether to call her Madame or use her full title.
    She solved the problem for him. ‘Please call me Claudette. It was a little joke Claude and I had. He always called me his “little Claudette”.’
    When she smiled her teeth were flawless. Small, regular and flawless, they lit up her face. He wondered how many people she had dug them into over the years. The Director clearly wasn’t the only one by a long chalk.
    ‘I call my wife “Couscous”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When we first met I took her out to dinner one evening. It was on the fringes of the 18th and all we could find were middle eastern restaurants. It became a joke and somehow it stuck.’
    ‘There you are,’ said Claudette. ‘Talking of bones…’ She picked up the phone again and issued an order.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself warming to her.
    She replaced the receiver. ‘May I ask you something?’
    ‘Of course…’
    ‘Everything happened so suddenly; I don’t know which way to turn. It isn’t that I don’t trust the police, but… I have never before felt so