Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines by Michael Bond

behind the nearest of the two doors.
    Signalling Pommes Frites to follow, Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed open a smaller inset door and went in. He almost expected to be greeted by a footman in full livery. Instead, as the door automatically closed behind them, another opened on the far side of a cobbled courtyard and a very small Asian in a white jacket emerged, beckoning them forward. He looked like the actor Peter Lorre in an early Mr. Moto film.
    Casting his eyes around as he went, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the building. It was more like a country mansion than a town house: a well protected one at that! High up on the walls, strategically placed CCTV cameras covered the area he was in, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable. The upper windows were protected by white shutters, whilst those on the ground floor had stout metal grills.
    To the left of the house there was a stable-block garage. The row of steel up-and-over doors was shut, as was another door, presumably a tradesman’s entrance, in a wall between the two buildings. The Facel Vega he had seen standing outside the studios the night before was parked alongside it. Someone must have moved fast. Perhaps they needed the space.
    In passing he seized the opportunity to take a closer look. Only one hundred and fifty-two had been built in the three years before the company went into liquidation and since most of them went for export he might never see another. Comparing it to his own Deux Chevaux was like comparing chalk and cheese. Nearly four million of the latter had been made. 
    The Excellence had an American Chrysler V8 6.3 litre engine, and with its armchair type front seat it was nothing short of decadence on wheels; for most of its life, the 2CV – a deckchair on wheels as some people called it – had been propelled by a simple 375cc engine. The one thing they had in common was that they were both products of the drawing board and both were idiosyncratic. At least his car was easy to climb in and out of; the Excellence with its pillarless construction might be sexy, but its doors had acquired an unhappy reputation for occasionally staying firmly shut when you wanted to get out.
    As he neared the main entrance to the house he noted the front door was as solid as those at the main gate. There would be no breaking through its panels in a hurry. Removing his coat before entering he had a fleeting glimpse of welded security pins on the inward opening hinges.
    One way and another, he knew all he wished to know for the time being. The 7th had a reputation for being the most closely guarded arrondissement in Paris; there were gendarmes everywhere. Jules Romain had hit the nail on the head when he called it “a capital within a capital”. To add so much security on top of what already existed seemed an unnecessary gilding of the lily; a belt and braces operation, but no doubt the Chavignols had their reasons.
    While the Japanese manservant relieved him of his coat, executing a series of bows as he backed away, a woman he took to be Madame Chavignol appeared further down the hall. Glancing briefly at a small pile of unopened letters on a table as she passed, she came forward to greet him, hand outstretched.
    ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. It is kind of you to come. I hadn’t expected…’ 
    ‘It was the least I could do.’
    ‘But so soon…’
    Her hand felt cold rather than cool. She held on to his for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary while she scrutinised him. Then, letting go, she turned and motioned him to follow. He couldn’t help thinking that apart from dark glasses there was no question of her being in deep mourning.
    Nor was the flow of inconsequential chatter she kept up what he would have expected from a person in a state of shock. Or, perhaps it was. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice and it was some kind of defence mechanism at work.
    All the same, after the Director’s graphic revelations he was prepared for almost