Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines by Michael Bond Page A

anything.
    From the length of her elegantly cut dark hair, he guessed she must be still in her early thirties. She was wearing a white shirt and black trousers – with very little, if anything, underneath either if he was any judge in the matter. The rest was a model of expensive understatement: Hermès belt, black suede mules; silver earrings, each with a single diamond set in the middle; she was coolness personified . A white gold brooch and a white gold Cartier wrist watch completed the ensemble.
    Although black predominated, it wasn’t exactly widow’s weeds.
    He caught a whiff of perfume. Expensively discreet would have been a fair description. And yet, he couldn’t help being aware of something else over-riding it; something much more mundane and very familiar. So familiar he couldn’t immediately put a name to it. Sandalwood? No – simpler than that. Almonds? He had almonds on the brain.
    Pommes Frites obviously noticed it too. Although, having  registered it, he kept his thoughts to himself for the time being.
    Nor could it be said that her late husband was into counting his Euros. As she led the way towards the rear of the house by way of an enormous lounge, he took stock of his surroundings. At some time the room they were passing through had been stripped, a purist might say vandalised , of what must once have been all the trappings of an ornately furnished salon. The walls had the kind of sheen that only came from many applications of paint. The floor had been re-laid with hardwood, polished until you could see your face in it.
    Only the ceiling decorations had been left intact.
    Apart from the fact that there seemed to be two of everything, it reminded him of a Philippe Starck exhibition he and Doucette had once been to see.
    There were two enormous sofas – each large enough to seat a whole family; two mammoth plasma screen television sets; two chandeliers; two harps! What would anyone want with two harps? Madame Chavignol didn’t look the sort of person who would spend the long winter evenings perfecting her arpeggios .
    There were flowers everywhere: freshly cut lilies and iris in enormous vases; the kind of displays you normally only came across in three Stock Pot restaurants, or on yachts in the south of France during the season. A Hermès Birkin handbag left carelessly open on a table was something more than a fashion statement.
    Abstract paintings dotted the walls. A brief glance was enough. He knew what he liked, and on the whole it didn’t extend to large pieces of canvas that looked as though a child had ridden across them on its tricycle, having first passed through several trays of primary coloured paint. Many of them were unframed, although they had probably  cost the earth.
    On a corner table just inside the door there was a sprinkling of statuettes and silver cups, and on the wall behind it a number of framed certificates. Presumably they all belonged to Monsieur Chavignol; show biz mementos. Somehow they summed everything up.
    It was all too perfect and unlived in, with not a sign of a book anywhere; sad in its way, as though the house and its contents had been left in the hands of a designer and the table was the only concession he had allowed the owner for his personal effects.
    Bringing up the rear and clearly feeling in need of a rest after their long walk, Pommes Frites paused by a thick pile rug and eyed it hopefully.
    Catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye, Madame Chavignol broke off for a moment. ‘Your dog looks thirsty. Does he prefer still or sparkling water?’
    ‘Given the choice, he prefers still.’
    ‘I will have Yin him bring some Evian.’
    Motioning Pommes Frites to remain where he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed her out onto a patio which at first sight was as immaculately tidy as the inside of the house. Concealed lamps dotted around the perimeter no doubt doubled as either heat, or movement- sensitive security lights by night. Through thick glass