The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(11)
A shy-eyed gar?on spread a checked cloth over the table and then, swift as a magician, produced napkin and silver.
“M’sieur…” The waiter set his apéritif in front of him.
“Merci. And what do you suggest for a start?”
“Perhaps the snail fritters…”
“Bien! With half a carafe of Tavel?”
“Certainly… M’sieur is in Provence on business?”
“I’m here for a holiday. Staying at the Auberge Courville.”
“Courville! Have they caught that monster yet?”
“Monster?”
“It was in one of the local papers. Another Courville murder! A young girl, like the first…”
“Why do you call the murderer a monster?”
“That’s what the newspaper called him. The Courville Monster!” He shrugged. “All murders are brutal, but this man’s a real beast. Pardon, M’sieur.” He bowed and disappeared inside again.
Another young girl murdered? And they were calling the killer “the Courville monster”…
Certainly all murderers were not monsters. Some of the most interesting people he had known were murderers. Fascinating people! Gentle and pathetic people…
A monster loose in Courville? Mustn’t think about that…“M’sieur?” The waiter again. “Is this your dog?”
Damiot looked down to see Fric-Frac dancing on her hind legs, tail wagging frantically. “I left her in the car but the windows were open. Would it be all right if she sits here beside me?”
“Of course, M’sieur. Le patron has two dogs of his own.” Damiot stroked the small black head and watched Fric-Frac settle down beneath his chair, revolving several times as though she were making a nest.
The fritters were excellent, rolled around succulent snails. The gar?on removed his empty plate, and the waiter brought a steaming casserole containing two plump quail in a dark sauce, with baby carrots and small white onions.
Damiot sniffed the appetizing aroma rising from the stuffing.
He detected herbs, tomatoes, mushrooms and sweet peppers, and a trace of Calvados.
As Damiot ate, he slipped bits of quail to the dog.
His hip was paining again, even while he sat absolutely still. The metal pin they had inserted must be adjusting to his first real exercise. All that therapy at the hospital had been easy—walking on moving belts, clutching handrails, and arriving nowhere—compared to his activity yesterday and today.
That night in Montmartre, he had been foolish to go into Valzo’s warehouse alone. Once again he had taken an unnecessary risk. He should have waited until others arrived to back him up. But that had never been his way…
Valzo was dead, killed when he crashed his motorcycle escaping from the warehouse. Borell had heard the shots and was waiting in the police car when Valzo came out.
The informer who tricked Damiot into searching that warehouse had been arrested, and the pimp, Chulot, had spilled everything about the murder of the Laurent woman.
“How’s the quail, M’sieur?”
Damiot looked up to see the waiter again. “Just as I remembered! I’ve come home.”
“M’sieur is from Provence?”
“I was born in Courville.”
“Welcome home, M’sieur!”
CHAPTER 5
Damiot relaxed in the empty lounge, near the fireplace, drinking a second cup of black coffee as he watched the last of the evening’s dinner guests departing through the foyer.
Fewer people tonight, because of the rain that had begun late in the afternoon.
“We are closing early.”
“Madame Bouchard!” He pushed himself to his feet as she came toward him, carrying a tapestry workbag in one hand. “Won’t you have a drink with me?”
“I’ve told Jean-Paul to bring the Calvados.” She smiled as she sank into another armchair, resting her workbag on the tiled floor.
Damiot resumed his seat, facing her. Noticing the reflection of the fire on her copper hair, and the beige gown he had admired earlier in the restaurant. A single strand of pearls around her throat. “Dinner was excellent again. Especially that saddle of hare!”
“I will tell Michel. He thrives on compliments, like every chef, and he heard none tonight because he didn’t leave his kitchen.” She reached down to lift some needlework from the tapestry bag. “Usually, when it rains, we have at least a dozen for dinner. Tonight there were only seven.”
“But of course you make up for this in the summer months.”
“We turn people away every night. Actually, I don’t mind this off season. No tourists arriving in a rush, wanting to be fed in a hurry! Only our regulars and an occasional stray.”
“Like me?”
“Like you, Monsieur…” She smiled as she rested the needlework on her lap. “You won’t mind my working as we talk?”
“Certainly not.”
“It relaxes me at the end of the day. During these slow months I’m always making more seat covers for our dining-room chairs. I can’t do that in the summer.”
He saw that she was stitching needlepoint on an oval frame. “Very handsome!”
“I do think they give the restaurant more character. We planned them, Julien and I, from the start. We wanted everything to be simple but quite individual.” She looked up as Jean-Paul brought a tray with a bottle of Calvados and glasses. “Put that near Monsieur Damiot so he can refill his glass without inconveniencing himself. And you can pour us both a drink.”