The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(17)

Tendrell stared at the badge. “Local police?”

“No, Monsieur Tendrell. Quai des Orfèvres.”

“The big guns moving in, are they?”

“I am in Courville on vacation.”

“In that case, come in! And welcome…”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

“I was having a drink. Bloody cold, up on that hill tonight.”

“It was, indeed.” He closed the door and, removing his hat, followed the Englishman through a dim passage. “Why did you run off when I spoke to you?”

“I had no idea who you were. Flashing those headlights in my eyes. I couldn’t see your face. I heard a car arrive on the hill and wanted to find out who else was there. When I realized it was a stranger I took off.” As they entered a shadowy sitting room, he peered at Damiot more closely. “Didn’t I see you last night, dining at the Auberge?”

“I’m staying there for a few days.”

“You’re the chap! Aurore mentioned you to my daughter.”

“Aurore?”

“Madame Bouchard. You’re her only guest at the moment.”

“Her name is Aurore?”

“Delightful, don’t you agree? She didn’t mention that you’re from the Quai des Orfèvres.”

“I hadn’t told her.”

“Do make yourself comfortable. May I fix you a drink? Whisky? Cognac?”

“Whisky would be fine.”

Damiot glanced around the comfortable room as Tendrell talked. Low-ceilinged, with smoke-blackened wooden beams. Fine old furniture—French and English—and walls crowded with framed paintings and overflowing bookshelves. Logs blazing in a stone fireplace. He looked at the Englishman. “What were you doing up there, Monsieur? On that hill…”

“There were rumors that the monster might make an appearance on the first night of good weather.”

Damiot sat on the sofa, resting his hat beside him. “You saw the monster?”

“No. Some of the villagers claim to have seen some sort of enormous figure, in the past, that was at least twelve feet tall. I saw nothing.”

“They exaggerate. Slightly…”

“In what way?”

“I would guess their monster might be nine of your English feet in height. No more than that.”

Tendrell came toward him, a glass of whisky in each hand. “Then you saw the monster tonight?”

“Yes, I did.” Damiot took his drink from the artist’s hand.

“You actually had the good fortune to see our Courville monster? And I didn’t!”

“I saw it briefly.” He took a large swallow of whisky. “It stood on the terrace looking down at the villagers, and then it was gone.”

“I’ll be damned!” Tendrell sank into a brown leather chair, facing his visitor, glass in hand.

“Before the monster appeared there was the sound of a bell tolling. Surely, Monsieur, you must have heard that?”

“I heard nothing.”

“You couldn’t have been too far from where I was standing…”

“From my vantage point, looking between the main section of the Chateau and the west wing, it wasn’t possible to see that upper terrace. Only the entrance drive.” Tendrell tossed off half of his drink in one gulp. “I had thought the monster was supposed to appear in the courtyard where he’s visible from the front gates. That’s where those blasted villagers claim they saw him in the past. Actually, I went there tonight to observe the locals at their drunken revels.”

“How often has the monster been seen?”

“Since that first girl’s body was found, he’s rumored to have been glimpsed several times, and at least three more after the second girl was killed.”

“You don’t believe in monsters, Monsieur?”

“Ah, but I do! I’ve known many genuine monsters, in my time. Including my former wife.”

“What about this monster tonight?”

“I’ve already told you. I didn’t see him.”

“I mean—what do you think it is? Perhaps some kind of trick?”

“Might be one of the locals, having a bit of fun and games with his neighbors. There are those who say it’s the ghost of some fellow who was hanged, centuries ago, in that meadow across from the Chateau.”

“It could be the murderer, of course! Whoever killed those two young women may be trying to frighten people away.”

“He would be taking rather a chance, don’t you think? Risking capture. Shouldn’t you slip out of that damp coat for a bit?”

“Perhaps for a moment.” Damiot set his glass on a table and rose from the sofa. Grimacing as fresh pain lanced through his flesh.

“Something wrong, Monsieur? Are you hurt?”

“Hurting, but not hurt. I came to Provence to recover from recent surgery on my hip.” He slipped out of the waterproof. “Hoping to relax in the sunshine.”

“We’ve had bloody little sun lately.”

Damiot draped his waterproof over the back of a chair and resumed his place on the sofa.

“So you’re stopping at the Auberge? Marvelous food! Though not up to what they served when Julien Bouchard was in charge of the kitchen. This new chef can’t touch him, although he’s jolly good. Aurore’s in love with him. You must have noticed.”