The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(18)

“No. I hadn’t.” The idea was somehow distasteful.

“She denies it, of course. Aurore’s such an innocent! Except about running her restaurant. She’s quite extraordinarily capable at that. Can I freshen your whisky?”

“Merci, no. Tell me, Monsieur, what do you know about these local murders?”

“Only hearsay, I fear. Mostly from my daughter who picks up all the local gossip. The villagers accept her, but they barely speak to me.”

“Who was the most recent girl to die?”

“Lisette Jarlaud.” Sipping his whisky, more slowly now. “Something of a beauty! Blonde and plump. Rubens would have enjoyed painting her. She was found three weeks ago in an alley behind the Courville town hall, where the gendarmerie is housed. Which is, of course, a bit of a black mark for the local police lads.”

“How could the monster get down there from the Chateau?”

“And what makes you think the killer came from the Chateau?”

“Isn’t that what the villagers are saying?”

“Well, yes… Actually, that alley leads toward open country. Anybody could walk from the Chateau across those fields and down to the edge of the village without being noticed. Or, for that matter, from a dozen farms in the area. Including this one!”

“Did the police find prints near the girl’s body? Footprints?”

“I’m told there were several, but before anything could be done to preserve them, the rain washed everything away. The Jarlaud girl’s clothing had been torn from her body and she had been raped.”

“What was she like?”

“Familiar, shall we say, to one and all!” Tendrell moved around the room as he talked. “First time I noticed her, shortly after my arrival in Courville, I was having a whisky in one of the cafés. A young man, drinking with some chums, called out to her as she walked past on the sidewalk. From the nasty way they laughed, I gathered that all of them had known the girl. I learned later that she was a femme de chambre at the H?tel Courville and rather a favorite with salesmen who book there overnight.”

“You say she was raped. But that was not the cause of death?”

“Her throat was cut. Quite permanently.”

“Did she have any family?”

“Lisette lived with her parents and two small children. It is rumored that the children belonged to her.”

“Who were her friends?”

“I don’t believe she had any real friends! Of either sex. Lisette was the sort of girl everyone knew. Yet, curiously, nobody knew her.”

“What about the first victim?”

“She has not yet been identified.”

“When was she killed? In relation to the second…”

“Two months ago. I believe it was mid-January when a farmhand stumbled over her body. She too had been raped. Her throat slashed.”

“Footprints?”

“I’m told that dozens of people tramped there before the police arrived. When the body was taken down to the morgue, everyone in the village was asked to identify her, but no one recognized the unfortunate creature. I didn’t want my daughter to participate, although I did go and have a look for myself.”

“Had you seen her before?”

“Never. The police think she must have been a transient. Perhaps one of those hitchhikers one sees on the roads, more frequently during the summer.”

“Is there a bus through here?”

“Not on this road.”

“The Jarlaud girl… Did she limit her favors to overnight visitors at the hotel?”

“Not at all! Lisette apparently had many admirers in the village. Several shopkeepers have been questioned, discreetly, so that their wives would not find out. There are rumors she even had an occasional rendezvous with one of the local gendarmes!”

“Policemen too are human.”

“You’re quite certain, Inspector, that you weren’t sent to solve these murders?”

“Paris doesn’t get involved with unsolved murders in the provinces. Tell me, Monsieur. Was the first girl blond, like the second?”

“She had red hair, but as a painter I can assure you the color came from the chemist.”

“What a disgusting thing to say about that poor girl…”

Both men turned, startled, to see a slim figure in a yellow silk robe just inside the open doorway.

“What the devil are you doing up?” Tendrell exclaimed.

“Your voices wakened me.”

Tendrell turned to the detective. “This is my daughter, Jenny. My sole offspring!” He set his glass down. “Come in, luv. Meet Chief Inspector Damiot from Paris.”

Damiot got to his feet. “Mademoiselle…”

“So you’re a flic!” She came forward, into the light. “I’ve seen you twice, Monsieur. First in the Auberge last night, at dinner, and this morning in a car parked outside the Chateau.” She curled herself in a corner of the other sofa, tucking both feet under her robe.

Damiot sat down again, facing her. She had a lovely face, pert nose, intelligent eyes.

“Aurore Bouchard told us about you, during dinner. A guest from Paris!” Jenny shook her long, blond hair away from her face. “But she neglected to say that you’re a flic.”