The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(2)
The impact knocked him back. Into a bottomless void…
CHAPTER 2
The black Peugeot nosed off Route Nationale 7 through heavy rain, onto a secondary road that twisted higher and higher into the hills.
Damiot, at the wheel, glimpsed a village far below, at the bottom of a deep valley.
Provence! Empire du Soleil, they called it, but there was no sun this morning.
His doctor had agreed that his hip should heal more quickly under the hot Provencal sun. He would learn to walk again without a limp.
And he should be able to make decisions here. Plans for the future, about Sophie and their marriage. About Olympe…
Once again, Sophie had left him. Would he be able to persuade her once more to come back? That required a drive down to Cannes, and long arguments while her mother listened to every word.
His hip was hurting much worse now. Waves of pain. Probably caused by climbing those steps to the plane, then sitting in a cramped position on the flight from Paris to Nice.
The doctor had warned him that he must avoid strenuous exercise. A little walking—half an hour, twice a day. He had already done much more than that today.
Eleven years since he had been back to Courville! That last summer before he met Sophie…
He looked forward to seeing his birthplace again, the old stone building his parents had owned at the northern edge of the main village street. Only half a dozen blocks in length, but they called it Avenue de la Republique!
Chez Damiot. Restaurant and kitchen on the ground floor and three small bedrooms upstairs. His room had been the smallest.
He’d grown up there. Always underfoot. His father wearing a chef’s hat and white apron, busy in the kitchen, while his mother ran the dining room with a series of youths from the village working as waiters. He was thirteen when he got a black suit with his first long trousers and took his place helping in the restaurant.
That’s where he had learned about people. Observed their stupidities and peculiarities. How they ordered dinner, the way they ate, and the ways they complained. What they said when they thought he wasn’t listening.
He slowed to peer at the sign beside the road, smiling as he read the name aloud. “Courville!”
The road at once became the Avenue de la Republique. Such a pretentious name for the narrow street lined with plane trees, running south to north from one end of the village to the other.
He slowed again to inspect a row of small shops on his right.
First the florist. It had always been here, as you entered the village. There was a new name above the entrance—Sibilat Fleurs—so old Lorois must have died and somebody had bought his business.
He realized, as he went on, that the avenue had been widened and that the sidewalk edging the churchyard wall on the other side had been eliminated.
At least the ivy-covered stone wall hiding the cemetery behind Saint-Sauveur—the only church in Courville—hadn’t been touched.
His parents were buried in there…
As the avenue curved toward the heart of the village, he saw unfamiliar names above several other shops, their interiors so dim that he was unable to glimpse anyone inside.
Everything looked so shabby! Like some grubby foreign village he’d never seen before.
He discovered to his surprise that he was hungry. Been hours since breakfast and he had eaten nothing on the flight from Paris.
Slowing for a new traffic light at the corner of rue Provence, facing the Place de la Republique, he saw the ancient pissoir on the far side of the square, faded posters peeling from its stone sides. Beyond the pissoir, behind a row of umbrella pines, was the small railroad station where no train had stopped since before the war.
He drove on when the light changed, staring at everything. Straight ahead were the town hall and the H?tel Courville, across the square.
The stone fountain in the center wasn’t spouting any water in this rain. Only a few cars were parked around its marble basin, but on Saturdays, when an open market was held here, farmers came from the surrounding countryside and filled the square.
The H?tel Courville looked seedy and dilapidated. It was the only hotel in the village, but he didn’t care to stay there.
As he approached the town hall, he saw that it needed a coat of paint. The clock in the small tower had stopped with both hands straight up. Noon or midnight? Its chimes would no longer sound the hours.
Another new traffic light, corner of rue Voltaire, turned green, and he continued up Avenue de la Republique.
Madame Mussot’s patisserie on the far corner, where he used to buy apricot tarts, seemed unchanged.
Eleven years ago he had stayed at a new motel on rue Voltaire, behind the town hall. It had been comfortable but served no meals. Should he stay there again? With his injured hip, he would miss having breakfast in bed.
Easing the Peugeot over the railroad tracks, he slowed past the final row of shops and the filling station that had been built after the war. Today, in the rain, it seemed old and dirty. A mechanic working on a truck in the cramped garage watched him as he drove past.
He wondered if that girl still lived in the village. The one he had met the summer before he married Sophie. What was her name? Blanche? Blanche Carmet!
Must find out what had happened to Blanche. A pleasant girl with brown hair and blue eyes. Solidly fleshed body…
That had been his last holiday as a bachelor. In the spring he had written Blanche and told her he was going to be married. She had never answered…