The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(20)

“But I should love to see the monster!” Jenny pretended to shiver.

“Why do you think the—monster—slashes his victims’ throats with such violence?” Tendrell asked abruptly.

Damiot frowned. “Only the killer himself can answer that.”

“The way he slashed both those girls, from what I’ve heard—and from seeing the first victim in the morgue—was quite expert. His skill with a knife would indicate some knowledge of anatomy.”

“Indeed?”

“He might, of course, be a doctor. Possibly from some nearby city, since there is no resident physician in Courville.”

“Or an artist…”

“Artist? Oh, yes! We all study anatomy.”

“Even a farmer knows anatomy!” Jenny exclaimed. “Most of our neighbors do their own butchering. They’re terribly expert at it.”

Damiot saw the face in the portrait hanging behind her more clearly now. A young man’s face with a prominent nose and petulant, sardonic mouth…

“What is it, Monsieur?” Tendrell asked.

He realized that the artist had been observing him. “I was intrigued by that painting on the wall.”

“Oh?” He glanced at the canvas. “If you’re interested, I would be happy to show you some more recent canvases.”

“Another evening, perhaps?” He got to his feet. “I’ve intruded much too long.”

“Not at all!” Tendrell rose, placing his empty glass on a table. “Always delighted to meet someone from the outside world.”

“I think your monster is one of the villagers!” Jenny announced, following them out of the room. “Hoping to attract tourists to Courville this summer. All their little shops depend upon income from the people who stop off for a few hours, on their way to more important places. The season starts in another few weeks. I think the whole thing’s a hoax to get publicity. And the local flics are in on it.”

Damiot smiled. “But if that were true, who murdered those two girls?”

“I also have a rather large suspicion about the murderer!”

“Do you, Mademoiselle?” They had reached the entrance passage. “And what might that be?”

“I think he’s a salesman who drives through Courville every few months.”

“Why do you say that?” Damiot asked, shrugging into his waterproof.

“Because I’ve seen him. Twice! At least I’ve seen his car. A black Ferrari.”

“What nonsense!” Tendrell exclaimed. “You’ve never told me this.”

“You saw the man’s face?” Damiot asked.

“Too dark, both times… And I’m much too sleepy, at the moment, to think clearly. Bonsoir, Monsieur Inspecteur…”

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.” He watched her yellow robe disappear through the passage, into the dark depths of the farmhouse.

Tendrell moved ahead toward the entrance and opened the door.

“Thank you for the whisky. And for the information you’ve given me.”

“Nothing but gossip, I fear. Drop by again, Inspector! And have yourself a pleasant vacation.”

“A bient?t, Monsieur.” He put his hat on and went down the path through a steady downpour. The Peugeot was streaming with water, so the rain must have been falling for several minutes.

The road was empty in both directions as he turned left toward the village.

This had been a curious evening. First that incredible figure on the Chateau terrace! The villagers had certainly seen it from where they stood at the gates. And in spite of Tendrell’s denial, he was certain that the Englishman must have glimpsed the monster.

Nobody lived in the Chateau any more. Only a caretaker. Was he the one who wanted the villagers to think there was a monster on the premises? The fact that it only appeared on clear nights meant that someone wanted the monster to be seen…

He had liked the artist and his daughter. The Tendrells had talked like equals, not parent and child years apart.

Damiot turned off the avenue and slowed around to the rear of the Auberge. Through the restaurant windows he glimpsed a faint glow of light inside. Probably left burning for the night in the foyer.

As he eased the Peugeot to a stop in the empty parking lot, he saw that the garage doors were open, for the first time. Three cars were parked inside, with no room for another.

He got out and ducked into the dry garage, before plunging through the rain to look for the flowerpot where Madame had said he would find a key to the front door.

As he stood there, out of the rain, he noticed a shadow moving in a lighted room above the kitchen. Madame Bouchard’s suite? He hoped that he hadn’t wakened her…

Damiot glanced at the three cars. An old station wagon, a black Renault, and a dark green Jaguar.

A sound caught his attention, and he turned to see that the kitchen door had been opened and a figure was silhouetted against the light.

“Monsieur Damiot?”

“Yes, Madame!”

Damiot limped across the puddled parking area, his hip throbbing again.

“I heard your car and came down to open the door.”

“That was very kind, Madame.” He saw that her copper hair hung in twin braids and that she was wearing a dark brown robe of quilted satin. Her face, without makeup, was even more beautiful. “You shouldn’t have waited up for me.”