The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(21)
“Couldn’t sleep. I was reading.”
As he shook the drops of rain from his hat, he realized to his surprise that she had been concerned for his safety.
“I regret that on a night like this you can’t park in the garage. Unfortunately there’s only room for three cars.” She closed the door behind him. “Michel and I always park there. He drives the green Jaguar.”
“Tell me, Madame. Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who owns a black Ferrari?”
“Nobody in Courville could afford a Ferrari! Some of the tourists in the summer have expensive cars, of course… What happened tonight, Monsieur? You were going up to the Chateau. Did you see anything?”
“I saw the monster.”
“You saw…”
“And so did the villagers who were there.”
“Then it’s not their imagination!”
“No, Madame.”
CHAPTER 8
Fric-Frac arrived with breakfast, barking and dancing across the room, leaping onto his bed.
The gar?on laughed. “Bonjour, M’sieur!”
“Bonjour, Claude.” Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he saw a newspaper folded on the breakfast tray. “You’ve brought a paper?”
“La patronne said you wanted to read about the murders. This was the only paper I had saved.”
Damiot read the brief story as he ate breakfast.
He learned very little. Two murders had taken place, and “these unfortunate young women would appear to have been killed by the same person.” At no point was there any mention of the monster. Although the story did say that the first victim had been found in a field “adjacent to the famous Chateau de Mohrt, which for centuries has belonged to the illustrious de Mohrt family.” The last surviving member of that family, the Comtesse de Mohrt, had died several years ago in a Swiss sanatorium.
Like much reporting in provincial newspapers, the story was carelessly written and lacking in details.
Breakfast finished, Damiot shaved, showered, and dressed, with Fric-Frac waiting and observing from the bed.
She darted ahead of him, down the corridor and through the silent lobby, to the front entrance.
The sun was bright when he stepped outside. Swallows wheeled against a blue sky as he circled the Auberge to the parking lot, avoiding the puddles left from last night.
Fric-Frac splashed through each puddle, ran straight to the door of the car, and stood on her hind legs, pawing to get in. When he opened the door she jumped up and sat on the front seat, her tail thumping.
Traffic was heavy on the Avenue de la Republique as he turned left into the village. Big trucks heading down to Route Nationale 7. His first stop this morning would be that florist shop.
There was some activity in the village. Women going in and out of shops, wearing light coats over faded housedresses, scarves tied around their heads. Carrying string shopping bags or small baskets.
Of course! This was Saturday. Market day… He noticed a sign above a shop across the square, next to the corner bakery.
Charcuterie Hercule Mauron
Hercule the pork butcher! Damiot smiled.
He parked across from the florist shop, glancing down at Fric-Frac as he swung the door open. “You wait here, Madame. I won’t be long.”
Crossing to the sidewalk, he saw the sign again—Sibilat Fleurs—above the entrance. This was the only shop in the village that had been painted recently, a soft gray with cream-colored trim. Today there was a bouquet of yellow roses in the display window.
A bell tinkled as he pushed the door open and went inside.
The interior was completely new. A refrigerated display case holding fresh flowers extended across the wall behind a long counter, which faced the entrance. A single shaded ceiling light was almost invisible among a jungle of hanging plants.
As Damiot approached the counter, he heard a woman’s voice complaining to someone behind a curtained door. The curtain was pushed aside and a man appeared, in shirt sleeves, wiping his hands on a water-spattered apron.
Damiot realized that it was the young man who had driven the pickup truck he had passed last night on his way to the Chateau. Same round face and sandy hair. Muscular but slightly overweight.
He reacted with obvious recognition when he saw Damiot. “Yes, Monsieur?”
“I would like two small bouquets of roses. Like those in your window.”
“Certainly.” He slid back a section of glass in the display case, lifted out a metal tub filled with yellow roses, and placed it on the counter. Moving expertly, he produced two sheets of green waxed paper, spread them flat on the counter, and carefully placed the roses, one by one, on the first square of paper. “Monsieur is a stranger in Courville?”
“A visitor.”
“But Monsieur has friends here!” He laughed, self-consciously, nodding toward the roses he was arranging. “Two friends?”
“Across the street. In the cemetery.”
His face became solemn. “Forgive me, Monsieur. I am Marc Sibilat. The owner.”
Damiot was aware of the curtain in the doorway moving slightly. The woman must be watching them. “I saw you last night, Monsieur Sibilat, when I was driving in the hills. You were at the wheel of a truck carrying several villagers.”
“My friends and I were on our way to the Chateau, hoping the monster would show up again. It only appears if the weather’s clear, and last night was the first night this week without rain.” He worked deftly as he talked, arranging a second bouquet. “I looked for you when we arrived at the gates.”