The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(22)

“There was nothing to see. So I drove on.”

“But you should have waited, Monsieur!”

“You saw the monster?”

“Oh, yes! He appeared on the terrace for a moment and stood there watching us.”

“Cowards!” The woman’s voice again.

Damiot looked toward the curtained door as a plump figure in black burst into the shop. Hawk-faced, with inquisitive jet eyes. White hair.

“My own son! Like all the others. Cowards…”

“Madame?”

“Grown men!” she exclaimed as she reached the counter. “They see the monster again but do nothing about it!”

Damiot turned to Sibilat. “You’ve seen this monster before?”

“Twice. In the past it has appeared in the courtyard, but last night it showed itself on a terrace.”

“And the idiots did nothing!” Madame Sibilat’s eyes blazed. “They should have caught the thing, whatever it is, and destroyed it!”

“I only hope that news about the monster will be good for business.” Sibilat twisted plastic tape around the stems of each bouquet. “Most of the shopkeepers think the publicity will convince those people from Paris that our village would be a good location for their new hotel.”

“New hotel?” Damiot frowned, reminded of what he had already heard.

“Some businessmen are considering building a modern hotel in this area. They’ve been looking at possible locations. Such a hotel would naturally mean more business for the whole village…”

“Then catch the monster!” Madame Sibilat exclaimed. “That would get you some real publicity!”

Damiot pulled a hundred-franc note from his wallet as the florist folded the waxed paper around the roses, and dropped it on the counter.

“At first, when the villagers said they had seen a monster, I didn’t believe them,” Madame continued, as she took the money and unlocked the cash drawer, “but then my own son saw the thing! So I knew it was true.” She locked the cash drawer again and handed Damiot his change. “Merci, Monsieur…”

“Madame…” He took the bouquets from Sibilat. “You have an attractive shop here.”

“We think so!” Madame answered. “My son studied to be a doctor—a surgeon!” she announced proudly. “His father was a well-known medical man in Toulon for many years. He had hoped that our son would take over his practice.”

Sibilat shrugged. “I always preferred to work with plants and flowers. Living things! Not sick people…”

“Unfortunately,” Madame interrupted, “my dear husband died. But he left enough money so that Marc could do as he pleased.”

“I found this shop through an advertisement and, once my mother consented to live in Courville, I arranged to buy the property.”

“Monsieur is visiting relatives in the village?” Madame’s eyes sharpened with curiosity.

“I’m here on vacation. Staying at the Auberge.”

“Our dear friend, Madame Bouchard! You’ll be very comfortable there. My son and I dine at the Auberge at least once a month. We sell them all their plants and flowers.”

“So I’ve been told.” He bowed. “Bonjour, Madame.”

“Monsieur…”

As Damiot went toward the door he was aware of their eyes following him. The mother’s, black and penetrating, the son’s, curiously dull.

Returning to his car, he swerved the Peugeot around and drove up the avenue. He turned left at the corner and parked along the edge of the square, across from Saint-Sauveur. “You’ll have to stay here. Dogs aren’t allowed in cemeteries.”

As he approached the church he saw that the stone walls were badly cracked. The tiers of carved figures above the portal had always looked as though they were crumbling. They were supposed to be sixteenth-century, and Saint-Sauveur itself was said to have been built on the site of an ancient temple and to have Roman paving blocks embedded in its walls. The bell tower, which looked too small, had been added much later.

His mother had come here every Sunday to early Mass; his father preferred to sleep late Sunday mornings and then cook breakfast for the family after Mass…

Requiem masses had been sung here for both his parents. Those were the last times he had been inside Saint-Sauveur. Eleven years ago…

He tried the door but, as he anticipated, it was locked. Following the path around the corner, he entered the cemetery through a wooden gate. The graves he sought were toward the far end.

Ahead of him, to one side, was a brilliant spot of red. Someone had left fresh flowers on a grave. He saw that it was a bouquet of red carnations, placed in front of a simple marble headstone.

JULIEN BOUCHARD

1934-1976

Her husband! Madame Bouchard must have bought the carnations from Sibilat Fleurs earlier this morning.

Walking on, he continued to think about Aurore Bouchard, leaving fresh flowers on her husband’s grave after two years. They must have been devoted to each other…

If he had died in Montmartre from one of the bullets fired by that gangster, Valzo, would Sophie still be placing flowers on his grave? Even one month later? Not likely…

He had reached a more familiar section of the cemetery. The two graves were side by side.