The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(23)

CLéMENCE DAMIOT

1898-1961

PIERRE DAMIOT

1894-1961

His father had died first, after a siege of pneumonia that had weakened his heart. His mother, three weeks later, in her sleep. The doctor told him, when he flew down from Paris, that there had been nothing wrong with her. It was only grief…

He unwrapped the first bouquet and rested it on his mother’s grave. The other on his father’s. The yellow roses made twin pools of sunshine on the grass.

“Pardon, M’sieur…”

Damiot turned to face a tall man in a gray suit. Shabby gray overcoat, gray hat. He knew at once that this was a policeman.

“Jules Bardou, S?reté Nationale…” A thin hand produced a leather case and opened it to show a badge. “You are a visitor in Courville?”

“That’s right.”

“One of the villagers saw you park your car and phoned the gendarmerie. I was asked to find out who you are, M’sieur. Your purpose here…”

Damiot reluctantly brought out his own worn leather case and flipped it open. “Police Judiciaire, Paris. Chief Inspector Damiot.”

The bony jaw dropped, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.

“Who called you?” Damiot asked.

“Some man. Didn’t give his name.”

“One of those!”

“Has Paris sent you to help with this murder business?”

“I’m in Courville for a vacation. And I’ve come here because my parents…” He motioned toward the graves. “I was born in this village.”

“Pardon, M’sieur Inspecteur. I would never have bothered you…”

“No harm done.” He saw Bardou glance down to check the names on the headstones as he pulled a package of Gauloises from a pocket.

“M’sieur Inspecteur?” Holding out the cigarettes.

“I don’t smoke any more.”

“Some of the villagers saw you driving last night in the hills near the Chateau.” Lighting a cigarette. “You were a stranger, so they thought you might have some connection with the murders. Or with the monster…”

“You believe in this monster, do you?”

“I never believe in anything I haven’t seen with my own eyes, M’sieur. But some of the villagers claim they saw him last night.”

“What, precisely?”

“A tall figure. Very tall…”

“How many people saw it?”

“A dozen or more.”

“A dozen people should be listened to—if they all saw the same thing. Do their descriptions of the monster agree?”

“I’ve questioned three of them this morning, but they change their descriptions, even as they talk. The monster had black hair and it had reddish brown hair. It was tall but they can’t agree how tall… They were drunk, M’sieur! Believe me! They saw no monster. Last night or any other night. I’ve been through the Chateau with the caretaker, and there was no trace of any monster.”

Should he acknowledge that he had seen the figure on the terrace? Better not! “When I drove past those gates last night, the Chateau was dark. I’m told nobody lives there.”

“Only Pouchet, the caretaker. He’s been there for years. More like a gamekeeper. He keeps people out and protects the animals in the forest. Some people think the place is haunted. The villagers claim they heard a bell tolling again last night, before the monster scared them away, but I’ve checked each of those towers and there’s no bell in any of them!”

“Perhaps this is some trick of the caretaker’s.”

“Old Pouchet’s not the type for that sort of thing.”

“The villagers know he’s there?”

“Oh, yes! They also know that he has a gun and, if necessary, will use it. Pouchet comes down to the village every two weeks for supplies, but he’s not a friendly sort.”

“Is it possible to get inside the grounds? Have a look around?”

“I’m on my way up there now, to ask Pouchet about what happened last night. If M’sieur cares to come along…”

“I would indeed!”

“My car’s parked across the square, in front of the town hall.”

“Perhaps I’d better take mine. Then you won’t have to drive me back. I remember the Chateau as it was years ago, when the de Mohrt family still lived there.”

“I know very little about the place. My home’s in Arles and I’ll be returning there, once this business is finished.”

“What about those girls who were murdered? Are they buried here?”

“One of them—the first—has never been identified. She’s on ice, at the morgue, but the other one’s over there. I’ll show you.” Damiot followed. His hip was stiff but not paining too much. He came to a stop beside Bardou, facing a recent grave.

“Lisette Jarlaud. She was the second. Her family can’t afford a headstone, but somebody’s left flowers…”

From the soggy brown petals, Damiot saw that they had been roses. The rains had beaten them into the earth, but the small bouquet still had a twist of green waxed paper around its stems.

“She was only nineteen. Too young to die—even for her sort—but then, I suppose, any age is too young for the way these girls died.”