The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(26)

Two white pigs were hanging from wall hooks, their throats cut, dripping blood into white enamel pans.

A brute of a man, tall and completely bald, turned to face Bardou. “I’ve been expecting you this morning.” There was a knife in his hand.

Damiot saw that there was blood on the knife blade, spattered over the old man’s right arm and hand. Blood on his leather apron and spots of blood, gleaming like rubies, on his boots. There was also blood in the air. That sweet, sickening, unmistakable smell…

At the same instant, he had an image of two young girls with slashed throats.

“Bonjour, Pouchet!” Bardou stepped closer. “Brought an associate with me this time. M’sieur Damiot’s from Paris…”

“A policeman from Paris?” Cold gray eyes inspected Damiot’s face. “What’s Madame Bouchard’s dog doing here?”

“Came with me,” Damiot answered. “I’m staying at the Auberge.” He glanced down and saw that the dog was drinking from one of the small puddles of blood on the floor. “Fric-Frac! Get away from there.”

“All dogs do that,” Pouchet muttered. “Fresh blood’s good for them.”

“You had visitors last night?” Bardou asked.

“Salauds! They came over the wall again.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Never went near ’em.” He rested the bloody knife on a wooden trough and untied his apron, letting it fall to the floor. “Didn’t get to bed ’til after I saw ’em leave.” He thrust his hands into a pan of water and splashed his reddened arms.

Damiot watched the water turn pink.

“They claim they saw the monster again,” Bardou continued. “On the terrace this time!”

“They saw nothing. As usual.” Pouchet laughed, his voice a deep rumble in his massive chest. “Same as they always see. Nothing!”

“Have you ever seen this monster?” Damiot asked quietly.

“There is no monster, M’sieur.” He picked up a coarse towel and dried his hands. “They tell those stories in the village to make a little excitement for themselves.”

“I agree,” Bardou nodded. “This monster business is nonsense.”

Pouchet grunted and dropped his towel onto the bench.

“Is anyone living in the Chateau?” Damiot asked.

“Been nobody here for years.” Pouchet moved ahead of them, toward the open door. “Only me.”

“What about the de Mohrt family?”

“None of ’em alive any more.” He led the way outside, into bright sunshine.

Damiot saw now that the old man’s work clothes were worn and faded. “You didn’t see the monster yourself last night?”

“I told you, M’sieur!” The old man turned toward him, angrily. “There is no monster. Why are you asking me all these questions? You say your name is Damiot?”

“That’s right.” The gray eyes were studying his face.

“You’re that boy used to come here and steal my walnuts. Your family had a restaurant where Bouchard and his wife opened their Auberge. You’re the Damiot boy!”

“Then you knew my parents?”

“Used to walk down to the village through the fields and stop by their kitchen door. Your father and I drank many a pastis, sitting on those back steps.” Holding his hand out. “The Damiot boy…”

Damiot grasped the huge hand and shook it, aware of hard muscles under the roughened skin.

“Your father used to talk about you. He was proud of you. Said you were a famous policeman.”

“Chief Inspector Damiot’s here for a holiday,” Bardou explained.

“Chief Inspector!” Pouchet laughed. “Come up in the world, since you left Courville.”

“What became of that cook who used to be here?” Damiot asked.

“Which cook?” The old man scowled. “There was more than one!”

“Was it Madame Léontine?”

“The fat one! Léontine Guibert…”

“And wasn’t it you who caught me one morning, stealing mushrooms?”

“That’s right! The others got away.”

“You hauled me into the kitchen and Madame Guibert gave me a slice of game pie…”

“Bet you thought I was going to thrash you!” The old man laughed. “Fat Léontine went back to her family when those lawyers in Paris decided to close the Chateau. All the other servants left years ago.”

Standing there in the bright sunlight, Damiot was overwhelmed by the past. Memories, long forgotten, came rushing back…

“What are you doing here?” Pouchet asked. “With Bardou!”

“Told him I was driving up to see you this morning,” Bardou answered. “M’sieur Damiot asked to come along.”

“I wanted to see the Chateau again. Haven’t been inside since Madame la Comtesse was alive.” Damiot lifted his eyes toward the stone mass of the castle rising above them. “They used to say, in the village, there were a hundred rooms here.”

“Don’t know ’bout that.” Pouchet shook his head. “Most of ’em have been closed for years. I keep a few rooms cleaned and dusted, on the chance the family lawyers show up from Paris, unexpectedly. Wait here! I’ll fetch my keys…”