The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(28)

Fric-Frac dashed out and scampered across the terrace.

Damiot saw Bardou and Pouchet heading toward a door at the far end of the dining room. Catch up with them later. Meanwhile he could inspect the terrace unobserved.

The dog ran back and forth, sniffing the air.

He realized that the corner where the monster had appeared was straight ahead. As he walked in that direction, moving casually in case anyone noticed from the window, he saw that the terrace floor was white marble, cracked and stained from centuries of rain.

Approaching the corner, he could see the cobbled courtyard below. From here, the Chateau seemed to be surrounded by impenetrable forest. Dark and menacing, even in bright sunlight. Checking to be sure he wasn’t watched, he peered at the hill rising above the trees in the back. That was where he had been last night, looking down at the monster.

Walking toward the rear on the side terrace—Fric-Frac racing ahead—he passed a row of double windows and glimpsed more empty rooms inside. He reached the northwest corner and looked down at Bardou’s car, parked in the kitchen yard.

The ducks and chickens had resumed their greedy scramble for food, and a wisp of smoke was rising from one of the chimneys, probably the kitchen chimney, but there was no smell of truffles cooking back here.

Something brushed against his right trouser leg.

Looking down, startled, he saw Fric-Frac. “Good girl! You’ve been a great help today. My new assistant!”

She wagged her tail and, nose to the marble terrace, resumed her exploration of some invisible trail. As Damiot followed, he wondered what scent she could have found. She had reached the front corner of the terrace again and was sniffing where the monster had stood last night.

He went closer and stooped to examine the weather-stained surface. Solid marble with no fresh scratches. Impossible for anything to sink out of sight here. And yet, he had seen it happen.

Fric-Frac moved on, investigating each crack in the marble. Back across the terrace, more slowly, toward another row of double windows.

These must be the windows where that light had come from last night.

The dog had found another scent and was following it straight to the closed windows. A human scent, or…?

The windows opened unexpectedly, and Pouchet stepped out, peering suspiciously from side to side. “There’s nothing out here.”

“I wanted to see the view,” Damiot explained. “And the dog wanted to get out.”

“Dogs usually want to get out.” Pouchet moved closer to Damiot as Bardou came through the window. “The place doesn’t look the way it did when the family was alive. In those days we had gardeners.”

“Wasn’t there a side entrance to the east? A gate in the fence?”

“You know about that?” The old man looked surprised. “They kept it when they built the new wall. Nobody remembers that gate anymore, so it’s never locked. I go that way when I drive down to the village.”

“You never told me you’ve got another entrance!” Bardou complained. “Is there a road on that side?”

“More like a cow path. Wouldn’t advise you to use it.”

Pouchet winked at Damiot, excluding the outsider. “Brings you down near the railroad tracks, but it’s easy to lose your way.”

“Been ringing that bell in the front every time I drive up here.” Bardou’s voice was harsh, as though his cold were getting worse. “You never answer, so I have to unlock it myself.”

Pouchet laughed. “That bell hasn’t worked in years!”

“I’ll be damned.”

There was a sudden piercing shriek from the forest.

Fric-Frac barked at the shrill sound.

“What’s that?” Bardou asked, staring toward the trees.

“One of the peacocks,” Pouchet answered. “Used to be kept in a cage but they escaped.”

The scream was repeated and Fric-Frac barked again.

From inside the Chateau, another dog responded.

“That’s my dog barking.” Pouchet motioned for them to follow as he went through the open windows. “This is where the family spent their evenings. Would be cold in winter, so they always had a fire going.”

Damiot went ahead of Bardou, the dog darting in front of them, into a larger salon with a row of crystal chandeliers overhead, along the center of the empty room’s ceiling. More portraits, several of them full-length, were hanging on the wall facing the windows.

Some of the faces were similar to those in the other salon. The sitters were dressed in elaborate costumes and wigs. They had the same aquiline noses and piercing eyes. In one, the subject had long black hair hanging down to the epaulettes of his Napoleonic uniform.

It was the face he had seen last night! That portrait he had glimpsed at the Tendrell farmhouse…

“…received important guests in this salon,” Pouchet was explaining. “I remember many times bringing ’em here to pay their respects to the Comte before showing them up to their rooms. The Comtesse preferred the small salon. So this was never used after her husband died…”

Damiot noticed that there were no candles in the chandeliers or candelabra. One electric bulb, suspended from a hook, its cord plugged into a wall socket.

So there was electricity here!

Had someone turned that bulb on last night? Held it up to throw light through those windows and cast a shadow across the terrace? Was the monster nothing more than a shadow!