The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(29)

He would like to come here again. Without Bardou! Through that gate in the east wall. Pouchet was deaf and wouldn’t hear his car…

Maybe tonight? And bring a pocket torch.

He saw Pouchet near the fireplace, whispering to Bardou about one of the carved female figures. Laughing as he fondled an enormous marble breast. Nasty old man’s laugh…

That east gate led down, by way of an untraveled back lane, to the village. Near that alley behind the town hall where the second girl’s body had been found.

Some old men who lived by themselves became strange…

Pouchet had been on these premises for years, promoted from gamekeeper to inside work. Now he was the caretaker. He had always been considered bad-tempered, even when he was younger. Scaring kids away. Shouting and waving his gun at them…

Damiot remembered that crack of sound he had heard yesterday, beyond the locked front gates, as Jenny rode past on her black mare. Did Pouchet wait there mornings, watching for the English girl? She had called him “one of those strange old men…”

He studied another portrait. What possible connection could there be between these paintings and that face in Tendrell’s portrait?

Damiot saw that Pouchet had opened another door and that Bardou was already leaving the salon. “Come along, Fric-Frac!” As he hurried after them with the dog, he realized that his hip was numb from all the walking.

Fric-Frac ran ahead through what seemed to be a central corridor. High ceiling with a line of skylights down the center, crusted with grime. Some of the panes were broken and had been covered on the outside, blotting out the light. The caretaker closed the door behind them.

“When was that new wall built?” Damiot asked, facing him. “In the old days there was only a wrought-iron fence.”

“Must be five years ago, after the old Comtesse died,” Pouchet answered. “The lawyers had it put up because of poachers.”

“There’ve always been poachers.”

“I’ve told ’em for years we needed a wall, and they finally listened to me.”

“Why didn’t you leave your dog outside last night to scare those villagers away?”

“She’s too old. Was afraid they might harm her.” Pouchet moved on, down the long corridor. As Damiot followed with Bardou, he saw that rain had leaked from the damaged skylight and had rotted sections of the parquet floor.

Bardou sneezed again. “My cold’s getting worse!” He moved closer to Damiot, lowering his voice. “Eh bien, M’sieur Inspecteur! Nothing suspicious here.”

“No…” His eyes were on the vigorous old man striding ahead.

“I told you there wasn’t any monster. Those drunken villagers! None of them saw anything!”

“Of course not…”





CHAPTER 11


Damiot glanced across the table at his guest. “Not eating?”

“No appetite.” Bardou took another swallow of wine.

“I can understand why not.” He set his knife and fork down, the croquettes de volaille barely touched. “This food’s a disgrace!”

“I can’t taste anything.”

“Lucky for you. I, unfortunately, can taste everything! At least the wine’s not bad. The chef couldn’t get his hands on that.” There were no other customers. “We’d have done better at one of the cafés. Unfortunately, the Auberge only serves dinner. I should’ve remembered about this place. The H?tel Courville was never famous for its kitchen.”

Bardou whipped out his handkerchief and sneezed.

“Why don’t you spend the rest of today in bed?”

“I may do that, M’sieur Inspecteur.” He blew his nose violently, put the handkerchief away, and brought out his cigarettes.

Damiot signaled for the waiter to bring their check. “What else is happening at the local gendarmerie?”

“Very little. We have more activity in Arles. Of course I’m only involved with these murders.” Lighting a cigarette. “There’s one man on duty over the weekend in case of an emergency, which is unlikely. I’ll phone in this afternoon and tell him I’ve caught a cold. I should be all right by Monday morning.”

“Drink the rest of that wine. It’ll warm your blood.” He watched Bardou empty the carafe into his glass. “Actually, mon ami, you should be drinking Calvados. Better than anything to ward off a virus.”

“That’s what I’d be having at home. My wife fixes a hot toddy when I feel a cold coming…” He tossed off the last of the wine.

Damiot checked the bill that the aged waiter placed in front of him and pushed several notes across the table. “Monsieur Bardou has caught a cold. Send a hot toddy up to his room in half an hour, made with your best Calvados.”

“I’ll bring it myself!” The old man shuffled back toward the bar.

“That’s very kind, M’sieur Damiot.”

“Tomorrow you’ll wake up with no sign of a cold.”

“Tell me, M’sieur Inspecteur! Have you turned up any clues? About these two murders…”

“I haven’t been looking for any. I know very little about those girls who died.” He got up, reaching for his hat and waterproof. “I suppose autopsies were performed?”