The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(3)

He drove past some handsome seventeenth-century houses with carved doors and graceful balconies. A child’s swing, hanging from a tree in a deserted garden, was swaying almost imperceptibly in the rain.

Next a row of crumbling stucco houses, dingy and narrow. Beyond these, at the end of the avenue, was his old home…

He would have a quick look at it before he found somewhere to stay.

The whitewashed stone building in its small garden. He had planted flowers in front, vegetables along both sides and in the rear. Every morning he had cut fresh flowers for his mother to arrange on the restaurant tables and had picked vegetables for the kitchen.

Rain was flooding his windshield, in spite of the hissing wipers.

“Empire of the Sun?” he murmured. “Not today!”

Pray God the weather would clear. He needed sunshine for his hip. The pain was almost constant. A steady monotonous throbbing…

He could see the roof now, beyond the last of the plane trees.

“Mon Dieu!” Someone had painted the old house yellow.

A wooden sign hanging from a metal arm extended from a vine-covered post. Two words, neatly lettered.

Auberge Courville

Damiot slowed the car and turned off the avenue into an unfamiliar cobbled courtyard. The Peugeot came to a stop at the place where he had planted his flower garden.

He sat there, both hands clutching the steering wheel, staring.

The old building had been enlarged and painted a soft yellow with white trim and shutters, walls barely visible under a thick cover of young ivy leaves. Big new windows in the dining area, plants in white window boxes, and dark yellow awnings.

Perhaps he would be able to find a room here. Actually stay in his old home!

Eleven years ago the building had been in complete disrepair. He was told then that it had been vacant for several years.

Maybe the place was closed. March was off-season in Provence. He picked up his hat from the seat and clamped it onto his head. Opening the door, he pushed himself out, favoring his injured hip. The stab of pain was immediate, and continued as he limped across the wet cobbles.

The old entrance had been replaced. Instead of a wooden door there was a clear pane of thick glass. Stepping inside, he realized that the former narrow hall had been expanded into a shallow entry leading to a small circular lobby. A faint glow of warm light came from a shaded lamp above a tiny reception desk in an alcove that had never been there in the past. Pale gray daylight filtered out of the dining room. This restaurant was much larger than the old one. At least fifteen tables!

Limping past the reception desk, he saw that the old staircase was still there, curving up into the shadows. Stairs to climb if they gave him a room.

He reached out to grasp the wood handrail. Smooth to his touch. How many mornings had his mother polished that! And how many times had he slid down it when nobody was around to see.

Beyond the staircase a new wing had been added. He looked into a lounge with comfortable sofas, several fauteuils, and a television set resting on an antique chest. Green plants in large earthenware pots. An old-fashioned hooded fireplace. Framed paintings on the walls. Impossible to see, in this light, what they were. A row of tall double windows faced a small terrace with a flower garden beyond, barely visible through the rain, where part of his vegetable garden had been…

“M’sieur?”

Damiot turned to face a skinny red-haired boy coming from the dining room, wearing a striped apron over his denim work clothes. “I was beginning to think you must be closed.”

“We open at seven. Never for lunch.”

“I was hoping to find a room…”

“La patronne has gone into the village.” He edged behind the desk. “But I could give you a room. How long does M’sieur plan to stay?”

“I’m not certain. Perhaps a week. I would prefer something quiet.”

“If you’ll sign our guest book…”

Damiot wrote his name on the empty page, adding only Paris, without giving his home address. “I’ll bring my luggage from the car.”

“Leave your key in the ignition and I’ll park it for you.”

“Won’t be necessary. I’m going out for some lunch and I’ll drive around to the back when I return. May have a nap before dinner. How’s the food here? You have a chef?”

“The best in Courville! M’sieur Michel’s from Marseille. He worked in a famous restaurant there and before that in Toulon and Cannes.”

“Then I’ll certainly dine here tonight.”

“I will ask la patronne to reserve a table.” He bowed and hurried ahead to open the glass entrance door.

Damiot brought his suitcases from the Peugeot and awkwardly carried them inside to where the gar?on waited, key in hand.

“My name’s Claude, M’sieur. Let me take those.”

“Merci, Claude.” He set his luggage down. “I’ll have to go up these steps slowly. I was in an—an accident recently.”

“I noticed M’sieur was limping. So I’ve given you a room on the ground floor.” He handed the key to Damiot and picked up his bags.

“That was very considerate.” He followed, pain spreading through his hip again, down a tiled corridor leading to the rear of the new wing. A single window at the far end was opaque with rain, but soft light came from behind handsome sprays of copper leaves on the orange-brown walls. The gar?on led him to the second door and swung it open, snapped a light switch, and stood aside for Damiot to enter.