The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(30)

“Oh, yes!” Bardou rose, snatching his hat and overcoat from the banquette, and followed him into the shabby lobby.

Damiot glanced at the faded-brown plush sofas and tarnished mirrors as they walked toward an ugly marble staircase. “Were either of those girls pregnant when they were killed?”

“No. I saw the autopsy reports.”

“You like police work, mon ami?”

“It’s all right. My wife says I’ve no ambition. She’s always after me to try for a promotion. Maybe you could advise me about applying for a transfer to Paris…”

Damiot grunted.

“I’ve never been to Paris!” Bardou paused at the foot of the steps. “Thanks for lunch, even if I didn’t have any appetite.”

“You’ll feel better tomorrow. Get to bed.”

“A bient?t, M’sieur Inspecteur…”

“A bient?t!” He turned back toward the street entrance, beyond the unattended reception desk, as Bardou started upstairs.

In the light filtering through a row of glass-curtained windows, Damiot saw that the restaurant was empty except for three people at a distant table, two men and a woman.

Aurore Bouchard! In serious conversation with two older men. They appeared to be businessmen, too well dressed to be locals. All three talking with animation, hands gesturing, unaware of his presence.

Damiot hurried on before he could be noticed, out of the hotel and into the afternoon sunlight.

Stopping at the charcuterie, he saw, behind the piles of pates and canned hams on display in the window, several customers in the brightly lighted shop.

Hercule Mauron stood behind the counter, weighing a sausage for an old woman. The fat boy had become a fat man. Laughing as he talked, his great belly bouncing under a white apron. Hercule Mauron! He was Monsieur le Maire now…

Damiot turned from the window and started across the square.

As he approached the Peugeot, he saw Fric-Frac perched on the back of the seat, tail wagging. One window was slightly open so that she would have air. He tapped on the glass, “I won’t be long!”

Circling the fountain, he noticed for the first time that the marble bowl was cracked. Which explained why there had been no water spraying.

He continued across to Avenue de la Republique, where one shop window was filled with books and magazines. Inside he bought a Paris newspaper and a Simenon mystery he had never read.

The clerk smirked primly as she gave him his change. “Merci, M’sieur Inspecteur. I certainly hope you will find the monster that killed those two poor girls! All of us young women are afraid to venture out after dark. I hurry straight home every evening after work!”

“That’s very wise, Mademoiselle.” He clutched the book and newspaper in his hand as he went toward the door.

“Au ’voir, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

As Damiot reached the sunny street, he was gritting his teeth with annoyance. How did she know who he was? Somebody had spread the word. Someone like Madame Sibilat…

Entering a nearby hardware shop, he asked the aged clerk for a pocket torch. All the man had in stock was a small metal cylinder that he claimed was popular with children. Damiot bought one of the cylinders. It could be useful tonight if he went back to the Chateau.

Leaving the shop, he decided that while he was here he might as well pay another visit to that florist at the end of the avenue.

Opening the door with its jangling bell, he saw that the shop was empty again. There was a stir of movement in the rear workroom. Was Sibilat observing him from between those curtains covering the door? Or was it…

Madame Sibilat came through the curtains. “Ah! It’s you again, Monsieur Inspecteur…”

“Madame! Is your son here this afternoon? There’s something else I wished to ask him.”

“He drove down to Nice to pick up some flowers at the airport. I would know anything that my son knows.”

“In that case, perhaps you can tell me who left a bouquet of roses on Lisette Jarlaud’s grave.”

“Why would you ask my son a thing like that?”

“Because, from the green paper around them, I suspect they came from this shop. I’m sure you would know.”

She sputtered. “They—they were white roses and they were placed on the Jarlaud girl’s grave by a young farmer. He had never been in the shop before, but I recognized him. Achille Savord! The Jarlaud girl had many such friends. Young and old… You should question them—all of them—not my son. I can tell you for a fact, he would have nothing to do with her sort!”

“And did the Jarlaud girl ever come here to buy flowers?”

“As a matter of fact she did! But only once. Last year… My son was off somewhere, and I was alone in the shop. She wanted a small bouquet for her daughter’s birthday. Everybody knows she had two children. And no husband! I let her have a few carnations that were not too fresh.”

“Merci, Madame. For the information.”

She looked startled. “Information? But I…”

“Bonjour, Madame.” He left the shop without glancing back.

Heading toward the square, he saw that the sky was churning with clouds. Another storm rolling down the Rh?ne valley?

Damiot realized that he was hungry. He had barely touched his lunch, and it would be hours before dinner would be served at the Auberge.