The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(33)

“A child?”

“I saw him one morning, as I rode past the gates. The shrubbery was so heavy I couldn’t really be certain, but it looked like a boy. I s’pose he thought I wouldn’t be able to see him because of the leaves. His face seemed to float between the bushes, like a ghost without a body. He had long dark hair and…”

“You’re positive it was a boy?”

“I s’pose it could’ve been a girl…”

“Perhaps some local child?”

“If it was, I’ve never seen him in the village.”

“Would you recognize the face, if you did?”

“Only the eyes. His face was a blur. But in that instant, before the mare carried me past, I looked straight into his eyes. Children’s eyes are the saddest in the whole world! I think when we’re very young we know things that later on we forget. Important and terrible things… Eat your tart!”

“Yes, I will.” Damiot frowned as he picked it up and took a bite.

Could that figure on the terrace have been a child playing a trick on the villagers?

What child?





CHAPTER 12


When he returned to the Auberge he switched on the lamps in his room and closed every curtain to shut out the rain. He tossed his Paris paper on the bed with the Simenon. Unwrapping the small torch, he slipped it into a pocket of his damp waterproof, which he then hung in the armoire.

The room was chilly, and he immediately ran a hot tub.

Undressed, he stood before the long bathroom mirror.

His scars were hideous. Each time he looked at them he was repulsed by the damage those doctors had done to his body. He had seen hundreds of dead bodies without flinching, but the desecration of his own flesh repelled him. The livid scars would be with him for the rest of his life.

After a long soak in the steaming water, he slipped into his robe and stretched out on the bed, placing the Simenon within reach on the bedside table. Save that for the first night, he couldn’t sleep.

He opened the newspaper but, turning the pages, found no crime news.

The paper said it was raining in Paris. Checking the date, he discovered that it was Wednesday’s paper. The day before he left Paris! No matter. He hadn’t seen a newspaper since leaving the hospital.

Turning more pages, he became interested in a political crisis. Same old politicians, new scandals…



He wakened with a start, pushing the newspaper off his face.

Checking his wristwatch on the bedside table, he saw that he had slept for several hours. He flung the paper aside, jumped up from the bed, and went to the nearest pair of windows. Driving rain and a flooded garden! There would be no visit to the Chateau tonight.

He heard a dog barking in the darkness. The forlorn sound came from the front. Probably a stray, running loose on the avenue.

Damiot closed the curtains, shutting out the rain, and went into the bath, where he splashed his eyes with cold water to bring himself awake.



Studying the menu, he saw that the specialty for the evening was ratatouille.

Only six other guests in the dining room—three middle-aged couples. The chef himself served Damiot, with both of the waiters and the gar?on in attendance. One waiter removed the cover from a large earthen casserole on a serving cart. The other set a plate of ratatouille before Damiot, after Michel spooned it from a silver ladle, with fresh asparagus and gratin dauphinois in separate dishes.

Damiot sniffed the rich aroma. “Smells magnificent!” He picked up a fork, realizing that Giroud was waiting for him to taste his creation. As he did so he noticed Madame Bouchard at her desk, smiling in anticipation. He glanced up at the chef—remembering what Jenny Tendrell had said about him—as he took the first mouthful. Aurore Bouchard was in love with this young man and, quite obviously, the English girl was at least attracted to him…

Giroud leaned forward slightly. “Monsieur?”

“Haven’t tasted a genuine ratatouille in years! Can’t find anything like this in Paris.”

“Plaisir, Monsieur Damiot.” Michel Giroud bowed, his starched toque blanche stiff as a bishop’s miter. He waved the waiters ahead of him toward the kitchen, followed by Claude pushing the serving cart.

Damiot settled down to enjoy his dinner. The ratatouille was excellent, but no better than his father used to make…

Or was memory deceiving him?

He remembered his father, after Chez Damiot closed for the night, stirring a big pot of ratatouille and filling three plates. The family eating in the kitchen, sopping up the last drop of the stew with crusts of bread left from other people’s dinners. Afterward, he would always help his mother with the dishes. All the tableware from the restaurant. Pots and pans. Two hours of hard work before they could go upstairs, where his father would already be snoring…

Damiot finished his carafe of vin blanc with a local cheese and asked Jean-Paul to serve coffee, as usual, in the lounge. He left the dining room unobserved by Madame Bouchard, who had disappeared into the kitchen, and went into the lounge.

Relaxing near the open fire, he pondered several questions.

Was it possible that Pouchet was the monster? Or was it that small boy Jenny Tendrell had glimpsed through the entrance gates?

He wondered if Bardou was sleeping after his hot toddy…

“Jean-Paul said you didn’t want your Calvados tonight.”