The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(35)

“What is it?” She moved closer as Damiot held the crimson yarn into the light.

He handed it to her, unexpectedly touching her fingers.

“Knowing that you do needlepoint, I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything about this…”

“It’s pure wool, of course. I haven’t seen such a deep scarlet dye in years.” She rubbed it between her fingers. “Or felt such a heavy texture. I’ve never found this color at the only shop in the village where they sell yarn.”

“It was caught in Fric-Frac’s hair.”

“Fric-Frac?”

“Today while we were out. What do you suppose it came from? Some garment?”

“Hard to say.” She peered at the ends of the strand. “A sweater or scarf, perhaps. Something old because it’s been washed many times. You can see that the color’s slightly faded.” Handing it back. “Afraid I’m not much help…”

“Where is Madame Fric-Frac?” He thrust the yarn into his pocket again. “Haven’t seen her tonight.”

“I left her in my bedroom before dinner, fast asleep.”

“That’s because I wore her out today, walking with me. There’s also something I’d like to ask you about the Courville monster…”

“There I’ll be even less helpful!”

“I’ve been told there’s a local legend that says a monster appears at the Chateau whenever there’s trouble there or here in the village. But as a child, I never knew of any such legend. Children are always the first to hear and repeat these things. And, of course, believe them! Have you heard this legend?”

“Matter of fact, I have.”

“Do you recall where you first heard it?”

“Months ago, I think…” She frowned, puzzled. “I believe it was shortly after that first girl was murdered.”

“Who told you?”

“I think it was the gar?on…”

“Claude?”

“One morning when he arrived for work. He’s always bursting with gossip he picks up from his family and friends… Yes! I’m certain it was Claude who first mentioned a monster at the Chateau.”

Damiot glanced toward the curtained windows as a car roared down the drive.

“That’s Michel.” She shrugged. “Off early for his Saturday night entertainment in the village. Rain or no rain!”

“And I should say good night. Thank you for showing me the changes you’ve made here.”

“I’m so glad you approve.” She moved toward a third door. “You can get downstairs through here.” Unlocking and opening the door. “This corridor will take you past our other guest rooms to the front stairs. Sleep well, Monsieur…”

“And you!” He hesitated, feeling a sudden urge to embrace her before he went through the door, but restrained the impulse and continued on into the hall. “A demain, Madame!”

“A demain…”

Clutching the railing, Damiot went down the curving steps to the lobby and headed for his room. He unlocked the door and saw that someone had turned on the lamps, lighted a fresh fire on the hearth, and straightened his rumpled bed. Probably the gar?on again…

He circled the room, switching off every lamp except the one on his bedside table. That, with the glow from the fireplace, would be enough.

As he moved in and out of the bath, preparing for bed, he could hear the rain through the closed curtains and shutters, beating against the windows.

Perhaps the weather would clear again tomorrow. Several things he wanted to do. And tomorrow night, if it stayed clear, he would have another look at the Chateau, on his own, without Bardou. Take Fric-Frac with him! She had certainly been useful this morning…

Standing before the tall mirror, behind the bathroom door, he examined his scars again and once more was repelled by what those surgeons in Paris had done to his flesh. If only he could get several days of sun—a good tan should hide some of the ugly marks they had left…

He slipped into his robe, securing it around his waist. As he folded the tailored cover back to the foot of his bed, he noticed the Simenon waiting on the bedside table. Wouldn’t do any reading tonight. Maigret would only keep him awake, he would have to read it through to the end. He began to untie the cord of his robe…

Someone knocked softly.

Damiot frowned as he stared at the offending door. Who the devil could be knocking at this hour? Perhaps Bardou was phoning…

He crossed the room reluctantly, as the knocking was repeated. “Who is it?”

“Madame Bouchard. I hope you weren’t in bed…”

“Not yet.” He unlocked the door and swung it open.

She stood there in her dark brown robe, the quilted satin gleaming like metal, bronze hair hanging free below her shoulders.

Her beauty made him speechless and he could only stare.

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy a Calvados now. My husband always liked to have a nightcap…”

Only then did he realize that she was holding a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses. “I would indeed! Please come in.”

She carried the tray without a word toward the lighted lamp and rested it on the bedside table.

He closed the door and followed her. “This is a pleasant surprise.”