The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(4)
He went through the door unprepared for what was probably the most comfortable room he had ever seen. A large bed with simply carved headboard, an armoire, a comfortable bergere near a small fireplace. All the colors were muted: browns, yellows, and deep greens. Several handsome lamps and interesting paintings. Two pairs of French windows with long curtains that matched the flowered bedcover. The entire room had a curious feeling of security and peace.
“This will be satisfactory, M’sieur?”
“More than satisfactory. I may stay longer than a week.” He continued to inspect the room as the youth set one bag on a bench at the foot of the bed, then brought a collapsible luggage rack from a cupboard and set it up for the other suitcase. Watched as he turned on lights in a bath, tiled in green and white, with a large tub—he was delighted to see—as well as a modern shower. He dropped a generous tip into the youth’s hand.
“Plaisir, M’sieur Damiot.”
“You know my name?”
“Saw it when you signed the guest book. I can read upside down.” He grinned. “You are in Courville to look at property, perhaps? For the new hotel?”
“I’m here for a vacation.”
“La patronne, Madame Bouchard, will see you at dinner.” He started toward the door. “Madame will wish to welcome you.”
“She is the owner?”
The gar?on turned at the door. “Madame and her husband opened the Auberge four years ago. Unfortunately, M’sieur Julien died in a skiing accident. He and Madame had gone to Mégève for their winter holiday. Service, M’sieur…” He departed, closing the door.
Damiot limped across to the bed and pressed his hand on it, testing the mattress. Firm but not too hard, unlike that pallet of rocks at the hospital that they had assured him was good for his spine.
Walking to the windows, he looked down into a garden flooded with rain. Gravel paths ran between neat flower beds. Nothing in bloom, but everything was green. In the old days this too had been part of his vegetable garden…
Madame Bouchard and her husband had created an attractive place here. Pity the husband had died. Madame would be running everything. Middle-aged, plump, and wearing black…
At the café on the southwest corner of rue Woodrow Wilson, facing the square, he had a steaming bowl of petite marmite du pécheur and then, still hungry, ordered a ham sandwich with a glass of beer.
This was the oldest of Courville’s two cafés, but he didn’t recognize any of the men drinking pastis and playing billiards. He was aware, as he ate, that they were watching him, although they were careful not to stare directly at his table. All of them wore faded work clothes and berets, old and soft, flat as crepes on their heads.
His sandwich was excellent, fresh bread with a decent slice of pink ham, the beer exactly as he liked it, not too cold. In Paris these days, beer was served so cold it had no taste. That was how the American tourists wanted it. And the ham in most Parisian cafés was sliced too thin, with absolutely no flavor.
It was good to get away from Paris. He would be able to put all problems, professional and personal, out of his mind. Sophie and Olympe! And those two cases he had been working on before he went into the hospital. Let his assistant, Graudin, lose sleep over them…
He wondered whether Olympe had reached her destination. She hadn’t mentioned, when she surprised him with a phone call at the hospital, whether she was going to Mexico by ship or plane, and he had asked no questions. Delicious Olympe! Her golden beauty should be a tremendous success in Mexico City…
Then, two days later, Sophie had sat on that white plastic chair like a stranger, telling him that their marriage was finished and she was leaving for Cannes to stay with her mother. He had asked her to wait, at least until he was out of the hospital, but she had whispered her accusations, eyes on the corridor door. “You think more of your murderers than you do of me!” Then she had started to sob, quietly, as she accused him of having a mistress. Thank God she didn’t know that for a fact!
He had lost his temper and shouted at her until she hurried out of the room. Should have sent one of the nurses running after her but he didn’t, convinced that her threat to leave would be forgotten. When he phoned the apartment next morning, there had been no answer.
His wife and his mistress! Both gone…
Olympe had informed him on the phone that she had fallen in love. His name was Bruno and she was going to Mexico City with him. They must have met before he went into that damn hospital…
A battered gray Citro?n, its left rear fender crumpled and rusty, was parking near the fountain.
The rain wasn’t so heavy now, but what he could see of the square through the drizzle was depressing. The terra-cotta tiles on the roofs of the low buildings were rose-colored in this dull light.
A young man got out of the Citro?n, wearing an old waterproof over dungarees and opening a green silk umbrella. It was a girl! Once the umbrella was raised, she pulled off the cap covering her hair and shook it free—straight blond hair that fell below her shoulders. An attractive face that somehow didn’t look French. Probably American…
His hip continued to pain. Eventually, he had been told, it would give him no trouble—except in damp weather…
His doctor had been delighted at the idea of his coming to Provence but had warned him not to climb hills or attempt anything that might result in a fall. Better to stay on level ground when he did any walking. Get plenty of rest at night and take a nap every afternoon. Above all, he must keep his hip warm at all times. Soak in hot tubs…