The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(42)

“To me?”

“You must get all the credit. Understand?”

“That’s very generous, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

“Generosity has nothing to do with it! I have no desire to get involved. Now then… Did you ever hear of a young farmer named Achille Savord?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“One of several locals who apparently enjoyed the favors of that Jarlaud girl.”

“Nobody’s mentioned him to me.”

“Savord must have cared for the girl, because he’s the only one who placed flowers on her grave.”

“I thought her family put them there.”

“Madame Sibilat, at the florist shop, tells me she sold them to Savord. You should have a talk with him.”

“I’ll certainly do that, M’sieur Inspecteur…”

“What’s the name of that man you said would be on duty this weekend at the gendarmerie?”

“Porel.”

“Phone him after I leave here. Explain who I am and…”

“He already knows! Everybody on the staff would like to meet the Chief Inspector from Paris.”

Damiot gritted his teeth. “Tell Porel I want to have a look at that girl in the morgue. I’ll stop by this afternoon. Now! For your private information… The unidentified girl in the morgue was from Toulon.”

“Was she!” Bardou found a pad and pencil on the bedside table and scribbled notes as Damiot explained.

“Her name is Annie Deffous.”

“Annie… I know several of the Toulon gendarmes. They came to Arles last year, to break up a ring of kidnappers.”

“Call them this afternoon. The Deffous girl worked there, as a bookkeeper in some shop. She arrived here the day she was murdered, driving a gray Dauphine. Your friends in Toulon can get the license number for you. You should send it, with a description of her car, to every gendarmerie in Provence. It has very likely been abandoned in the hills. You’ll be able to find out where Annie Deffous was staying, now that you have her name. Maybe it was this hotel! Ask why they didn’t report her missing when they found her luggage in the room where she must have spent part of the evening, waiting for someone. Check what phone calls she made. She apparently came to Courville looking for somebody who owed her money…”

“Man or woman?”

“Had to be a man. Could be someone in the village or living nearby. That’s all I can tell you at this moment.”

“More than anybody else has learned in two months!”

“Don’t let anyone suspect you got this from me.”

“No, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

Damiot went toward the door. “Handle this right and you’ll get a promotion.”

“I spoke to the manager on the phone this morning. Had him check who was staying here when those two girls were murdered, but there was nobody here both nights.”

“Of course he could’ve used different names each time!”

“And the manager doesn’t remember any guest driving a black Ferrari. Too fancy for this hotel…”

“Make those calls.”

“Right away!” Bardou stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the telephone.

Damiot was smiling as he closed the door, escaping the cigarette-fouled room, and started down the corridor toward the stairs.

He was no longer angry about his call to Paris.



The ham sandwich was excellent and the beer, as before, not too cold. The proprietor, his squat body wrapped in a long apron, was busy sluicing down the sidewalk with soapy water.

Damiot watched three ancients, their heads protected from the sun by faded berets, playing a game of boules in the far corner of the square, beyond the pissoir. They had probably been here every Sunday, weather permitting, for years!

As he finished the sandwich, washing it down with the last of his beer, Damiot wondered again why that old woman had slammed the door in his face when he asked for Blanche Carmet.

In the old days, when he was growing up, everybody in Courville knew where everyone else lived! And everybody was friendly. At least to other villagers. But, of course, he was an outsider now…

Perhaps the Carmet family had moved to some nearby village…

The proprietor returned from the street with his empty water bucket. “Another beer, M’sieur Damiot?”

“You know who I am, do you?”

“The whole village must know by now! That you were born here and they’ve sent you from Paris, to find out who killed those two girls…”

He felt his anger rising again. “That’s a local matter. No concern of mine.”

“Of course! Whatever you say, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

“One beer’s enough today.” Dropping a ten-franc note on the table.

“The radio says we may get more rain tonight.” He set his bucket on the floor and counted out change.

“Have yourself a beer.” Damiot pushed most of the change across the table. “Do you know a local girl named Carmet? Blanche Carmet?”

“M’sieur knows Blanche Carmet?”

“Met her last time I was here. She seems to have moved since then.”

“Not far! One of those old houses at the far end of rue Woodrow Wilson. Around the corner, third from the end. You can’t miss it!”