The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(43)

Damiot glanced at the solitary billiard player and rose from the table. “I suppose Monsieur Giroud plays billiards here?”

“Michel? Several nights every week. When he doesn’t play here he goes to the other cafe across the square. Gives his business to both of us.” Walking with Damiot toward the street. “Always buys a bottle of my best wine. He knows every good year. As well as the bad!”

“I’m not surprised. He’s a fine chef.”

“Wouldn’t know ’bout that.” He hesitated, arms akimbo, in the open doorway. “Can’t afford the prices they charge at the Auberge. A demain, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

“A demain…” He started toward the corner. The air was even warmer with the sun directly overhead, and the old men playing boules were moving slowly in a haze of heat.

There were small shops on both sides of the street. All were closed for Sunday. No sidewalks here, and the line of shops ended in a row of houses, close together, edging the cracked pavement. He approached the door of the third house from the end.

Reaching out to grasp the rusty handle, he heard a bell respond inside when he gave it a pull. The door was opened, barely a crack, by a thin-faced woman with glossy black hair, wearing a black silk kimono.

“Pardon, Madame. I’m looking for Blanche Carmet…”

“Blanche?”

“I was told she lives here.”

The door opened a little more. “You’re a friend of Blanche?”

“I knew her several years ago.” He saw that the black kimono was embroidered with scarlet flowers and trimmed with fringes of the same color. “The last time I was in Courville.”

“Then you’re an old friend!” She laughed. “Come in, M’sieur.” Moving ahead, through a narrow hall. “You can wait in our salon.”

He closed the door and followed, aware of her overpowering perfume, into a dimly lighted room furnished with divans and ottomans upholstered in crimson velvet. The place looked like…a whorehouse!

Madame motioned toward a divan. “Would you care for something to drink, M’sieur?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find out if Blanche is awake…”

“Merci, Madame.” He sank onto a divan as she left the room and was immediately engulfed by waves of scent. They seemed to rise from the velvet upholstery, which must have been saturated for years with perfumes from many female bodies.

Blanche Carmet in a whorehouse?

That’s why the old woman had slammed her door. She had thought he was looking for a prostitute and, apparently, he was…

Eleven years ago Blanche had said that she was twenty-three. Now she must be thirty-four. He tried to remember what she had looked like. Brown hair and blue eyes. Big-boned girl, solidly fleshed but attractive. He had enjoyed being with her several times while he was here. She had been extremely satisfying in bed. Could she even then have been working in the local bordello? He had driven her home, late at night, but never met any members of the family. She said it was her home, and he had asked no questions…

“Thought it must be you.”

Damiot looked up to see a plump woman with short blond curls, standing in the doorway. Breasts barely covered by a pale pink kimono, pink satin slippers on her bare feet.

“Blanche?” He got to his feet, clumsily.

“I heard you were back.” She moved toward him, smiling tentatively. “Wondered if you’d come see me…”

“You’ve put on a little weight.”

The kimono billowed as she walked. “Some men like a big girl. Others like thin or crippled girls or…”

He shrugged. “Chacun à son go?t!” They sat down on the divan. “How long have you been working here?”

“Six years now. There was nothing else for me in the village.” She rested her small hands in her lap. “I got your letter.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“You wrote that you were getting married.”

“So I did…”

Someone overhead was running a bath, and there was a smell of fresh coffee. The place was coming alive. Girl’s voice, clear and sweet, singing a popular song he remembered hearing in Pigalle. “I went to that house where you used to live…”

“Oh?” She giggled nervously. “What happened?”

“When I asked for you the woman banged the door in my face.”

“She would.” Throwing her head back and laughing. “Been some time since anyone looked for me there.”

“I’m staying at the Auberge.”

“I know.” Her laughter subsided. “Madame saw you yesterday, when she was shopping. You were in the patisserie with that English girl. M’sieur Giroud had already told us you were staying at the Auberge. He’s the chef there.”

“You know Giroud?”

“Michel? He was here last night. Always asks for me.” She smiled. “Says he only likes girls who look as though they enjoy eating. And I do! Not like that woman at the Auberge who’s always after him.”

“Woman at the…”

“She owns the place. Madame Bouchard! Michel says she needs more flesh on her bones.”