The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(47)

“Is it raining now?”

“For the past hour.”

“Merde! I’ve been asleep. What’s happened?”

“I’ve talked with the gendarmerie in Toulon. That Deffous girl was missing for two months. But it seems nobody suspected foul play, because she told people she was taking a long vacation and had no idea when she’d return.”

“Does she have a family?”

“Nobody, far as they’ve learned from her neighbors. She lived alone, in the house where she was born. Both her parents are dead.”

“What about friends? Men in her life…”

“Nobody seems to know anything. The neighbors say they’ve never seen anyone go into the house. Except one young woman with a child who came to visit her sometimes on weekends. But they’ve no idea who they were. My friends at the gendarmerie did find out where she was employed. The place is closed today, of course, but they’ll question the owners and her fellow workers tomorrow. And you were right! She was an accountant for a shop that sells hotel equipment and supplies. Been with them several years…”

“What about her car?”

“My friends are checking the license number. They’ll call back tomorrow, when they get it.”

“Good work, Bardou.”

“Merci, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

“When are you going to report this to the Commissaire here?”

“In the morning. Can’t reach him tonight.”

“Let me know what else you learn.”

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

“And get rid of that cold!” He put the phone down and headed toward his room, where he pushed back the curtains and saw that the garden was drenched with rain, the paths flooded again.

Curious how a young woman could drive off for a vacation and not return in two months, yet nobody reported her absence to the police…

Annie Deffous must have been one of those odd young women who lived only for her job—a human computer, who never made an error—until, one day, something happened and the perfect mechanism ground to a stop.

He had known young women in Paris, with good jobs during the day, who prowled after dark in search of excitement. They frequented certain cafés on the Champs-Elysées and in Montparnasse, but they never considered themselves whores because they seldom accepted money and avoided the streets favored by prostitutes. Could that be how it was with Annie Deffous? Had she met some man and followed him from Toulon to Courville, hoping for marriage, only to find death waiting? Perhaps she had been genuinely in love with this man…

But how did she connect with Lisette Jarlaud? Could the two girls have known each other? Anything was possible…

Rain slashing against the windowpanes.

No matter! He was driving up to the Chateau tonight.



As Aurore led him to his usual table, shielded by the low partition with its row of plants, Damiot was aware of several things.

Aurore was wearing her most attractive dress tonight. Some kind of woolen material, soft yellow, with a skirt that seemed to flow as she walked ahead of him. A simple gold chain around her neck.

Many of the tables were already occupied.

Marc Sibilat and his mother, the old lady in black silk and that same feathered hat, sat at one of the window tables. Sibilat nodded, but Madame only frowned as she spooned soup into her mouth.

Aurore pulled the chair out from his table.

“Merci, Madame.” He sat down. “I saw you at Saint-Sauveur this morning.”

“Michel and I attend Mass every Sunday.” She placed a menu within reach. “He’s more religious than I. His family wanted him to become a priest. Did you learn anything at the church?”

“Matter of fact, I did.” He glanced toward Marc Sibilat and saw that he too was eating soup. “One or two things…”

“The salmis de faisan is very special tonight. That’s what I had Michel prepare for my guests from Paris.”

“So this is the big night!”

“They’ll be arriving shortly, from Cannes. I’ve given them the double suite next to you. Bon appétit!” She turned back toward her desk, inspecting each table she passed.

Damiot unfolded his napkin and settled down with anticipation for another pleasant dinner as Jean-Paul came to take his order.

“An apéritif, M’sieur Damiot?”

“Dry vermouth, please.” Madame Sibilat was now talking to her son, gesturing with a jeweled left hand as she continued to spoon her soup.

The other table shielded behind potted plants, where the Tendrells had sat, was empty.

Damiot picked up the menu—noticing that ratatouille was listed again—as he heard a car passing the restaurant windows and going toward the parking area. The visitors from Paris?

Madame Sibilat, soup finished, was darting glances at Damiot as she continued to lecture her son. Both hands were free to gesture now. Marc Sibilat hadn’t finished his soup and was eating slowly, saying nothing. Pale eyes never lifting to look at his mother.

Jean-Paul returned with the vermouth as a crash echoed through the dining room from the kitchen. “M’sieur Michel is nervous tonight. Madame expects friends from Paris for dinner. So there will be many crises. Pardon, M’sieur…” He headed toward the swinging doors as angry voices were heard.