The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(48)

Damiot tasted the vermouth, his attention drawn toward the lobby, where the new arrivals had appeared. As they came into the light he saw that it was the English artist and his daughter. Aurore went to welcome them and the gar?on darted to take Jenny Tendrell’s umbrella, that same green silk one, and their coats.

He wondered if Jenny had told her father about their meeting, yesterday, at the patisserie…

She was wearing an attractive dress. Her father was in another tweed jacket, a woolen shirt, and a clumsily knotted tie, his gray slacks without any streaks of paint.

As they followed Aurore through the restaurant, Jenny glimpsed Damiot and waved, flashing a smile. Tendrell turned at once to see whom she was greeting, and nodded as Aurore led them to a window table.

He was amused to see Jenny Tendrell slip into a chair facing the kitchen. Her father hadn’t realized that she would be able to observe the chef at work, from time to time, through those swinging doors.

“No great tragedy in the kitchen.” Jean-Paul was smiling again. “M’sieur Michel threw a mixing bowl at the sous-chef because he was slow making a sauce. Fortunately the bowl was empty! M’sieur has decided?”

“Let me see…” He reached for the menu and, after a brief discussion of each course, ordered rabbit pate, sorrel soup, and the salmis de faisan with a bottle of Chateau Vignelaure.

When Jean-Paul returned to the kitchen, Damiot saw that the other waiter had brought the Tendrells what appeared to be some sort of cocktail, probably one of those strange British concoctions made with gin. There was even one called “gin and French!” Whatever that might be…

As he ate, savoring each course, he continued to observe the Sibilats and the Tendrells.

Madame Sibilat gave no indication that she enjoyed the food—although she devoured everything—but continued without pause the tirade she was directing toward her silent son. He seemed to answer in monosyllables, eating slowly and, apparently, without appetite.

Jenny Tendrell kept glancing toward the kitchen as she sipped her cocktail. The waiter took their dinner order, which Tendrell gave after consulting his daughter. As he questioned the waiter about one dish, Damiot saw Jenny flash a dazzling smile toward the kitchen, where the chef must have appeared briefly at one of the round portholes in the swinging doors. She glanced at Damiot, realized that he had been watching, and winked.

Her father noticed none of this.

Dinner, once again, was a series of perfections, crowned by the ragout of pheasant garnished with a puree of chestnuts. Damiot was giving his complete attention to his meal when he sensed someone approaching his table and looked up to see the Englishman. “Ah, Monsieur Tendrell!”

“Do you mind?”

“Please…” He motioned toward the other chair and, as Tendrell sat down, realized that the Englishman’s back would be turned to his daughter.

“Are you enjoying the salmis? This chef, Michel, does it rather well.” Lowering his voice. “What’s been happening, Monsieur Inspecteur?”

“In regard to what?”

“The murders, of course!”

“I wouldn’t know about that…” He continued to eat as they talked.

“And the monster? Have you told the local police that you saw it?”

“I have said nothing. Not a word.”

“Jenny tells me that she spoke with you yesterday afternoon.”

“I happened to be at Madame Mussot’s when your daughter arrived. We had a very pleasant conversation.” As he talked, he saw that Michel had come from the kitchen, unnoticed by the Englishman, and was circling the restaurant, bowing to the men, kissing the ladies’ hands. “By the way, I paid another visit to the Chateau yesterday afternoon. Inspector Bardou permitted me to accompany him on a brief tour of the interior with the caretaker, who turns out to be an acquaintance from my youth.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Little of any importance. Inspector Bardou was hoping to find some trace of the monster. I went along because I hadn’t been inside the Chateau in thirty years.” He rested his knife on the plate. “You have been there yourself more recently.”

“I? What the devil do you mean?”

“That portrait I noticed, Friday night, in your home…”

“What about it?”

“The face is very like several of those family portraits hanging in the Chateau. The de Mohrt face.”

“You are a clever man, Monsieur Inspecteur. Very observant. Yes, I did copy certain features from those portraits. The eyes and… Nothing wrong with that, surely? The caretaker, Pouchet, allowed me to enter.”

Damiot shrugged. “Like the monster, Monsieur, it is no concern of mine.”

Tendrell glanced toward his own table and saw that Michel was talking to Jenny. He immediately got to his feet. “I do wish, Monsieur Damiot, that you would forget about the monster. It simply doesn’t exist! Don’t waste time at the Chateau. Enjoy your holiday!” He hurried back to his table.

Damiot noticed that the Englishman did not offer his hand to the chef, who after a few words bowed and moved on to the Sibilats’ table. He leaned down to kiss Madame Sibilat’s jeweled claw.

Why had Tendrell warned him away from the Chateau? Telling him to forget about the monster…

He was distracted by the sound of a powerful motor in the drive as a car rolled toward the parking area.