The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(49)
Aurore also heard the arrival and dispatched Claude to help the newcomers with their luggage.
The guests from Paris had arrived.
CHAPTER 16
Damiot followed the road parallel to rue Voltaire and the old railroad tracks until he found the lane that would take him up to that side gate of the de Mohrt estate.
He had come up here alone many times, carrying messages from his father. Avoiding this lane and darting across the fields…
The caretaker had said he always walked down to the village through these same fields. He should make it easily in half an hour. At the end he would only have to cross those old railroad tracks to reach the alley where Lisette Jarlaud’s body had been found.
Did the old man have some local woman living with him and not want the villagers to find out? Certainly, Damiot had smelled cooking yesterday, and it wasn’t what Pouchet had said. Not a cassoulet!
This rain should keep Pouchet out of his way tonight. The old man probably retired early. Fortunately, he wouldn’t hear any noise overhead inside the Chateau. Or had he been feigning deafness? He certainly seemed to have all his other faculties…
The villagers would stay indoors tonight because the monster never appeared unless the weather was clear.
Damiot slowed his car as he glimpsed the open side gate through which he had entered the de Mohrt estate so many times in the past. Swerved off the lane, onto what was little more than a winding cow path, and drove on more carefully, peering from side to side.
The Peugeot nosed out finally into an open area parallel to the east wing of the mansion. Pouchet’s quarters were at the rear, to Damiot’s right, the front courtyard to the left.
He turned the car toward the front. Slowed to a stop at the edge of the forest, facing the cobbled courtyard, and snapped off his headlights. Bringing out the new torch from a pocket of his waterproof, he got out. His hip was aching again.
When he reached the protection of the columned archway above the tall entrance doors, he turned off his torch, Fric-Frac close behind him.
Impossible to see anything of the entrance drive through the rain, and no sounds came from the distant highway. He removed his hat and shook off some of the raindrops.
Suddenly, from the forest, came a piercing scream. Fric-Frac barked and the scream was repeated.
Damiot realized that it was one of the peacocks. The bird must have sensed the intruders. He put his hat on again.
Another sound now. Dogs barking. From inside the mansion? Pouchet kept a mastiff downstairs, at the rear, but this sounded like two dogs.
Fric-Frac barked again.
“You have friends here, Madame?” Damiot asked. “Was that a dog you were sniffing yesterday, under all those doors?…”
She was wiggling with excitement, as though she knew they were about to have some sort of adventure.
Damiot brought out his key ring and found the device he always carried for such an emergency. He moved closer to the tall double doors and bent to inspect the lock.
Not so old as he had anticipated. Antique locks could be difficult to open, but this had been installed recently. He worked with his small device, and after a moment felt the lock snap. Grasping the ornate knob, he turned it and swung the door open.
“All right, Madame la Duchesse! We go inside, but not a sound from you.” He aimed the beam of light across the marble floor as Fric-Frac ran ahead into the great entrance hall.
This was where he had entered, yesterday, with Pouchet and Bardou. Tonight he would follow the same route, room after room…
His footsteps echoed faintly as he crossed the high-ceilinged entrance hall, glimpsing his own dark figure repeated endlessly in distant mirrors, and went up the broad marble staircase.
Fric-Frac whimpered impatiently at the top of the stairs. He joined her on the balcony and opened the door into a small salon.
The dog darted inside and Damiot went after her, closing the door before flashing the beam of his torch around. Holding it down toward the parquet floor, avoiding the uncurtained windows.
It was the yellow salon that had belonged to the old Comtesse!
Why was this one room furnished and none of the others?
Moving on—salon after salon, through corridors and passages—he was aware of the silence, interrupted only by the rain striking against windows and dripping from leaks.
He aimed the spot of light at several paintings. All portraits. Variations of the de Mohrt face. Their eyes watching him…
No sound came from behind any of the closed doors.
Continuing through the seemingly endless rooms, he wondered again if there had been a dog running loose yesterday. Or was there a woman living here with Pouchet? Had she been following their progress from room to room? Listening behind all those doors…
Fric-Frac had stopped to sniff at another door. She began to paw at this one. Damiot switched off his torch as he moved closer.
The only sound was Fric-Frac’s nails scratching against the wood.
He grasped the cold metal handle and flung the door open. Fric-Frac shot ahead, growling, into the darkness.
Something moving? Little more than a whisper of sound. Was it a door closing?
He snapped his torch on and sent its thin beam across the floor.
No sign of the dog.
Another faint whisper of movement. From his right…
Damiot aimed the torch in that direction and saw Fric-Frac trotting toward him, tail wagging. They were in another corridor. He switched off the torch again. Then waited in the dark for a repetition of the sounds, but he heard only rain striking the overhead skylights.