The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(5)

He eased the hip, changing his position on the hard cafe chair, and felt an instant wave of fresh pain.

“Another beer, M’sieur?”

Damiot looked up to face the beefy, thick-necked type from behind the zinc. “Yes, I will.” As the man returned to the bar, Damiot saw that the others were still watching him. The locals were always curious about strangers. He wondered if his father had known these three. Probably not. They looked much younger than his father. In their fifties…

His father would be eighty-four if he were alive!

Must remember to send the address of the Auberge Courville to his office at the S?reté. That’s if he decided to remain longer than a week…

He had phoned yesterday afternoon and told the Chief he was coming to Provence for a few weeks. The old man had urged him to take as long as he needed. Two months, if necessary.

Nobody in Paris knew where he was at the moment, and that’s how he would keep it for now. Maybe phone Graudin on Sunday…

Damiot looked up as his beer was set on the table.

“M’sieur is a stranger in Courville?”

“I’m staying at the Auberge for a few days.”

“They say the food’s first-rate there.”

“Nothing wrong with this ham of yours.”

“My wife buys hams from a local farmer. Cooks them herself. Better than you get from Mauron, down the street.”

“Mauron?”

“Hercule Mauron. Owns the charcuterie…”

“Hercule Mauron!”

“The only charcuterie in Courville. He’s also the mayor.”

“Was his father a butcher?”

“That’s the one! The old man’s been dead for years.” He leaned closer. “M’sieur has come to Courville about the hotel?”

“What hotel?”

“The one they’re supposed to build next year. Some say in the hills but others think it will be here in the village.”

“I’m in Provence for a vacation, not business. Who’s building this new hotel?”

“Some rich men from Paris. They’ve looked at many properties. Their hotel will be twenty stories high! With a big swimming pool and fancy restaurant.”

“You want such a hotel here?”

He shrugged. “It would be good for business. Give jobs to our young people, keep them from running off to the cities. There are many, of course, who are opposed to the idea. Mostly the old ones. They say it will bring too many outsiders and ruin the village.”

“I agree. People don’t come to Provence to stay in fancy hotels. Enough of those in Cannes or Nice.” He looked up at the man’s flushed face and realized that the type was much younger than he had thought. Shrewd eyes and a hard mouth. “Have yourself a drink and put it on my bill.”

“Merci, M’sieur.” He headed back to the zinc.

So Hercule Mauron was mayor now!

He remembered him from school, a pig-faced fat boy whose father was the village butcher. Hercule had bullied all the smaller boys. Until one day Damiot had tricked Hercule into chasing him into the pissoir.

Damiot smiled, staring through the rain at the ancient pissoir, as he recalled that sunny morning…

He had run inside and around the edge, close to the walls, where the stone floor was always dry. Hercule had slipped in the slime and fallen on his face. When he came outside, a stinking mess, the other boys had laughed at him, and Hercule never bullied anyone after that.

Hercule Mauron! Mayor of Courville? Incroyable…

The mayor’s office would be in the town hall across the square, a dark gray blur behind shifting veils of rain.

He had never been inside the old building. As a kid he had always avoided the police. When he left Courville to seek his fortune in Paris, he had no idea that one day he might become a detective.





CHAPTER 3


Damiot paused just past the white-columned entrance, inspecting the restaurant. Only half a dozen tables were occupied.

The slim wooden columns, a pair on either side, were new.

“Monsieur Damiot?”

He turned to face a woman who had risen from a cashier’s desk beyond the left pair of columns.

“I am Madame Bouchard. Unfortunately, Monsieur, I was out doing errands when you arrived. Your room, I trust, is satisfactory?”

“Most satisfactory.”

“Claude tells me you wish to have quiet, and that is our most secluded room. I’ve reserved a table for you.”

“Merci, Madame.” She was neither middle-aged nor plump and she wasn’t wearing black. As he followed her graceful figure through the dining room, he was aware of fresh flowers and lighted candles oil each table. Two waiters moving among the tables, and one darting gar?on. For a moment he didn’t recognize Claude, in a black suit, long white apron tied around his waist. Then the youth saw him and grinned.

“You will also have complete privacy here.” Madame Bouchard indicated a table set for one, partially hidden behind a low partition topped with green plants in white pots.

“Excellent, Madame.” He eased his hip down onto a comfortable armchair with a petit point seat, his back to the wall.

“The chef assures me that the woodcock is unusually good tonight. Bon appetit, Monsieur.”