The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(51)

“I am Nicolas Frederic Cesar Philippe Etienne, Comte de Mohrt…”

Damiot peered from side to side into the shadows, but there was no one visible.

“I have followed the illustrious career of Chief Inspector Damiot for several years, with constant and growing fascination…”

Where was the voice coming from? He pushed himself up to a sitting position on what he discovered was a pillowed sofa. As the voice continued, he looked around at one of the most incredible rooms he had ever seen.

Heavy stone columns supported a vaulted ceiling, and rare Oriental rugs covered the floor. Expensive furniture—fine antiques and sleek modern pieces. Fire of logs in an immense stone fireplace. The place resembled a museum but was obviously lived in because there was a glass and chromium table desk with piles of documents, papers, filing folders, an antique astrolabe, and a pair of tall shaded lamps.

Turning his head slowly, Damiot saw that the walls were a solid mass of books and paintings. Behind the desk, floor to ceiling, was a magnificent tapestry. There were no windows or doors…

“…ever since I lived in Paris and read about your latest murder investigations in the newspapers…”

Damiot turned, sensing a whisper of motion at the far side of the room. Fric-Frac began to bark and darted in the same direction.

There appeared to be an open space between two of the stone columns, evidently the entrance to a corridor or passage.

And slowly, out of the darkness, a curious figure in a small wheelchair rolled into view. Body hunched under some sort of brown robe. Long black hair hanging to the shoulders. Damiot remembered those wheel tracks he had noticed yesterday on the marble floors. “Monsieur le Comte?”

“Welcome to Castle Death, Monsieur Inspecteur! That’s what the villagers have called my ancestral home for centuries. Chateau de Mohrt sounds exactly like Chateau de Mort. But I would not care to be called Count Death!” He laughed.

Damiot realized, as the compact wheelchair came closer, that it was controlled from a small plastic device resting on the Comte’s lap. He saw now that the face was an infantile version of the de Mohrt face. The deep-set eyes and prominent nose were like those in the portraits, but the mouth belonged to a petulant child.

“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Monsieur Inspecteur, since I learned last week of your arrival in Courville.”

“You honor me, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Please! Call me Nick, if you will. The family title is much too pompous.” The wheelchair reached the end of the desk. “My friend, Allan Tendrell, was the first to call me Nick. Actually, I find it more to my liking…”

“As you wish. Nick…”

The Comte didn’t seem to have legs under the rough-textured material of his robe, and no feet were visible on the metal footrest. With his left hand he controlled levers under one chromium arm of the wheelchair.

“Sit down, Monsieur.” His voice no longer came from the invisible speakers. He motioned toward a fauteuil facing the desk, then glanced down at Fric-Frac. “What a fine dog! I observed her yesterday when you came here with that detective from Arles. I’m told that her name is Fric-Frac and she belongs to Madame Bouchard at the Auberge. I’ve suspected for some time, from Allan Tendrell’s descriptions of her, that he’s in love with her. The lady, not the dog!” He maneuvered his wheelchair behind the desk to face Damiot. “Please!” Gesturing toward the armchair again. “Make yourself comfortable…”

Damiot lowered his hip carefully into the fauteuil, and Fric-Frac immediately jumped into his lap.

“I trust you suffered no injury when you fell?”

“No damage done. Apparently I struck my head and for a moment lost consciousness. When I wakened I found myself here.”

“Pouchet picked you up and carried you.”

“Did he!”

“Must be in his late seventies—no one seems to know—but he still has the strength of three younger men! I suppose I owe you an explanation. In fact, several explanations!”

As the Comte settled back in his leather-padded wheelchair, Damiot was reminded of the Balzac statue by Rodin. Same kind of monk-like robe.

“First! About this little joke I’ve been playing?”

“Joke, Monsieur?”

“My attempt to frighten the villagers would, I was certain, never deceive Chief Inspector Damiot for an instant. So! I will confess to you at once. I am the only monster here.” He reached under his desk to click something, and a metal panel slid out from the side, parallel to his wheelchair.

Damiot leaned forward to see a console with rows of dials and levers—the sort of elaborate control board he had observed when he visited television or recording studios in Paris.

“For example, Monsieur l’Inspecteur!” He flipped a lever.

The great bell tolled immediately. It seemed to come from every corner of the room. The deep, metallic clang was deafening.

Fric-Frac put her ears back and howled.

The Comte snapped the lever and the bell was silenced. “There are no bells in any of the towers. I played this tape to attract the villagers’ attention. So they would be certain to see the monster…”

“And the monster? That can’t be another tape!”

“In good time, Monsieur Inspecteur. Tonight, just for you—in those dark rooms—I added a second element…” He pressed a lever.