The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(52)

The roar of a speeding car filled the room. Shrieking brakes and screaming tires.

Fric-Frac cringed in Damiot’s lap.

The Comte touched the lever and the roar of sound was cut off.

“You gave me one hell of a scare for a moment, when I thought there was a car inside the Chateau!”

Fric-Frac shook her head, as though freeing her delicate ears of the unpleasant noises, and jumped to the floor.

“Speakers and microphones are hidden in every room. In fireplaces and behind wall panels. I can send my voice, or any kind of taped sound, into all of them. And I am able to hear everything!”

“It was you, Saturday, behind those doors?”

“That must have been my dog. I was in the laboratory, observing your progress from room to room. There are also hidden cameras. I was watching you and listening to what you said. Pouchet, as you must have noticed, is somewhat deaf, and I wanted to be certain that you didn’t as yet suspect my presence.”

“I knew someone was here because Fric-Frac was sniffing under the doors. Your electronic equipment is most impressive.”

“I designed much of it myself. Technicians from Paris installed everything. This also is one of my designs.” He patted the metal arm of his wheelchair. “Completely electronic! With this I can do everything but walk. It’s being manufactured and sold—mostly to hospitals and clinics. All profits are used to provide similar wheelchairs for individuals who can’t afford them…”

“But, Monsieur le Comte! I was informed that you had died, some years ago, in a motor accident.”

“My beloved grandmother was the one who started that rumor.”

“The old Comtesse?”

“She did it out of kindness. Let me explain… First about the motor accident! My father had three passions—racing cars, beautiful women, and champagne. I suspect in that order! He took me along, one sunny morning, to test a new racing car he had bought. On his way to show it to his current mistress, after enjoying a bottle of champagne with breakfast. We were on one of those endless Roman roads where you can see the horizon. There was no traffic and my father was not at fault. One of the tires burst and we crashed into a tree. My father managed to get off with nothing more than a sprained ankle, but I wasn’t so fortunate. I regained consciousness in a hospital, where I remained for many weeks. I was informed much later, after I recovered from spinal surgery, that I had not been expected to live. It wasn’t until the following year that I learned, from my grandmother, that I would never walk again. Which, for some time, I had suspected…”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“Must be difficult, at that age, to comprehend…”

“I was terrified. But grand-mère refused to accept the verdict of those doctors in Rome. Which renewed my courage…”

As he listened, Damiot realized that the Comte was even younger than he had first thought. Probably in his late twenties.

“…chartered a plane and flew me back to Paris, where she had the most eminent specialists examine me. After more surgery, I was told that those other doctors were wrong. I would be able to walk.”

“Doctors! They recently stuck a metal pin in my hip.”

“I read about you in the Paris papers. Your meeting with that gangster! Valzo…”

“And I suppose, like me, they put you through endless therapy?”

“Every day, hour after hour, for months. And I did walk, eventually, after a fashion. Only, by the age of fourteen, my walking did not improve any further because my legs had stopped growing. I have the legs of a twelve-year-old! Unable to support the torso of a man.”

“You mention only your grandmother. What about your parents?”

“Grand-mère was the last relative I had left. The de Mohrt line comes to an abrupt conclusion with me. My mother died when I was two—here in the Chateau. Pneumonia, I was told, probably caused by these drafty corridors. The old Comte, my grandfather, had died before I was injured in that accident, and my father was killed two years later, in another racing car. We were good friends and his death was very difficult for me. My only family after that was my beloved grand-mère. She lived with me in Paris until the doctors placed her in a Zurich sanatorium. I stayed with her there until she died.”

“I remember the Comtesse with great affection. I knew both your grandparents…”

“Pouchet has told me. Your father and my grandfather were friends.”

“My father worked with the local Maquis during the occupation, when your grandfather was head of the underground in this area.”

“And you brought messages to him from your father.”

“Many times.”

“I wasn’t born then, of course, but grand-père taught me the motto of the Provencal Maquis. ‘Race of eagles’…”

“‘Never vassals!’”

“He told me that I—his only grandson and last of the de Mohrts—must always be an eagle, never a vassal.” The Comte shrugged and smiled. “It is difficult, with these legs, to be an eagle, but I have not as yet become a vassal to any man. And never shall!”

Damiot noticed, for the first time, a telephone on the desk. “This must be the phone I heard ringing earlier…”

“That was when Allan Tendrell called. I told him you were here and he said he would drive over. Of course, at that point you hadn’t crashed through the floor, and I didn’t suspect I’d be meeting you. Allan’s a good friend. And such a beautiful daughter!” He seemed to relax as he spoke of Jenny Tendrell. “I’ve seen her, but as yet have never met the young lady. Allan thinks that would be indiscreet, and I agree—at least for the moment.” He smiled. “But I wait inside the gates, many mornings, to watch her ride past. That was where I saw you for the first time. You were parked there, last Friday, when I was waiting for Jenny.”