The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(56)

Now the tall figure began to sink slowly toward the floor.

Fric-Frac barked.

Damiot stepped back, away from the collapsing monster. “This is what happened Friday night on the terrace!”

The figure shot up again to its full height.

“There you are!” The Comte’s voice, muffled, from under the cloak. “Tall as a giant or flat as a pile of rags. Pouchet?”

The old man stepped forward. “Here I am, M’sieur le Comte.”

“Take this thing off me!”

The old man lifted the cloak away as it began to collapse again.

Laughing, pleased with what he had done, the Comte lunged free of the contraption. “That wasn’t clumsy, was it? The figure’s designed on the principle of a toy I used to have when I was a child. A simple mechanism lifts the head and shoulders.” He circled the desk on his crutches and climbed into the wheelchair as he explained. “That’s why the monster never appears in bad weather. It could be torn apart by the wind and damaged by rain.” He reduced his crutches to their original size and returned them to their compartments in the wheelchair.

Damiot watched Pouchet carry the collapsed figure away through the passage. “Your trick has been a great success, Monsieur! This monster you created did not, however, kill those two girls.”

“That’s quite obvious,” Tendrell observed, refilling his glass. “But the question remains—who did? And why, Monsieur le Comte, did you play this trick on everyone?”

“Because of the stories Pouchet heard in the village about a monster lurking in the Chateau. That gave me the idea.”

“And when did you hear about this monster?” Damiot sat in the armchair again as Fric-Frac returned to stretch out at his feet. “Who was the first to tell Pouchet about it?”

“I’ve asked him that myself, but he doesn’t remember. It was after the death of the first girl that he told me what the villagers were saying.”

“You never heard it prior to her murder?”

“Never.”

“So there is no ancient legend about a monster in the Chateau?”

“Not to my knowledge. Certainly I’d have known about it when I was a child. One of the servants would have told me, even if the family hadn’t. I did of course hear tales of criminals tried here, in our courtyard, before they were hanged in that field where the first girl was murdered…”

“I heard similar stories when I was in school,” Damiot interrupted, “but nothing about any monster.”

“I created my monster to keep the villagers away from here, but unfortunately, the first time I showed him down in the courtyard nobody saw him. I had Pouchet light the monster from behind with a lantern, but there was nobody to see. The following night I played the tape of a tolling bell, certain that the sound would attract someone’s attention. Pouchet saw a car pass on the road and, after a moment, drive back. The driver got out and stood close to the gates. So I made the monster move up and down. The fellow ran to his car and sped away. He must have been from the village, because the following night, Pouchet reported that several people were gathered outside the gates. We did our performance for them and they departed in a hurry! The next night it rained, so we didn’t give them another show until the first clear night.”

“With an equally gratifying reception!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“This time there must’ve been a dozen villagers watching,” the Comte continued. “Allan, of course, knew what I was doing from the start. He was on the hill last Friday night when you turned up. What did you think, Monsieur, when you saw the monster?”

“I was certain that the murderer had arranged it, whatever it was, to confuse and frighten the villagers.”

The Comte laughed. “You are quite right as to my purpose, but I am not the murderer.” Motioning toward the bottles on the tray. “Help yourselves, gentlemen!”

“No more, at the moment.” Damiot glanced at his unfinished drink as Tendrell picked up the whiskey bottle to refill his own glass.

“I would never kill anyone, Monsieur Inspecteur,” the Comte continued. “My passion is for life. I am interested only in living!”

“Why did you let people think you had died?” Damiot asked quietly. “After your accident.”

“Grand-mère started that rumor to save me from having to meet people. She told some reporter in Paris that I had died, and he printed the story. This was after I had had several unfortunate experiences. One day, on the street, I heard a woman call me a monster! Grand-mère and I constantly discussed my future. She knew how difficult it would be for me to face strangers. Unlike the great Lautrec, I had no wish to ease my despair in absinthe or bury myself in the soft, impersonal world of prostitutes. It was grand-mère who, before her final illness, suggested I build a high wall around this family estate, install whatever laboratories I might require for my work, and establish a private world of my own. Madame Léontine prepares my favorite dishes, and Pouchet is my guardian, confidant, and friend. I am a reasonably happy human!”

Tendrell perched on the arm of the sofa, nursing his whiskey. “The villagers, of course, would think you quite mad if they learned you were living here. That you had tricked them with your monster…”

“They are the mad ones! Believing in a monster.”