The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(57)

“They are superstitious!” Damiot protested. “Foolish! And, of course, ignorant. Many of them…”

“Ignorance makes fools of men.”

Tendrell nodded. “Ignorance—stupidity—that’s what is wrong with the world! There should be one Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not be stupid!’”

Damiot got to his feet. “I wish, Monsieur le Comte, that you would not show your monster to the villagers again.”

“Ah! But I plan to have him make another appearance tomorrow night. If the weather clears.”

“I too wish you wouldn’t, Nick.” Tendrell rose from the sofa’s arm. “When ignorant people are frightened they become violent animals, and the villagers at this moment seem ready to explode. They talk of nothing but those murders and the monster in the Chateau. My daughter hears them every time she goes shopping…”

“I agree with Monsieur Tendrell.” Damiot moved closer to the desk. “It would be wise to put an end to this joke. I suggest that you destroy the Courville monster!”

“Not just yet, Monsieur Inspecteur. And you won’t tell anyone, I trust, what I’ve revealed to you tonight?” He frowned, suddenly childlike, as though he were about to have his wonderful toy taken away. “You won’t report to the local gendarmerie that I’ve played a trick on their friends in the village? Won’t tell them that I’m here in residence at the Chateau?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte. Nick… I will not tell anyone. Inspector Bardou’s the one who must find the murderer—or murderers. Not I…”

“Monsieur Inspecteur!” The Comte frowned. “You must have some theory about the murderer…”

Damiot shrugged.

“It has to be one of the villagers!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“I suspect,” Damiot finally answered, “that whoever started the rumor of a monster in the Chateau de Mohrt may be the murderer…”



The rain had stopped before Damiot came to the edge of the village. He slowed his car as he reached the Auberge.

None of the windows were lighted. Perhaps Aurore had gone to bed.

He had a sudden urge for a glass of Calvados before retiring. His mind was preoccupied with what he had learned tonight in his conversation with the Comte. Another Calvados might help him to relax…

He saw that Fric-Frac, beside him, was sound asleep.

Driving on, down Avenue de la Republique, he noticed that the filling station was closed. He squinted up at the clock on the town hall tower, its hands halted at twelve o’clock. End of time for his village…

The new traffic lights were dark for the night.

Swerving off from the Avenue into the Square, he parked near the fountain. Fric-Frac roused immediately but settled down again when he didn’t reach to open the door.

Nobody visible on the streets at this hour and no traffic. Metal shutters dropped over every shop, and the apartments above showed no sign of life. Not a light visible in any rooms of the H?tel Courville, and the two cafés, at opposite ends of the Square, were closed.

Of course! This was Sunday night. He wouldn’t get his Calvados.

He looked up at the squat mass of the H?tel Courville. Impossible to visualize a tall hotel rising above the village…

Would Aurore be happy with her new restaurant? The elaborate Relais Julien could never be like the pleasant Auberge she had created with her husband…

A light flashed on in a room on the top floor of the hotel. Some salesman unable to sleep? Turning on his bedside lamp to check over the list of calls he had to make tomorrow…

Had he known Lisette Jarlaud on some previous visit?

Fric-Frac roused, lifted her head and looked from side to side.

“What is it, Madame?”

She growled softly and stood up, resting her paws on the open window, peering around the silent Square.

“You’re hearing ghosts! Everyone’s asleep.”

She wagged her tail but continued to growl.

Damiot turned and looked back toward the Avenue.

A car was rolling, slowly and silently, its headlights dark, across rue Voltaire and down Avenue de la Republique.

A black Ferrari.

Damiot felt a chill pass across the nape of his neck. The sleek black shape of the powerful car was strangely threatening.

He was unable to see the driver, who must be hunched down behind the steering wheel. Fric-Frac barked. Damiot had a feeling that the man in the other car was watching him.

He switched on his headlights.

The Ferrari immediately took off with a roar of sound, headlights still dark, and shot down the length of the Avenue into the night.

“No chasing cars, Madame. We must accept the impossible.” He turned the Peugeot around and started back toward the Auberge.





CHAPTER 18


Damiot was roused by the crowing of a cock, which was answered immediately by another and another.

The sound flowed back and forth from farm to farm, then faded to silence.

Another cock crowed, and the answering chorus rose and fell again.

Half awake, he smiled at these familiar voices from the past.

He forced himself to avoid checking his wristwatch, because he didn’t want to get out of bed just yet…

Crowing cocks meant dawn, and from the number of their voices, these must be announcing the first shafts of the rising sun.