The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(63)

“I can believe that, Madame. However, I didn’t come this morning to see your son.”

“No?” Her eyes narrowed. “You wished to see me?”

“It’s always pleasant to see you again, Madame. Actually, I came to buy some flowers.”

“Forgive me. I thought…”

“Perhaps some roses? Like those in your window.”

“Of course, M’sieur.” She turned to open the display case and lifted out a tub of red roses. “How many?”

“A small bouquet…”

“Certainly.” She produced a square of green waxed paper from under the counter, spread it flat, and began to select roses from the tub.

“I hear the villagers will be going up to the Chateau tonight…”

“They hope to catch the monster before it kills someone else.”

“You believe, Madame, there’s a monster in the castle?”

“I’ve told you! My son has seen it.”

“Will he be going up there tonight with the others?”

“I couldn’t say…” She secured the stems of the roses with a strip of tape. “I only pray they catch the beast before more throats are cut!” Returning the tub of roses to the display case and closing the glass door. “Why shouldn’t the villagers take matters into their own hands? The police have done nothing! This monster must be destroyed!”

“I suppose the villagers would like the publicity. Hoping it will bring more tourists this summer.”

“Is that wrong, Monsieur? If they destroy the monster it will be in all the papers.” She folded the waxed paper around the bouquet and handed it across the counter. “That should put Courville on the map. Tourists will come from every part of the world!”

He dropped a hundred-franc note on the counter and watched as she unlocked the cash drawer. “You would have it destroyed for the money you might make from the publicity?”

“Not I, Monsieur Inspecteur. The money isn’t important.” Closing the cash drawer and counting out his change. “But the monster must be killed before another young woman dies!”

“Good morning, Madame.” He turned toward the door with the bouquet of red roses.

Damiot was smiling as he crossed the street. He was certain Madame Sibilat was watching him.

Passing his Peugeot, hurrying now, he went to the side gate, almost hidden under ivy in the cemetery wall. He pushed the wooden gate open.

This morning he wouldn’t visit his parents’ graves. Do that again before he returned to Paris, but not today.

Crossing the grass in the shade of the ancient trees, he went straight to Lisette Jarlaud’s grave. Slipped the waxed paper back and placed the roses on top of the dead ones left by Achille Savord. “Roses from Madame Sibilat. But these are fresh!”

He turned from the unmarked grave and headed back to the avenue. As he got into the Peugeot he glanced toward the florist shop but saw nothing of Madame’s inquisitive face.

Driving south, moving slowly in heavy traffic, Damiot glanced down at the empty seat beside him. He realized to his surprise that he felt lost without Fric-Frac.

After he talked with Achille Savord he would continue south and have lunch somewhere. Relax and think…

He had collected too many seemingly insignificant odds and ends, that needed sorting out. There must be something important among them. One small fact that might lead to the murderer…

He found the Savord farm and turned off the road to follow a lane, dappled with sunshine, between neat apple orchards and vineyards. This was a prosperous farm with hands working in the fields and among the grapevines. He was aware of heads lifting as he passed, eyes following his car.

Approaching the old farmhouse, he glimpsed a barnyard bustling with activity, as he slowed to a stop at the edge of a flower garden. Two young women, their faces shadowed by wide-brimmed straw hats, were at work.

A tall youth, red-haired and muscular, left a tractor he’d been repairing and came toward the Peugeot carrying a wrench. “Achille Savord?”

“That’s right, M’sieur.”

Damiot brought out his badge. “I’m…”

“That flic from Paris everybody in the village is talking about!” He lowered his voice. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Have you?”

“I see all those crime films on television, so I know the way you guys operate.” He grinned. “How’d you find out I’d been seeing Lisette?”

“You’re the only person who left flowers on her grave. I asked the florist, Madame Sibilat, who bought them.”

“Easy as that?”

“There’s only one florist shop in Courville.”

“These are my sisters.” Achille motioned toward the young women.

“No need to bother your family. But I’ve some questions for you.”

He grinned, shyly. “What can I tell you, M’sieur?”

“You know a girl named Deffous? Annie Deffous…”

“Never heard of her.” He frowned. “A girl in the village?”

“She is now. In a refrigerator…”

“That one! I saw her when they asked everybody to try and identify her, but I’d never seen her before.”