The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(7)

Sipping the scalding coffee, Damiot observed the last of the diners crossing the foyer toward the entrance.

He was aware that Madame Bouchard had left the dining room and, after pausing at the registration desk, was coming into the lounge.

“Would you like me to switch on the television, Monsieur?”

“I rarely watch television.”

“Nor I. But it is here for our guests. More coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I wonder… Could I have a Calvados?”

“Certainly.”

“Would you join me?”

“That’s very kind, but I must complete my duties for the night.” She smiled and turned back toward the restaurant.

Damiot finished his coffee before Claude returned, almost running.

“Your Calvados, M’sieur.” He set the glass of brandy down. “Will there be anything more?”

“Not until morning. Is it possible for me to have breakfast in my room? I intend to sleep late. Perhaps nine o’clock?”

“Of course, M’sieur. Nine o’clock. Sleep well, M’sieur.”

“Good night, Claude.” He watched the skinny boy hurry toward the dining room with the tray. When he was that age, he too had always hurried.

Damiot cradled his glass in both hands, warming the apple brandy. Sleep until nine? Why not! He had nothing planned for tomorrow or, for that matter, all of next week. Certainly he would stay here at least that long. His room was comfortable and dinner had been better than any meal he had eaten in Paris for months…

Tomorrow he would drive through the countryside and up into the foothills. Explore some of the places he had known as a boy… He relaxed, staring at the flaming logs, feeling their warmth on his face as the Calvados warmed his body. No pain in his hip tonight!

It had been wise to leave Paris. Get away from his problems…

Sophie had her mother, and Olympe should have no problems in Mexico. Not with her Bruno in attendance. Another month, of course, and she would start worrying about her career. That’s when the accusations and recriminations would start.

Chère Olympe! Give her six months, at most, and she would come flying back. Full of new plans…

What was he going to do about Sophie? Drive down to Cannes next week? Try and persuade her to return to Paris with him? Sit in that spotless white salon and argue while her mother scowled and sighed. Did he want to repeat that ridiculous scene?

Lucky he and Sophie had never produced any children. “Your murderers are your children!” She had told him during one of their arguments. “You never wanted any others!”

Maybe she was right…

“Monsieur Damiot?”

He looked up to see Madame Bouchard again. “Madame?”

“I did not intend to be rude, a moment ago…”

“Not at all!” He set his nearly empty glass on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

“Do not disturb yourself. I have finished my chores for the night and can now accept your invitation.” She sank into another fauteuil, facing him. “Jean-Paul will bring more Calvados.”

“Splendid!” Damiot lowered himself carefully onto his armchair. He was aware of her perfume, subtle and delicate.

“I understand that Monsieur is recovering from an accident.”

“Yes.” Better not say that he had been shot, or an explanation would be expected. “It was necessary to have surgery on my hip. My doctor advised me to rest, and I’ve come to Provence hoping to find the sun.”

“There was much rain this winter, but soon now it will be spring and we’ll have plenty of sun.” She looked around as the waiter appeared with a bottle of Calvados and two glasses on a tray. “Merci, Jean-Paul.”

Damiot tossed off what remained of his first drink as Madame filled the fresh glasses. “A v?tre santé, Madame.”

“To your complete recovery from that accident.”

“Merci!” He watched her sip the brandy. A serenely beautiful face, but her brown eyes seemed suffused with melancholy. Probably not yet recovered from the death of her husband. “I’ve not tasted Calvados like this in years!”

“My husband found this one. It was his favorite.”

“I must compliment you, Madame. The changes you’ve made here.”

“Changes?” She looked at him more closely, her interest aroused. “Then you’ve been in Courville before?”

“Some years ago. The restaurant was much smaller then and this lounge didn’t exist.”

“Julien and I added an entire wing. When we discovered this property it had been empty for many years, but we were told that at one time there had been a small restaurant here.”

“Only half a dozen tables. And one guest room upstairs…” There was a sudden explosion of barking as a small black dog raced across the foyer and into the lounge. Jumped into Madame Bouchard’s lap, licked her hand, then faced the stranger and growled.

“Non, Fric-Frac! C’est méchant!” Madame laughed. “She protects me from all strangers. Never bites anyone—at least not yet—but her growl is ferocious.”

“Fric-Frac? In the argot of Pigalle that means a caper—a bank robbery or some other planned criminal act.”

“My husband named her. He had heard the word in a gangster film. She was Julien’s dog…” Her fingers stroked the curly head. “He said the name suited her because she always capers when she’s happy. Which is most of the time! He also called her Madame la Duchesse.”