The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(70)

Damiot turned and hurried after the Englishman, who was waiting beside the curtained windows.

“We squeeze through here.” Tendrell carefully lifted an edge of the curtain and slipped underneath.

Damiot ducked under the heavy material into complete darkness, the curtain falling into place behind him. He wondered where the Englishman’s daughter would be meeting Michel Giroud. Pushing the curtain aside a few inches, he glimpsed a strange tableau.

Nick was standing now, laughing as he supported himself on his crutches. Pouchet held the puppet, like some bizarre crown, above the Comte’s head and slowly lowered it until the robe covered his body. The monstrous head seemed to rest on Nick’s shoulders. Madame Léontine swept up the bottom of the robe as Pouchet lifted his lantern from the floor and slid a cover over the light.

“Here we go!” Tendrell whispered.

Damiot felt cold air strike his face as he heard the window open.

The terrace was ghostly in the blue wash of starlight, with a black mass of forest visible against the sky beyond the marble balustrade.

“We’ll be able to see everything,” Tendrell explained, pausing outside the windows. “Last time I came out here I actually went some distance away from these windows, and nobody noticed me. There’s a sort of buttress where we can be in complete shadow. I’ll show you.” He bent low and darted across the open terrace.

Damiot crouched down and followed.

The bell tolled again.

Now there was that same curious rolling of voices from the villagers he had heard last week when he was on the hill.

He bumped into the Englishman in the dark.

“They can’t possibly see us here!” Tendrell murmured.

Damiot straightened beside a mass of stone that seemed to rise toward one of the invisible towers.

Moving toward the balustrade, he saw that a second cluster of villagers was streaming up the drive. This group seemed to contain at least a dozen men, carrying more lanterns.

Turning toward the castle, he glimpsed a blur of motion at the far end of the terrace. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see the collapsed bulk of the monster lurching forward, with Pouchet walking behind awkwardly, like a second monster. Madame Leontine’s plump figure, bending low, held the puppet’s cloak like a royal train.

The two dogs came running across the terrace, barely visible against the marble floor. Lautrec, after sniffing at Damiot’s shoe, raced back toward the others, but Fric-Frac remained crouching beside him. He leaned down to scratch her head as he watched the mastiff join his master.

Peering below, Damiot saw that the second group of villagers had joined the first. Now they all stood together at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at the terrace where the monster had appeared last week.

“In my opinion,” Tendrell whispered, “Nick is slightly mad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that! Every genius is touched by madness, but Nick is, I think, somewhat psychotic. That’s why I’ve never permitted Jenny to meet him. He’s urged me to bring her here but I’ve refused. She would very likely fall in love with him. She’s seen him driving the Ferrari—as she told you—but has no idea who it was. I’m quite genuinely fond of Nick, but I do think he’s mentally disturbed as a result of his accident. Damaged emotionally as well as physically. Deeply troubled by what happened to his body. He jokes constantly about his legs to mask his true feelings. That, I suspect, is why he created this fake monster to frighten people. A monstrous joke, if you will! The living monster hidden under the fake.”

The bell tolled again. Much louder. Its deep metal voice rolling across the courtyard and fading away through the forest.

A strange flapping sound came from overhead.

Damiot looked up to see a cloud of doves, roused from their nests, frantically circling above the Chateau like pale gray bats.

Tendrell nudged him, pointing down the drive.

Damiot turned to see a third group hurrying to join their friends. Several villagers had electric torches that they flashed between the tree trunks, sending grotesque shadows dancing through the forest.

No light as yet on the terrace, but he glimpsed Madame Léontine returning toward the open windows. The performance would be startling…

A terrifying scream came from the depths of the wood.

Fric-Frac growled.

“Quiet, Madame!” Damiot ordered.

“Those damn peacocks!” the Englishman muttered.

Damiot saw a wave of movement pass through the crowd as heads turned and arms gestured. One man seemed to be the leader. He appeared to be directing the others. Waving his arms and motioning them forward. It was the Mayor—Hercule Mauron!

A muffled crash sounded from the drive.

“They’ve smashed the gates!” Tendrell exclaimed.

A few cautious cheers rose from the courtyard.

Damiot leaned forward again. He could feel panic in the air. The same mob hysteria he had experienced many times in Paris…

Now the villagers were crossing the courtyard toward the Chateau, moving slowly, almost reluctantly. Pointing up at the terrace.

A faint light had appeared there. Pouchet must have slid the cover back on his lantern.

The figure of the monster suddenly shot to its full height against a faint nimbus of light.

A gasp of horror rose from the villagers, followed by silence.