The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(71)

The swaying puppet figure with its enormous head was even more impressive in silhouette than it had seemed last week from the hill or last night inside the castle.

Pouchet was crouched behind it, holding his lantern.

The villagers below had come to a halt and stood frozen.

Still another group was rushing up the drive. Some of these carried flaming torches.

As he watched, Damiot wondered about Jenny Tendrell again. How could she go anywhere to meet Giroud without a car? The Tendrells had only one car, and her father had driven that tonight…

The tolling bell sounded again and the doves continued to circle above the towers, their wings and breasts blood-red from the torches that flushed the fa?ade of the castle with a fiery glow.

The monster appeared to be glowering down at the intruders, its face seeming even more evil in the flickering light from the torches, long black hair swaying as the clumsy head tilted forward.

The last group of villagers had joined the others. Must be forty of them now, gathered together staring at the figure on the terrace.

The giant figure appeared to be withdrawing, its long cloak swaying as the monster slowly moved back from the balustrade. Now the light would fade on the terrace as Pouchet shuttered his lantern.

The monster had made his final appearance…

There was a sharp crack of sound.

Frightened birds shot up from the trees, their shrill cries flooding the night air.

“That was a gun!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“Rifle,” Damiot muttered.

Uproar from the courtyard. Shouting. More shots. Rifles and small arms.

Damiot froze, watching the monster slowly collapse.

The light from the lantern had been blotted out.

“What the devil are those bastards doing?” Tendrell shouted, staring down into the crowd.

“Never mind about them. We’d better find out what’s happened to the Comte.” He turned to Fric-Frac. “Stay here, Madame. Until I call you.” He saw her tail wag and hoped that she understood.

As they ran across the terrace, a flaming torch rose from the courtyard, arced through the air, and crashed onto the marble floor in a shower of sparks.

“Idiots!” Damiot growled.

The light from the torch rolling across the terrace revealed the monster slumped down, head tipping forward as though it were asleep. The puppet figure must have collapsed over the Comte’s head and shoulders.

Pouchet was sprawled behind the monster, and Madame Léontine hovered near the open windows, afraid to venture farther.

The great bell continued to toll. Damiot realized that it had never stopped.

Another torch flew up from the courtyard, cascading sparks, and struck the crumpled figure of the monster. There was a burst of flame as the long wig caught fire. The monstrous head seemed to explode.

“Nick!” Tendrell shouted.

Damiot moved away from the flying sparks and embers, pulling the Englishman with him as the figure of the monster was enveloped by fire.

A third torch smashed on the terrace, and flames sprayed.

“Don’t go any closer!” Damiot grasped Tendrell’s sleeve. “Nothing we can do to help him.”

“Good God!”

Lautrec sprang forward barking, pawing at the monster’s burning cloak. Trying desperately to rescue his master. Part of the burning cloth came away, caught in the dog’s nails. Lautrec yelped with pain as he shook his paws free, then lay whimpering, close to the blazing figure.

Damiot watched the two metal crutches slide out, unscathed, from under the burning mass. They seemed pathetically small. Moving closer, followed by the Englishman, he stood looking at the charred shape. Impossible to think that only a moment ago this had been a human being.

“What a beastly way to die!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“Only a moment of pain, before he suffocated.”

“I think for some time Nick has wished for death.”

“He wanted to be an eagle. And he has escaped…” Damiot turned as a hand touched his sleeve and saw Madame Léontine, her cheeks wet with tears.

“He’s dead, Madame.”

“Pauvre chéri! Perhaps it’s best this way. He was never happy, after the accident. I have heard him weeping many times, in the night, when he thought no one would hear…”

“Pouchet!” Damiot went toward the sprawled figure. “Are you hurt?”

“Bullet. My arm…” The old man’s face was drawn with pain, his eyes blinking from the acrid smoke. “What about M’sieur le Comte?”

“He’s dead.”

“Mon Dieu!” He turned his face to the marble floor.

“Bloody bastards!” Tendrell shouted.

Damiot looked around to see the Englishman leaning against the balustrade, shaking his fist at the crowd below.

“Murderers!” he screamed. “You killed him! You’ve murdered the Comte de Mohrt!”

An uneasy hum of voices rose from the courtyard.

Damiot joined Tendrell to look down at them. The crowd became silent as some recognized him.

“We need a doctor here!” He saw Marc Sibilat among those in the front. Their eyes met but Sibilat looked away.

“We have no doctor in Courville!” someone answered. Damiot looked in the direction of the voice and saw the gross face of Hercule Mauron.