The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(72)

“Monsieur le Maire!”

“Are you in charge?”

“Until I can reach Inspector Bardou.”

“Doctor Mondor does all our police work, but unfortunately he lives in Salon…”

“Send for him. Pouchet’s been shot. And there’ll have to be an autopsy on the Comte de Mohrt. His body can’t be touched until the médecin-légiste examines it.”

“Right away, M’sieur Inspecteur.” The Mayor looked around, squinting at faces in the crowd. “Someone go for Doctor Mondor…”

“I’ll get him!”

Damiot saw a familiar skinny figure, wearing a black leather jacket, step forward. “Claude!”

“I have my motorcycle, M’sieur! And I know where the doctor lives!”

“Explain what’s happened!” Damiot ordered. “And bring him here.”

“Service, M’sieur!”

The crowd moved apart for Claude to leave.

“And you, Monsieur le Maire!” Damiot raised his voice. “I would suggest you come up here until Inspector Bardou can be reached.”

“Well, I—I’m not here officially…” Mauron stepped forward, reluctantly. “How do I get up there?”

Damiot glanced behind him. “Madame Léontine! Would you go down and escort Monsieur le Maire?”

“Certainly, M’sieur.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and, pleased to have something to do, went toward the open windows.

Facing the courtyard again, Damiot saw Claude in the distance, running down the drive toward the gates. He remembered Jenny Tendrell riding past those entrance gates last week. Was it possible that she had taken the black mare tonight when she went to meet Michel Giroud?

The bell continued to toll.

Tolling for Nicolas Frederic Cesar Philippe Etienne—last Comte de Mohrt…

Damiot leaned against the balustrade, staring at the faces. No sign of Marc Sibilat now, but he glimpsed Achille Savord trying to hide behind the others, which was impossible because of his height. “You are responsible for what’s happened here. All of you…”

A ripple of fear flowed like a visible current through the mob.

“And one of you is a murderer!”

The faces looking up at him, mouths agape, were reddened by the flames from the torches that some still clutched in their hands.

“Whichever one of you threw the torch that killed the Comte de Mohrt is a murderer! Or, perhaps, an autopsy will discover a bullet in his body. Certainly Doctor Mondor will remove a bullet from Pouchet’s arm. Tests will be made and bullets can be traced to the guns that fired them.” He realized as he talked that some of the villagers were leaving stealthily, darting across the courtyard toward the drive. “If you don’t turn those guns in you will certainly be denounced by your neighbors. Many of you know which persons fired their guns and which of you threw torches up here. Someone is going to tell who those persons are!”

The crowd turned in sudden panic and fled across the courtyard, leaving the Mayor exposed, standing alone.

As Damiot watched them pour down the drive, he thought of Jenny Tendrell and Blanche Carmet again…

Blanche had said that Michel Giroud was with her when those two girls were killed. Both nights. For several hours…

The last of the villagers seemed to be sucked like corks into the mouth of the drive, the light from their torches fading with them.

And suddenly, two things slipped into place in Damiot’s mind.

The gar?on, Claude, had told him something important the day he arrived, but he hadn’t remembered it until this moment.

And Blanche Carmet had said that…

Damiot grasped the icy marble balustrade with both hands.

He knew the identity of the murderer! The puzzle was solved!

“What now?” Tendrell asked. “What do we do?”

“Stay here, mon ami.” He started across the terrace, the Englishman at his heels.

“Where the devil are you going?”

“There’s something I must do. Something important…”

“What’s more important than this?”

“There’s a real monster still to be caught. A monster who has murdered twice!” He continued on toward the open windows but, remembering, turned back. “Fric-Frac! Come! Quickly…”

The small black dog sped out of the darkness across the terrace and jumped into his arms.

“Think I’d forgotten you?” He glanced back and saw the mastiff crouched beside the charred shape that had been its master. “You’re a good girl. Staying where I told you.” He buried his face in Fric-Frac’s curls as he carried her inside, and again breathed the fragrance of Aurore’s bath oil.

From behind him on the terrace came a chilling sound.

The mastiff was howling. Mourning for his dead master…





CHAPTER 22


Glancing down at Fric-Frac, curled beside him in the Peugeot, he smiled. She had led him back without faltering, through those endless passages and down the curving stone steps out of the Chateau.

Nick’s body would go to the morgue in Courville. Into one of those metal drawers. Next to Annie Deffous…

Doctor Mondor would perform an autopsy.