The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(73)
He had a strong hunch that a bullet would be found. A bullet, not suffocation, had been the cause of death…
Several of the villagers should certainly come forward and name the ones who had brought guns to the Chateau.
Many things raced through his mind as he drove past the familiar farms and vineyards.
Aurore! Lonely after her husband’s death, she had fallen in love with Giroud…
Giroud pursuing Jenny. While sleeping with Blanche Carmet and, probably, several others…
What about Jenny Tendrell? Giroud had arranged a rendezvous with her for tonight. But where? She must have told Giroud earlier—probably on the phone, when she made reservations for dinner—that her father would be going off somewhere in his Citro?n. Confirmed it at dinner, when Tendrell left her alone and Giroud appeared from the kitchen.
Where would she meet Giroud?
The Tendrells’ cook might know…
Damiot swerved the Peugeot onto a grassy verge as he glimpsed the rows of beech trees leading to the Tendrell farmhouse.
“Here we are, Madame,” he whispered, slowing to a stop.
She followed him out of the car, instantly alert, and trotted beside him up the road.
There were no lights in the farmhouse windows facing the highway. No smoke rising from any chimneys and no car parked in the lane.
“Not a sound, Madame. You understand? Stay close to me!” He walked halfway up the lane, then stepped onto the soft earth and continued on, keeping close to the beech trees on his right.
Hesitating when he reached the last tree, Fric-Frac at his feet, he listened for some sound.
Nothing. Not even a bird.
“We’ll check the side windows.” They crossed a stretch of grass and followed a pebbled path between flower beds. He wished he had been able to inspect this property more carefully, by daylight. His previous visit had been at night and in heavy rain.
Reaching the corner of the house, he saw that no light showed from any windows along the side. Still no sound from inside or from those cottages at the rear, which Tendrell had said were occupied by his staff…
He saw that he was approaching a row of tall double windows, which must have been installed when the place was restored. They faced a flagstone terrace where he glimpsed antique statues surrounded by shrubbery. As he came closer, he noticed that the far pair of windows stood open. Their glass panes, pushed back against the shutters, reflected a silver color from the night sky.
Had Jenny left them open for Giroud? Perhaps the two had come out through here and then walked to his car…
Damiot hesitated, listening for any sound from inside.
The windows were covered by heavy curtains, and no light was visible underneath.
The silence was broken suddenly by the neighing of a horse. Fric-Frac growled faintly. He reached down to stroke her head, reassuringly. Must be the English girl’s black mare. Locked up for the night in the barn.
Damiot waited, his ears straining. There was no other sound.
Then, barely a whisper, he heard something… A voice? From inside.
He moved close to the open window. A man’s voice…
Fingering one of the curtains carefully, until he found the edge, he pushed it back so that he could look into the room.
A shaded lamp glowed on a bedside table. The small circle of light revealed Jenny Tendrell, asleep in an enormous antique bed. The remainder of the room was in shadow.
A dark figure knelt at the foot of her bed.
Damiot leaned forward to see the man’s face…
Michel Giroud! Hands clasped and head bowed. His voice was a monotone. Only a few phrases were audible.
Damiot recognized the Latin words.
“Mea culpa! Mea culpa…”
He frowned, translating in his mind. “My fault! My fault…”
“Miserere mei…”
“Have mercy upon me…”
The Latin was like an incantation.
Moving cautiously, Damiot stepped inside.
“Miserere mei…”
Fric-Frac growled. The small sound was like an explosion in the room.
Giroud, with one swift motion, was on his feet. A knife flashing in his hand.
The dog continued to growl.
Giroud raised the knife.
Damiot saw that it had the special blade a chef uses for boning. Long and thin and deadly…
“Monsieur Inspecteur!” Giroud bowed slightly, a faint smile on his lips. “From the day of your arrival, I’ve known that you would be the one to discover the truth. But I did not expect you here tonight…”
Damiot saw that Giroud was wearing an expensive black leather jacket, black trousers, rubber-soled shoes. “Let me have that knife.”
“A chef never permits anyone to touch his favorite knife.” He continued to smile. “You must know that! Your father was a chef.”
“The knife…”
“You will have to take it from me, Monsieur. I suppose you have a gun.”
“No gun. I dislike violence. All violence! But especially murder.”
“Without a gun it will be impossible for you to take my knife. I suspect I’m much stronger than you. In better condition.”
“That is possible.”
“If you attempt to take my knife, I will be forced to kill you.”
“You have already killed twice.”
“You’ve no evidence of that.”