The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(76)
He straightened the bedcover before he turned away and, Fric-Frac following, went toward the windows. Closed the curtains carefully behind them and started back to his car.
Walking down the lane, Fric-Frac at his heels, he heard the roar of an approaching car. He waited, hidden by one of the poplars, and watched the green Jaguar flash past. It was heading north instead of toward Marseille.
Damiot smiled.
CHAPTER 23
He slowed the Peugeot as he approached the Chateau. Glancing down beside him, he realized that Fric-Frac was asleep. Dogs were born with the gift of instant sleep. Something he had never learned!
Tonight he would toss for hours. Always happened when his mind was involved with the finish of an investigation…
Fric-Frac growled softly as the Peugeot came to a stop near a row of parked cars.
Damiot saw one of the entrance doors open and watched Bardou, bundled in scarf and overcoat, hurry across the courtyard.
“Who is it? We’re busy inside. No time for… M’sieur Damiot!”
“Spare a moment, Inspector?”
“But certainly!”
“What’s going on?” Damiot asked.
“We’re waiting for them to take M’sieur le Comte’s body to the morgue. Doctor Adondor hasn’t finished his examination.”
“Did he find a bullet wound?”
“In the Comte’s chest, near his heart.”
“I thought so! Now then… I’ve more information, but let me warn you again, I don’t want anyone to know I gave this to you.”
“Whatever you say, M’sieur Inspecteur, but I still think…”
“I know who killed those two girls.”
“You do!”
“The murderer—of both girls—is Michel Giroud.”
“Giroud?”
“He’s the chef at the Auberge.”
“Mon Dieu! I didn’t even suspect him…”
“Used to work for a restaurant in Toulon, where he knew the Deffous girl. Had a son by her. Gave her money for the child’s care until he came to Courville. She traced him and drove here to persuade him to give her more money or to marry her. He killed her to get rid of her. And it was Giroud who started rumors about a monster in the Chateau, hoping to confuse the police and panic the villagers. He murdered Lisette Jarlaud when she, too, demanded money, after telling him she was pregnant…”
“Will I find Giroud at the Auberge?”
“He’s driving north in a dark green Jaguar. Send out word that he’s the murderer. He has a knife—probably the same one he used on both those girls. Warn every gendarmerie that he’s dangerous. Although I don’t think you’ll find him alive.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll either use the knife on himself or drive his car off some mountain road. Have a look through Giroud’s personal belongings. He has an apartment above the garage, behind the Auberge. I suspect you’ll find letters there from Annie Deffous.”
“What can I say, M’sieur Inspecteur? Express my gratitude…”
“Not a word. Move fast and you may catch Giroud before he harms himself.”
“There’s a phone upstairs.” Hesitating as Damiot started the Peugeot. “You’ll be staying in Courville a while longer?”
“I’ve made no plans. Let me know when you find Giroud.” Making a sharp turn and starting down the drive. “Bonne chance.”
It was raining again.
As he passed between the shattered entrance gates and turned left toward the village, he wondered what he should do about Aurore.
Have to explain all this. Prepare her for the shocking news about Giroud… That would be a disagreeable job, but better than having her learn from Bardou when he came to search through Giroud’s apartment.
Aurore would never know he had been the one who discovered that Giroud was the murderer. Or would she guess?
Perhaps she would come to his room tonight, when he returned to the Auberge. That might be a good time to explain things…
Fric-Frac was snoring. “Lucky dog!”
She was his dog! Coming back to Paris with him…
Should he drive down to Cannes first? Introduce Fric-Frac to his wife? Talk with Sophie and make decisions?
Why bother! It would be impossible to discuss anything quietly and intelligently, with her mother listening to every word. And the old lady hated all dogs!
His attention was caught by a flash of living color as the car rounded a curve and its headlights swept across a row of young trees. New leaves, glossy from the rain, quivering like small green flames.
Spring should come to Provence in another few weeks, or even days…
And he probably wouldn’t be here!
The villagers would not be sleeping tonight, knowing that someone among them had killed the Comte. Would they come forward tomorrow and tell Bardou his name? Not likely! They would stick together against all outsiders, and Bardou was from Arles…
Might be weeks before that bullet taken from the Comte’s body could be traced to the right gun…
Had Marc Sibilat brought a gun with him tonight? His mother would probably have thrust it into his hand as he left for the Chateau…
Rumors of a monster—started by a murderer—had become a threatening reality to the villagers.