The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(8)

“Madame la Duchesse?” He smiled at the growling dog. She was completely black, except for a moustache streaked with gold.

“Julien found her one morning, sleeping in our garden. She had crawled there from the road, half-starved and filthy. He carried her into the kitchen and cooked breakfast for her. After she ate he stooped to pet her and she kissed his hand with the tip of her tongue. Thanking him. And Julien announced that she would remain as a permanent guest.”

“What breed is she?”

“The vétérinaire in Arles suspects she must be part poodle and part Scottie. Probably about five years old now. He thought some tourists had lost her or thrown her out from their car.”

“How could anyone do that to a dog?”

“People are cruel, Monsieur.” She scratched the dog’s head as she talked. “Fric-Frac’s an affectionate little thing. She adored my husband and grieved for him when he died. It was more than a year before she gave any affection to me.”

“Your husband died recently?”

“Almost two years ago… Please! Help yourself to more Calvados.”

The dog sniffed at the rim of her glass.

“Non, chérie! You do not like Calvados. She adores white wine if you give her a few drops from your fingers.”

“You and your husband created a fine restaurant here.”

“Everything’s exactly as Julien planned.” She set the dog on the floor. “I was ready to give up after his death, until I found our present chef.”

“Your chef is excellent.”

“I am so fortunate! Michel was working at a restaurant in Marseille—not too happily—and driving through Provence on vacation. By some miracle he stopped here for dinner and, quite properly, complained about our food. I explained that I had recently fired my chef and was doing the cooking myself. Michel never returned to Marseille.” She set her glass on the table and raised both hands in a gesture of surprise. “Monsieur! Observe what Fric-Frac is doing. I’m afraid she wants to be picked up.”

He looked down and saw the dog seated at his feet, her paws stroking the air. Damiot put his glass down and the dog jumped into his arms. Wiggling and squealing her pleasure.

“You have been accepted, Monsieur. She has not done this with anyone. Not since my husband…” Her voice trailed away.

“I am honored.” He settled the dog on his lap.

“I must say good night, Monsieur.” She got to her feet. “We have a busy day tomorrow. Friday starts our weekend…”

He set the dog on the floor and stood up, grimacing as his hip protested.

“Your hip is bothering you?”

“It is nothing.”

“Come, Fric-Frac!” She led the dog toward the foyer. “Time for bed.”

Damiot followed, conscious of his limp.

“Let me know if there’s anything you require for your comfort. I hope this weather clears and you get your sunshine.”

“I trust so, Madame. Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir. Claude will bring your breakfast at nine.”

“Bonsoir, Fric-Frac!” He turned down the corridor toward his room as Madame went behind the reception desk, followed by the dog.

An extremely beautiful woman! Probably in her early thirties.

“Here you are!” It was a man’s voice.

Damiot slowed his steps from long habit, head slightly turned, listening.

“Thought you’d gone up to bed, chérie.” The man’s voice again.

“Soon as I get the cash-box…” Madame Bouchard’s voice.

She must be talking to the chef. He calls her chérie?

“You think something will happen tonight?” she asked.

“There’ll be no murder in this weather.” He laughed. “The monster doesn’t care to get his feet wet.”

“Such nonsense!”

Damiot was scowling as he continued down the corridor. No murder tonight?

He wanted no part of any murders. Or monsters…





CHAPTER 4


Damiot opened his eyes reluctantly, reacting to a red glow that had seeped through his eyelids and wakened him.

Unfamiliar room? Brilliant diagonal bar of light…

Had he left a lamp turned on?

“Mon Dieu! It’s the sun.”

He pushed himself to a sitting position, in spite of a twinge of pain through his hip, and saw that the bar of light was an opening between two window curtains. When he had pulled them across the windows last night, they hadn’t closed.

There was a thin strip of blue sky and, lower down, something green that seemed to be alive and quivering.

Slipping cautiously out of bed to favor his hip, he limped across the cold floor to the windows. Grasped the curtains with both hands and flung them apart.

The sudden glare of sunlight made him blink. Then he saw that the sky was indeed a brilliant blue. Not a cloud! And the quivering green was a tree branch covered with young leaves.

He padded back to the bedside table and snatched up his wrist-watch. Not yet seven? Eh bien! Run a hot tub and relax in that for half an hour. Then back to bed and wait for breakfast.

He hadn’t slept so well in months! Must have been that second Calvados with Madame Bouchard…