“This will be satisfactory, M’sieur?”
“More than satisfactory. I may stay longer than a week.” He continued to inspect the room as the youth set one bag on a bench at the foot of the bed, then brought a collapsible luggage rack from a cupboard and set it up for the other suitcase. Watched as he turned on lights in a bath, tiled in green and white, with a large tub—he was delighted to see—as well as a modern shower. He dropped a generous tip into the youth’s hand.
“Plaisir, M’sieur Damiot.”
“You know my name?”
“Saw it when you signed the guest book. I can read upside down.” He grinned. “You are in Courville to look at property, perhaps? For the new hotel?”
“I’m here for a vacation.”
“La patronne, Madame Bouchard, will see you at dinner.” He started toward the door. “Madame will wish to welcome you.”
“She is the owner?”
The garçon turned at the door. “Madame and her husband opened the Auberge four years ago. Unfortunately, M’sieur Julien died in a skiing accident. He and Madame had gone to Mégève for their winter holiday. Service, M’sieur…” He departed, closing the door.
Damiot limped across to the bed and pressed his hand on it, testing the mattress. Firm but not too hard, unlike that pallet of rocks at the hospital that they had assured him was good for his spine.
Walking to the windows, he looked down into a garden flooded with rain. Gravel paths ran between neat flower beds. Nothing in bloom, but everything was green. In the old days this too had been part of his vegetable garden…
Madame Bouchard and her husband had created an attractive place here. Pity the husband had died. Madame would be running everything. Middle-aged, plump, and wearing black…
* * * *
At the café on the southwest corner of rue Woodrow Wilson, facing the square, he had a steaming bowl of petite marmite du pécheur and then, still hungry, ordered a ham sandwich with a glass of beer.
This was the oldest of Courville’s two cafés, but he didn’t recognize any of the men drinking pastis and playing billiards. He was aware, as he ate, that they were watching him, although they were careful not to stare directly at his table. All of them wore faded work clothes and berets, old and soft, flat as crepes on their heads.
His sandwich was excellent, fresh bread with a decent slice of pink ham, the beer exactly as he liked it, not too cold. In Paris these days, beer was served so cold it had no taste. That was how the American tourists wanted it. And the ham in most Parisian cafés was sliced too thin, with absolutely no flavor.
It was good to get away from Paris. He would be able to put all problems, professional and personal, out of his mind. Sophie and Olympe! And those two cases he had been working on before he went into the hospital. Let his assistant, Graudin, lose sleep over them…
He wondered whether Olympe had reached her destination. She hadn’t mentioned, when she surprised him with a phone call at the hospital, whether she was going to Mexico by ship or plane, and he had asked no questions. Delicious Olympe! Her golden beauty should be a tremendous success in Mexico City…
Then, two days later, Sophie had sat on that white plastic chair like a stranger, telling him that their marriage was finished and she was leaving for Cannes to stay with her mother. He had asked her to wait, at least until he was out of the hospital, but she had whispered her accusations, eyes on the corridor door. “You think more of your murderers than you do of me!” Then she had started to sob, quietly, as she accused him of having a mistress. Thank God she didn’t know that for a fact!
He had lost his temper and shouted at her until she hurried out of the room. Should have sent one of the nurses running after her but he didn’t, convinced that her threat to leave would be forgotten. When he phoned the apartment next morning, there had been no answer.
His wife and his mistress! Both gone…
Olympe had informed him on the phone that she had fallen in love. His name was Bruno and she was going to Mexico City with him. They must have met before he went into that damn hospital…
A battered gray Citroën, its left rear fender crumpled and rusty, was parking near the fountain.
The rain wasn’t so heavy now, but what he could see of the square through the drizzle was depressing. The terra-cotta tiles on the roofs of the low buildings were rose-colored in this dull light.
A young man got out of the Citroën, wearing an old waterproof over dungarees and opening a green silk umbrella. It was a girl! Once the umbrella was raised, she pulled off the cap covering her hair and shook it free—straight blond hair that fell below her shoulders. An attractive face that somehow didn’t look French. Probably American…
His hip continued to pain. Eventually, he had been told, it would give him no trouble—except in damp weather…
His doctor had been delighted at the idea of his coming to Provence but had warned him not to climb hills or attempt anything that might result in a fall. Better to stay on level ground when he did any walking. Get plenty of rest at night and take a nap every afternoon. Above all, he must keep his hip warm at all times. Soak in hot tubs…
He eased the hip, changing his position on the hard cafe chair, and felt an instant wave of fresh pain.
“Another beer, M’sieur?”
Damiot looked up to face the beefy, thick-necked type from behind the zinc. “Yes, I will.” As the man returned to the bar, Damiot saw that the others were still watching him. The locals were always curious about strangers. He wondered if his father had known these three. Probably not. They looked much younger than his father. In their fifties…
His father would be eighty-four if he were alive!
Must remember to send the address of the Auberge Courville to his office at the Sûreté. That’s if he decided to remain longer than a week…
He had phoned yesterday afternoon and told the Chief he was coming to Provence for a few weeks. The old man had urged him to take as long as he needed. Two months, if necessary.
Nobody in Paris knew where he was at the moment, and that’s how he would keep it for now. Maybe phone Graudin on Sunday…
Damiot looked up as his beer was set on the table.
“M’sieur is a stranger in Courville?”
“I’m staying at the Auberge for a few days.”
“They say the food’s first-rate there.”
“Nothing wrong with this ham of yours.”
“My wife buys hams from a local farmer. Cooks them herself. Better than you get from Mauron, down the street.”
“Mauron?”
“Hercule Mauron. Owns the charcuterie…”
“Hercule Mauron!”
“The only charcuterie in Courville. He’s also the mayor.”
“Was his father a butcher?”
“That’s the one! The old man’s been dead for years.” He leaned closer. “M’sieur has come to Courville about the hotel?”
“What hotel?”
“The one they’re supposed to build next year. Some say in the hills but others think it will be here in the village.”
“I’m in Provence for a vacation, not business. Who’s building this new hotel?”
“Some rich men from Paris. They’ve looked at many properties. Their hotel will be twenty stories high! With a big swimming pool and fancy restaurant.”
“You want such a hotel here?”
He shrugged. “It would be good for business. Give jobs to our young people, keep them from running off to the cities. There are many, of course, who are opposed to the idea. Mostly the old ones. They say it will bring too many outsiders and ruin the village.”
“I agree. People don’t come to Provence to stay in fancy hotels. Enough of those in Cannes or Nice.” He looked up at the man’s flushed face and realized that the type was much younger than he had thought. Shrewd eyes
and a hard mouth. “Have yourself a drink and put it on my bill.”
“Merci, M’sieur.” He headed back to the zinc.
So Hercule Mauron was mayor now!
He remembered him from school, a pig-faced fat boy whose father was the village butcher. Hercule had bullied all the smaller boys. Until one day Damiot had tricked Hercule into chasing him into the pissoir.
Damiot smiled, staring through the rain at the ancient pissoir, as he recalled that sunny morning…
He had run inside and around the edge, close to the walls, where the stone floor was always dry. Hercule had slipped in the slime and fallen on his face. When he came outside, a stinking mess, the other boys had laughed at him, and Hercule never bullied anyone after that.
Hercule Mauron! Mayor of Courville? Incroyable…
The mayor’s office would be in the town hall across the square, a dark gray blur behind shifting veils of rain.
He had never been inside the old building. As a kid he had always avoided the police. When he left Courville to seek his fortune in Paris, he had no idea that one day he might become a detective.
CHAPTER 3
Damiot paused just past the white-columned entrance, inspecting the restaurant. Only half a dozen tables were occupied.
The slim wooden columns, a pair on either side, were new.
“Monsieur Damiot?”
He turned to face a woman who had risen from a cashier’s desk beyond the left pair of columns.
“I am Madame Bouchard. Unfortunately, Monsieur, I was out doing errands when you arrived. Your room, I trust, is satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory.”
“Claude tells me you wish to have quiet, and that is our most secluded room. I’ve reserved a table for you.”
“Merci, Madame.” She was neither middle-aged nor plump and she wasn’t wearing black. As he followed her graceful figure through the dining room, he was aware of fresh flowers and lighted candles oil each table. Two waiters moving among the tables, and one darting garçon. For a moment he didn’t recognize Claude, in a black suit, long white apron tied around his waist. Then the youth saw him and grinned.
“You will also have complete privacy here.” Madame Bouchard indicated a table set for one, partially hidden behind a low partition topped with green plants in white pots.
“Excellent, Madame.” He eased his hip down onto a comfortable armchair with a petit point seat, his back to the wall.
“The chef assures me that the woodcock is unusually good tonight. Bon appetit, Monsieur.”
He watched as she went back toward her desk, pausing at several tables en route. From a distance he could get a better impression.
An attractive woman. Wearing a smart gown she had surely bought in Paris. Made of some soft, dark green material that clung to her body as she walked. Copper-colored hair, brushed away from her face and arranged in a heavy knot at the back.
Damiot looked up to find a young waiter at his side.
“I am Jean-Paul. Would you care for an apéritif, M’sieur?”
“A dry vermouth.”
The waiter bowed and hurried away.
There was a diffused glow of light from the candles on the tables and the candelabra on the walls. The effect was handsome against the wallpaper, which was a rich mustard color with cream stripes. More green plants in white pots, hanging from the ceiling and set on low pedestals. Curtains at the windows, patterned with white flowers against a yellow background. And all the chairs had petit point seats…
Two people were seated at another table shielded by potted plants, across the room. It was the blonde he had noticed earlier in the square, dressed attractively, her hair neatly arranged now, dining with an older man. Her companion had a thick crest of silver hair and a striking face, deeply tanned, with prominent jaw, twisted nose, and shrewd eyes. Was he the girl’s father or her lover? Could be either, from the possessive way he looked at her as they ate their dinner.
The waiter served his vermouth with an order of tapenade and placed a menu within easy reach. “I can recommend the woodcock, M’sieur.”
“Merci, Jean-Paul.” He picked up his apéritif, realizing that he hadn’t felt so relaxed in months.
When he had returned to the Auberge after lunch, he’d left his car in the parking lot and had sensed someone observing him from the kitchen windows as he limped through the rain around to the front. The lobby had been silent, the registration desk unattended.
His room was warm and inviting, lamps lighted, bed turned down. Somebody had closed all the curtains and started a fragrant fire of olive logs in the fireplace.
He had soaked himself in a hot tub until the pain in his hip subsided to a bearable ache. Put on fresh pajamas and eased into bed.
Oblivion came quickly. No dreams about Valzo or his gang! Nothing to make him twist in bed and start his hip throbbing…
“M’sieur has decided?” The waiter hovered beside him.
Damiot glanced at the list of hors d’oeuvres again. “I think, to start, the thrush pate. No soup. Then, perhaps, the grilled lamb…”
Dinner was a miracle of many perfections.
As he ate, he studied his fellow diners, mostly married couples, some with teenage children. The men appeared to be businessmen; their wives were expensively dressed. All of them seemed to know Madame Bouchard who, from time to time, made a discreet inspection tour of all the tables. He was the only person dining alone.
After his lamb was served, he saw the chef come through the swinging doors from the kitchen in white-aproned uniform, starched toque blanche perched on his curly black hair, visiting each table, bowing to the men and kissing the ladies’ hands. Young, and surprisingly, for a chef de cuisine, not an ounce overweight.
“How is the lamb?”
He looked up to face Madame Bouchard again. “Excellent! You have a first-class chef.”
“I’m delighted that you think so. Pardon, Monsieur…” She moved on toward a table where a family of four was studying the elaborate display of pastries their waiter was offering from a chromium cart.
Damiot remembered his mother, an apron over her plain cotton dress, taking orders and moving among the tables. Arguing with some of the diners, most of them old friends, but always smiling…
The chef bowed on his way back to the kitchen, and Damiot nodded.
As he ate, his thoughts returned to his last dinner with Olympe. More than four weeks ago! The night before he was shot, they had gone to Drouant for supper. As usual, she had been full of plans. Someone wanted her to join a new opera company for a tour of the provinces. That must have fallen through—like so many of her other projects—or she wouldn’t have gone off to Mexico. He had been more disturbed by her sudden departure than about his wife going to Cannes…
Sophie would come back. All he had to do was phone her in Cannes and apologize.
Not this time!
Yet he loved Sophie in a way he had never loved any other woman. In fact, he hadn’t looked at another woman seriously, after his marriage. Not until Olympe…
Damiot finished the last of his wine with one of the small Banons, a local goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, which he could seldom find in Paris.
“Coffee, M’sieur?” the waiter asked.
“Black, please.”
“Since M’sieur is a guest, he might prefer to have his coffee served in the lounge.”
“That sounds fine.”
He sank into a comfortable fauteuil upholstered in deep yellow, near the blazing fireplace in the lounge, aware that his hip had barely twinged in the last hour. That Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had enjoyed with dinner was better than any medicine.
“Your coffee, M’sieur…”
“Ah, Claude!” He watched the garçon set a coffee tray on a low table. “Was it you lighted a fire in my room?”
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p; “Thought it would be warmer for M’sieur when he returned from the village.” Pouring the steaming coffee as he talked. “Service, M’sieur.” He bowed and scurried away.
Sipping the scalding coffee, Damiot observed the last of the diners crossing the foyer toward the entrance.
He was aware that Madame Bouchard had left the dining room and, after pausing at the registration desk, was coming into the lounge.
“Would you like me to switch on the television, Monsieur?”
“I rarely watch television.”
“Nor I. But it is here for our guests. More coffee?”
“Thank you, no. I wonder… Could I have a Calvados?”
“Certainly.”
“Would you join me?”
“That’s very kind, but I must complete my duties for the night.” She smiled and turned back toward the restaurant.
Damiot finished his coffee before Claude returned, almost running.
“Your Calvados, M’sieur.” He set the glass of brandy down. “Will there be anything more?”
“Not until morning. Is it possible for me to have breakfast in my room? I intend to sleep late. Perhaps nine o’clock?”
“Of course, M’sieur. Nine o’clock. Sleep well, M’sieur.”
“Good night, Claude.” He watched the skinny boy hurry toward the dining room with the tray. When he was that age, he too had always hurried.
Damiot cradled his glass in both hands, warming the apple brandy. Sleep until nine? Why not! He had nothing planned for tomorrow or, for that matter, all of next week. Certainly he would stay here at least that long. His room was comfortable and dinner had been better than any meal he had eaten in Paris for months…
Tomorrow he would drive through the countryside and up into the foothills. Explore some of the places he had known as a boy… He relaxed, staring at the flaming logs, feeling their warmth on his face as the Calvados warmed his body. No pain in his hip tonight!
The Provence Puzzle Page 2