It had been wise to leave Paris. Get away from his problems…
Sophie had her mother, and Olympe should have no problems in Mexico. Not with her Bruno in attendance. Another month, of course, and she would start worrying about her career. That’s when the accusations and recriminations would start.
Chère Olympe! Give her six months, at most, and she would come flying back. Full of new plans…
What was he going to do about Sophie? Drive down to Cannes next week? Try and persuade her to return to Paris with him? Sit in that spotless white salon and argue while her mother scowled and sighed. Did he want to repeat that ridiculous scene?
Lucky he and Sophie had never produced any children. “Your murderers are your children!” She had told him during one of their arguments. “You never wanted any others!”
Maybe she was right…
“Monsieur Damiot?”
He looked up to see Madame Bouchard again. “Madame?”
“I did not intend to be rude, a moment ago…”
“Not at all!” He set his nearly empty glass on the table and pushed himself to his feet.
“Do not disturb yourself. I have finished my chores for the night and can now accept your invitation.” She sank into another fauteuil, facing him. “Jean-Paul will bring more Calvados.”
“Splendid!” Damiot lowered himself carefully onto his armchair. He was aware of her perfume, subtle and delicate.
“I understand that Monsieur is recovering from an accident.”
“Yes.” Better not say that he had been shot, or an explanation would be expected. “It was necessary to have surgery on my hip. My doctor advised me to rest, and I’ve come to Provence hoping to find the sun.”
“There was much rain this winter, but soon now it will be spring and we’ll have plenty of sun.” She looked around as the waiter appeared with a bottle of Calvados and two glasses on a tray. “Merci, Jean-Paul.”
Damiot tossed off what remained of his first drink as Madame filled the fresh glasses. “A vôtre santé, Madame.”
“To your complete recovery from that accident.”
“Merci!” He watched her sip the brandy. A serenely beautiful face, but her brown eyes seemed suffused with melancholy. Probably not yet recovered from the death of her husband. “I’ve not tasted Calvados like this in years!”
“My husband found this one. It was his favorite.”
“I must compliment you, Madame. The changes you’ve made here.”
“Changes?” She looked at him more closely, her interest aroused. “Then you’ve been in Courville before?”
“Some years ago. The restaurant was much smaller then and this lounge didn’t exist.”
“Julien and I added an entire wing. When we discovered this property it had been empty for many years, but we were told that at one time there had been a small restaurant here.”
“Only half a dozen tables. And one guest room upstairs…” There was a sudden explosion of barking as a small black dog raced across the foyer and into the lounge. Jumped into Madame Bouchard’s lap, licked her hand, then faced the stranger and growled.
“Non, Fric-Frac! C’est méchant!” Madame laughed. “She protects me from all strangers. Never bites anyone—at least not yet—but her growl is ferocious.”
“Fric-Frac? In the argot of Pigalle that means a caper—a bank robbery or some other planned criminal act.”
“My husband named her. He had heard the word in a gangster film. She was Julien’s dog…” Her fingers stroked the curly head. “He said the name suited her because she always capers when she’s happy. Which is most of the time! He also called her Madame la Duchesse.”
“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? Brillia
nt 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…
* * * *
Damiot slowed the Peugeot to a crawl as he recognized a section of road he had walked hundreds of times in the past. Farther on there would be an old stone bridge across a small river where he used to fish.
He glanced at the dog beside him, seated on her haunches, muzzle thrust out through the open window. She had scampered into his room as Claude entered, and jumped onto the bed. Damiot had fed her bits of orange-flavored bread spread with lavender honey as he enjoyed his breakfast.
She had remained on the bed, watching him while he shaved and dressed, and followed him to the foyer, where he found Madame Bouchard.
“Bonjour, Monsieur! Did you sleep?”
“Without a dream. I feel completely rested this morning.”
“I’m so glad.” She glanced down at the dog. “Fric-Frac isn’t being a nuisance?”
“Certainly not. In fact, I was wondering if I might take her with me this morning for a drive in the foothills?”
“You’ll be doing my staff a favor. She gets underfoot when they’re busy in the kitchen. And she adores riding in a car.” Smiling as she ripped the page from her pad. “Will you return in time for dinner?”
“Long before that, I should think.”
“Then I’ll reserve your same table.”
He saw that she was wearing a pullover sweater the color of spring violets, well-fitting gray slacks, and elegant black boots.
“Friday mornings I take the station wagon and drive from farm to farm picking up fresh meat and vegetables. Enjoy the sun, Monsieur…”
And he was enjoying the sun. First sun he had seen in weeks! It was spreading a golden haze across the orchards that provided the apples for Calvados, extending beyond the low stone walls lining the highway.
The farmhouses were old but appeared to be in good condition. Provencal farmers always kept everything in working order.
Fields and vineyards teemed with activity. Women in straw hats working among the grapevines. Smoke rising from bonfires of twisted roots. Farmhands in one recently tilled field, planting seeds. He could smell the rich earth, damp from the rains.
Groves of silver-gray olive trees trimmed on top, not as in some other provinces. Villages perched like toy houses on distant hills, their stone walls pink in the hot sunshine. Almond trees on the higher slopes and a row of dark cypresses like sentries, black against the intense blue sky.
A flock of ravens, disturbed by his car, shot up from a field with a clatter of sound, cawing and flapping their purple-black wings.
Passing a hedge of hawthorn, he was startled when a small boy straightened to stare at him. Probably crouched there searching among the roots for snails. He had done that many times, along this same road.
When Damiot reached the old stone bridge, he stopped the Peugeot and got out. The dog ran down to the edge of the bank and dipped her muzzle into the water.
He had fished here many times, another small dog beside him, although he didn’t recall ever catching any fish. Had sat on this same bank for hours, dreaming in the summer sun…
What did he dream about in those days? He had no idea.
As he continued along the curved road, higher and higher, he realized that he was approaching the Château de Mohrt. For centuries the ancient castle had belonged to the de Mohrt family, but he and his young friends always called it Château Mort. Castle Death!
That was what the villagers, long ago, had named the place. Which gave the great estate a special fascination…
He and his pals climbed over the high wrought-iron fence to steal berries every spring and walnuts in the winter. There were plenty of both closer to the village, but they were supposed to taste better if they came from the dark forest surrounding the castle. Sweeter berries and larger walnuts! Many times when they got inside the grounds they had been chased away by a game-keeper with a pack of fierce dogs. Huge gray beasts that came crashing and snarling through the underbrush…
Damiot realized that he was passing a high stone wall he had never seen before. They had replaced the old wrought-iron fence with a wall!
In the past you could see the front of the castle from here, beyond a sloping green lawn where sheep grazed. He had driven by several times with Blanche Carmet, and always slowed his car to stare through the trees at the distant Château.
It was rumored that the de Mohrt family had died out or, if any members survived, that they were living elsewhere. The only tenant was said to be a caretaker. Some of the locals claimed that the castle was haunted. Lights had been glimpsed late at night through windows in the upper floors…
He slowed the Peugeot as he approached the entrance and saw the same tall wrought-iron gates that had always been there. Although not as high as he had thought when he was a boy. How the size of things diminished as you grew older.
The gates were closed, padlocked on the inside.
Damiot stopped his car and leaned across to the open window, pressing against the dog, to look between the elaborate grilles.
A broad drive lined with poplars led up to the lower edge of an open courtyard from which, in a glare of sunlight, rose the impressive stone bulk of the Château de Mohrt.
It was this cobbled courtyard that had given the name of Courville to the village. The first houses, and an inn, were built centuries ago, at the place where two highways crossed. People were said to have traveled great distances to attend the famous trials held in the courtyard of the castle.
He stroked the dog’s head, feeling the delicate bones of her skull, as he studied the distant Château through the locked gates.
The enormous mansion appeared to be unchanged. But from here he could only see the western wing and a corner of the central part of the castle. Through the open space in between he glimpsed far-off hills at the rear. Ivy climbed the stone walls like rising smoke, winding around the balustraded upper terrace and spreading upward around the small tourelles to one of the massive high towers with its slits of windows. The other towers and the main entrance, under its pillared arch in the center, were no longer visible because of that new wall.
Suddenly the sound of pounding hoofs made him turn and peer through the windshield. He saw a small figure on a black horse, racing toward him. Probably some farm boy. The rider would notice him sitting here and think he was a tourist, gawking at the famous Château.
The dog began to growl.
“No, Fric-Frac.” He reached out and patted her. “It’s all right.”
As the horse thudded closer, he realized that the rider was a girl. Long blond hair flying. Wearing a man’s sport shirt, riding breeches, and boots. Sitting the horse like a professional.
It was that girl he had seen yesterday in the village. She glanced at him as the horse galloped past, their eyes meeting briefly. The dog barked and t
ried to scramble across his knees.
“Stay where you are.” He lifted her back to the window, where she settled down after one final growl.
The great Château seemed to float in a haze of sunlight above the open courtyard. Perhaps, while he was here, he could do some research on the castle’s history. There must be documents at the town hall. That would give him something to do for a few hours…
He saw that the grass edging the entrance drive had not been trimmed in a long time. Heavy coils of ivy hid the stone columns on either side of the gates. Barely possible to make out the carved gargoyle heads that glared down from the top of each gatepost. They were supposed to be the faces of de Mohrt ancestors…
Fric-Frac sat up again, her head thrust out through the open window, and began to growl.
A sharp crack of sound came from beyond the wall. A branch snapping under the weight of an animal? Wild boar or deer…
He had a momentary feeling that he was being watched.
Damiot drove on, following the high wall to the west boundary of the estate, then passed through a wooded area where ancient oak trees joined their branches in an overhead arch. No other cars in sight and the only sounds were muted bird voices from the forest.
This country air was giving him an appetite. In Paris he seldom had more than a sandwich with a glass of wine, but today he would treat himself to a real lunch.
He wondered where that blond girl could have been going on her black horse? Either in a hurry to get somewhere or anxious to escape from something. Or someone…
He drove past more vineyards and farms.
Heads turned, eyes following his car, but no arm was raised in greeting. These country people were never friendly with strangers.
He slowed down as he approached another farm. The old stone house, to his surprise, had recently been roofed and painted. A flower garden extended around both sides to vegetable gardens at the rear, with stables beyond. There was a long lane, lined with beech trees, where one car was parked. It was the gray Citroën that blonde had driven yesterday. So this was where she lived!
The Provence Puzzle Page 3