The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  Damiot drove on into the foothills, through rocky canyons that led up to shallow plateaus. Olive trees clung to the steep hillsides with desperate roots.

  After driving for another hour, he checked a map and took a different route back toward Courville. The road descended gradually, and he glimpsed deep gorges and rock-tossed streams. One brief view of a river, probably the Rhône, snaking through a city that he didn’t recognize from this distance. Could it be Arles?

  Several kilometers farther on, he passed a pleasant country inn with a small dining terrace at the side. Swerving off the road, he turned and came back. Slowed as he read a sign—La Terrasse—before he drove into the empty parking lot. Careful to leave his car under a tree, windows open, so that Fric-Frac would get air.

  He followed a path to the dining area. All the tables, under yellow parasols, were empty, but a fat pigeon in a patch of sunlight was searching for crumbs on the stone terrace.

  “M’sieur?”

  Damiot turned as a swarthy waiter in shirtsleeves came from inside. “Are you serving lunch?”

  “But certainly!” He led the way between the tables as he talked. “Yesterday, in the rain, there was nobody, but with this sunshine we should get several people today.”

  Damiot eased into a chair that the waiter pulled out and flicked with a napkin. “I drove past, but your terrace looked so inviting I came back. Such peace and quiet can’t be found in Paris restaurants.”

  “At the moment we have too much quiet. Another month and we’ll get a flood of tourists. The quiet will depart, of course, but business will improve. An apéritif, M’sieur?”

  “A vin blanc cassis. What do you suggest for lunch?”

  “The chef has prepared wild quail today. With a special stuffing.”

  “I’ll have that.”

  The waiter bowed and went inside.

  Damiot realized that he was smiling in anticipation. He hadn’t tasted wild quail in years.

  His table was near a low brick wall enclosing a flower garden whose rosebushes were a solid mass of green leaves. Another month and they should be covered with buds.

  And, faintly, he heard the true sound of Provence. Les cigales! There seemed to be only a few of them, close at hand, probably hatched by the morning sun.

  A shy-eyed garçon spread a checked cloth over the table and then, swift as a magician, produced napkin and silver.

  “M’sieur…” The waiter set his apéritif in front of him.

  “Merci. And what do you suggest for a start?”

  “Perhaps the snail fritters…”

  “Bien! With half a carafe of Tavel?”

  “Certainly… M’sieur is in Provence on business?”

  “I’m here for a holiday. Staying at the Auberge Courville.”

  “Courville! Have they caught that monster yet?”

  “Monster?”

  “It was in one of the local papers. Another Courville murder! A young girl, like the first…”

  “Why do you call the murderer a monster?”

  “That’s what the newspaper called him. The Courville Monster!” He shrugged. “All murders are brutal, but this man’s a real beast. Pardon, M’sieur.” He bowed and disappeared inside again.

  Another young girl murdered? And they were calling the killer “the Courville monster”…

  Certainly all murderers were not monsters. Some of the most interesting people he had known were murderers. Fascinating people! Gentle and pathetic people…

  A monster loose in Courville? Mustn’t think about that…“M’sieur?” The waiter again. “Is this your dog?”

  Damiot looked down to see Fric-Frac dancing on her hind legs, tail wagging frantically. “I left her in the car but the windows were open. Would it be all right if she sits here beside me?”

  “Of course, M’sieur. Le patron has two dogs of his own.” Damiot stroked the small black head and watched Fric-Frac settle down beneath his chair, revolving several times as though she were making a nest.

  The fritters were excellent, rolled around succulent snails. The garçon removed his empty plate, and the waiter brought a steaming casserole containing two plump quail in a dark sauce, with baby carrots and small white onions.

  Damiot sniffed the appetizing aroma rising from the stuffing.

  He detected herbs, tomatoes, mushrooms and sweet peppers, and a trace of Calvados.

  As Damiot ate, he slipped bits of quail to the dog.

  His hip was paining again, even while he sat absolutely still. The metal pin they had inserted must be adjusting to his first real exercise. All that therapy at the hospital had been easy—walking on moving belts, clutching handrails, and arriving nowhere—compared to his activity yesterday and today.

  That night in Montmartre, he had been foolish to go into Valzo’s warehouse alone. Once again he had taken an unnecessary risk. He should have waited until others arrived to back him up. But that had never been his way…

  Valzo was dead, killed when he crashed his motorcycle escaping from the warehouse. Borell had heard the shots and was waiting in the police car when Valzo came out.

  The informer who tricked Damiot into searching that warehouse had been arrested, and the pimp, Chulot, had spilled everything about the murder of the Laurent woman.

  “How’s the quail, M’sieur?”

  Damiot looked up to see the waiter again. “Just as I remembered! I’ve come home.”

  “M’sieur is from Provence?”

  “I was born in Courville.”

  “Welcome home, M’sieur!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Damiot relaxed in the empty lounge, near the fireplace, drinking a second cup of black coffee as he watched the last of the evening’s dinner guests departing through the foyer.

  Fewer people tonight, because of the rain that had begun late in the afternoon.

  “We are closing early.”

  “Madame Bouchard!” He pushed himself to his feet as she came toward him, carrying a tapestry workbag in one hand. “Won’t you have a drink with me?”

  “I’ve told Jean-Paul to bring the Calvados.” She smiled as she sank into another armchair, resting her workbag on the tiled floor.

  Damiot resumed his seat, facing her. Noticing the reflection of the fire on her copper hair, and the beige gown he had admired earlier in the restaurant. A single strand of pearls around her throat. “Dinner was excellent again. Especially that saddle of hare!”

  “I will tell Michel. He thrives on compliments, like every chef, and he heard none tonight because he didn’t leave his kitchen.” She reached down to lift some needlework from the tapestry bag. “Usually, when it rains, we have at least a dozen for dinner. Tonight there were only seven.”

  “But of course you make up for this in the summer months.”

  “We turn people away every night. Actually, I don’t mind this off season. No tourists arriving in a rush, wanting to be fed in a hurry! Only our regulars and an occasional stray.”

  “Like me?”

  “Like you, Monsieur…” She smiled as she rested the needlework on her lap. “You won’t mind my working as we talk?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It relaxes me at the end of the day. During these slow months I’m always making more seat covers for our dining-room chairs. I can’t do that in the summer.”

  He saw that she was stitching needlepoint on an oval frame. “Very handsome!”

  “I do think they give the restaurant more character. We planned them, Julien and I, from the start. We wanted everything to be simple but quite individual.” She looked up as Jean-Paul brought a tray with a bottle of Calvados and glasses. “Put that near Monsieur Damiot so he can refill his glass without inconveniencing himself. And you can pour us both a drink.”

  “Plaisir, Madame.” Jean-Paul rested his tray on the cof
fee table, within reach of Damiot.

  Fric-Frac, bounding with excitement, ran toward Madame Bouchard, yelping with pleasure as she pawed at her owner’s skirt. Then she came straight to Damiot and jumped into his lap.

  “Non, Fric-Frac!” Madame protested. “Naughty girl!”

  “That’s all right.” Damiot stroked the curly black head. “She’s welcome to stay.”

  The dog gave his hand a rapid lick with her pink tongue.

  “Did she behave today while you were out?”

  “She was a little lady.”

  “Sometimes she can be a large nuisance.” Setting her needlepoint aside and accepting a glass of Calvados from the waiter. “Merci, Jean-Paul.”

  “Service, Madame.”

  Damiot raised his glass as the waiter departed. “A vôtre santé, Madame!”

  “Vôtre santé…” She made a small gesture with her glass before sipping the brandy.

  “Someone lighted a fire in my room this afternoon while I was out. Left a bowl of lilac…”

  “Claude made the fire and I brought fresh flowers back when I returned from shopping. The first lilacs are so beautiful! I get all my flowers from Sibilat Fleurs in the village. Marc Sibilat is the best florist this side of Nice.” Her needle flashed in and out as she talked. “Marc bought the shop two years ago, when the former owner retired.”

  Damiot made a mental note to visit Sibilat Fleurs tomorrow and buy some flowers for his parents’ graves.

  He watched her needle, with its thread of golden brown, moving back and forth. She was apparently a woman who was comfortable with silence. “Madame Bouchard… What can you tell me about the Château de Mohrt?”

  She looked up. “The Château?”

  “When I drove past there this morning, I noticed that the entrance gates were padlocked.”

  “They’re always locked. No one is permitted to enter the grounds.”

  “Does anyone live there? In the castle…”

  “I believe there’s a caretaker on the premises.” She dropped her eyes to the needlework again. “I’ve never been inside. Except for poachers, I don’t think anyone goes there.”

  Damiot saw that the dog, curled in his lap, was asleep. There were other questions he wished to ask. “I noticed a girl in the village yesterday and again last night, dining here with an older man. Blonde girl?”

  “That’s Jenny Tendrell. The man’s her father, Allan Tendrell. He’s an artist—British—and, I believe, rather famous.”

  “Attractive girl…”

  “They have a farm in the hills. Allan bought it, some years ago, and spent a fortune making the place comfortable. The night we opened this restaurant, they were our first customers. When Julien was alive we often dined chez Tendrell on the nights we were closed. They have an excellent cook.”

  “Then they live here all year?”

  “Oh, yes! They’re permanent residents. Although I fear the villagers have never really accepted Allan. They resent the fact that he brought his staff with him from Burgundy and hired none of the locals. Which, however, he had every right to do! They, including the cook, had worked on his other farm for years. Allan moved south for the warmer weather. He suffers from arthritis.”

  “Is there a Madame Tendrell?”

  “Not at the moment. Allan was divorced, years ago, and given custody of his daughter. I don’t know the circumstances involved… Today Jenny’s old enough to do as she pleases—which she most certainly does—but she continues to live with her father. They dine here at least once a week. Allan enjoys good food. Jenny, however, doesn’t care what she eats!”

  “You say Tendrell is an artist?”

  “His paintings are in many museums, but I’m afraid they don’t really appeal to me. I find most of them rather—unpleasant.” She hesitated, her eyes on the petit point. “I’ve been wondering, Monsieur, have you come here like the others—there’ve been several visitors recently—to look at property for the new hotel?”

  “Certainly not! Matter of fact, I don’t approve of these modern hotels springing up all over France.” He darted his next question at her. “Tell me, Madame, what is the Courville monster?”

  She faced him again. “How did you hear about that?”

  “A talkative waiter where I had lunch today.”

  “Most waiters talk too much! I thought you had come to Courville about the new hotel.”

  He sighed. “I am with the Police Judiciaire in Paris. Chief Inspector Damiot.”

  “So! You were sent to find the killer?”

  “I never heard of the Courville monster until today. I’ve come here to rest. As I told you, I’m recovering from surgery. When the hospital released me, my doctor suggested I get away from Paris and recuperate somewhere in the sun. That’s why I came to Provence. But tell me, why is he called the Courville monster?”

  “Because two people—two young women—have been brutally murdered. One girl from the village and another, a stranger, who has never been identified.”

  “How exactly did they die?”

  “Their throats were cut…”

  “And the murder weapons? Were they found?”

  “I believe not.”

  “Where were these young women killed?”

  “The first—the one who remains unknown—was found in a field surrounded by forest, across from the Château de Mohrt.”

  “I know that field.”

  “The second body, a local girl, was discovered in an alley directly behind the town hall. This, of course, has caused the villagers to make jokes about our local gendarmes.”

  “Naturally! Did you know this local girl?”

  “Not really.” She hesitated. “We would speak when we passed on the street or happened to meet in some shop. She was a femme de chambre at the Hôtel Courville. Everybody knew her.” Her needle continued darting. “These murders have caused a mood of fear and suspicion to infect the entire village. No young girl will venture out after dark. Many accuse our gendarmes of incompetence!”

  “That frequently happens. Even in Paris! I suppose both these young women were attractive?”

  “The local girl was extremely pretty. The other one I never saw.”

  “How old were they?”

  “Nineteen and twenty, according to the newspapers. The local girl was supposed to be nineteen, although I had thought she was somewhat older…”

  “Is there much talk about the identity of the murderer?”

  “Oh, yes! I see people, when I’m shopping, standing in groups. Men huddled together in the cafés, women gossiping on the streets. They usually stop talking when they notice me. I’m not really on speaking terms with many of the villagers. I’m still an intruder here and, I suppose, will remain one for many years. I do hear fresh rumors, every morning, from my staff. The waiters and kitchen help all come from the village or nearby farms. And, of course, many of the diners who drive here from a distance question me about the ‘Courville monster.’ I try not to discuss the murders but it is unavoidable…”

  “What do the villagers say about this killer in their midst? Who do they think it is? People usually have their own theories, and even though they may be wrong, there can be a core of truth in what they think.”

  “They are confused…” She glanced at him, frowning, then lowered her eyes to the needlepoint again. “In the beginning, they said the murderer was someone from outside. That was after the first victim was found. It was thought she had been killed by a transient—we get many of those through here—but the discovery of a second body changed that way of thinking. For a time, many of the villagers believed it must be a madman who had escaped from some nearby clinic. That theory had to be abandoned when no such person was reported missing.”

  “And this is all the villagers are saying?”

  “Not quite…” She hesitated ag
ain, needle moving in and out. “Some are saying that there is, vraiment, a monster. They say he prowls the countryside at night. Curiously, he doesn’t seem to seek a victim in bad weather. Each of the nights when he killed, the weather was fine.”

  “Was there a moon?”

  “I asked that myself. There was no moon, either time. Always a clear sky with stars.”

  “And what do the local gendarmes say?”

  “I’ve no idea. They’ve brought an investigator here from Arles, but the villagers treat him as another intruder. Avoid his questions and make jokes about his intelligence behind his back.”

  “When was the last murder?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “And now everyone’s waiting for the next?”

  “I’m afraid so. Yes… Some of the villagers seem close to panic.”

  Her hair, in the firelight, was like a bronze helmet. A genuinely handsome woman. Healthy looking. His eyes lingered on the firm weight of her breasts under the soft material of the dress. Strong, capable-looking hands. A simple gold wedding band… “What is your own theory, Madame?”

  “My theory?” She didn’t look up from her needlework.

  “About this ‘Courville monster’…”

  “I have no theory, Monsieur. None at all!”

  He saw that she had turned slightly, toward the windows, as though listening to some sound from outside.

  Fric-Frac growled softly.

  Damiot stroked the dog’s head. “Fric-Frac hears something.”

  “My kitchen staff may be leaving. Or the villagers could be passing on the road. They go up to the Château when the weather is clear.”

  “But it’s raining tonight!”

  “Not at the moment. I glanced outside, as I showed our last guests to the door, and the stars were shining.” She shrugged. “Everyone is nervous as a result of these murders. The slightest sound in the night, I am out of bed and at my windows. Fortunately Michel, my chef, remains here at night. He has an apartment over the garage. The other staff members go home, so it is a great comfort to have Michel on the premises.”