The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

“You say the—monster only kills when there is good weather.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Then he may be prowling tonight!”

  “That’s why the villagers go up to the Château. Hoping to see him again.”

  “Again?”

  “They’ve seen him several times. Or so they claim…”

  “And what are the local police doing?”

  “I assume they’re waiting for something to develop. They most certainly don’t venture out at night, in their one ancient car, looking for problems. Unless they’re summoned! They’ve warned the villagers they could get into trouble trespassing at the Château.”

  “People can’t be allowed to take the law into their own hands.”

  “Some of the villagers think the monster comes from the castle. Claude told me last week that they think he hides during the day in the cellars and comes out at night.”

  “Every old castle should have a monster.” Damiot chuckled. “And a beautiful princess. They seldom do, these days…”

  “Monsieur is laughing at me.”

  “Not at all.” He finished his Calvados and set the glass down.

  “The villagers watch the Château from the road, but some have climbed over the gates to get inside the grounds.”

  “What happened?”

  “One young man saw something moving through the trees.”

  Damiot remembered the sound he had heard this morning, behind those locked gates. “He probably glimpsed some animal…”

  “I gather he didn’t linger to find out. More recently, several of the villagers claim they actually saw the monster standing in a patch of moonlight. They say it was taller than any man! One moment the monster was there, in the courtyard of Château, and the next it had vanished. As though it had sunk through the cobblestones. One other thing! Before the monster appears they say a great bell tolls…”

  “I wonder, Madame, would anyone have copies of the newspapers reporting those two murders?”

  “We have no local papers, unfortunately, but there are weeklies, published in nearby towns, that some of the staff bring when they come to work. I will ask if there are any old copies. Claude is our squirrel! He saves everything. And he’s fascinated by the idea of a monster…”

  “Talking about that monster again, chérie?”

  Damiot looked around to see the chef, still in his white uniform, entering the lounge.

  “There must be one, Monsieur, because some of the villagers swear they’ve seen him!” The chef laughed, white teeth flashing, his brown eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Ah, Michel!” Madame Bouchard motioned for him to join them. “This is our chef de cuisine, Michel Giroud. Monsieur Damiot…”

  Damiot put the dog down and got to his feet, extending his hand as the white-aproned chef came toward him. “You’re a first-class chef!”

  “Merci, Monsieur.” He shook Damiot’s hand. “It is a pleasure to cook for a man who appreciates food.”

  “Your saddle of hare tonight! Never tasted better in Paris…”

  “Plaisir, Monsieur.” He turned to Madame Bouchard. “Have you been spreading fresh rumors about the monster?”

  “Certainly not! It’s all nonsense.”

  Damiot realized, as Giroud talked, that Madame Bouchard’s eyes glowed with affection for the young chef. He had left his toque blanche in the kitchen and his black hair was thick and curly. A real charmer! With his gypsy look and culinary talent he should go far…

  “…thought, perhaps,” Giroud was saying, “I would take a drive, now that the rain has stopped. Clear my head of that kitchen.”

  “And I’m going up to bed.” She looked toward Damiot. “When we close this early I try to get an extra hour of sleep.”

  Giroud turned to Damiot again. “I hope you will have a pleasant stay in Courville, Monsieur.”

  “Merci.”

  “Will you be late, Michel?” Madame asked, eyes following him toward the foyer, as she returned the needlepoint to her workbag.

  “You know I’ve no sense of time, chérie! Bonsoir, Monsieur!”

  “Bonsoir…” Damiot remained standing as Giroud went through the dining room. “I think that I too may take a short drive.”

  “Yes, Monsieur?” Madame rose, closing the workbag.

  “You have made me curious. I’d like another look at that Château.”

  She walked beside him toward the foyer, the dog dancing ahead.

  Damiot hesitated as they reached the corridor. “I would prefer, Madame, that you are the only one, at least for the moment, to know I am with the Police Judiciaire in Paris.”

  “I understand, Monsieur. A demain!”

  “A demain…” As Damiot went toward his room to get his hat and waterproof, he realized that Madame Bouchard had been smiling.

  A smile of amusement? Or complicity?

  CHAPTER 6

  Damiot drove into the hills, through drifting eddies of white mist, passing several villagers carrying lighted lanterns.

  They were walking close together in small groups, and when they heard his motor behind them they moved off the road and stood frozen, like wary animals. Only their heads turned, eyes following his car.

  After he passed they would discuss his identity. If there were any among them who had seen him on his trips into the village, they would tell the others. Someone would certainly know he was staying at the Auberge.

  Most of them wore cloth caps or berets. Old clothes and heavy work shoes. Muscular types, in their thirties and early forties, with a few teenage youths.

  He caught up with a two-wheeled cart, drawn by a farm horse. Three old men were huddled on straw in the back, their ancient faces like Daumier caricatures in the wavering light of a lantern.

  Last of all he passed a pickup truck carrying a group of younger men. The driver appeared to be in his thirties, with sandy hair and round face.

  Damiot increased speed up the hill and around a curve in the road. His headlights soon revealed the high wall surrounding the Château.

  He slowed to a stop at the entrance. Got out and walked toward the closed gates.

  The mist was much heavier here. Impossible to make out anything through the grille, except a ghostly section of drive revealed by his headlights. The distant Château was invisible.

  Damiot turned back to his car, hip throbbing and warning of pain to come. Hesitating, his hand on the door handle, he looked down the long road. As yet, no one in sight coming from the village.

  He lowered himself into the Peugeot, careful not to strike his hip, and switched off the headlights. The night immediately became impenetrable—a solid black wall pressing against his car.

  Damiot closed the window at his side. As though that could shut out whatever evil might be crouched behind those locked gates…

  Better get out of here before the first of the villagers arrived. He turned on his headlights and drove slowly past the gates.

  He recalled that there had been a rear entrance to the estate when he was a boy. He had forgotten about that entrance. He had forgotten how he had watched from high on a hill, stretched out on his stomach, as trucks and carts creaked through the open gates bringing freshly caught fish that dripped water along the side lane, or carcasses of beef and lamb piled under bloody tarpaulins. Some of the de Mohrt family still lived here in those days. The old lady—Madame la Comtesse…

  Opening both windows, he backed the car until he came to a space where there were no tree trunks or underbrush. Only darkness…

  Damiot eased the Peugeot off the road and immediately felt his tires sink into soft earth. The winter rains must have soaked this ground for months.

  Branches slashed through the open windows, sending dried leaves and broken twigs flying across his face. The car filled with a rich scent of damp earth and moss. Rotting
wood and decaying leaves.

  The deep ruts in the lane were impossible to avoid. When he struck one, the car gave such a lurch that he bounced up and down. His hip protested each time, with instant stabs of pain. If he got a flat tire or the next rut damaged his axle, he would be in real trouble.

  Finally, he saw where the wall came to an end at the rear of the estate. Slowing the Peugeot to a stop near the rear entrance, he left the headlights on and got out.

  Damiot peered between the vertical bars of the padlocked gate and glimpsed more heavy undergrowth and trees. In the past, from this vantage point, he had been able to see the kitchen area of the Château.

  No point in staying here!

  As he turned to leave he recalled that there had been another lane, directly opposite this rear entrance, leading to higher ground where you could look down into the kitchen courtyard. That was where he had stretched out for hours, watching the servants at their work.

  He saw that the lane was still there.

  Eh bien! After coming this far he would go all the way. He lowered himself into the Peugeot again and, backing a few feet, turned into the other lane. Felt the car lift at once as it followed the twisting curves.

  He had neglected to close the windows, and the night air became colder as he drove up the hill.

  To his surprise, he saw the marks that looked fairly recent. The local teenagers must still drive up here with their girls.

  The Peugeot rounded a final curve and came out into an open area where its headlights revealed a grassy ledge facing empty black space.

  This was the spot he had remembered.

  He eased off the lane and stopped the car parallel to the ledge. Switched off his headlights and was swallowed up by the night.

  Leaving the door open, he got out and hesitated, unwilling to move closer to the rim. One stumble could pitch him over the edge.

  Lights danced in the distance. Lanterns? Those villagers must have reached the front gates.

  The silence was broken by the faint tolling of a bell.

  A dog howled, somewhere below. Damiot shivered. Madame Bouchard had said that the villagers heard a bell tolling before the monster appeared.

  The sound seemed to come from high in one of the Château towers. A single repeated stroke, at regular intervals, deep and resonant.

  That dog again. Barking now, but the sound seemed to be more distant. Was it one dog or several? Inside the Château or running loose in the grounds?

  The bell continued to toll.

  His eyes must be adjusting, because the darkness seemed less opaque. He closed them, squeezing both lids together. When he opened them after a few seconds, he saw the dark bulk of the Château de Mohrt. Still, it was impossible to make out any details except for the massive stone walls and towers against the night sky.

  From here he was looking between two wings of the mansion across the west terrace, just as he had done when he was a kid, over the open courtyard toward the entrance drive.

  Squinting toward the distant gates, he could make out their wrought-iron grilles against a glow of lanterns. There seemed to be two lanterns inside the grounds, moving up the drive toward the Château. Some of the younger villagers must have climbed over that wall.

  Whisper of sound in the darkness, near at hand to his left. Probably some night creature prowling for food.

  He glimpsed a faint blur of light in one of the castle windows, as though someone had passed inside with a candle or lantern.

  Faint echo of voices from far below. As though the villagers were shouting from outside the gates.

  Another glow of light from the Château. This time it appeared to be on the terrace that surrounded three sides of the mansion. Could be someone walking there with a lantern, although this light didn’t seem to be in motion. One of the villagers could have climbed up there and set his lantern down while he searched for an unlocked window.

  Voices again. The villagers, beyond the gates, must be calling to their friends on the terrace, directing them or giving them encouragement.

  Something moved into view on the terrace. Not much more than a dark shape in the dim light. A shadow cast by something not yet in sight…

  The voices of the villagers were silenced. Damiot saw that the lanterns beyond the gates were motionless. The others, inside the grounds, had disappeared.

  He tried to make out what was moving on the terrace…

  Something seemed to be crawling along the base of the balustrade.

  Suddenly, as he watched, a huge figure rose from the terrace.

  The voices of the villagers sounded like a great wave rolling in toward a beach.

  The monstrous figure stood without moving, looking down at the villagers outside the gates. Watching them. Damiot could see their lanterns, clustered together now, beyond the wrought-iron grille.

  The giant form began to move toward the front of the terrace. Slowly and clumsily. Swaying slightly. Like some ancient figure in a long cloak that hung in heavy folds. It seemed to have a tremendous head with black hair falling to broad shoulders.

  The bell was silent now.

  Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the monster disappeared and the light was gone.

  It was as though the figure had vanished through the terrace floor. Just as Madame Bouchard had said! Only that floor must be solid marble.

  Turning to look down toward the far gates, he realized that the lanterns were no longer there. The villagers must have fled.

  He was alone. High on this dark hill, at the edge of a sheer drop that could kill anyone who stumbled over the rim.

  And somewhere in that Château there was a monster! Taller than any human being he had ever seen.

  Damiot turned and started back toward the car. Stepping cautiously to avoid any loose stones.

  He stopped and peered around, trying to make out some shape—tree or shrub—in the darkness.

  Then, to his right, he saw a low dark bulk… The Peugeot! He stumbled toward it, eager to leave, grasping the door handle. Clutched the cold metal as though he had found a friend. Stood there, breathing heavily, his heart pounding…

  This was ridiculous! He had never acted like this, in all his years at the Prefecture…

  Of course this was the first time he had found himself alone, with an injured hip, on a dark hill above a castle containing a monster!

  He looked around, still clutching the door handle, as he heard something moving stealthily through the underbrush. The sound came from in front of his car and it was getting closer.

  Damiot released the door handle and, moving with caution, reached through the open window to fumble at the dashboard.

  There used to be wild boars in these hills that would attack a man if they were aroused. His headlights should startle whatever this was. Man or…

  He switched them on and the glare of light revealed a man.

  It was the Englishman—Tendrell—holding both hands up to shield his eyes from the dazzling headlights.

  Damiot faced him. Tendrell was shorter than he had appeared last night at the Auberge. Wearing an old leather jacket and dirty slacks. “What are you doing here, Monsieur?”

  The question seemed to release the Englishman. He turned and plunged, arms flailing, away from the light.

  Damiot followed, limping now, his shadow looming ahead of him like another monster, as he lurched in front of his own headlights.

  Hip throbbing. Waves of pain shooting through his thigh.

  The Englishman had vanished.

  Eh bien! No point in continuing after him. Much too dangerous.

  Starting back toward his car, he saw its headlights through a tangle of maquis.

  Then he heard another car behind him, coming fast.

  Glancing back, he saw the headlights rushing toward him.

  Damiot moved asid
e, out of the way, as the gray Citroën sped past, but he glimpsed the Englishman at the wheel before the car disappeared around a curve.

  CHAPTER 7

  Slowing the Peugeot, Damiot squinted at the stone farmhouse. Smoke was rising from a chimney, and two windows facing the road revealed a dimly lighted interior. He would have a talk with this Englishman.

  He swerved into the lane, between long rows of beech trees, and parked behind the gray Citroën.

  His hip throbbed sharply as he twisted his body out of the car and limped toward the house, eyes adjusting to the darkness, following a path between flower beds.

  The stone farmhouse was built low to the earth, with shuttered windows on either side of a heavy wooden door. The lighted windows he had glimpsed from the road were not visible here.

  As he raised his hand to knock, uncertain what he would say, the door swung open.

  “Why the devil did you follow me? Who are you?”

  Damiot noticed that Tendrell had removed his leather jacket and was wearing a heavy sweater. “Chief Inspector Damiot, Police Judiciaire.” He brought out his flat leather case and flipped it open.

  Tendrell stared at the badge. “Local police?”

  “No, Monsieur Tendrell. Quai des Orfèvres.”

  “The big guns moving in, are they?”

  “I am in Courville on vacation.”

  “In that case, come in! And welcome…”

  “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  “I was having a drink. Bloody cold, up on that hill tonight.”

  “It was, indeed.” He closed the door and, removing his hat, followed the Englishman through a dim passage. “Why did you run off when I spoke to you?”

  “I had no idea who you were. Flashing those headlights in my eyes. I couldn’t see your face. I heard a car arrive on the hill and wanted to find out who else was there. When I realized it was a stranger I took off.” As they entered a shadowy sitting room, he peered at Damiot more closely. “Didn’t I see you last night, dining at the Auberge?”

  “I’m staying there for a few days.”

  “You’re the chap! Aurore mentioned you to my daughter.”