The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

“Aurore?”

  “Madame Bouchard. You’re her only guest at the moment.”

  “Her name is Aurore?”

  “Delightful, don’t you agree? She didn’t mention that you’re from the Quai des Orfèvres.”

  “I hadn’t told her.”

  “Do make yourself comfortable. May I fix you a drink? Whisky? Cognac?”

  “Whisky would be fine.”

  Damiot glanced around the comfortable room as Tendrell talked. Low-ceilinged, with smoke-blackened wooden beams. Fine old furniture—French and English—and walls crowded with framed paintings and overflowing bookshelves. Logs blazing in a stone fireplace. He looked at the Englishman. “What were you doing up there, Monsieur? On that hill…”

  “There were rumors that the monster might make an appearance on the first night of good weather.”

  Damiot sat on the sofa, resting his hat beside him. “You saw the monster?”

  “No. Some of the villagers claim to have seen some sort of enormous figure, in the past, that was at least twelve feet tall. I saw nothing.”

  “They exaggerate. Slightly…”

  “In what way?”

  “I would guess their monster might be nine of your English feet in height. No more than that.”

  Tendrell came toward him, a glass of whisky in each hand. “Then you saw the monster tonight?”

  “Yes, I did.” Damiot took his drink from the artist’s hand.

  “You actually had the good fortune to see our Courville monster? And I didn’t!”

  “I saw it briefly.” He took a large swallow of whisky. “It stood on the terrace looking down at the villagers, and then it was gone.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Tendrell sank into a brown leather chair, facing his visitor, glass in hand.

  “Before the monster appeared there was the sound of a bell tolling. Surely, Monsieur, you must have heard that?”

  “I heard nothing.”

  “You couldn’t have been too far from where I was standing…”

  “From my vantage point, looking between the main section of the Château and the west wing, it wasn’t possible to see that upper terrace. Only the entrance drive.” Tendrell tossed off half of his drink in one gulp. “I had thought the monster was supposed to appear in the courtyard where he’s visible from the front gates. That’s where those blasted villagers claim they saw him in the past. Actually, I went there tonight to observe the locals at their drunken revels.”

  “How often has the monster been seen?”

  “Since that first girl’s body was found, he’s rumored to have been glimpsed several times, and at least three more after the second girl was killed.”

  “You don’t believe in monsters, Monsieur?”

  “Ah, but I do! I’ve known many genuine monsters, in my time. Including my former wife.”

  “What about this monster tonight?”

  “I’ve already told you. I didn’t see him.”

  “I mean—what do you think it is? Perhaps some kind of trick?”

  “Might be one of the locals, having a bit of fun and games with his neighbors. There are those who say it’s the ghost of some fellow who was hanged, centuries ago, in that meadow across from the Château.”

  “It could be the murderer, of course! Whoever killed those two young women may be trying to frighten people away.”

  “He would be taking rather a chance, don’t you think? Risking capture. Shouldn’t you slip out of that damp coat for a bit?”

  “Perhaps for a moment.” Damiot set his glass on a table and rose from the sofa. Grimacing as fresh pain lanced through his flesh.

  “Something wrong, Monsieur? Are you hurt?”

  “Hurting, but not hurt. I came to Provence to recover from recent surgery on my hip.” He slipped out of the waterproof. “Hoping to relax in the sunshine.”

  “We’ve had bloody little sun lately.”

  Damiot draped his waterproof over the back of a chair and resumed his place on the sofa.

  “So you’re stopping at the Auberge? Marvelous food! Though not up to what they served when Julien Bouchard was in charge of the kitchen. This new chef can’t touch him, although he’s jolly good. Aurore’s in love with him. You must have noticed.”

  “No. I hadn’t.” The idea was somehow distasteful.

  “She denies it, of course. Aurore’s such an innocent! Except about running her restaurant. She’s quite extraordinarily capable at that. Can I freshen your whisky?”

  “Merci, no. Tell me, Monsieur, what do you know about these local murders?”

  “Only hearsay, I fear. Mostly from my daughter who picks up all the local gossip. The villagers accept her, but they barely speak to me.”

  “Who was the most recent girl to die?”

  “Lisette Jarlaud.” Sipping his whisky, more slowly now. “Something of a beauty! Blonde and plump. Rubens would have enjoyed painting her. She was found three weeks ago in an alley behind the Courville town hall, where the gendarmerie is housed. Which is, of course, a bit of a black mark for the local police lads.”

  “How could the monster get down there from the Château?”

  “And what makes you think the killer came from the Château?”

  “Isn’t that what the villagers are saying?”

  “Well, yes… Actually, that alley leads toward open country. Anybody could walk from the Château across those fields and down to the edge of the village without being noticed. Or, for that matter, from a dozen farms in the area. Including this one!”

  “Did the police find prints near the girl’s body? Footprints?”

  “I’m told there were several, but before anything could be done to preserve them, the rain washed everything away. The Jarlaud girl’s clothing had been torn from her body and she had been raped.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Familiar, shall we say, to one and all!” Tendrell moved around the room as he talked. “First time I noticed her, shortly after my arrival in Courville, I was having a whisky in one of the cafés. A young man, drinking with some chums, called out to her as she walked past on the sidewalk. From the nasty way they laughed, I gathered that all of them had known the girl. I learned later that she was a femme de chambre at the Hôtel Courville and rather a favorite with salesmen who book there overnight.”

  “You say she was raped. But that was not the cause of death?”

  “Her throat was cut. Quite permanently.”

  “Did she have any family?”

  “Lisette lived with her parents and two small children. It is rumored that the children belonged to her.”

  “Who were her friends?”

  “I don’t believe she had any real friends! Of either sex. Lisette was the sort of girl everyone knew. Yet, curiously, nobody knew her.”

  “What about the first victim?”

  “She has not yet been identified.”

  “When was she killed? In relation to the second…”

  “Two months ago. I believe it was mid-January when a farmhand stumbled over her body. She too had been raped. Her throat slashed.”

  “Footprints?”

  “I’m told that dozens of people tramped there before the police arrived. When the body was taken down to the morgue, everyone in the village was asked to identify her, but no one recognized the unfortunate creature. I didn’t want my daughter to participate, although I did go and have a look for myself.”

  “Had you seen her before?”

  “Never. The police think she must have been a transient. Perhaps one of those hitchhikers one sees on the roads, more frequently during the summer.”

  “Is there a bus through here?”

  “Not on this road.”

  “The Jarlaud girl… Did she limit her favors to overnight visitors at the hotel?”

 
“Not at all! Lisette apparently had many admirers in the village. Several shopkeepers have been questioned, discreetly, so that their wives would not find out. There are rumors she even had an occasional rendezvous with one of the local gendarmes!”

  “Policemen too are human.”

  “You’re quite certain, Inspector, that you weren’t sent to solve these murders?”

  “Paris doesn’t get involved with unsolved murders in the provinces. Tell me, Monsieur. Was the first girl blond, like the second?”

  “She had red hair, but as a painter I can assure you the color came from the chemist.”

  “What a disgusting thing to say about that poor girl…”

  Both men turned, startled, to see a slim figure in a yellow silk robe just inside the open doorway.

  “What the devil are you doing up?” Tendrell exclaimed.

  “Your voices wakened me.”

  Tendrell turned to the detective. “This is my daughter, Jenny. My sole offspring!” He set his glass down. “Come in, luv. Meet Chief Inspector Damiot from Paris.”

  Damiot got to his feet. “Mademoiselle…”

  “So you’re a flic!” She came forward, into the light. “I’ve seen you twice, Monsieur. First in the Auberge last night, at dinner, and this morning in a car parked outside the Château.” She curled herself in a corner of the other sofa, tucking both feet under her robe.

  Damiot sat down again, facing her. She had a lovely face, pert nose, intelligent eyes.

  “Aurore Bouchard told us about you, during dinner. A guest from Paris!” Jenny shook her long, blond hair away from her face. “But she neglected to say that you’re a flic.”

  “Madame didn’t know.” He glanced at Tendrell. “And I beg you, Monsieur, not to tell anyone. I’ve no desire to have my holiday ruined by the local police trying to involve me with their unsolved murders.”

  Tendrell nodded, sinking into a leather chair. “I quite understand.”

  “Then you’re truly not here to solve them?” Jenny asked.

  “Certainly not!”

  “Pity… It’s been three weeks since Lisette died, and the gendarmes have no idea who killed her. Or, for that matter, the other girl.”

  “Do you, Mademoiselle?”

  “Do I what?” She pretended not to understand.

  “Know the identity of the killer?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion!”

  “No suspicion?”

  “Why are you asking questions, if you’re not working on the case? And why have you been quizzing Allan! He never knows what’s going on in the village or, for that matter, under his nose. Unless, of course, I tell him.”

  “Which you always do!” Tendrell turned to Damiot. “Each evening I’m given a report on everything that’s happened during the day. From the running of our farm—which Jenny does, incredibly well—to the latest chitchat from the village. I get a full account at dinner.”

  “That’s not true!” Jenny protested. “There are many things I don’t feel are suitable for your innocent ears.” She frowned as she looked at Damiot again. “You don’t suspect Allan of these murders, do you?”

  “Jenny!” Tendrell exclaimed. “What a thing to ask.”

  Damiot laughed. “I don’t suspect anyone. I’m asking questions out of curiosity. Until yesterday I had never heard of these Courville murders. Then, tonight, I encountered your father on the hill above the Château, and followed him home.”

  Jenny looked at her father. “Did you…” She stopped abruptly, as though uncertain how to continue.

  “See the monster? No, my dear. I did not. But it seems that Inspector Damiot did.”

  She faced the detective. “What did it look like?”

  “I saw a dark figure from a distance. It appeared for a moment on a terrace of the Château.”

  “Was he quite huge?”

  “Very tall.”

  “Could you see his face?”

  “Only the back of the head and that not too clearly. One moment he was there and the next he had vanished.”

  “So the monster really does exist!” she exclaimed. “We’ve never been absolutely certain. You’re the first outsider to see him. Until now only the villagers managed to catch a glimpse of the thing, and I, for one, never believed any of them. Allan has watched the Château, most clear nights, but he’s never seen anything.”

  Tendrell nodded. “We were beginning to wonder if the villagers weren’t imagining their monster.”

  “Are you going to tell the police, Monsieur Damiot?” Jenny asked. “That you saw this—this creature?”

  “Certainly not! They must have seen—whatever it is.”

  “No! They haven’t. They’ve brought in a detective from Arles to handle the case. And he’s completely stupid! Perhaps I shouldn’t say that, but…”

  “I’m sure they’re doing their best!” Tendrell interrupted.

  “This is their investigation, not mine.” As Damiot’s eyes moved away from Jenny’s face, he noticed the framed paintings on the wall behind her head. One was a portrait. The head appeared to float in a mist, but the face was oddly familiar. Something about the eyes?

  “Changed your mind, Monsieur Inspecteur?” Tendrell rose from his chair. “Another whisky…”

  “I think not. Merci.”

  “Something for you, Jenny?”

  “At this hour! Certainly not.”

  “I’ll just have another quick one.” He returned to the sideboard and busied himself with a bottle.

  Damiot looked from father to daughter. “And what do you think, Mademoiselle, about this monster? Is it real?”

  She shrugged. “You saw him, Monsieur. Not I.”

  “Which proves nothing. The whole thing may have been some sort of optical illusion caused by a reflection from one of the Château windows. I glimpsed a moving light inside. By the way, does anyone live there?”

  “A caretaker, I believe. I’ve never actually seen him but I know he’s there because I have heard him, mornings, when I’m exercising the mare and ride past the gates. I suspect he’s one of those strange old men who like to spy on young girls!”

  Damiot saw that Tendrell’s glass was half empty again. “Tell me, Monsieur, aren’t you worried about the safety of your daughter?”

  The Englishman looked startled. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “My safety!” Jenny pushed her hair aside, away from her face.

  “If there is, vraiment, some kind of monster hidden in the Château de Mohrt,” Damiot continued, “you could be in danger. If the monster walked through those fields down to the village, he could certainly find his way here.”

  “So he could… Never thought of that!” Tendrell tossed off the remainder of his drink.

  “But I should love to see the monster!” Jenny pretended to shiver.

  “Why do you think the—monster—slashes his victims’ throats with such violence?” Tendrell asked abruptly.

  Damiot frowned. “Only the killer himself can answer that.”

  “The way he slashed both those girls, from what I’ve heard—and from seeing the first victim in the morgue—was quite expert. His skill with a knife would indicate some knowledge of anatomy.”

  “Indeed?”

  “He might, of course, be a doctor. Possibly from some nearby city, since there is no resident physician in Courville.”

  “Or an artist…”

  “Artist? Oh, yes! We all study anatomy.”

  “Even a farmer knows anatomy!” Jenny exclaimed. “Most of our neighbors do their own butchering. They’re terribly expert at it.”

  Damiot saw the face in the portrait hanging behind her more clearly now. A young man’s face with a prominent nose and petulant, sardonic mouth…

  “What is it, Monsieur?” Tendrell asked.

&
nbsp; He realized that the artist had been observing him. “I was intrigued by that painting on the wall.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at the canvas. “If you’re interested, I would be happy to show you some more recent canvases.”

  “Another evening, perhaps?” He got to his feet. “I’ve intruded much too long.”

  “Not at all!” Tendrell rose, placing his empty glass on a table. “Always delighted to meet someone from the outside world.”

  “I think your monster is one of the villagers!” Jenny announced, following them out of the room. “Hoping to attract tourists to Courville this summer. All their little shops depend upon income from the people who stop off for a few hours, on their way to more important places. The season starts in another few weeks. I think the whole thing’s a hoax to get publicity. And the local flics are in on it.”

  Damiot smiled. “But if that were true, who murdered those two girls?”

  “I also have a rather large suspicion about the murderer!”

  “Do you, Mademoiselle?” They had reached the entrance passage. “And what might that be?”

  “I think he’s a salesman who drives through Courville every few months.”

  “Why do you say that?” Damiot asked, shrugging into his waterproof.

  “Because I’ve seen him. Twice! At least I’ve seen his car. A black Ferrari.”

  “What nonsense!” Tendrell exclaimed. “You’ve never told me this.”

  “You saw the man’s face?” Damiot asked.

  “Too dark, both times… And I’m much too sleepy, at the moment, to think clearly. Bonsoir, Monsieur Inspecteur…”

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.” He watched her yellow robe disappear through the passage, into the dark depths of the farmhouse.

  Tendrell moved ahead toward the entrance and opened the door.

  “Thank you for the whisky. And for the information you’ve given me.”

  “Nothing but gossip, I fear. Drop by again, Inspector! And have yourself a pleasant vacation.”

  “A bientôt, Monsieur.” He put his hat on and went down the path through a steady downpour. The Peugeot was streaming with water, so the rain must have been falling for several minutes.

  The road was empty in both directions as he turned left toward the village.