The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  This had been a curious evening. First that incredible figure on the Château terrace! The villagers had certainly seen it from where they stood at the gates. And in spite of Tendrell’s denial, he was certain that the Englishman must have glimpsed the monster.

  Nobody lived in the Château any more. Only a caretaker. Was he the one who wanted the villagers to think there was a monster on the premises? The fact that it only appeared on clear nights meant that someone wanted the monster to be seen…

  He had liked the artist and his daughter. The Tendrells had talked like equals, not parent and child years apart.

  Damiot turned off the avenue and slowed around to the rear of the Auberge. Through the restaurant windows he glimpsed a faint glow of light inside. Probably left burning for the night in the foyer.

  As he eased the Peugeot to a stop in the empty parking lot, he saw that the garage doors were open, for the first time. Three cars were parked inside, with no room for another.

  He got out and ducked into the dry garage, before plunging through the rain to look for the flowerpot where Madame had said he would find a key to the front door.

  As he stood there, out of the rain, he noticed a shadow moving in a lighted room above the kitchen. Madame Bouchard’s suite? He hoped that he hadn’t wakened her…

  Damiot glanced at the three cars. An old station wagon, a black Renault, and a dark green Jaguar.

  A sound caught his attention, and he turned to see that the kitchen door had been opened and a figure was silhouetted against the light.

  “Monsieur Damiot?”

  “Yes, Madame!”

  Damiot limped across the puddled parking area, his hip throbbing again.

  “I heard your car and came down to open the door.”

  “That was very kind, Madame.” He saw that her copper hair hung in twin braids and that she was wearing a dark brown robe of quilted satin. Her face, without makeup, was even more beautiful. “You shouldn’t have waited up for me.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. I was reading.”

  As he shook the drops of rain from his hat, he realized to his surprise that she had been concerned for his safety.

  “I regret that on a night like this you can’t park in the garage. Unfortunately there’s only room for three cars.” She closed the door behind him. “Michel and I always park there. He drives the green Jaguar.”

  “Tell me, Madame. Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who owns a black Ferrari?”

  “Nobody in Courville could afford a Ferrari! Some of the tourists in the summer have expensive cars, of course… What happened tonight, Monsieur? You were going up to the Château. Did you see anything?”

  “I saw the monster.”

  “You saw…”

  “And so did the villagers who were there.”

  “Then it’s not their imagination!”

  “No, Madame.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Fric-Frac arrived with breakfast, barking and dancing across the room, leaping onto his bed.

  The garçon laughed. “Bonjour, M’sieur!”

  “Bonjour, Claude.” Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he saw a newspaper folded on the breakfast tray. “You’ve brought a paper?”

  “La patronne said you wanted to read about the murders. This was the only paper I had saved.”

  Damiot read the brief story as he ate breakfast.

  He learned very little. Two murders had taken place, and “these unfortunate young women would appear to have been killed by the same person.” At no point was there any mention of the monster. Although the story did say that the first victim had been found in a field “adjacent to the famous Château de Mohrt, which for centuries has belonged to the illustrious de Mohrt family.” The last surviving member of that family, the Comtesse de Mohrt, had died several years ago in a Swiss sanatorium.

  Like much reporting in provincial newspapers, the story was carelessly written and lacking in details.

  Breakfast finished, Damiot shaved, showered, and dressed, with Fric-Frac waiting and observing from the bed.

  She darted ahead of him, down the corridor and through the silent lobby, to the front entrance.

  The sun was bright when he stepped outside. Swallows wheeled against a blue sky as he circled the Auberge to the parking lot, avoiding the puddles left from last night.

  Fric-Frac splashed through each puddle, ran straight to the door of the car, and stood on her hind legs, pawing to get in. When he opened the door she jumped up and sat on the front seat, her tail thumping.

  Traffic was heavy on the Avenue de la Republique as he turned left into the village. Big trucks heading down to Route Nationale 7. His first stop this morning would be that florist shop.

  There was some activity in the village. Women going in and out of shops, wearing light coats over faded housedresses, scarves tied around their heads. Carrying string shopping bags or small baskets.

  Of course! This was Saturday. Market day… He noticed a sign above a shop across the square, next to the corner bakery.

  Charcuterie Hercule Mauron

  Hercule the pork butcher! Damiot smiled.

  He parked across from the florist shop, glancing down at Fric-Frac as he swung the door open. “You wait here, Madame. I won’t be long.”

  Crossing to the sidewalk, he saw the sign again—Sibilat Fleurs—above the entrance. This was the only shop in the village that had been painted recently, a soft gray with cream-colored trim. Today there was a bouquet of yellow roses in the display window.

  A bell tinkled as he pushed the door open and went inside.

  The interior was completely new. A refrigerated display case holding fresh flowers extended across the wall behind a long counter, which faced the entrance. A single shaded ceiling light was almost invisible among a jungle of hanging plants.

  As Damiot approached the counter, he heard a woman’s voice complaining to someone behind a curtained door. The curtain was pushed aside and a man appeared, in shirt sleeves, wiping his hands on a water-spattered apron.

  Damiot realized that it was the young man who had driven the pickup truck he had passed last night on his way to the Château. Same round face and sandy hair. Muscular but slightly overweight.

  He reacted with obvious recognition when he saw Damiot. “Yes, Monsieur?”

  “I would like two small bouquets of roses. Like those in your window.”

  “Certainly.” He slid back a section of glass in the display case, lifted out a metal tub filled with yellow roses, and placed it on the counter. Moving expertly, he produced two sheets of green waxed paper, spread them flat on the counter, and carefully placed the roses, one by one, on the first square of paper. “Monsieur is a stranger in Courville?”

  “A visitor.”

  “But Monsieur has friends here!” He laughed, self-consciously, nodding toward the roses he was arranging. “Two friends?”

  “Across the street. In the cemetery.”

  His face became solemn. “Forgive me, Monsieur. I am Marc Sibilat. The owner.”

  Damiot was aware of the curtain in the doorway moving slightly. The woman must be watching them. “I saw you last night, Monsieur Sibilat, when I was driving in the hills. You were at the wheel of a truck carrying several villagers.”

  “My friends and I were on our way to the Château, hoping the monster would show up again. It only appears if the weather’s clear, and last night was the first night this week without rain.” He worked deftly as he talked, arranging a second bouquet. “I looked for you when we arrived at the gates.”

  “There was nothing to see. So I drove on.”

  “But you should have waited, Monsieur!”

  “You saw the monster?”

  “Oh, yes! He appeared on the terrace for a moment and stood there watching us.”

  “Cowards!” The
woman’s voice again.

  Damiot looked toward the curtained door as a plump figure in black burst into the shop. Hawk-faced, with inquisitive jet eyes. White hair.

  “My own son! Like all the others. Cowards…”

  “Madame?”

  “Grown men!” she exclaimed as she reached the counter. “They see the monster again but do nothing about it!”

  Damiot turned to Sibilat. “You’ve seen this monster before?”

  “Twice. In the past it has appeared in the courtyard, but last night it showed itself on a terrace.”

  “And the idiots did nothing!” Madame Sibilat’s eyes blazed. “They should have caught the thing, whatever it is, and destroyed it!”

  “I only hope that news about the monster will be good for business.” Sibilat twisted plastic tape around the stems of each bouquet. “Most of the shopkeepers think the publicity will convince those people from Paris that our village would be a good location for their new hotel.”

  “New hotel?” Damiot frowned, reminded of what he had already heard.

  “Some businessmen are considering building a modern hotel in this area. They’ve been looking at possible locations. Such a hotel would naturally mean more business for the whole village…”

  “Then catch the monster!” Madame Sibilat exclaimed. “That would get you some real publicity!”

  Damiot pulled a hundred-franc note from his wallet as the florist folded the waxed paper around the roses, and dropped it on the counter.

  “At first, when the villagers said they had seen a monster, I didn’t believe them,” Madame continued, as she took the money and unlocked the cash drawer, “but then my own son saw the thing! So I knew it was true.” She locked the cash drawer again and handed Damiot his change. “Merci, Monsieur…”

  “Madame…” He took the bouquets from Sibilat. “You have an attractive shop here.”

  “We think so!” Madame answered. “My son studied to be a doctor—a surgeon!” she announced proudly. “His father was a well-known medical man in Toulon for many years. He had hoped that our son would take over his practice.”

  Sibilat shrugged. “I always preferred to work with plants and flowers. Living things! Not sick people…”

  “Unfortunately,” Madame interrupted, “my dear husband died. But he left enough money so that Marc could do as he pleased.”

  “I found this shop through an advertisement and, once my mother consented to live in Courville, I arranged to buy the property.”

  “Monsieur is visiting relatives in the village?” Madame’s eyes sharpened with curiosity.

  “I’m here on vacation. Staying at the Auberge.”

  “Our dear friend, Madame Bouchard! You’ll be very comfortable there. My son and I dine at the Auberge at least once a month. We sell them all their plants and flowers.”

  “So I’ve been told.” He bowed. “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “Monsieur…”

  As Damiot went toward the door he was aware of their eyes following him. The mother’s, black and penetrating, the son’s, curiously dull.

  Returning to his car, he swerved the Peugeot around and drove up the avenue. He turned left at the corner and parked along the edge of the square, across from Saint-Sauveur. “You’ll have to stay here. Dogs aren’t allowed in cemeteries.”

  As he approached the church he saw that the stone walls were badly cracked. The tiers of carved figures above the portal had always looked as though they were crumbling. They were supposed to be sixteenth-century, and Saint-Sauveur itself was said to have been built on the site of an ancient temple and to have Roman paving blocks embedded in its walls. The bell tower, which looked too small, had been added much later.

  His mother had come here every Sunday to early Mass; his father preferred to sleep late Sunday mornings and then cook breakfast for the family after Mass…

  Requiem masses had been sung here for both his parents. Those were the last times he had been inside Saint-Sauveur. Eleven years ago…

  He tried the door but, as he anticipated, it was locked. Following the path around the corner, he entered the cemetery through a wooden gate. The graves he sought were toward the far end.

  Ahead of him, to one side, was a brilliant spot of red. Someone had left fresh flowers on a grave. He saw that it was a bouquet of red carnations, placed in front of a simple marble headstone.

  JULIEN BOUCHARD

  1934-1976

  Her husband! Madame Bouchard must have bought the carnations from Sibilat Fleurs earlier this morning.

  Walking on, he continued to think about Aurore Bouchard, leaving fresh flowers on her husband’s grave after two years. They must have been devoted to each other…

  If he had died in Montmartre from one of the bullets fired by that gangster, Valzo, would Sophie still be placing flowers on his grave? Even one month later? Not likely…

  He had reached a more familiar section of the cemetery. The two graves were side by side.

  CLÉMENCE DAMIOT

  1898-1961

  PIERRE DAMIOT

  1894-1961

  His father had died first, after a siege of pneumonia that had weakened his heart. His mother, three weeks later, in her sleep. The doctor told him, when he flew down from Paris, that there had been nothing wrong with her. It was only grief…

  He unwrapped the first bouquet and rested it on his mother’s grave. The other on his father’s. The yellow roses made twin pools of sunshine on the grass.

  “Pardon, M’sieur…”

  Damiot turned to face a tall man in a gray suit. Shabby gray overcoat, gray hat. He knew at once that this was a policeman.

  “Jules Bardou, Sûreté Nationale…” A thin hand produced a leather case and opened it to show a badge. “You are a visitor in Courville?”

  “That’s right.”

  “One of the villagers saw you park your car and phoned the gendarmerie. I was asked to find out who you are, M’sieur. Your purpose here…”

  Damiot reluctantly brought out his own worn leather case and flipped it open. “Police Judiciaire, Paris. Chief Inspector Damiot.”

  The bony jaw dropped, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Who called you?” Damiot asked.

  “Some man. Didn’t give his name.”

  “One of those!”

  “Has Paris sent you to help with this murder business?”

  “I’m in Courville for a vacation. And I’ve come here because my parents…” He motioned toward the graves. “I was born in this village.”

  “Pardon, M’sieur Inspecteur. I would never have bothered you…”

  “No harm done.” He saw Bardou glance down to check the names on the headstones as he pulled a package of Gauloises from a pocket.

  “M’sieur Inspecteur?” Holding out the cigarettes.

  “I don’t smoke any more.”

  “Some of the villagers saw you driving last night in the hills near the Château.” Lighting a cigarette. “You were a stranger, so they thought you might have some connection with the murders. Or with the monster…”

  “You believe in this monster, do you?”

  “I never believe in anything I haven’t seen with my own eyes, M’sieur. But some of the villagers claim they saw him last night.”

  “What, precisely?”

  “A tall figure. Very tall…”

  “How many people saw it?”

  “A dozen or more.”

  “A dozen people should be listened to—if they all saw the same thing. Do their descriptions of the monster agree?”

  “I’ve questioned three of them this morning, but they change their descriptions, even as they talk. The monster had black hair and it had reddish brown hair. It was tall but they can’t agree how tall… They were drunk, M’sieur! Believe me! They saw no monster. Last night or
any other night. I’ve been through the Château with the caretaker, and there was no trace of any monster.”

  Should he acknowledge that he had seen the figure on the terrace? Better not! “When I drove past those gates last night, the Château was dark. I’m told nobody lives there.”

  “Only Pouchet, the caretaker. He’s been there for years. More like a gamekeeper. He keeps people out and protects the animals in the forest. Some people think the place is haunted. The villagers claim they heard a bell tolling again last night, before the monster scared them away, but I’ve checked each of those towers and there’s no bell in any of them!”

  “Perhaps this is some trick of the caretaker’s.”

  “Old Pouchet’s not the type for that sort of thing.”

  “The villagers know he’s there?”

  “Oh, yes! They also know that he has a gun and, if necessary, will use it. Pouchet comes down to the village every two weeks for supplies, but he’s not a friendly sort.”

  “Is it possible to get inside the grounds? Have a look around?”

  “I’m on my way up there now, to ask Pouchet about what happened last night. If M’sieur cares to come along…”

  “I would indeed!”

  “My car’s parked across the square, in front of the town hall.”

  “Perhaps I’d better take mine. Then you won’t have to drive me back. I remember the Château as it was years ago, when the de Mohrt family still lived there.”

  “I know very little about the place. My home’s in Arles and I’ll be returning there, once this business is finished.”

  “What about those girls who were murdered? Are they buried here?”

  “One of them—the first—has never been identified. She’s on ice, at the morgue, but the other one’s over there. I’ll show you.” Damiot followed. His hip was stiff but not paining too much. He came to a stop beside Bardou, facing a recent grave.

  “Lisette Jarlaud. She was the second. Her family can’t afford a headstone, but somebody’s left flowers…”

  From the soggy brown petals, Damiot saw that they had been roses. The rains had beaten them into the earth, but the small bouquet still had a twist of green waxed paper around its stems.