“She was only nineteen. Too young to die—even for her sort—but then, I suppose, any age is too young for the way these girls died.”
“Who do you suspect killed them?”
“There hasn’t been a clue. Except it must have been the same man. The method was identical with both.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
“The autopsy reports show that both girls had had sex before they died.”
“Must’ve been cold, on the ground. Of course, they could have been in his car.”
“The first murder was in January. That’s the week we had a false spring, with high temperatures. And the second was less than four weeks ago—it was warm then too—before the rains started again.”
They turned back, walking slowly, toward the church.
“What about this monster in the Château? You think he’s the killer?”
“There is no monster, M’sieur Inspecteur. You’ll know that when you talk to Pouchet. The villagers take several bottles of Calvados up there with them. That’s how they’re able to see a monster and hear a bell tolling!” He opened the wooden gate and motioned for Damiot to go ahead. “I’ll stop at the gendarmerie and pick up the key to those gates at the Château. Pouchet’s getting deaf. Never hears the bell.”
“You have a key?”
“For emergencies. The lawyers in Paris arranged that years ago. From time to time, if nobody hears from Pouchet, someone goes up to check. Never been anything wrong. He just forgets to contact them.”
“Do these lawyers know about the monster?”
Bardou hesitated. “No, M’sieur. Nobody’s told them.”
“Would anyone object if I went inside the Château?”
“A Chief Inspector from Paris? Certainly not!”
“Let me warn you! I’ve no intention of getting involved. I came to Provence for a rest.”
CHAPTER 9
The gates, as before, were closed and padlocked.
Damiot peered through the wrought-iron grille at the shaded entrance drive between the rows of poplars, and saw the castle rising in a blaze of sunlight above the distant courtyard.
The pigeons circling the towers were the only signs of life.
Nothing had changed, although the walls of the Château seemed a much lighter color today. Almost golden! More like he remembered them in the past.
He turned to see the dog scampering off in pursuit of some animal, real or imagined, into thick underbrush edging the wall. “Fric-Frac!” Clapping his hands. “Come here, Madame!” He watched her trot back, tail waving. “Maybe I should lock you up in the car while we’re here.” The dog whimpered, as though she understood. “All right! Promise to behave and you can come with us.” The tail wagged again.
Directly opposite the gates, on the other side of the road, was an open meadow ringed by a copse of young trees with the forest beyond. That meadow was said to have been cleared, hundreds of years ago, for the crowds that came to attend the public trials held by visiting judges in the courtyard of the Château. The gallows must have stood in the center of the field. When he was a kid he had dug up old coins there. Probably valuable. He had no idea what had become of them…
The first girl had been murdered somewhere in that meadow. Maybe he should take a closer look…
No! This morning, with Bardou, he would visit the Château, but afterward he was going to forget the Courville monster. He only wanted to see inside the castle because of his memories.
Turning back to the locked gates, he leaned down and saw that the padlock, chained on the inside, was a recent model. He straightened as he heard a car approaching, chugging noisily, from the direction of the village.
As it came closer he saw that it was a black, older-model Peugeot, covered with a layer of mud and dust that made it appear gray. Bardou’s face was barely recognizable through the bird droppings on the windshield.
He moved away from the gates, Fric-Frac at his heels, as the car slowed to a stop.
Bardou got out. “I have the key but I’d better ring the bell. Pouchet doesn’t like to be surprised, and there’s no telephone.” He went to the right gatepost and fumbled among the ivy leaves until he found a button, which he pressed several times. “This rings somewhere in the kitchen, but unless the old man’s nearby he won’t hear it.” He produced a key from his pocket. “Why don’t we drive up to the Château in my car? Leave the other one here.”
“What about the dog?”
“Bring her along.” He turned his key in the padlock. “Pouchet has a dog.”
Fric-Frac capered when she realized she wasn’t being left behind.
Damiot opened the door of the other car, motioned for the dog to jump in, and sat beside her as Bardou slid in from the other side.
“I’ll drive round to the back.” Bardou exhaled spurts of pungent tobacco smoke as he talked. “The old man’s usually there, unless he’s off in the forest. Hunts for most of his meat and raises the rest. You must have known Pouchet when you lived here…”
“There was a gamekeeper who chased me off the place many times. I used to climb the fence to steal walnuts. There wasn’t any wall in those days. When was that built?”
“I’ve no idea.” He sneezed.
Damiot wondered, as the car rolled up the drive, whether the wall had been put up to keep people out or to keep someone—something—inside? “Why weren’t you here last night, with those villagers? You must’ve suspected what they’d be doing.”
“It was raining. Thought nothing would be happening, so I went to bed early. Had a feeling I was catching a cold…”
“Where are you staying?”
“They’ve put me at the Hôtel Courville. Small room in the back. No heat, and the bath’s down the hall. That’s how I got this cold.”
They followed the left branch of the drive around the edge of the circular courtyard, past the entrance to a long allée whose marble statues and fountains were engulfed by weeds.
“Have you asked, at the Hôtel Courville, who was staying there the night of each murder?” Damiot asked.
“Who was… Mon Dieu! I hadn’t thought of it. I should find out who was there both nights…”
“And who checked out next morning. He may have been driving a black Ferrari.”
“Black Ferrari? Thanks for the tip.”
Fric-Frac’s nose twitched, sniffing the delicious wild scents pouring in from both sides.
Damiot looked up at the stone façade of the castle rising from the cobbled courtyard, eyes pausing on the carved entrance doors in the center, under a columned arch. His gaze followed strands of ivy up to the balustraded terrace where the monster had appeared last night, then continued on to the stone balconies and small tourelles and, higher and higher, to the massive circular towers thrusting their pointed roofs toward the sky. “There was a bell in at least one of those towers when I was a boy.”
“They say there used to be bells in three of them, but the last one was removed years ago because the beams had rotted. They were afraid it would fall and the whole tower might be pulled down. I’ve checked every tower and there are no bells in any of them.”
“What did those villagers hear last night?”
“Nothing!” His voice was harsh. “They imagined the whole thing.”
“Did they?” Damiot noticed that the old tiles on the roofs had weathered to a greenish bronze and that many were missing. With the winter rains, that number of holes might cause serious damage to the interior. Ceilings could collapse and floors would warp…
Bardou slowed his car, following the drive along the western side of the Château toward the rear. “They say this place is some sort of historical monument. Protected by the government.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Must go back at least three centuries.”
“I’ve been inside, but there’s n
othing except some old pictures and furniture. Pouchet lives in a room off the kitchen.
“No women around?”
“Never saw any.” He turned the car right, into an open area extending from the kitchen yard to a distant row of stables.
Damiot recalled the last time he had been here. He had been caught by a gamekeeper, clutching a canvas bag filled with mushrooms he had picked in the forest. That gamekeeper was a tall man, muscular and rough. Damiot had been dragged, protesting, into the cavernous kitchen, and when they asked his name he told them the truth. Some of the servants had known his parents, and one of the cooks gave him a slice of cold game pie. He remembered to this day the delicious taste. They had let him keep the mushrooms, and his father sliced them into an omelette for the family dinner that night…
The car slowed to a stop near the open kitchen door, unchanged since his last visit, scattering several chickens. Their squawks roused a family of ducks at the edge of a pond.
Damiot heard a dog barking—the same deep sound he had heard last night—and saw Fric-Frac’s ears lift in response.
She was the first out of the car, eager to investigate everything.
He looked around, recalling earlier visits, as Bardou headed toward the kitchen door. The rear gate, behind the stables, was out of sight from here. One of the stable doors stood open but the garages were closed. In the old days they held a row of expensive cars.
He noticed that a dovecote near the stables had collapsed and fallen to the ground. The metal aviary where peacocks had been caged was rusted and empty, its doors hanging open.
“Pouchet! Where are you?”
Damiot turned to see Bardou coming from the kitchen.
“He’s not inside. Can’t be far, leaving his door open.”
“I heard a dog…”
“Big mastiff. He keeps it chained inside.”
The silence was abruptly torn apart by a terrifying scream.
The dog in the kitchen went into an uproar of barking.
Fric-Frac shot across the yard toward the stable.
Damiot went after her, limping because of his haste, as the scream was repeated. He realized that Bardou wasn’t hurrying. “Somebody’s been hurt!”
“They’ll be dead before we get there. Pouchet must be butchering this morning.”
“Of course! I haven’t heard that sound in years.” He paused for Bardou to catch up, then walked beside him toward the stables, where Fric-Frac had disappeared through an open door.
“The old man does his own butchering when he needs fresh meat.”
“Who’s out there?” It was a harsh male voice, from inside the stable.
“It’s me! Bardou.” He led the way inside, into cool shadow.
As Damiot’s eyes adjusted to the dim light slanting down from one dusty window, he noticed an old car parked inside the door and saw Fric-Frac, crouched on the earthen floor, facing a curious scene.
Two white pigs were hanging from wall hooks, their throats cut, dripping blood into white enamel pans.
A brute of a man, tall and completely bald, turned to face Bardou. “I’ve been expecting you this morning.” There was a knife in his hand.
Damiot saw that there was blood on the knife blade, spattered over the old man’s right arm and hand. Blood on his leather apron and spots of blood, gleaming like rubies, on his boots. There was also blood in the air. That sweet, sickening, unmistakable smell…
At the same instant, he had an image of two young girls with slashed throats.
“Bonjour, Pouchet!” Bardou stepped closer. “Brought an associate with me this time. M’sieur Damiot’s from Paris…”
“A policeman from Paris?” Cold gray eyes inspected Damiot’s face. “What’s Madame Bouchard’s dog doing here?”
“Came with me,” Damiot answered. “I’m staying at the Auberge.” He glanced down and saw that the dog was drinking from one of the small puddles of blood on the floor. “Fric-Frac! Get away from there.”
“All dogs do that,” Pouchet muttered. “Fresh blood’s good for them.”
“You had visitors last night?” Bardou asked.
“Salauds! They came over the wall again.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Never went near ’em.” He rested the bloody knife on a wooden trough and untied his apron, letting it fall to the floor. “Didn’t get to bed ’til after I saw ’em leave.” He thrust his hands into a pan of water and splashed his reddened arms.
Damiot watched the water turn pink.
“They claim they saw the monster again,” Bardou continued. “On the terrace this time!”
“They saw nothing. As usual.” Pouchet laughed, his voice a deep rumble in his massive chest. “Same as they always see. Nothing!”
“Have you ever seen this monster?” Damiot asked quietly.
“There is no monster, M’sieur.” He picked up a coarse towel and dried his hands. “They tell those stories in the village to make a little excitement for themselves.”
“I agree,” Bardou nodded. “This monster business is nonsense.”
Pouchet grunted and dropped his towel onto the bench.
“Is anyone living in the Château?” Damiot asked.
“Been nobody here for years.” Pouchet moved ahead of them, toward the open door. “Only me.”
“What about the de Mohrt family?”
“None of ’em alive any more.” He led the way outside, into bright sunshine.
Damiot saw now that the old man’s work clothes were worn and faded. “You didn’t see the monster yourself last night?”
“I told you, M’sieur!” The old man turned toward him, angrily. “There is no monster. Why are you asking me all these questions? You say your name is Damiot?”
“That’s right.” The gray eyes were studying his face.
“You’re that boy used to come here and steal my walnuts. Your family had a restaurant where Bouchard and his wife opened their Auberge. You’re the Damiot boy!”
“Then you knew my parents?”
“Used to walk down to the village through the fields and stop by their kitchen door. Your father and I drank many a pastis, sitting on those back steps.” Holding his hand out. “The Damiot boy…”
Damiot grasped the huge hand and shook it, aware of hard muscles under the roughened skin.
“Your father used to talk about you. He was proud of you. Said you were a famous policeman.”
“Chief Inspector Damiot’s here for a holiday,” Bardou explained.
“Chief Inspector!” Pouchet laughed. “Come up in the world, since you left Courville.”
“What became of that cook who used to be here?” Damiot asked.
“Which cook?” The old man scowled. “There was more than one!”
“Was it Madame Léontine?”
“The fat one! Léontine Guibert…”
“And wasn’t it you who caught me one morning, stealing mushrooms?”
“That’s right! The others got away.”
“You hauled me into the kitchen and Madame Guibert gave me a slice of game pie…”
“Bet you thought I was going to thrash you!” The old man laughed. “Fat Léontine went back to her family when those lawyers in Paris decided to close the Château. All the other servants left years ago.”
Standing there in the bright sunlight, Damiot was overwhelmed by the past. Memories, long forgotten, came rushing back…
“What are you doing here?” Pouchet asked. “With Bardou!”
“Told him I was driving up to see you this morning,” Bardou answered. “M’sieur Damiot asked to come along.”
“I wanted to see the Château again. Haven’t been inside since Madame la Comtesse was alive.” Damiot lifted his eyes toward the stone mass of the castle rising above them. “They used to say
, in the village, there were a hundred rooms here.”
“Don’t know ’bout that.” Pouchet shook his head. “Most of ’em have been closed for years. I keep a few rooms cleaned and dusted, on the chance the family lawyers show up from Paris, unexpectedly. Wait here! I’ll fetch my keys…”
He watched the old man stride across the cobbled stable yard toward the kitchen door. Must be in his late seventies, but his back was straight and he walked without a limp.
“You talked him into it,” Bardou murmured. “I’d like another look at the place myself.”
Damiot noticed Fric-Frac sniffing at the ground.
The caretaker had left a visible trail on the soft earth. Prints, from his heavy boots, that seemed to be damp.
The dog was licking at one of the footprints.
He realized that it was stained with blood.
CHAPTER 10
As they went through a mirrored gallery after inspecting the enormous ballroom, Damiot noticed that Pouchet, marching ahead of them, had changed his boots.
Bardou remained silent, walking beside him, staring at everything.
The tall double windows on opposite walls were closed but not curtained, and the mirrors between them reflected a pattern of bare tree branches tossing in the sunshine. The effect was dazzling, as though the walls were not solid.
A row of chandeliers in the ceiling held no candles.
“We’re in the west wing!” Pouchet opened another door. “Where the family used to live.”
Damiot followed him into a spacious room with paneled walls and a huge marble fireplace facing another row of tall windows.
“Not much left here…” The old man hesitated, squinting at the furniture lined against a wall. “Nobody can remove anything unless they have written permission from the lawyers.”
Damiot squinted at the high ceiling, with its carved figures surrounding paintings of nymphs and fauns. This west wing of the Château must be near that terrace where he had glimpsed the monster…
The old man swung the door open. “Next is the salon where Madame la Comtesse liked to sit. I came here every morning to get my orders for the day.”
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