They followed him into a smaller room, bright with sunshine from floor-to-ceiling double windows. The light was accentuated by white-painted woodwork, walls covered with faded yellow satin, white marble fireplace, and a recently polished parquet floor. The Louis Seize furniture was arranged as though the Comtesse might appear at any moment to take her place on the small sofa near the fireplace.
Here all the paintings were portraits. Two of the faces—men in fancy wigs and uniforms—seemed familiar.
It was the face carved on the gateposts! The de Mohrt face…
Faint wheel tracks on the parquet floor. The old man must push a small cart from room to room with his cleaning materials.
Damiot remembered being brought here one Christmas, with other children from the village. They had been lined up to sing carols in the old langue de Provence for Madame la Comtesse and, afterward, had been given cakes made with nougat and glacéed fruit…
“…same furniture when the old lady was alive,” Pouchet was saying. “People came after she died, packed everything from the other rooms into cases, and shipped ’em off to Paris.” He crossed the sunny room as he talked. “Next to this is the library.” Opening a door, into a darker room. “The old lady and her grandson, the young Comte, were always reading in here…”
Fric-Frac darted ahead of Pouchet.
Damiot followed, Bardou bringing up the end of the procession.
More tall windows in the library, but here the sunlight was absorbed by the dark woodwork. Rows of empty bookshelves reached to an elaborately carved ceiling. Black marble fireplace and another parquet floor, this one of an even darker wood than the walls. There was no furniture here.
Damiot sniffed the air. “Someone’s living in the château?”
Pouchet looked back, scowling. “I live here, M’sieur.”
“I smell cooking.”
“That’s a cassoulet for my dinner. Been on the stove all morning. The smell comes through the cracks in these floors.”
“Cassoulet?” It was not, he was positive, a cassoulet but something made with truffles. The distinctive odor was unmistakable. As he followed Pouchet through the library, he noticed something red on Fric-Frac’s left leg, trailing on the floor as she walked. “Here, Fric-Frac!” He reached down and removed a strand of dark red yarn caught in her black curls.
Did Pouchet have a sweater this color? Or was there a woman here?
He rolled the strand into a little ball and thrust it into his pocket.
The old man led them through a long passage, windowless and bare, toward a door at the far end.
Damiot watched Fric-Frac dart to a side door that must lead to an inner corridor. She pressed her nose against the crack at the bottom and growled. “No, Fric-Frac! Here! This way…”
She turned from the door, reluctantly, and followed him into what had been the dining room.
Was there something on the other side of that door? A cat? Or had someone been standing there, listening? Was it the monster?
Now Fric-Frac was following an invisible trail across the parquet floor, toward the nearest windows. The sunny terrace outside must be the one he had watched last night, from the hill. He followed her to the windows. “Can I get through here?”
“Mais certainement, M’sieur,” Pouchet answered. “All these windows open from inside.”
He turned the knob, raising a metal rod that released the double windows, grasped a handle, and opened the window without a sound. These hinges had been oiled recently.
Fric-Frac dashed out and scampered across the terrace.
Damiot saw Bardou and Pouchet heading toward a door at the far end of the dining room. Catch up with them later. Meanwhile he could inspect the terrace unobserved.
The dog ran back and forth, sniffing the air.
He realized that the corner where the monster had appeared was straight ahead. As he walked in that direction, moving casually in case anyone noticed from the window, he saw that the terrace floor was white marble, cracked and stained from centuries of rain.
Approaching the corner, he could see the cobbled courtyard below. From here, the Château seemed to be surrounded by impenetrable forest. Dark and menacing, even in bright sunlight. Checking to be sure he wasn’t watched, he peered at the hill rising above the trees in the back. That was where he had been last night, looking down at the monster.
Walking toward the rear on the side terrace—Fric-Frac racing ahead—he passed a row of double windows and glimpsed more empty rooms inside. He reached the northwest corner and looked down at Bardou’s car, parked in the kitchen yard.
The ducks and chickens had resumed their greedy scramble for food, and a wisp of smoke was rising from one of the chimneys, probably the kitchen chimney, but there was no smell of truffles cooking back here.
Something brushed against his right trouser leg.
Looking down, startled, he saw Fric-Frac. “Good girl! You’ve been a great help today. My new assistant!”
She wagged her tail and, nose to the marble terrace, resumed her exploration of some invisible trail. As Damiot followed, he wondered what scent she could have found. She had reached the front corner of the terrace again and was sniffing where the monster had stood last night.
He went closer and stooped to examine the weather-stained surface. Solid marble with no fresh scratches. Impossible for anything to sink out of sight here. And yet, he had seen it happen.
Fric-Frac moved on, investigating each crack in the marble. Back across the terrace, more slowly, toward another row of double windows.
These must be the windows where that light had come from last night.
The dog had found another scent and was following it straight to the closed windows. A human scent, or…?
The windows opened unexpectedly, and Pouchet stepped out, peering suspiciously from side to side. “There’s nothing out here.”
“I wanted to see the view,” Damiot explained. “And the dog wanted to get out.”
“Dogs usually want to get out.” Pouchet moved closer to Damiot as Bardou came through the window. “The place doesn’t look the way it did when the family was alive. In those days we had gardeners.”
“Wasn’t there a side entrance to the east? A gate in the fence?”
“You know about that?” The old man looked surprised. “They kept it when they built the new wall. Nobody remembers that gate anymore, so it’s never locked. I go that way when I drive down to the village.”
“You never told me you’ve got another entrance!” Bardou complained. “Is there a road on that side?”
“More like a cow path. Wouldn’t advise you to use it.”
Pouchet winked at Damiot, excluding the outsider. “Brings you down near the railroad tracks, but it’s easy to lose your way.”
“Been ringing that bell in the front every time I drive up here.” Bardou’s voice was harsh, as though his cold were getting worse. “You never answer, so I have to unlock it myself.”
Pouchet laughed. “That bell hasn’t worked in years!”
“I’ll be damned.”
There was a sudden piercing shriek from the forest.
Fric-Frac barked at the shrill sound.
“What’s that?” Bardou asked, staring toward the trees.
“One of the peacocks,” Pouchet answered. “Used to be kept in a cage but they escaped.”
The scream was repeated and Fric-Frac barked again.
From inside the Château, another dog responded.
“That’s my dog barking.” Pouchet motioned for them to follow as he went through the open windows. “This is where the family spent their evenings. Would be cold in winter, so they always had a fire going.”
Damiot went ahead of Bardou, the dog darting in front of them, into a larger salon with a row of crystal chandeliers overhead, along the center of t
he empty room’s ceiling. More portraits, several of them full-length, were hanging on the wall facing the windows.
Some of the faces were similar to those in the other salon. The sitters were dressed in elaborate costumes and wigs. They had the same aquiline noses and piercing eyes. In one, the subject had long black hair hanging down to the epaulettes of his Napoleonic uniform.
It was the face he had seen last night! That portrait he had glimpsed at the Tendrell farmhouse…
“…received important guests in this salon,” Pouchet was explaining. “I remember many times bringing ’em here to pay their respects to the Comte before showing them up to their rooms. The Comtesse preferred the small salon. So this was never used after her husband died…”
Damiot noticed that there were no candles in the chandeliers or candelabra. One electric bulb, suspended from a hook, its cord plugged into a wall socket.
So there was electricity here!
Had someone turned that bulb on last night? Held it up to throw light through those windows and cast a shadow across the terrace? Was the monster nothing more than a shadow!
He would like to come here again. Without Bardou! Through that gate in the east wall. Pouchet was deaf and wouldn’t hear his car…
Maybe tonight? And bring a pocket torch.
He saw Pouchet near the fireplace, whispering to Bardou about one of the carved female figures. Laughing as he fondled an enormous marble breast. Nasty old man’s laugh…
That east gate led down, by way of an untraveled back lane, to the village. Near that alley behind the town hall where the second girl’s body had been found.
Some old men who lived by themselves became strange…
Pouchet had been on these premises for years, promoted from gamekeeper to inside work. Now he was the caretaker. He had always been considered bad-tempered, even when he was younger. Scaring kids away. Shouting and waving his gun at them…
Damiot remembered that crack of sound he had heard yesterday, beyond the locked front gates, as Jenny rode past on her black mare. Did Pouchet wait there mornings, watching for the English girl? She had called him “one of those strange old men…”
He studied another portrait. What possible connection could there be between these paintings and that face in Tendrell’s portrait?
Damiot saw that Pouchet had opened another door and that Bardou was already leaving the salon. “Come along, Fric-Frac!” As he hurried after them with the dog, he realized that his hip was numb from all the walking.
Fric-Frac ran ahead through what seemed to be a central corridor. High ceiling with a line of skylights down the center, crusted with grime. Some of the panes were broken and had been covered on the outside, blotting out the light. The caretaker closed the door behind them.
“When was that new wall built?” Damiot asked, facing him. “In the old days there was only a wrought-iron fence.”
“Must be five years ago, after the old Comtesse died,” Pouchet answered. “The lawyers had it put up because of poachers.”
“There’ve always been poachers.”
“I’ve told ’em for years we needed a wall, and they finally listened to me.”
“Why didn’t you leave your dog outside last night to scare those villagers away?”
“She’s too old. Was afraid they might harm her.” Pouchet moved on, down the long corridor. As Damiot followed with Bardou, he saw that rain had leaked from the damaged skylight and had rotted sections of the parquet floor.
Bardou sneezed again. “My cold’s getting worse!” He moved closer to Damiot, lowering his voice. “Eh bien, M’sieur Inspecteur! Nothing suspicious here.”
“No…” His eyes were on the vigorous old man striding ahead.
“I told you there wasn’t any monster. Those drunken villagers! None of them saw anything!”
“Of course not…”
CHAPTER 11
Damiot glanced across the table at his guest. “Not eating?”
“No appetite.” Bardou took another swallow of wine.
“I can understand why not.” He set his knife and fork down, the croquettes de volaille barely touched. “This food’s a disgrace!”
“I can’t taste anything.”
“Lucky for you. I, unfortunately, can taste everything! At least the wine’s not bad. The chef couldn’t get his hands on that.” There were no other customers. “We’d have done better at one of the cafés. Unfortunately, the Auberge only serves dinner. I should’ve remembered about this place. The Hôtel Courville was never famous for its kitchen.”
Bardou whipped out his handkerchief and sneezed.
“Why don’t you spend the rest of today in bed?”
“I may do that, M’sieur Inspecteur.” He blew his nose violently, put the handkerchief away, and brought out his cigarettes.
Damiot signaled for the waiter to bring their check. “What else is happening at the local gendarmerie?”
“Very little. We have more activity in Arles. Of course I’m only involved with these murders.” Lighting a cigarette. “There’s one man on duty over the weekend in case of an emergency, which is unlikely. I’ll phone in this afternoon and tell him I’ve caught a cold. I should be all right by Monday morning.”
“Drink the rest of that wine. It’ll warm your blood.” He watched Bardou empty the carafe into his glass. “Actually, mon ami, you should be drinking Calvados. Better than anything to ward off a virus.”
“That’s what I’d be having at home. My wife fixes a hot toddy when I feel a cold coming…” He tossed off the last of the wine.
Damiot checked the bill that the aged waiter placed in front of him and pushed several notes across the table. “Monsieur Bardou has caught a cold. Send a hot toddy up to his room in half an hour, made with your best Calvados.”
“I’ll bring it myself!” The old man shuffled back toward the bar.
“That’s very kind, M’sieur Damiot.”
“Tomorrow you’ll wake up with no sign of a cold.”
“Tell me, M’sieur Inspecteur! Have you turned up any clues? About these two murders…”
“I haven’t been looking for any. I know very little about those girls who died.” He got up, reaching for his hat and waterproof. “I suppose autopsies were performed?”
“Oh, yes!” Bardou rose, snatching his hat and overcoat from the banquette, and followed him into the shabby lobby.
Damiot glanced at the faded-brown plush sofas and tarnished mirrors as they walked toward an ugly marble staircase. “Were either of those girls pregnant when they were killed?”
“No. I saw the autopsy reports.”
“You like police work, mon ami?”
“It’s all right. My wife says I’ve no ambition. She’s always after me to try for a promotion. Maybe you could advise me about applying for a transfer to Paris…”
Damiot grunted.
“I’ve never been to Paris!” Bardou paused at the foot of the steps. “Thanks for lunch, even if I didn’t have any appetite.”
“You’ll feel better tomorrow. Get to bed.”
“A bientôt, M’sieur Inspecteur…”
“A bientôt!” He turned back toward the street entrance, beyond the unattended reception desk, as Bardou started upstairs.
In the light filtering through a row of glass-curtained windows, Damiot saw that the restaurant was empty except for three people at a distant table, two men and a woman.
Aurore Bouchard! In serious conversation with two older men. They appeared to be businessmen, too well dressed to be locals. All three talking with animation, hands gesturing, unaware of his presence.
Damiot hurried on before he could be noticed, out of the hotel and into the afternoon sunlight.
Stopping at the charcuterie, he saw, behind the piles of pates and canned hams on display in the window, several cust
omers in the brightly lighted shop.
Hercule Mauron stood behind the counter, weighing a sausage for an old woman. The fat boy had become a fat man. Laughing as he talked, his great belly bouncing under a white apron. Hercule Mauron! He was Monsieur le Maire now…
Damiot turned from the window and started across the square.
As he approached the Peugeot, he saw Fric-Frac perched on the back of the seat, tail wagging. One window was slightly open so that she would have air. He tapped on the glass, “I won’t be long!”
Circling the fountain, he noticed for the first time that the marble bowl was cracked. Which explained why there had been no water spraying.
He continued across to Avenue de la Republique, where one shop window was filled with books and magazines. Inside he bought a Paris newspaper and a Simenon mystery he had never read.
The clerk smirked primly as she gave him his change. “Merci, M’sieur Inspecteur. I certainly hope you will find the monster that killed those two poor girls! All of us young women are afraid to venture out after dark. I hurry straight home every evening after work!”
“That’s very wise, Mademoiselle.” He clutched the book and newspaper in his hand as he went toward the door.
“Au ’voir, M’sieur Inspecteur!”
As Damiot reached the sunny street, he was gritting his teeth with annoyance. How did she know who he was? Somebody had spread the word. Someone like Madame Sibilat…
Entering a nearby hardware shop, he asked the aged clerk for a pocket torch. All the man had in stock was a small metal cylinder that he claimed was popular with children. Damiot bought one of the cylinders. It could be useful tonight if he went back to the Château.
Leaving the shop, he decided that while he was here he might as well pay another visit to that florist at the end of the avenue.
Opening the door with its jangling bell, he saw that the shop was empty again. There was a stir of movement in the rear workroom. Was Sibilat observing him from between those curtains covering the door? Or was it…
Madame Sibilat came through the curtains. “Ah! It’s you again, Monsieur Inspecteur…”
“Madame! Is your son here this afternoon? There’s something else I wished to ask him.”
The Provence Puzzle Page 9