The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  “I see!”

  “There’s been no announcement because they hope to purchase several adjoining properties, and if word got out prematurely, prices would soar!”

  “Naturally.”

  “It’s to be an enormous hotel de luxe, as in Cannes or Monte Carlo. With a first-class restaurant and a swimming pool. Of course, this should bring new business to all the shops in the village.”

  “Why did they select Courville for their new hotel?”

  “Because of the traffic on this highway. They had surveys done which show that in the summer there’s a constant flow of tourists through the village, between Paris and the Riviera. I’ve told you, I’m always booked for the entire season. They naturally want no other restaurants in Courville—except those two cafés for the locals—so they’ve offered me a small fortune for this property.”

  “Are you going to sell?”

  “I have a month to decide. Next week I must drive to Lyon and discuss everything with my attorney.”

  “Tell me…” He found it difficult to ask his next question. “What would happen to this building?”

  “They plan to tear it down.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “I know. The house where you were born…” She sighed. “And the restaurant Julien and I created. Where we were so happy!”

  “Do you wish to sell?”

  “The money will make me independent. Julien would want that.”

  “You should sell.”

  “Is that your advice?”

  “Whatever pleases you.”

  “You are a very kind man.”

  “Nobody’s ever accused me of that before!”

  “Nonsense! You’re kind and…”

  “I am a policeman. Obstinate and frequently unpleasant. Always searching for the truth.”

  “And have you ever found the truth?”

  “Once or twice, perhaps…”

  She leaned closer and kissed him, lightly, on the shoulder. “One thing more, about the new hotel…”

  “Yes?”

  “They want me to take complete charge of their restaurant and advise the architect who is designing the kitchens and dining rooms. Seems for some time they’ve been hoping to find a woman manager for one of their restaurants.”

  “That should certainly make you decide.” He slipped his arm carefully under her head.

  “They had planned to bring a famous chef from Paris to supervise the menus and food, but…”

  “What about your chef? Giroud’s first-class.”

  “I’ve discussed Michel with them each time we’ve talked, and they are very interested. They’ll be having dinner here tomorrow night. I’m telling Michel that they’re friends of my husband’s and I want him to give them a perfect dinner. I will select the menu, some of the dishes he does best. Michel won’t know he’s being considered for such an important project. If he suspected the truth there could be scenes in the kitchen, and dinner might be a disaster! I’ve made only one demand of these people. They planned to call their restaurant the Relais de Provence, but I told them that if I do sign their contract they must call it Relais Julien. They’ve agreed to do that. So it would be Julien’s restaurant, as well as mine. Our restaurant!”

  “You loved your husband very much.”

  “We were very close.”

  “But you are reasonably happy? Running a restaurant…”

  “Reasonably? Yes… What about you? Are you reasonably happy in your métier?”

  “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.” He stared at the ceiling, barely visible in the light from the fireplace and bath. “I’ve never thought about it Whether being a policeman satisfies me…”

  “Did you always want to be a detective?”

  “Such a thing never entered my mind! When I first went to Paris, years ago, I had to find a job while I studied law at night. I worked as a waiter, took tickets on a bus, was a telephone repairman… Then I went to classes during the day and got a job at Au Printemps as a night watchman. Which gave me more time to study. After three years, quite by chance, I discovered that I could apply for a job at the Prefecture. The fact that I had been studying law was in my favor…”

  “And now you’re a famous detective!”

  “The newspapers exaggerate!”

  “Do you enjoy your work at the Prefecture?”

  “I’m happiest when I’m away from my office. Working on a case. Meeting people. Asking questions… That’s when I’m really happy.” He felt her body, beside him, relaxing again as he talked. “When I’m doing that, every day is exciting…” Moving closer, pressing his mouth against her lips, he felt her fingers moving slowly down his spine. He buried his face in the soft cloud of her hair, breathing deeply of her fragrance as his lips found her ear.

  Her caressing fingers had discovered the scars on his hip.

  She gasped.

  He realized that his scars had reminded her of another man. If Julien Bouchard had lived, survived that skiing accident, his body would probably have been scarred.

  She was sobbing. Quietly…

  He kissed her cheek. It was wet with tears.

  Her fingers were stroking his scars…

  “I understand,” he whispered.

  “Do you? Yes! I believe you do…”

  “‘But if my queen weeps, I too will weep…’”

  “You will weep?”

  “A famous poet wrote that. Many years ago. He was born in Provence…” His lips found her mouth again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Damiot opened his eyes and squinted at the luminous dial of his wristwatch on the bedside table.

  Almost nine?

  Aurore must have slipped away in the night…

  He slipped out of bed and hurried toward the nearest windows, the tiled floor cold under his bare feet, flung the curtains apart, and opened the inside shutters.

  The gardens beyond the open windows were a glare of sunshine. Good weather again, grace a Dieu!

  Sunday morning? The villagers would be going to Mass.

  Leaving the curtains open, moving with purpose, he hurried into the bath and splashed cold water on his face. Brushed his hair and slipped into his robe.

  When the garçon brought breakfast, he must ask him where he had first heard the legend about a monster appearing at the Château…

  Settling into bed again, he noticed the glasses and empty Calvados bottle on the bedside table. They had finished that last night, before they slept…

  If only this good weather would last through the night. No matter. Clear or not, he was going to get inside that Château. On his own…

  His thoughts were interrupted by the garçon’s discreet knock.

  “Come in!” Pushing himself to a sitting position as a key turned and the door opened.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Aurore!” Wearing another robe, more tailored, and with her hair brushed away from her face, she had brought his breakfast tray.

  She laughed. “I’m the Sunday garçon when we have only one guest.”

  A small black body skidded across the tiled floor and jumped onto the bed.

  “Bonjour, Fric-Frac!”

  The dog kissed his hand with the tip of her tongue and barked her pleasure.

  Damiot looked up as Aurore set her tray on the bedside table. “Won’t you have coffee with me?”

  “I’ve work to do.” She smiled as she collected the glasses and brandy bottle. “Will you be dining with us tonight?”

  “Most certainly! I’m going out this morning but I should be back late in the afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  “Your friends from Paris will be dining here…”

  “I’m breaking the news to Michel over breakfast. He always cooks a special breakfast every Sunda
y, which we have in the kitchen.”

  “I want to drive up to the Château after dinner, and I was wondering if I might take Fric-Frac with me?”

  “By all means!”

  “What time will your guests arrive?”

  “Around eight. They’re spending the day in Cannes.”

  “Then I shall have an early dinner.”

  “Enjoy the sunshine today!” She carried their glasses, with the empty bottle, toward the door. “It’s all for you.”

  Damiot smiled as he watched her leave. She hadn’t even mentioned last night. The next move, obviously, would be up to him.

  He bit off the end of a croissant as he filled the small porcelain bowl with coffee. Fed a piece of croissant to Fric-Frac before he tasted the steaming black brew.

  “Eh bien, Madame la Duchesse! I won’t be taking you with me this morning, but tonight, weather permitting, we’ll have another look inside that Château. Unless you have some other engagement?”

  She sat up and pawed the air, hoping for more of the croissant.

  “There’s much to be done today. I’ve told everyone I wouldn’t involve myself, but it seems no one’s doing anything to solve these murders or put an end to this monster business. You agree?”

  She barked and wagged her tail, eyes on the croissant.

  Damiot broke off another piece and gave it to her. “I must learn the facts to satisfy my own curiosity about both—murderer and monster.”

  She barked again.

  * * * *

  Standing in the narrow street, facing the small house where Blanche had lived, eleven years ago, he realized that the sun was much warmer than yesterday. He slipped out of his waterproof and tossed it into the car.

  Blanche had been born in Courville, although he hadn’t known her when he lived here. Of course, there was nine years’ difference in their ages. She was only twenty-three when they had met…

  Damiot pulled the metal handle beside the door, and heard a bell tinkle inside.

  Perhaps Blanche had gone to Mass. More than likely she was married by now. With three or four children…

  “Oui, M’sieur?”

  Damiot saw a tiny old woman, thin and dark, with narrowed suspicious eyes. “Pardon, Madame. I’m looking for Blanche Carmet.”

  “Blanche Carm…” She slammed the door.

  He returned, puzzled, to his car and, swinging it around, drove back toward the square. Pausing at the corner of Avenue Mireille for the traffic light, he heard organ music coming from Saint-Sauveur.

  Perhaps if he waited outside the church, he might see Blanche Carmet coming out from Mass. He slowed to a stop and walked toward Saint-Sauveur. In this bright sunlight the church looked almost as it had when he was a boy.

  The music of the Mass flowed out to meet him as he went up the gravel path around the side, into the cemetery. Making his way between the headstones, he noticed that the red carnations on Julien Bouchard’s grave still looked fresh.

  And so did the roses he had left yesterday…

  Damiot touched the headstone on his father’s grave as he listened to the shrill, untrained voices rising above the wheezy rumble of the organ. To his surprise, he recognized the end of the Mass… Repulsed by the cold headstone, he left the graves and headed back toward the church.

  The interior of Saint-Sauveur would be unchanged from his childhood. Warm candlelight on the old paintings, the statues, and the curiously decorated walls.

  It had seemed a different place, cold and dark, when he attended the requiem masses, three weeks apart, for his parents…

  He waited at the corner of the church until the first rush of villagers came through the portal blinking at the sun, pausing for a word with the priest. This was a new man. Younger than the last, but already showing a priestly paunch under his chasuble.

  The two Sibilats emerged slightly apart from the others. Madame, in black, holding a missal in one black-gloved hand. Sibilat, wearing a gray suit that, with his slicked-down hair, made him seem younger. Madame had noticed Damiot and was whispering to her son.

  Damiot glanced away, checking other faces, before Sibilat had a chance to look in his direction. Some of the villagers had noticed him, and more heads were turning. None of the young women resembled Blanche Carmet…

  He looked back toward the Sibilats, who had already reached the street. Madame seemed to be arguing with her son, the shiny black feathers on her hat swaying up and down.

  Turning toward the church again, Damiot saw that Hercule Mauron and a thin woman, obviously his wife—both dressed in their Sunday best—had paused beside the priest, who was bowing obsequiously to Monsieur le Maire. They continued on toward the street without noticing Damiot.

  His attention was drawn back to see Aurore Bouchard, very smart in a tailored suit and jaunty hat, coming from the church with Michel Giroud, wearing a dark blue jacket with gray slacks. Damiot hadn’t anticipated seeing them here this morning. Aurore had observed his presence but showed no reaction, and Michel, after speaking to the priest, escorted her toward the gate.

  They were followed by Jean-Paul, the waiter from the Auberge, with a pretty girl. Probably his wife. He saw Damiot and bowed, turning to speak to his attractive companion, who stared quite openly at the detective.

  Damiot wondered if the murderer might be among these people coming out from the dark church into the glare of sunlight…

  “Monsieur Inspecteur…”

  He turned to face Marc Sibilat, who had returned across the grass.

  “You were waiting to see me?”

  “Matter of fact, I’ve been visiting my parents’ graves again.” He saw that Sibilat was nervous, fumbling with his tie. “Why did you think I wished to see you?”

  “My mother told me you came to the shop yesterday. Asking about those flowers on Lisette Jarlaud’s grave…”

  “I suspected, from their wrapping, they’d been bought in your shop. Madame remembered that she had sold them to a young farmer.”

  “Achille Savord.”

  “She said he came in one day while you were out.”

  “I’d gone somewhere in the truck to make a delivery.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Savord’s relationship with the Jarlaud girl?” Damiot asked.

  “I know nothing about that. Although I have heard, of course, that Lisette had—relationships—with many men in Courville.”

  “And you, Monsieur? Did you have a relationship with her?” He glanced away and saw that the last of the villagers had departed. The priest, hesitating at the portal, was observing him with undisguised curiosity. Hearing a deep sigh from Sibilat, Damiot faced him again. “Well, Monsieur?”

  “Several times. My mother doesn’t suspect. She thinks I never knew Lisette. Has no idea that I used to take her in my truck to other towns so that we could go to a cinema without being recognized…”

  “Where did you sleep with her?”

  “In the back of the truck, usually. We would park on a side road or in some field. But I always had to be home before midnight or my mother would ask questions. Lisette’s parents never cared what time she got in.”

  “You’re a grown man, yet your mother treats you like a child.”

  “If only my mother had died, instead of my father. Poor man! She always told him what to do. Watched him, every minute!”

  “You were seen recently talking to Lisette Jarlaud, here in the square. Apparently quarreling with her.”

  “Lisette waited for me in the square. Many times! When she saw my truck parked. Usually to ask for money…”

  “Would you give it to her?”

  “If I had it. I felt sorry for her. Two small children to support.”

  “What about the other girl? The one found in that field.”

  “Annie Deffous…”

  “You know he
r name!”

  “I was afraid to tell the local gendarmes when they questioned me. Didn’t want to get involved. But when I learned that you had come from Paris, I knew I would have to tell you.”

  “Where did you know this Deffous girl?”

  “When I lived in Toulon.”

  “Toulon?” He watched the priest go, finally, into the church.

  “Before I came to Courville. Annie worked there in some shop, as a bookkeeper.”

  “What sort of shop?”

  “She never told me.”

  “Where did you first meet her?”

  “When I was walking one evening on the Quai Stalingrad.”

  “And after that?”

  “Many different places. She never said where she lived or anything like that. Whether or not she had a family…”

  “How did you arrange to meet?”

  “She would tell me when she would be free and where I could pick her up in my car. Usually some street corner. I would take her to a restaurant for dinner, and afterward to one of the waterfront hotels.”

  “Didn’t your mother suspect?”

  “My father was alive then and she was more concerned about him. Anyway, I always told her I was spending the night with a friend from medical school.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “The summer before my father died. Three years ago.”

  “Why did you stop seeing the Deffous girl?”

  “She told me she was pregnant.”

  “Your child?”

  “Annie swore that it wasn’t. Said she knew who the father was and he had agreed to pay for everything. Told me she was in love with him and she wouldn’t be able to meet me any more.”

  “Did you try to see her after that?”

  “Why should I? Matter of fact, I was glad we were finished.”

  “Why?”

  Sibilat shrugged. “I was never in love with Annie. Never intended to marry her. She was as demanding as my mother. Telling me where she wanted to go for dinner, which movie to see.”

  “You never saw Annie Deffous again?”

  “Not until she turned up in Courville. Came into my shop…”

  “When was this?”