The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  “The day before her body was found.”

  “Your mother saw her?”

  “Fortunately, she was busy in the kitchen. I built a new kitchen in the back purposely, so I could have a few hours’ peace every day without having to hear my mother’s voice. Annie showed up when my mother was cooking dinner. Mon Dieu! If I hadn’t been there that afternoon, they would have met.”

  “What did the Deffous girl want with you?”

  “Nothing, really. She had noticed our sign—Sibilat Fleurs—as she drove into the village. I’d told her many times that I wanted to open a florist shop. So she stopped, and there I was!”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “We only talked for a moment because I was afraid my mother would hear our voices. Annie said that she’d come here to see a friend.”

  “Someone in the village?”

  “She never told me that, but she implied the person had money.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “From the way she talked it had to be a man.”

  “What, exactly, did she say?”

  “Only that she was seeing somebody about money he owed her.”

  “A man who owed her money…”

  “She had taken time off from her job to drive up here. She wouldn’t know how long she’d be in Courville until after she contacted her friend. Asked me about a cheap place to stay, and I suggested that motel behind the town hall. But when I phoned in the evening, she wasn’t there. Her body was found next morning. I had no idea at first that the dead girl was Annie. I can tell you, Monsieur Inspecteur, it was a shock when they asked everyone to try and identify the body. Fortunately there were several of us lined up, and nobody noticed that I recognized her. I told them I’d never seen her before. I swear, Monsieur, I didn’t kill Annie.”

  “In that case, nothing can happen to you. On the other hand, if you did kill her, someone will eventually find out.”

  “Then I’ve nothing to worry about! Except I’d better get home before my mother becomes suspicious. I’ll say that you questioned me but there was nothing I could tell you.”

  “Did you see what sort of car this Deffous girl was driving when she came to your shop?”

  “Yes. It was a gray Dauphine. An old model…”

  “Au ’voir, Monsieur.” Damiot held out his hand.

  Sibilat appeared to be surprised by the gesture. “Merci, Monsieur Inspecteur.” He shook Damiot’s hand and hurried down the path.

  So Sibilat had known both those girls. Annie Deffous and Lisette Jarlaud.

  Florists worked with sharp knives, and Sibilat had studied for several years to be a doctor. A surgeon…

  These seemingly weak types, dominated by women—mother or wife—frequently exploded with sudden violence. Even murder…

  CHAPTER 14

  “Graudin speaking…”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be home, Sunday morning.”

  “M’sieur Inspecteur! You’re back in Paris?”

  “I’m still in Courville.” He heard small children screaming in the background as Graudin talked. “I was calling to ask…”

  “How’s the hip, M’sieur? Feeling better?”

  “Seems to be healing. I’ve been giving it plenty of exercise. I’m staying at the Auberge Courville.”

  “Auberge Courville… I’m writing that down.”

  “It’s a new place. Some people have taken over the building where my parents had their restaurant. The house where I was born! There’s a phone, if anyone wants me. Don’t know the number. I’m calling to find out if anything’s developed with those two cases I was working on before I went to that damn hospital…”

  “Everybody at the Prefecture is talking about you!”

  “What?”

  “The Chief announced at some meeting yesterday that you’re investigating two murders there.”

  “Merde! How the devil could he…”

  “He told them that when they take vacations they do nothing but eat and sleep. Always come back to work overweight. But not Chief Inspector Damiot. He gets involved with two murder cases and…”

  “I am not investigating any murders! You can tell that to anybody who asks. Including the Chief! Tell them I’m going to stay here—eating and sleeping—for another two weeks!” He slammed the phone down and, still furious, turned away from the public phone in the lobby of the Hôtel Courville.

  As he stalked toward the desk, he realized that he had learned nothing from Graudin about the two Paris investigations!

  A man was typing behind the registration desk.

  “Inspector Bardou’s room?”

  “Room seventeen. Second floor, rear…”

  The upstairs corridor smelled of bad plumbing and ancient dust.

  Climbing the stairs hadn’t bothered his hip. So he must be improving! In fact, this morning he was feeling much better in every way. Perhaps it was because of what had happened, last night, with Aurore…

  He found number seventeen and knocked on the door.

  “Who’s there?” Bardou’s voice was muffled.

  “Damiot!”

  There was a shuffling sound from inside before the door opened.

  “M’sieur Inspecteur! I was in bed.”

  “Good.” He saw that Bardou was wearing wrinkled cotton pajamas, his feet bare. “How’s your cold?”

  “Much worse…” He headed back toward his rumpled bed.

  Damiot closed the door. “Didn’t that toddy help any?”

  “Nothing has helped.” He collapsed onto the side of the bed. “Don’t get close to me, you’ll catch my cold. Sit over there.” Motioning to the only chair that wasn’t piled with clothing.

  “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.” Damiot realized that he was still seething with rage over his call to Paris. Mustn’t get angry with Bardou. The man looked miserable. “I must warn you again, I’ve no intention of getting involved with the local police. In any way!”

  “I understand that, M’sieur Inspecteur.” He lighted a Gauloise as he talked. “I’ve told everybody you’re here on vacation…”

  So he had reported his presence to whoever was in charge at the gendarmerie! Damiot restrained his fury.

  “They already knew you were in Courville.”

  “Did they?”

  “Seems they checked with Paris when they realized you were the famous Chief Inspector Damiot.”

  “Merde!”

  “They thought you’d been sent to solve the two murders, but Paris informed them you’re here for a rest.”

  “Exactly what I told you yesterday!” Damiot moved about in the cramped space, avoiding furniture. “But I do have one or two ideas about those girls who were murdered, and I’ve come across several bits of information. I’m going to look into them because of my professional curiosity about all crimes, but whatever I learn I shall turn over to you.”

  “To me?”

  “You must get all the credit. Understand?”

  “That’s very generous, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

  “Generosity has nothing to do with it! I have no desire to get involved. Now then… Did you ever hear of a young farmer named Achille Savord?”

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “One of several locals who apparently enjoyed the favors of that Jarlaud girl.”

  “Nobody’s mentioned him to me.”

  “Savord must have cared for the girl, because he’s the only one who placed flowers on her grave.”

  “I thought her family put them there.”

  “Madame Sibilat, at the florist shop, tells me she sold them to Savord. You should have a talk with him.”

  “I’ll certainly do that, M’sieur Inspecteur…”

  “What’s the name of that man you said would be on duty this weekend at the gendarmerie?”r />
  “Porel.”

  “Phone him after I leave here. Explain who I am and…”

  “He already knows! Everybody on the staff would like to meet the Chief Inspector from Paris.”

  Damiot gritted his teeth. “Tell Porel I want to have a look at that girl in the morgue. I’ll stop by this afternoon. Now! For your private information… The unidentified girl in the morgue was from Toulon.”

  “Was she!” Bardou found a pad and pencil on the bedside table and scribbled notes as Damiot explained.

  “Her name is Annie Deffous.”

  “Annie… I know several of the Toulon gendarmes. They came to Arles last year, to break up a ring of kidnappers.”

  “Call them this afternoon. The Deffous girl worked there, as a bookkeeper in some shop. She arrived here the day she was murdered, driving a gray Dauphine. Your friends in Toulon can get the license number for you. You should send it, with a description of her car, to every gendarmerie in Provence. It has very likely been abandoned in the hills. You’ll be able to find out where Annie Deffous was staying, now that you have her name. Maybe it was this hotel! Ask why they didn’t report her missing when they found her luggage in the room where she must have spent part of the evening, waiting for someone. Check what phone calls she made. She apparently came to Courville looking for somebody who owed her money…”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Had to be a man. Could be someone in the village or living nearby. That’s all I can tell you at this moment.”

  “More than anybody else has learned in two months!”

  “Don’t let anyone suspect you got this from me.”

  “No, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

  Damiot went toward the door. “Handle this right and you’ll get a promotion.”

  “I spoke to the manager on the phone this morning. Had him check who was staying here when those two girls were murdered, but there was nobody here both nights.”

  “Of course he could’ve used different names each time!”

  “And the manager doesn’t remember any guest driving a black Ferrari. Too fancy for this hotel…”

  “Make those calls.”

  “Right away!” Bardou stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the telephone.

  Damiot was smiling as he closed the door, escaping the cigarette-fouled room, and started down the corridor toward the stairs.

  He was no longer angry about his call to Paris.

  * * * *

  The ham sandwich was excellent and the beer, as before, not too cold. The proprietor, his squat body wrapped in a long apron, was busy sluicing down the sidewalk with soapy water.

  Damiot watched three ancients, their heads protected from the sun by faded berets, playing a game of boules in the far corner of the square, beyond the pissoir. They had probably been here every Sunday, weather permitting, for years!

  As he finished the sandwich, washing it down with the last of his beer, Damiot wondered again why that old woman had slammed the door in his face when he asked for Blanche Carmet.

  In the old days, when he was growing up, everybody in Courville knew where everyone else lived! And everybody was friendly. At least to other villagers. But, of course, he was an outsider now…

  Perhaps the Carmet family had moved to some nearby village…

  The proprietor returned from the street with his empty water bucket. “Another beer, M’sieur Damiot?”

  “You know who I am, do you?”

  “The whole village must know by now! That you were born here and they’ve sent you from Paris, to find out who killed those two girls…”

  He felt his anger rising again. “That’s a local matter. No concern of mine.”

  “Of course! Whatever you say, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

  “One beer’s enough today.” Dropping a ten-franc note on the table.

  “The radio says we may get more rain tonight.” He set his bucket on the floor and counted out change.

  “Have yourself a beer.” Damiot pushed most of the change across the table. “Do you know a local girl named Carmet? Blanche Carmet?”

  “M’sieur knows Blanche Carmet?”

  “Met her last time I was here. She seems to have moved since then.”

  “Not far! One of those old houses at the far end of rue Woodrow Wilson. Around the corner, third from the end. You can’t miss it!”

  Damiot glanced at the solitary billiard player and rose from the table. “I suppose Monsieur Giroud plays billiards here?”

  “Michel? Several nights every week. When he doesn’t play here he goes to the other cafe across the square. Gives his business to both of us.” Walking with Damiot toward the street. “Always buys a bottle of my best wine. He knows every good year. As well as the bad!”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s a fine chef.”

  “Wouldn’t know ’bout that.” He hesitated, arms akimbo, in the open doorway. “Can’t afford the prices they charge at the Auberge. A demain, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

  “A demain…” He started toward the corner. The air was even warmer with the sun directly overhead, and the old men playing boules were moving slowly in a haze of heat.

  There were small shops on both sides of the street. All were closed for Sunday. No sidewalks here, and the line of shops ended in a row of houses, close together, edging the cracked pavement. He approached the door of the third house from the end.

  Reaching out to grasp the rusty handle, he heard a bell respond inside when he gave it a pull. The door was opened, barely a crack, by a thin-faced woman with glossy black hair, wearing a black silk kimono.

  “Pardon, Madame. I’m looking for Blanche Carmet…”

  “Blanche?”

  “I was told she lives here.”

  The door opened a little more. “You’re a friend of Blanche?”

  “I knew her several years ago.” He saw that the black kimono was embroidered with scarlet flowers and trimmed with fringes of the same color. “The last time I was in Courville.”

  “Then you’re an old friend!” She laughed. “Come in, M’sieur.” Moving ahead, through a narrow hall. “You can wait in our salon.”

  He closed the door and followed, aware of her overpowering perfume, into a dimly lighted room furnished with divans and ottomans upholstered in crimson velvet. The place looked like…a whorehouse!

  Madame motioned toward a divan. “Would you care for something to drink, M’sieur?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find out if Blanche is awake…”

  “Merci, Madame.” He sank onto a divan as she left the room and was immediately engulfed by waves of scent. They seemed to rise from the velvet upholstery, which must have been saturated for years with perfumes from many female bodies.

  Blanche Carmet in a whorehouse?

  That’s why the old woman had slammed her door. She had thought he was looking for a prostitute and, apparently, he was…

  Eleven years ago Blanche had said that she was twenty-three. Now she must be thirty-four. He tried to remember what she had looked like. Brown hair and blue eyes. Big-boned girl, solidly fleshed but attractive. He had enjoyed being with her several times while he was here. She had been extremely satisfying in bed. Could she even then have been working in the local bordello? He had driven her home, late at night, but never met any members of the family. She said it was her home, and he had asked no questions…

  “Thought it must be you.”

  Damiot looked up to see a plump woman with short blond curls, standing in the doorway. Breasts barely covered by a pale pink kimono, pink satin slippers on her bare feet.

  “Blanche?” He got to his feet, clumsily.

  “I heard you were back.” She moved toward him, smiling tentatively. “Wondered if you’d come see me…”


  “You’ve put on a little weight.”

  The kimono billowed as she walked. “Some men like a big girl. Others like thin or crippled girls or…”

  He shrugged. “Chacun à son goût!” They sat down on the divan. “How long have you been working here?”

  “Six years now. There was nothing else for me in the village.” She rested her small hands in her lap. “I got your letter.”

  “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “You wrote that you were getting married.”

  “So I did…”

  Someone overhead was running a bath, and there was a smell of fresh coffee. The place was coming alive. Girl’s voice, clear and sweet, singing a popular song he remembered hearing in Pigalle. “I went to that house where you used to live…”

  “Oh?” She giggled nervously. “What happened?”

  “When I asked for you the woman banged the door in my face.”

  “She would.” Throwing her head back and laughing. “Been some time since anyone looked for me there.”

  “I’m staying at the Auberge.”

  “I know.” Her laughter subsided. “Madame saw you yesterday, when she was shopping. You were in the patisserie with that English girl. M’sieur Giroud had already told us you were staying at the Auberge. He’s the chef there.”

  “You know Giroud?”

  “Michel? He was here last night. Always asks for me.” She smiled. “Says he only likes girls who look as though they enjoy eating. And I do! Not like that woman at the Auberge who’s always after him.”

  “Woman at the…”

  “She owns the place. Madame Bouchard! Michel says she needs more flesh on her bones.”

  “Does he?”

  “Michel’s a pleasant fellow! All the other girls like him but he asks only for me. He phones at least twice a week when he knows what time he’ll be finished at the Auberge. Phones from the kitchen, during the dinner hour, so Madame Bouchard never suspects anything.” She giggled again. “That English girl’s after him also, but Michel says she’s skinny as a boy! That’s what he says, but I think he makes love to all of ’em! Not that I care…” She shrugged. “He still comes back to me!”

  “Do you know a young farmer named Savord?”