The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  “Achille? He comes here Saturday nights. Always asks for Clara. Achille’s a nice boy. Très gentil!”

  “Not a rough type?”

  “Certainly not! He sometimes brings little gifts for Clara’s new baby…”

  “What about the Jarlaud girl? The one who was murdered. Did you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her in the shops, but we never spoke. Most of the men in the village knew her. Even though they deny it! Madame didn’t like her, of course, because she took business away…”

  “Eh bien! I must be going.” Damiot got to his feet. “Wanted to see you again. Find out how things were with you.”

  “Not bad. As you can see.” She pushed herself up from the divan. “Madame looks out for us. Only at the moment, things are slow. Everyone’s afraid to go out, nights, because of those murders. Even the men!” She walked ahead of him toward the entrance, her hips swaying under the kimono. “Maybe you’ll catch the killer while you’re here…”

  “I’m on vacation. Not looking for any murderer.” As he followed her through the hall, he took two hundred-franc notes from his wallet and folded them in the palm of his hand. “I came here to rest after I left the hospital.”

  “You’ve been ill?”

  “Last month, in Paris, I had to have surgery on my hip.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “But I’m much better now.”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “She’s left me.”

  “For good?” She turned to face him as she opened the door.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a fine man. If you want her, she’ll come back.”

  “Au ’voir…” He held out his hand.

  The unexpected gesture surprised her. “Will I see you again?” She shook his hand.

  “Perhaps…”

  “You are also a kind man.” She pulled her hand away.

  Damiot realized that the hundred-franc notes were gone.

  “Take care of yourself, M’sieur Inspecteur!”

  * * * *

  Local gendarmeries were always housed in the town hall. There would be a small courtroom, an interrogation room, and a jail. He wondered what poor bastards were behind bars here today. Some farmer who had stolen a neighbor’s sheep. The village drunk…

  This empty corridor stank, like all municipal corridors. It was a combination of many things, dominated by disinfectant and the unmistakable scent of poverty and fear, left behind by the unfortunates who had passed through here.

  Damiot walked into a room where Gendarmerie was painted on the gray wall in crude black letters, and looked inside.

  The room was small, with a row of files against one wall, and several wooden benches. Facing the door, between two windows, a low platform supported a long table that served as a desk. Low arched doorway in the wall opposite the files.

  A man slumped in a chair at the desk was snoring.

  The gendarme appeared to be in his twenties. Black hair, one clump hanging down over his forehead. Thin face and long nose.

  Damiot cleared his throat.

  The eyes opened. “M’sieur?”

  “I’m…”

  “Chief Inspector Damiot!” He struggled to his feet. “Forgive me, M’sieur! I must’ve dozed off…”

  “You are Porel?”

  “That’s right, M’sieur Inspecteur. I knew you’d be coming in this afternoon. Inspector Bardou phoned half an hour ago. Did you know he’s identified the first victim?”

  “Has he?”

  “Told me on the phone. Her name’s Annie Deffous and she came from Toulon. Inspector Bardou talked with the gendarmes there. They have no record of her name, but he’s asked them to check on her and get back to him.”

  “Looks as though he’s making progress.”

  “Inspector Bardou’s a terrific guy!”

  “Did you know this Deffous girl?” Damiot asked, glancing toward the nearest windows as though his question wasn’t important.

  “No, M’sieur Inspecteur. I’ve never been to Toulon.”

  Damiot faced him. “But you did know the other girl! Lisette Jarlaud.” He saw Porel’s face crimson. “Someone mentioned that you knew her.”

  “I guess everybody knew Lisette.”

  “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  “Once or twice…”

  “Only once or twice?”

  “Four or five times, maybe. Half the men in the village slept with Lisette.”

  “I’d like to have a look at that unidentified girl who, it seems, has now been identified. What did you say her name was?”

  “Annie Deffous.”

  Damiot followed as Porel swung a heavy door open into a cool corridor where one small bulb glowed in the ceiling. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

  “We usually don’t keep a dead body here more than a few days. In fact, this is the first since I came on staff.” He opened another door and snapped a switch that lighted several ceiling bulbs.

  Damiot blinked as he entered a narrow, white-tiled room. The windows at the far end had been plastered over but never painted. There was an old-fashioned autopsy table in the center, and the smell of disinfectant was overpowering.

  “Didn’t like to look at her at first, but I’ve gotten used to it now.” Porel walked to a tier of three large drawers and yanked the center one out with a harsh clatter of metal.

  As Damiot moved closer he felt cold air strike his face.

  Annie Deffous, even in death, was a pretty girl. Delicate nose, thick eyelashes, and a pleasant mouth that seemed about to speak.

  Damiot frowned. It was still a shock, after all these years, to see the dead body of a young person or a child. He recalled, as he circled the open drawer, that Tendrell had said the murderer’s skill with a knife showed knowledge of anatomy. The cut across the throat, neat and precise, had almost severed her neck.

  A slit from the médecin-légiste’s scalpel extended from the breastbone down to the mound of Venus. The long red hair, tucked like a pillow under her head, looked dull and lifeless. It had continued to grow for a time after death, and the dark roots matched the pubic hair. The Englishman had been right—her hair was dyed.

  “Who performed the autopsy?” he asked.

  “Doctor Mondor, from Salon. He does all our police work. There’s no doctor here in the village.”

  Damiot peered at the hands. “See this callus? Middle finger, right hand. Took years of pressure to cause that. Pen or pencil. She must’ve done some sort of clerical work.”

  “I never noticed that!” Porel leaned down for a closer look. “You’re right about her work. Bardou’s found out she was a bookkeeper. But you knew that from looking at her hand!”

  Damiot straightened. “I’ve finished.”

  Porel closed the drawer and turned toward the door again.

  “One thing more, while I’m here.”

  “Certainly, M’sieur Inspecteur!” He opened the door.

  “I’d like to see where the other girl’s body was found.” He went ahead, into the corridor. “Behind here, wasn’t it? In the alley?”

  “I can show you the exact spot.” Porel switched off the light in the morgue and closed the door. They continued on through the corridor. “This takes us to the alley.”

  Damiot followed, between stone columns, toward a distant door. “What hour of the day was the Jarlaud girl’s body discovered?”

  “Early morning. Two children stumbled over it as they took a shortcut to school…” He turned a key in the lock and opened the door.

  The sunlight was dazzling, the air warm, after the cold interior.

  He walked with Porel toward a mass of bushes that formed a green oasis sheltered by tall poplars. “This was the spot?”

  “The body was found in here
.” Porel thrust the bushes apart with both hands and moved between them into an open space where daylight barely reached. “We made marks on the ground to show the exact spot, but of course the rains have washed all that away.” He turned to Damiot. “There are photographs, if you’d like to see them.”

  “Another time… This alley must’ve been convenient for all concerned. Too narrow for cars to pass through, and no people around after dark. Lisette Jarlaud was able to come here unnoticed, after her day’s work at the Hôtel Courville. Anyone could meet her without being seen! The alley runs behind all the shops on this side of the square. Any one of a dozen men could’ve slipped out and met her here…”

  “That’s right, M’sieur Inspecteur. We’ve questioned all the shopkeepers.”

  “And anybody could come out for a rendezvous—as we did, just now, from that rear door of the town hall!”

  “That’s possible…”

  “I suppose you met Lisette here?”

  “Well, I…” His voice choked in his throat. “You won’t report me?”

  “I’ve already told you. This is Bardou’s investigation—not mine. I won’t report you to anybody.”

  “In that case, M’sieur Inspecteur, I will tell you—in strict confidence—I did meet Lisette here. But only twice! The other times we always drove into the hills in my car.”

  For a moment, as they walked toward rue Voltaire, visible at the end of the alley, neither spoke. Damiot remembered days when he had run through this alley, avoiding the square, on an errand for his parents or up to some mischief of his own. But never at night…

  As they reached the street, he glanced at Porel again. “I think I’ll drive up and have a look at the spot where that other girl died.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I will tell M’sieur le Commissaire that you were here.”

  “If you must.” He turned down rue Voltaire toward the square.

  * * * *

  As Damiot drove into the hills, he missed having Fric-Frac at his side, looking out the window. Perhaps when he returned to Paris he would buy himself a dog. Exactly like Fric-Frac!

  Sophie had never wanted any kind of animal in their apartment. Afraid it would soil the rugs or damage the furniture.

  Olympe always had a cat. Curled up on fancy lace cushions in her boudoir. Fat and jealous, with long white hair that stuck to his trousers. He wondered if she’d taken that damn cat to Mexico.

  As before, the gates of the Château were closed and padlocked. Through the grille he could see the distant castle beyond the dark tunnel of trees, like a mirage in the dazzling sunlight. A commercial truck roared past, in the opposite direction.

  Damiot swerved the Peugeot across the highway, between the trees and toward the field where the girl’s body had been found, parking at the edge of the wood. He got out and walked through the cropped grass into the field.

  The presence of several cows, grazing at the far end, explained why the grass wasn’t higher. Their heads turned in unison to inspect the intruder, but their jaws continued to chew.

  This open field, surrounded by a dense forest, was the size of several Paris blocks. Impossible to guess where Annie Deffous had been murdered. There would be nothing left, after two months, to indicate the spot.

  He walked along the edge of the wood, parallel to the road, and saw that the moist earth was deeply pitted by hoofs.

  This was a perfect place for the murderer to rendezvous with his victim. They could park their cars and nobody would see them from the road or hear the victim’s screams.

  After Annie Deffous died, the murderer would somehow have had to get rid of her car. He wouldn’t be able to drive it anywhere, because he might be noticed walking back to pick up his own car.

  The dead girl’s car must be somewhere nearby. There were several openings between the trees through which a small car could pass…

  There would be deep ravines in there. The murderer must have looked the place over, checked the terrain, before he arranged to meet the Deffous girl here. Probably that same afternoon, before the murder. Which meant she had been able to contact him and he had instructed her where they could meet that night, probably at a cafe in some nearby village. After a few drinks she would have followed his car up here in her gray Dauphine.

  The murderer had to be one of the villagers. Only a local would know it was safe to come here for what he planned to do. Would know that everyone avoided this field after dark, because of its unpleasant history.

  He realized that the grass was whirring with sound in the hot sunlight. Cigales! Must be hundreds of them…

  In the old days there had been a gibbet here. Criminals were tried in the great courtyard of the Château by a judge who traveled from village to village. People came from all over the surrounding countryside to attend the trials. It was because of those trials that people had called the Château by another name. Castle Death…

  He peered around, visualizing how it must have been.

  Crude wooden gallows in the center, with several bodies dangling. Hundreds of people enjoying the free spectacle, eating and drinking. Their horses tied to trees around the edge of the field, among rows of coaches, carriages, and carts. Booths selling food, wine, and cider. Fortune-tellers, mountebanks, pickpockets, thieves… Certainly there would have been children underfoot. And dogs…

  Everyone dropping coins. Losing them through holes in their pockets… The same coins he had found here hundreds of years later. And lost again.

  There would have been musicians and singers. The noise must have been tremendous…

  He gazed across the field at the peaceful herd of cows. They had accepted or forgotten his presence.

  Suddenly a cloud of color rose from the grass. Orange, yellow, and black.

  Butterflies! His eyes followed them as they rose higher and higher. He had never seen so many! They floated in a mass, their colors brilliant against the dark forest.

  Damiot realized that the sky was filling with black clouds. Pushing down from the Alpilles.

  No matter. He was coming back to the Château tonight.

  Even if it rained.

  CHAPTER 15

  His father pounding a medallion of veal with a wooden mallet. Complaining, as usual, that the quality of meat wasn’t what it used to be. His mother smiling, seated near the kitchen windows, shelling fresh peas from the garden. It was the old kitchen, with only two small windows. As usual, she was singing as she worked…

  Damiot opened his eyes and saw a glare of light in the tiled bath.

  The pounding continued.

  Someone knocking at his door!

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Claude, M’sieur. You have a telephone call.”

  “Be right there!” He pushed himself up from the bed and checked his wristwatch on the bedside table. “Almost six-thirty!” He had slept longer than he intended, after his hot bath. Securing the cord of his robe, he hurried toward the lobby, into a symphony of aromas flowing from the distant kitchen. The dominant scent was fresh rosemary…

  He picked up the phone at the reception desk, glancing toward the dim restaurant where the two waiters were arranging their tables for dinner. “Damiot speaking.”

  “M’sieur Inspecteur! It’s Bardou…”

  “Thought it might be. How’re you feeling, mon ami?”

  “Much better. I’ll be on the job tomorrow. If it’s not raining.”

  “Is it raining now?”

  “For the past hour.”

  “Merde! I’ve been asleep. What’s happened?”

  “I’ve talked with the gendarmerie in Toulon. That Deffous girl was missing for two months. But it seems nobody suspected foul play, because she told people she was taking a long vacation and had no idea when she’d return.”
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  “Does she have a family?”

  “Nobody, far as they’ve learned from her neighbors. She lived alone, in the house where she was born. Both her parents are dead.”

  “What about friends? Men in her life…”

  “Nobody seems to know anything. The neighbors say they’ve never seen anyone go into the house. Except one young woman with a child who came to visit her sometimes on weekends. But they’ve no idea who they were. My friends at the gendarmerie did find out where she was employed. The place is closed today, of course, but they’ll question the owners and her fellow workers tomorrow. And you were right! She was an accountant for a shop that sells hotel equipment and supplies. Been with them several years…”

  “What about her car?”

  “My friends are checking the license number. They’ll call back tomorrow, when they get it.”

  “Good work, Bardou.”

  “Merci, M’sieur Inspecteur.”

  “When are you going to report this to the Commissaire here?”

  “In the morning. Can’t reach him tonight.”

  “Let me know what else you learn.”

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

  “And get rid of that cold!” He put the phone down and headed toward his room, where he pushed back the curtains and saw that the garden was drenched with rain, the paths flooded again.

  Curious how a young woman could drive off for a vacation and not return in two months, yet nobody reported her absence to the police…

  Annie Deffous must have been one of those odd young women who lived only for her job—a human computer, who never made an error—until, one day, something happened and the perfect mechanism ground to a stop.

  He had known young women in Paris, with good jobs during the day, who prowled after dark in search of excitement. They frequented certain cafés on the Champs-Elysées and in Montparnasse, but they never considered themselves whores because they seldom accepted money and avoided the streets favored by prostitutes. Could that be how it was with Annie Deffous? Had she met some man and followed him from Toulon to Courville, hoping for marriage, only to find death waiting? Perhaps she had been genuinely in love with this man…