The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  But how did she connect with Lisette Jarlaud? Could the two girls have known each other? Anything was possible…

  Rain slashing against the windowpanes.

  No matter! He was driving up to the Château tonight.

  * * * *

  As Aurore led him to his usual table, shielded by the low partition with its row of plants, Damiot was aware of several things.

  Aurore was wearing her most attractive dress tonight. Some kind of woolen material, soft yellow, with a skirt that seemed to flow as she walked ahead of him. A simple gold chain around her neck.

  Many of the tables were already occupied.

  Marc Sibilat and his mother, the old lady in black silk and that same feathered hat, sat at one of the window tables. Sibilat nodded, but Madame only frowned as she spooned soup into her mouth.

  Aurore pulled the chair out from his table.

  “Merci, Madame.” He sat down. “I saw you at Saint-Sauveur this morning.”

  “Michel and I attend Mass every Sunday.” She placed a menu within reach. “He’s more religious than I. His family wanted him to become a priest. Did you learn anything at the church?”

  “Matter of fact, I did.” He glanced toward Marc Sibilat and saw that he too was eating soup. “One or two things…”

  “The salmis de faisan is very special tonight. That’s what I had Michel prepare for my guests from Paris.”

  “So this is the big night!”

  “They’ll be arriving shortly, from Cannes. I’ve given them the double suite next to you. Bon appétit!” She turned back toward her desk, inspecting each table she passed.

  Damiot unfolded his napkin and settled down with anticipation for another pleasant dinner as Jean-Paul came to take his order.

  “An apéritif, M’sieur Damiot?”

  “Dry vermouth, please.” Madame Sibilat was now talking to her son, gesturing with a jeweled left hand as she continued to spoon her soup.

  The other table shielded behind potted plants, where the Tendrells had sat, was empty.

  Damiot picked up the menu—noticing that ratatouille was listed again—as he heard a car passing the restaurant windows and going toward the parking area. The visitors from Paris?

  Madame Sibilat, soup finished, was darting glances at Damiot as she continued to lecture her son. Both hands were free to gesture now. Marc Sibilat hadn’t finished his soup and was eating slowly, saying nothing. Pale eyes never lifting to look at his mother.

  Jean-Paul returned with the vermouth as a crash echoed through the dining room from the kitchen. “M’sieur Michel is nervous tonight. Madame expects friends from Paris for dinner. So there will be many crises. Pardon, M’sieur…” He headed toward the swinging doors as angry voices were heard.

  Damiot tasted the vermouth, his attention drawn toward the lobby, where the new arrivals had appeared. As they came into the light he saw that it was the English artist and his daughter. Aurore went to welcome them and the garçon darted to take Jenny Tendrell’s umbrella, that same green silk one, and their coats.

  He wondered if Jenny had told her father about their meeting, yesterday, at the patisserie…

  She was wearing an attractive dress. Her father was in another tweed jacket, a woolen shirt, and a clumsily knotted tie, his gray slacks without any streaks of paint.

  As they followed Aurore through the restaurant, Jenny glimpsed Damiot and waved, flashing a smile. Tendrell turned at once to see whom she was greeting, and nodded as Aurore led them to a window table.

  He was amused to see Jenny Tendrell slip into a chair facing the kitchen. Her father hadn’t realized that she would be able to observe the chef at work, from time to time, through those swinging doors.

  “No great tragedy in the kitchen.” Jean-Paul was smiling again. “M’sieur Michel threw a mixing bowl at the sous-chef because he was slow making a sauce. Fortunately the bowl was empty! M’sieur has decided?”

  “Let me see…” He reached for the menu and, after a brief discussion of each course, ordered rabbit pate, sorrel soup, and the salmis de faisan with a bottle of Château Vignelaure.

  When Jean-Paul returned to the kitchen, Damiot saw that the other waiter had brought the Tendrells what appeared to be some sort of cocktail, probably one of those strange British concoctions made with gin. There was even one called “gin and French!” Whatever that might be…

  As he ate, savoring each course, he continued to observe the Sibilats and the Tendrells.

  Madame Sibilat gave no indication that she enjoyed the food—although she devoured everything—but continued without pause the tirade she was directing toward her silent son. He seemed to answer in monosyllables, eating slowly and, apparently, without appetite.

  Jenny Tendrell kept glancing toward the kitchen as she sipped her cocktail. The waiter took their dinner order, which Tendrell gave after consulting his daughter. As he questioned the waiter about one dish, Damiot saw Jenny flash a dazzling smile toward the kitchen, where the chef must have appeared briefly at one of the round portholes in the swinging doors. She glanced at Damiot, realized that he had been watching, and winked.

  Her father noticed none of this.

  Dinner, once again, was a series of perfections, crowned by the ragout of pheasant garnished with a puree of chestnuts. Damiot was giving his complete attention to his meal when he sensed someone approaching his table and looked up to see the Englishman. “Ah, Monsieur Tendrell!”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Please…” He motioned toward the other chair and, as Tendrell sat down, realized that the Englishman’s back would be turned to his daughter.

  “Are you enjoying the salmis? This chef, Michel, does it rather well.” Lowering his voice. “What’s been happening, Monsieur Inspecteur?”

  “In regard to what?”

  “The murders, of course!”

  “I wouldn’t know about that…” He continued to eat as they talked.

  “And the monster? Have you told the local police that you saw it?”

  “I have said nothing. Not a word.”

  “Jenny tells me that she spoke with you yesterday afternoon.”

  “I happened to be at Madame Mussot’s when your daughter arrived. We had a very pleasant conversation.” As he talked, he saw that Michel had come from the kitchen, unnoticed by the Englishman, and was circling the restaurant, bowing to the men, kissing the ladies’ hands. “By the way, I paid another visit to the Château yesterday afternoon. Inspector Bardou permitted me to accompany him on a brief tour of the interior with the caretaker, who turns out to be an acquaintance from my youth.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Little of any importance. Inspector Bardou was hoping to find some trace of the monster. I went along because I hadn’t been inside the Château in thirty years.” He rested his knife on the plate. “You have been there yourself more recently.”

  “I? What the devil do you mean?”

  “That portrait I noticed, Friday night, in your home…”

  “What about it?”

  “The face is very like several of those family portraits hanging in the Château. The de Mohrt face.”

  “You are a clever man, Monsieur Inspecteur. Very observant. Yes, I did copy certain features from those portraits. The eyes and… Nothing wrong with that, surely? The caretaker, Pouchet, allowed me to enter.”

  Damiot shrugged. “Like the monster, Monsieur, it is no concern of mine.”

  Tendrell glanced toward his own table and saw that Michel was talking to Jenny. He immediately got to his feet. “I do wish, Monsieur Damiot, that you would forget about the monster. It simply doesn’t exist! Don’t waste time at the Château. Enjoy your holiday!” He hurried back to his table.

  Damiot noticed that the Englishman did not offer his hand to the chef, who after a few words bowed and moved on
to the Sibilats’ table. He leaned down to kiss Madame Sibilat’s jeweled claw.

  Why had Tendrell warned him away from the Château? Telling him to forget about the monster…

  He was distracted by the sound of a powerful motor in the drive as a car rolled toward the parking area.

  Aurore also heard the arrival and dispatched Claude to help the newcomers with their luggage.

  The guests from Paris had arrived.

  CHAPTER 16

  Damiot followed the road parallel to rue Voltaire and the old railroad tracks until he found the lane that would take him up to that side gate of the de Mohrt estate.

  He had come up here alone many times, carrying messages from his father. Avoiding this lane and darting across the fields…

  The caretaker had said he always walked down to the village through these same fields. He should make it easily in half an hour. At the end he would only have to cross those old railroad tracks to reach the alley where Lisette Jarlaud’s body had been found.

  Did the old man have some local woman living with him and not want the villagers to find out? Certainly, Damiot had smelled cooking yesterday, and it wasn’t what Pouchet had said. Not a cassoulet!

  This rain should keep Pouchet out of his way tonight. The old man probably retired early. Fortunately, he wouldn’t hear any noise overhead inside the Château. Or had he been feigning deafness? He certainly seemed to have all his other faculties…

  The villagers would stay indoors tonight because the monster never appeared unless the weather was clear.

  Damiot slowed his car as he glimpsed the open side gate through which he had entered the de Mohrt estate so many times in the past. Swerved off the lane, onto what was little more than a winding cow path, and drove on more carefully, peering from side to side.

  The Peugeot nosed out finally into an open area parallel to the east wing of the mansion. Pouchet’s quarters were at the rear, to Damiot’s right, the front courtyard to the left.

  He turned the car toward the front. Slowed to a stop at the edge of the forest, facing the cobbled courtyard, and snapped off his headlights. Bringing out the new torch from a pocket of his waterproof, he got out. His hip was aching again.

  When he reached the protection of the columned archway above the tall entrance doors, he turned off his torch, Fric-Frac close behind him.

  Impossible to see anything of the entrance drive through the rain, and no sounds came from the distant highway. He removed his hat and shook off some of the raindrops.

  Suddenly, from the forest, came a piercing scream. Fric-Frac barked and the scream was repeated.

  Damiot realized that it was one of the peacocks. The bird must have sensed the intruders. He put his hat on again.

  Another sound now. Dogs barking. From inside the mansion? Pouchet kept a mastiff downstairs, at the rear, but this sounded like two dogs.

  Fric-Frac barked again.

  “You have friends here, Madame?” Damiot asked. “Was that a dog you were sniffing yesterday, under all those doors?…”

  She was wiggling with excitement, as though she knew they were about to have some sort of adventure.

  Damiot brought out his key ring and found the device he always carried for such an emergency. He moved closer to the tall double doors and bent to inspect the lock.

  Not so old as he had anticipated. Antique locks could be difficult to open, but this had been installed recently. He worked with his small device, and after a moment felt the lock snap. Grasping the ornate knob, he turned it and swung the door open.

  “All right, Madame la Duchesse! We go inside, but not a sound from you.” He aimed the beam of light across the marble floor as Fric-Frac ran ahead into the great entrance hall.

  This was where he had entered, yesterday, with Pouchet and Bardou. Tonight he would follow the same route, room after room…

  His footsteps echoed faintly as he crossed the high-ceilinged entrance hall, glimpsing his own dark figure repeated endlessly in distant mirrors, and went up the broad marble staircase.

  Fric-Frac whimpered impatiently at the top of the stairs. He joined her on the balcony and opened the door into a small salon.

  The dog darted inside and Damiot went after her, closing the door before flashing the beam of his torch around. Holding it down toward the parquet floor, avoiding the uncurtained windows.

  It was the yellow salon that had belonged to the old Comtesse!

  Why was this one room furnished and none of the others?

  Moving on—salon after salon, through corridors and passages—he was aware of the silence, interrupted only by the rain striking against windows and dripping from leaks.

  He aimed the spot of light at several paintings. All portraits. Variations of the de Mohrt face. Their eyes watching him…

  No sound came from behind any of the closed doors.

  Continuing through the seemingly endless rooms, he wondered again if there had been a dog running loose yesterday. Or was there a woman living here with Pouchet? Had she been following their progress from room to room? Listening behind all those doors…

  Fric-Frac had stopped to sniff at another door. She began to paw at this one. Damiot switched off his torch as he moved closer.

  The only sound was Fric-Frac’s nails scratching against the wood.

  He grasped the cold metal handle and flung the door open. Fric-Frac shot ahead, growling, into the darkness.

  Something moving? Little more than a whisper of sound. Was it a door closing?

  He snapped his torch on and sent its thin beam across the floor.

  No sign of the dog.

  Another faint whisper of movement. From his right…

  Damiot aimed the torch in that direction and saw Fric-Frac trotting toward him, tail wagging. They were in another corridor. He switched off the torch again. Then waited in the dark for a repetition of the sounds, but he heard only rain striking the overhead skylights.

  He snapped on his torch. Better have a look behind that door he had sensed closing.

  Fric-Frac bounded ahead and nosed the crack under the door.

  Damiot swung it open and stepped inside. Into an empty room he had never seen before. Medium-sized, a row of high windows opposite the door, with a second closed door at one end, white marble fireplace at the other.

  As he started toward the closed door there was a distant and surprising sound. A telephone ringing? Faint but unmistakable…

  He froze as the sound was repeated.

  A telephone in the Château? Bardou had said Pouchet didn’t have one.

  The sound was not repeated a third time. Somebody had answered it.

  If there was a woman living here she would probably insist upon a telephone. Women couldn’t live without one…

  Moving again toward the door, he heard a dog barking in the depths of the mansion.

  Fric-Frac answered.

  Pouchet kept his mastiff chained downstairs in the kitchen, but this sounded closer.

  Another barrage of barking.

  Fric-Frac responded immediately.

  No way to stop her. Would Pouchet hear?

  Was the old man’s dog running loose? It would be dangerous to come upon a mastiff in one of these dark corridors. A beast that size could kill a small dog. Snap her neck with one crunch of its jaws…

  This was becoming risky. Should he go back the way he had come? He had taken so many turns he wasn’t even certain which wing of the Château he was in.

  “Merde! We’re lost.”

  Reaching the end of the room, Fric-Frac at his side, he opened the door into still another windowless passage. The dog ran ahead again.

  The next door opened into a small salon, bare of furniture, with a row of tall, rain-spattered windows.

  As Damiot started across the salon, toward more closed doors, there was
the faint sound, far away, of a bell tolling.

  The same bell that had tolled before the monster appeared!

  He opened one of the doors and found himself in a long corridor, with closed doors on both sides. Rain drumming overhead on a row of skylights.

  The tolling bell was much more distinct now. As though he were approaching its source.

  Which way should he go? Start back the way he had come? He had no idea which direction that might be. What door should he open next?

  The bell was much louder. Its deep, metallic clanging seemed to shake the walls. He could feel the vibrations beneath his feet, through the floor.

  Fric-Frac howled, her head raised, ears laid back.

  This time the other dogs didn’t answer. Or was their barking drowned by the tolling bell?

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the bell was silent.

  For a moment his ears continued to hum. Then, gradually, he began to hear the rain again. Splashing against those overhead skylights.

  Did the tolling bell mean the monster would appear on the terrace tonight? Surely not in this rain!

  There had to be a bell in one of those towers above the castle. But Bardou said he had checked every tower…

  Could Bardou be covering up for someone? Was he too involved with this business of the monster? It had to be a hoax!

  He kept going, Fric-Frac scampering ahead. All he could do was continue until he came to something familiar. A room remembered from yesterday…

  The next door opened into yet another windowless passage, with water dripping from a paneled ceiling and the floor damaged in several places. It would have taken many storms to do so much damage. Must be careful where he stepped…

  Far in the distance, probably on the highway, he heard the motor of a speeding car. From the sound it was a commercial truck with a powerful engine.

  He continued through another long corridor, with more dripping skylights and a rotted floor, the car sounding much closer.

  Coming up that front drive to the Château?

  The roar of the motor increased, louder and louder, until it seemed to be inside the mansion.

  This was impossible!