He glanced down and saw Fric-Frac cowering at his feet. “It’s all right, Madame.” He stooped and picked her up. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.” He tucked her trembling body under his left arm as he went toward the next closed door. Awkwardly changing the torch to his left hand, he gripped the handle and pushed the door open.
As he stepped into the adjoining room, the roar of the engine filled his ears. He reached to take the torch in his right hand again.
The thunder of sound enveloped him as the dog began to squirm and struggle in his arm. Crossing the room, he tried to restrain her.
The torch slipped from his fingers, its beam of light flashing crazily as it rolled across the floor and disappeared through a hole.
Now there was only darkness and the roar of the motor.
Rubber tires screeching. Brakes shrieking…
The black Ferrari?
Damiot took another step forward, cautiously. Then another. Heard rotten wood splinter. Felt the floor collapsing under his foot.
The dog slid out of his arm.
“Fric-Frac!”
There was a sharp flash of pain as his hip twisted.
“Mon Dieu!”
He tried desperately to save himself, but toppled backward. His head struck the floor with a crash that exploded into the roar of the motor…
CHAPTER 17
“Welcome to the Château de Mohrt, Monsieur Inspecteur!”
“What?” Damiot struggled up awkwardly from a sofa.
“I am Nicolas Frederic Cesar Philippe Etienne, Comte de Mohrt…”
Damiot peered from side to side into the shadows, but there was no one visible.
“I have followed the illustrious career of Chief Inspector Damiot for several years, with constant and growing fascination…”
Where was the voice coming from? He pushed himself up to a sitting position on what he discovered was a pillowed sofa. As the voice continued, he looked around at one of the most incredible rooms he had ever seen.
Heavy stone columns supported a vaulted ceiling, and rare Oriental rugs covered the floor. Expensive furniture—fine antiques and sleek modern pieces. Fire of logs in an immense stone fireplace. The place resembled a museum but was obviously lived in because there was a glass and chromium table desk with piles of documents, papers, filing folders, an antique astrolabe, and a pair of tall shaded lamps.
Turning his head slowly, Damiot saw that the walls were a solid mass of books and paintings. Behind the desk, floor to ceiling, was a magnificent tapestry. There were no windows or doors…
“…ever since I lived in Paris and read about your latest murder investigations in the newspapers…”
Damiot turned, sensing a whisper of motion at the far side of the room. Fric-Frac began to bark and darted in the same direction.
There appeared to be an open space between two of the stone columns, evidently the entrance to a corridor or passage.
And slowly, out of the darkness, a curious figure in a small wheelchair rolled into view. Body hunched under some sort of brown robe. Long black hair hanging to the shoulders. Damiot remembered those wheel tracks he had noticed yesterday on the marble floors. “Monsieur le Comte?”
“Welcome to Castle Death, Monsieur Inspecteur! That’s what the villagers have called my ancestral home for centuries. Château de Mohrt sounds exactly like Château de Mort. But I would not care to be called Count Death!” He laughed.
Damiot realized, as the compact wheelchair came closer, that it was controlled from a small plastic device resting on the Comte’s lap. He saw now that the face was an infantile version of the de Mohrt face. The deep-set eyes and prominent nose were like those in the portraits, but the mouth belonged to a petulant child.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Monsieur Inspecteur, since I learned last week of your arrival in Courville.”
“You honor me, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Please! Call me Nick, if you will. The family title is much too pompous.” The wheelchair reached the end of the desk. “My friend, Allan Tendrell, was the first to call me Nick. Actually, I find it more to my liking…”
“As you wish. Nick…”
The Comte didn’t seem to have legs under the rough-textured material of his robe, and no feet were visible on the metal footrest. With his left hand he controlled levers under one chromium arm of the wheelchair.
“Sit down, Monsieur.” His voice no longer came from the invisible speakers. He motioned toward a fauteuil facing the desk, then glanced down at Fric-Frac. “What a fine dog! I observed her yesterday when you came here with that detective from Arles. I’m told that her name is Fric-Frac and she belongs to Madame Bouchard at the Auberge. I’ve suspected for some time, from Allan Tendrell’s descriptions of her, that he’s in love with her. The lady, not the dog!” He maneuvered his wheelchair behind the desk to face Damiot. “Please!” Gesturing toward the armchair again. “Make yourself comfortable…”
Damiot lowered his hip carefully into the fauteuil, and Fric-Frac immediately jumped into his lap.
“I trust you suffered no injury when you fell?”
“No damage done. Apparently I struck my head and for a moment lost consciousness. When I wakened I found myself here.”
“Pouchet picked you up and carried you.”
“Did he!”
“Must be in his late seventies—no one seems to know—but he still has the strength of three younger men! I suppose I owe you an explanation. In fact, several explanations!”
As the Comte settled back in his leather-padded wheelchair, Damiot was reminded of the Balzac statue by Rodin. Same kind of monk-like robe.
“First! About this little joke I’ve been playing?”
“Joke, Monsieur?”
“My attempt to frighten the villagers would, I was certain, never deceive Chief Inspector Damiot for an instant. So! I will confess to you at once. I am the only monster here.” He reached under his desk to click something, and a metal panel slid out from the side, parallel to his wheelchair.
Damiot leaned forward to see a console with rows of dials and levers—the sort of elaborate control board he had observed when he visited television or recording studios in Paris.
“For example, Monsieur l’Inspecteur!” He flipped a lever.
The great bell tolled immediately. It seemed to come from every corner of the room. The deep, metallic clang was deafening.
Fric-Frac put her ears back and howled.
The Comte snapped the lever and the bell was silenced. “There are no bells in any of the towers. I played this tape to attract the villagers’ attention. So they would be certain to see the monster…”
“And the monster? That can’t be another tape!”
“In good time, Monsieur Inspecteur. Tonight, just for you—in those dark rooms—I added a second element…” He pressed a lever.
The roar of a speeding car filled the room. Shrieking brakes and screaming tires.
Fric-Frac cringed in Damiot’s lap.
The Comte touched the lever and the roar of sound was cut off.
“You gave me one hell of a scare for a moment, when I thought there was a car inside the Château!”
Fric-Frac shook her head, as though freeing her delicate ears of the unpleasant noises, and jumped to the floor.
“Speakers and microphones are hidden in every room. In fireplaces and behind wall panels. I can send my voice, or any kind of taped sound, into all of them. And I am able to hear everything!”
“It was you, Saturday, behind those doors?”
“That must have been my dog. I was in the laboratory, observing your progress from room to room. There are also hidden cameras. I was watching you and listening to what you said. Pouchet, as you must have noticed, is somewhat deaf, and I wanted to be certain that you didn’t as yet suspect my presence.”
“I knew someone was here because Fric-Frac was sniffing under the doors. Your electronic equipment is most impressive.”
“I designed much of it myself. Technicians from Paris installed everything. This also is one of my designs.” He patted the metal arm of his wheelchair. “Completely electronic! With this I can do everything but walk. It’s being manufactured and sold—mostly to hospitals and clinics. All profits are used to provide similar wheelchairs for individuals who can’t afford them…”
“But, Monsieur le Comte! I was informed that you had died, some years ago, in a motor accident.”
“My beloved grandmother was the one who started that rumor.”
“The old Comtesse?”
“She did it out of kindness. Let me explain… First about the motor accident! My father had three passions—racing cars, beautiful women, and champagne. I suspect in that order! He took me along, one sunny morning, to test a new racing car he had bought. On his way to show it to his current mistress, after enjoying a bottle of champagne with breakfast. We were on one of those endless Roman roads where you can see the horizon. There was no traffic and my father was not at fault. One of the tires burst and we crashed into a tree. My father managed to get off with nothing more than a sprained ankle, but I wasn’t so fortunate. I regained consciousness in a hospital, where I remained for many weeks. I was informed much later, after I recovered from spinal surgery, that I had not been expected to live. It wasn’t until the following year that I learned, from my grandmother, that I would never walk again. Which, for some time, I had suspected…”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“Must be difficult, at that age, to comprehend…”
“I was terrified. But grand-mère refused to accept the verdict of those doctors in Rome. Which renewed my courage…”
As he listened, Damiot realized that the Comte was even younger than he had first thought. Probably in his late twenties.
“…chartered a plane and flew me back to Paris, where she had the most eminent specialists examine me. After more surgery, I was told that those other doctors were wrong. I would be able to walk.”
“Doctors! They recently stuck a metal pin in my hip.”
“I read about you in the Paris papers. Your meeting with that gangster! Valzo…”
“And I suppose, like me, they put you through endless therapy?”
“Every day, hour after hour, for months. And I did walk, eventually, after a fashion. Only, by the age of fourteen, my walking did not improve any further because my legs had stopped growing. I have the legs of a twelve-year-old! Unable to support the torso of a man.”
“You mention only your grandmother. What about your parents?”
“Grand-mère was the last relative I had left. The de Mohrt line comes to an abrupt conclusion with me. My mother died when I was two—here in the Château. Pneumonia, I was told, probably caused by these drafty corridors. The old Comte, my grandfather, had died before I was injured in that accident, and my father was killed two years later, in another racing car. We were good friends and his death was very difficult for me. My only family after that was my beloved grand-mère. She lived with me in Paris until the doctors placed her in a Zurich sanatorium. I stayed with her there until she died.”
“I remember the Comtesse with great affection. I knew both your grandparents…”
“Pouchet has told me. Your father and my grandfather were friends.”
“My father worked with the local Maquis during the occupation, when your grandfather was head of the underground in this area.”
“And you brought messages to him from your father.”
“Many times.”
“I wasn’t born then, of course, but grand-père taught me the motto of the Provencal Maquis. ‘Race of eagles’…”
“‘Never vassals!’”
“He told me that I—his only grandson and last of the de Mohrts—must always be an eagle, never a vassal.” The Comte shrugged and smiled. “It is difficult, with these legs, to be an eagle, but I have not as yet become a vassal to any man. And never shall!”
Damiot noticed, for the first time, a telephone on the desk. “This must be the phone I heard ringing earlier…”
“That was when Allan Tendrell called. I told him you were here and he said he would drive over. Of course, at that point you hadn’t crashed through the floor, and I didn’t suspect I’d be meeting you. Allan’s a good friend. And such a beautiful daughter!” He seemed to relax as he spoke of Jenny Tendrell. “I’ve seen her, but as yet have never met the young lady. Allan thinks that would be indiscreet, and I agree—at least for the moment.” He smiled. “But I wait inside the gates, many mornings, to watch her ride past. That was where I saw you for the first time. You were parked there, last Friday, when I was waiting for Jenny.”
“I heard a crack of sound in the shrubbery and thought it was some animal moving about…” The special lens at the center of every detective’s mind was bringing images into focus. “And, of course, your friendship with Monsieur Tendrell explains how he knew I was here yesterday. He mentioned it this evening, when I saw him at the Auberge.”
“I was the one who told him. Allan frequently drives over after dinner. But Jenny has no idea that I exist.”
“Tendrell has been painting here, hasn’t he?”
“Working on my portrait. His version of the de Mohrt faces you’ve seen in all those ancestral paintings. Allan should be arriving at any moment. Perhaps, meanwhile, you’d like a glimpse of my laboratory?”
“I would!” He started to rise.
“Don’t get up, Monsieur! You can see from where you’re sitting.” He reached down to the console again. “Probably the finest private laboratory in Europe!”
There was a metallic sliding sound, and the heavy tapestry moved back to reveal a solid wall of plate glass.
The Comte pressed several buttons on the console.
Lights flashed in an elaborate modern laboratory where everything seemed to be made of glass or chromium. Colored vapors flowed through twisting tubes, and sparks darted across curiously shaped machines. Small animals, roused by the lights, stirred under transparent domes. No sound came from beyond the wall of glass.
“I had a scientific mind, even as a small boy, and read every book in grand-père’s library. Then, in Paris, during my long convalescence, some of the top professors from the Sorbonne became my tutors. I studied everything! Greek and Latin, as well as the modern philosophers and scientists. English literature, in addition to the French and Russian. At first I was terribly discouraged and depressed. Life seemed completely hopeless. Until I finally realized that I had no desire to die. Once that decision was reached, I devoted every hour to science. Especially the technology of outer space—probably because of my earth-bound legs—electronics, and of course atomic and solar energy. Energy fascinates me! When I returned here from Paris, I brought a staff of the finest young technicians and engineers along with me. They installed the audio system you heard earlier and built this laboratory for me…”
“Most impressive!”
“I could probably make a solar bomb device in there, but of course I never shall! I am interested in life—not death. I’m busy in my laboratory for long hours every day, with two assistants who live on the premises.” He touched the console again.
Damiot heard the tapestry sliding across the glass wall. “Then you’re not alone here?”
“Certainly not! I have people to work with me during the day, dine with me in the evening, and argue with me most of the night. We have some delightfully complex and esoteric conversations! And, of course, there are others who look out for my physical comforts. After the death of grand-mère I dreaded coming back to the Château, but during her fatal illness she made me promise that I would live here. My doctor, a specialist in matters of the spine, flies down from Paris w
henever I need him. Which happens less and less frequently…” He glanced past Damiot, beyond the circle of light. “Ah! Here’s Pouchet!”
Damiot looked around, the back of his head paining slightly as he turned, to see the tall figure of the old man, wearing a dark suit and holding a sleek gray mastiff on a leash.
Fric-Frac jumped down and ran, barking, toward the huge animal.
“Fric-Frac!” Damiot called. “Come back here.”
“It’s all right, M’sieur Inspecteur.” Pouchet laughed, leaning down to pat her head. “They will be friends.”
“Lautrec likes other dogs,” the Comte explained. “It’s people he doesn’t care for. At least most people.”
“You call him Lautrec?”
“He has such magnificent legs! I couldn’t resist naming him Lautrec. I’m sure that Monsieur Toulouse would approve.”
Fric-Frac had seated herself next to the mastiff, who lowered his great body to collapse majestically beside her. Now he was licking the top of her head with his enormous tongue.
Damiot smiled. “I thought I heard more than one dog barking.”
“Pouchet keeps another mastiff in the kitchen. Her barking is useful to cover Lautrec’s, and if anyone sees him roaming through the grounds, they think he is Pouchet’s dog. But it is Lautrec who keeps intruders out and accompanies me when I hunt. The other dog is very old. Never goes outside. But she can still bark!”
Damiot glanced back at the caretaker, standing erect beside the mastiff.
“Pouchet tells me…” the Comte continued.
He saw the old man turn at the sound of his name, his left ear toward the Comte.
“…your father used to drink pastis with him.”
“That’s right!” Pouchet nodded. “We sat on the kitchen steps behind Chez Damiot whenever I walked down to the village. Madame Damiot, your mother, would bring two glasses on a tray and…”
A buzzer sounded, softly but urgently.
“That should be Allan!” The Comte set his glass down. “There are signals on a master control panel when anyone enters the Château. Lights flash as he passes through each room.”
The Provence Puzzle Page 16