The Provence Puzzle

by Vincent McConnor

  He had a sudden urge for a glass of Calvados before retiring. His mind was preoccupied with what he had learned tonight in his conversation with the Comte. Another Calvados might help him to relax…

  He saw that Fric-Frac, beside him, was sound asleep.

  Driving on, down Avenue de la Republique, he noticed that the filling station was closed. He squinted up at the clock on the town hall tower, its hands halted at twelve o’clock. End of time for his village…

  The new traffic lights were dark for the night.

  Swerving off from the Avenue into the Square, he parked near the fountain. Fric-Frac roused immediately but settled down again when he didn’t reach to open the door.

  Nobody visible on the streets at this hour and no traffic. Metal shutters dropped over every shop, and the apartments above showed no sign of life. Not a light visible in any rooms of the Hôtel Courville, and the two cafés, at opposite ends of the Square, were closed.

  Of course! This was Sunday night. He wouldn’t get his Calvados.

  He looked up at the squat mass of the Hôtel Courville. Impossible to visualize a tall hotel rising above the village…

  Would Aurore be happy with her new restaurant? The elaborate Relais Julien could never be like the pleasant Auberge she had created with her husband…

  A light flashed on in a room on the top floor of the hotel. Some salesman unable to sleep? Turning on his bedside lamp to check over the list of calls he had to make tomorrow…

  Had he known Lisette Jarlaud on some previous visit?

  Fric-Frac roused, lifted her head and looked from side to side.

  “What is it, Madame?”

  She growled softly and stood up, resting her paws on the open window, peering around the silent Square.

  “You’re hearing ghosts! Everyone’s asleep.”

  She wagged her tail but continued to growl.

  Damiot turned and looked back toward the Avenue.

  A car was rolling, slowly and silently, its headlights dark, across rue Voltaire and down Avenue de la Republique.

  A black Ferrari.

  Damiot felt a chill pass across the nape of his neck. The sleek black shape of the powerful car was strangely threatening.

  He was unable to see the driver, who must be hunched down behind the steering wheel. Fric-Frac barked. Damiot had a feeling that the man in the other car was watching him.

  He switched on his headlights.

  The Ferrari immediately took off with a roar of sound, headlights still dark, and shot down the length of the Avenue into the night.

  “No chasing cars, Madame. We must accept the impossible.” He turned the Peugeot around and started back toward the Auberge.

  CHAPTER 18

  Damiot was roused by the crowing of a cock, which was answered immediately by another and another.

  The sound flowed back and forth from farm to farm, then faded to silence.

  Another cock crowed, and the answering chorus rose and fell again.

  Half awake, he smiled at these familiar voices from the past.

  He forced himself to avoid checking his wristwatch, because he didn’t want to get out of bed just yet…

  Crowing cocks meant dawn, and from the number of their voices, these must be announcing the first shafts of the rising sun.

  Pray God they also meant good weather…

  He drowsed until the roar of a motorcycle brought him wide awake.

  That would be Claude! Breakfast should arrive in another fifteen minutes.

  He got out of bed and, after opening the curtains and inside shutters to see bright sunshine in the garden, hurried into the bath.

  When the expected knock sounded he was in bed again, wearing his robe and propped in anticipation against the pillows. “Come in!”

  The garçon entered with a breakfast tray. “Bonjour, M’sieur!”

  “Bonjour, Claude. Where’s Fric-Frac?”

  “She’s not awake yet.”

  He smiled, remembering their late night, as Claude set the tray across his lap.

  “La patronne told me to bring you her special confiture of apricots this morning.”

  “Madame’s spoiling me!” Noticing a handwritten label as Claude opened the small jar. “I’d like to ask you one or two questions…”

  “Certainly, M’sieur!” He stood at attention, smiling and wiping his reddened hands on the long apron wrapped around his thin body.

  “Think now!” Filling a cup with black coffee as he talked. “Can you remember the first time you heard about this monster that lurks in the Château?”

  “Mais certainement! It was soon after they found that first girl’s body.”

  “Do you recall who told you?”

  “I’m not sure, Monsieur.” He shrugged. “Everybody in the village was talking about it. Saying there have been stories for years about a monster in the castle.”

  “But you hadn’t heard such stories before?” Damiot sipped the scalding coffee.

  “No, M’sieur. Never…”

  “Do you happen to know where the Jarlaud girl lived?”

  “In an alley off rue Woodrow Wilson, behind the Hôtel Courville. There’s a row of old houses there.”

  “I know the ones. Is Madame Bouchard up yet?”

  “Mais certainement! La patronne’s the first in the kitchen every morning, and I’m supposed to be the second. Michel is always the last. Of course, I’ve already taken a pot of coffee up to his apartment! He cooks breakfast for Madame and they eat together in the kitchen while they discuss the dinner menu and Madame makes out her shopping lists.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see Madame when I get my car. Merci, Claude.”

  “Plaisir, M’sieur Inspecteur! We’re busy this morning. Those gentlemen are leaving for Paris…”

  Damiot spread preserves on a croissant as the garçon departed.

  He should visit that alley off rue Woodrow Wilson, on the chance there might be something he could learn from the Jarlaud girl’s family.

  His forehead ached faintly, but that must be from the Calvados he had drunk last night. There was no pain at the back, where he had struck his head.

  He considered for a moment what he had learned at the Château.

  Everything the Comte had said appeared to be true. Not a single discrepancy had turned up as they talked through the long evening…

  He ate the last of the confiture with his spoon and finished a second cup of black coffee, then went into the bath and ran a hot tub.

  Bathed and shaved, his forehead no longer throbbing, he had nearly finished dressing when someone knocked on his door. He slipped a tie under his collar and tied it before another knock sounded. “Coming!” As he went to the door he heard coughing outside. Opening it, he saw Bardou, cigarette dangling from his lip, hat in hand, bundled in his gray overcoat with a wool scarf knotted around his throat. “How’s that cold?”

  “Still have it, but not so bad as yesterday.”

  “Come in! Another five minutes and you wouldn’t have caught me. Eh bien! Any developments?” He closed the door.

  “Had another call from Toulon, ten minutes ago. Thought I’d drive over instead of telling you on the phone.”

  “Did they learn anything?” Damiot finished dressing as he listened to Bardou’s report.

  “First of all!” He coughed again, standing in the center of the room, head turning as his eyes followed Damiot. “They located that woman and child who visited Annie Deffous weekends. It’s the Deffous girl’s child. A boy, two years old. The woman’s a friend who takes care of him in her home. The child’s never lived with his mother, according to the neighbors. In fact, they didn’t know she had one!”

  “And the boy’s father?”

  “The woman claims she knows nothing about him. His name or, for that matter, whether
Deffous was married.”

  “If Deffous was twenty when she died and the child is two, she must’ve been eighteen when he was born…”

  “My pal’s looking for the registration of birth. He talked with the people where Deffous worked.”

  “Yes?”

  “They sell hotel equipment. She started there three years ago, as assistant bookkeeper.”

  “Hotel equipment? I wonder if through her job she may have met someone from the Hôtel Courville? You might check on whoever does purchasing for the hotel. Find out if they do business with this firm in Toulon…”

  “I’ll do that today. Recently, when the old woman who was head bookkeeper died, Deffous was promoted and given a raise in salary.”

  “So she didn’t need money!”

  “People always need more money.” The ash fell from his cigarette, unnoticed, to the tiled floor. “When I reported this on the phone to the Commissaire, he congratulated me for identifying the Deffous girl. Only I wasn’t able to explain exactly how I did it.”

  “Don’t try! Tell him you used your powers of deduction. He won’t care how you did it, if you find the murderer for him.”

  “But, M’sieur!” He ejected a spurt of gray smoke from between his lips. “I’ve no idea who the murderer is.”

  “Neither do I.” Damiot put his hat on and snatched the waterproof from a chair. “I’ll walk out with you. Why didn’t this woman who takes care of the child report Deffous was missing?”

  “She was afraid to. Although she hadn’t been paid for two months. What will you be doing today, M’sieur Damiot?”

  “Thought I’d drive through the hills again.” He opened the door and motioned Bardou ahead. “Driving a car relaxes me. The hip isn’t as painful as it was when I arrived last week. In fact, this morning I barely feel it.” He closed the door, checking that it had locked, and followed Bardou through the corridor. “Where’s your car?”

  “Parked in front. I have to stop by the gendarmerie. The Commissaire wants another little chat…”

  “You didn’t tell him you were seeing me?” Dropping his key on the desk as they crossed the foyer.

  “Certainly not! I wouldn’t do that… When I get a license number from Toulon for the Deffous girl’s car, I’m having it sent to every gendarmerie in Provence.”

  “That should get results.” Damiot swung open the entrance door and went down the steps after Bardou into bright sunshine. “My car’s in the back, so I’ll leave you here.”

  “They told me, when I phoned in, that the villagers are talking about going up to the Château tonight if the weather’s clear. More of them than usual.” He tossed his stub of cigarette away. “They plan to catch the monster this time.”

  “Will the police be there?”

  “The Commissaire wants no part of such nonsense. There’s no monster, M’sieur Inspecteur! You and I both know that…”

  “Give me a call if you learn anything more from Toulon.” Damiot continued around the side of the Auberge, toward the parking area. As he passed the windows of the restaurant he heard Bardou’s motor sputter before it chugged off.

  So the villagers were returning to the Château tonight to catch the monster. And the Comte planned to give them another performance…

  “No, Madame! Stay where you are.” Aurore’s voice. “No! No…”

  He saw that she was bathing Fric-Frac in a small wooden tub on a bench near the kitchen door. The dog was covered with suds. Her owner, wearing dungarees and a man’s shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, was scrubbing Fric-Frac with a brush. Aurore’s hair, piled on top of her head, looked more auburn than bronze in the sunlight.

  The silver Mercedes that had been parked here last night was gone. So the visitors had departed.

  “Poor Madame la Duchesse!”

  “With all this sunshine, I decided to give her a bath. She’s very unhappy at the moment, but after I’ve finished she’ll race around, barking and capering like a mad creature.” She glanced up from her scrubbing again and smiled.

  “Any day that begins with apricot preserves like yours promises to be a memorable one.”

  “They are served only to special guests. Those who, I hope, will return…” Looking into his eyes. “Especially you, Monsieur.”

  “You’re very kind.” He saw that Fric-Frac was rolling her eyes, trying to attract his attention, as she wiggled in the scented suds. “She even smells like a duchess!”

  “That’s my most expensive bath oil.” Picking up a pitcher and pouring more water over Fric-Frac’s back as she squirmed to escape. “Be good! We’re almost finished.”

  “Did your visitors enjoy their dinner?”

  “They were delighted! With what they ate and with everything else.”

  “And your chef?”

  “Michel joined us in the lounge after the restaurant closed. Everything was discussed and decided. They will have contracts for him when they return next month. He’s to be in complete charge of the kitchen for the Relais Julien. I, naturally, am delighted.”

  “Then you will be selling the Auberge?”

  “I might never have such an opportunity again. It would be disastrous for me to try and compete with their elegant new hotel.”

  He glanced up at the rear of the building. “So it’s to be torn down…”

  “Not for at least a year. Eventually this may be a parking lot for the new hotel. Meanwhile, with Michel’s help, I’ll keep the Auberge open through the summer.” She picked up a towel, spread it on the bench, and began to rub the dog dry. “Unfortunately, I will not be able to keep Fric-Frac while I’m getting the new restaurant organized.”

  “Won’t they allow you to own a dog?”

  “They don’t know I have one. It wouldn’t be fair to Fric-Frac. I will have no time for her—to give her the affection she needs and expects. She was always Julien’s dog. Never really mine…” She continued to towel Fric-Frac. “I’ve always suspected she’s a man’s dog.”

  “That’s possible.” He smiled as one eye peeped from under the towel. “What will you do with her?”

  “I was hoping…” She didn’t look up as she spoke. “That you might take her.”

  “You would give her to me!”

  Now she raised her eyes. “You’re the first person since Julien’s death for whom she’s shown any affection.”

  “I am honored. By her affection, and by your generosity.”

  She let the towel fall away from the dog. “Fric-Frac would be content with you. I’m certain of that.”

  The dog shook herself, sending drops of water flying. Then she sat up on her haunches facing Damiot, stroking the air with both paws.

  “You see! She wants you to hold her.”

  As Damiot leaned forward, Fric-Frac jumped into his arms. He could feel the small, damp body snuggled against his waterproof as he stroked her head. “I’ve always wanted a dog exactly like this one.”

  “You have?”

  “I will take her back to Paris with me.” He kissed the top of the dog’s head, fragrant with the scent of bath oil. “I’m grateful to you, Madame…”

  “Madame?”

  “Aurore…” He handed Fric-Frac to her.

  She looked into his eyes again as she cradled the squirming dog in her arms. “It has been my pleasure. Everything…”

  “Bonjour, mes amis!”

  They turned, startled, to see Michel, in robe and pajamas, coming down the steps from his apartment.

  “Monsieur Damiot!” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “Have you heard about the new hotel?”

  “I certainly have. Just now.”

  “Aurore’s to manage their restaurant and I’ll be in charge of the kitchen. A three-star restaurant!”

  “That will depend upon you, chéri.” Aurore smiled as she set Fric-Frac on the towel. �
��Only your cooking can make it three-star.”

  “My cooking is already three-star!” He turned to Damiot. “You must come back again, Monsieur! After the Relais Julien has opened and is a huge success! I will prepare for you the finest dinner you have ever eaten!”

  “You’ve already done that.” Damiot studied the tanned face, the dazzling smile, the curly black hair. “You should be a great success with the new restaurant, Monsieur!”

  “Aurore tells me your family used to have a little cafe here…”

  “Years ago, and very small.”

  “Your father was the chef?”

  “A good one, but not so good as you.”

  Fric-Frac shook herself again, spraying water.

  “Mon Dieu!” Michel exclaimed, brushing his robe. “That little monster!”

  Aurore laughed. “It’s only a few drops…”

  “Of course, chérie! No harm done.” He bent to kiss her, lightly, on the cheek. “Maintenant, I shall cook a three-star breakfast! Create, just for you, an omelette that no one has ever tasted before. I’ll call it—Omelette Aurore! So it must be golden, like the dawn! And we will feature it every morning at the Relais Julien!”

  “I must be on my way.” Damiot started toward his car again.

  “You’ll have dinner here tonight?” Aurore called after him.

  “Three-star? Wouldn’t miss it!”

  As he opened the door of the Peugeot, he saw that Fric-Frac had jumped down from the bench and was racing around the parking area in a circle.

  She was his dog now.

  CHAPTER 19

  The alley had never been given a name. Everybody always called it “the alley.” The only alley in the village—except for that one behind the town hall where Lisette Jarlaud had been murdered. She had lived in an alley and died in an alley…

  The cobbles underfoot were slippery with gray mud that was like snail slime. Two scrawny cats, playing with a dead rat.

  He hesitated as he approached the row of tiny stone houses that had been here ever since he could remember. Five of them, with scabrous walls and no shutters at the windows. The curtains hanging inside were clean but faded from many washings.