“Who was this man?”
“She never told me his name.”
“A man in the village?”
“I suppose so, because she said she was seeing him, and Lisette didn’t have a car to drive anywhere.”
“Didn’t you resent her seeing other men?”
He shrugged. “What could I do?”
“You would marry her? Knowing all this…”
“Of course!” He hesitated. “She’s the mother of my son.”
“Oh?”
“Lisette had two kids.”
“I know. I’ve seen them.”
“Mine’s the boy. I thought if we were married and she came to live here on the farm, she would give up her job at the hotel and her old life. I promised her she could bring the little girl and I would give her a good home. Just like the boy…”
“What about your family?”
“I would’ve told my father that both kids were mine.”
“Why didn’t she agree to that?”
“She said this other guy could give her a better life. Take her away from here. I guess she really loved him.”
“Some older man?”
“I suppose… But he told her he was already the father of a child. He’d never married the girl, and hadn’t seen her in more than a year. Lisette thought if she told him she was pregnant he might forget the other girl and marry her.”
“Was that what she planned to do?”
“So she said.”
“When was this? How long before she died?”
Savord scowled. “It was—the last time I saw her…”
“She died on a Monday.”
“This was Friday night.” He turned to Damiot, his young face twisted with emotion. “We drove over to Arles and had a nice dinner. That night, before I took her home, I asked her again to marry me. And that’s when she told me about this other guy. If he didn’t fall for her story and agree to marry her right away, she would marry me. I never saw her again.”
“Maybe he did fall for her story—and killed her.”
“I’ve thought of that…”
“You still would’ve married her? After she told you this?”
“Of course!”
Damiot was surprised at the vehemence in Savord’s voice. “Why?”
“Because I loved her, M’sieur! In spite of everything I knew about Lisette. I still love her…”
CHAPTER 20
Damiot was preoccupied as he ate lunch on a hillside terrace with a view of Aix, the ancient capital of Provence.
The roadside restaurant had looked inviting but the bored waiter was half asleep, the food disappointing, and the local wine barely drinkable.
He tried to sort out the jumble of information he had turned up about Annie Deffous and Lisette Jarlaud. The most important thing he had learned today seemed to be young Savord’s account of his last evening with the Jarlaud girl.
Who was this man she had planned to threaten with a false pregnancy? Hoping he would agree to marriage…
The same man Annie Deffous had come to see in Courville? Only Deffous had given birth to his child! Some man she had met in Toulon? Some businessman?…
Marc Sibilat?
Was Sibilat’s story—that the Deffous girl had noticed his name above the florist shop—an attempt to throw off suspicion? Had she traced Sibilat to Courville? Did he identify her because he hoped that would make him appear to be innocent?
Certainly his mother was a shrewd one. Although she apparently didn’t suspect her son was with Blanche Carmet this morning. So he was clever enough to deceive the old woman…
And what about Achille Savord? He would be going up there tonight, for the first time, he claimed. Was there a murderer hiding under his seemingly ingenuous appearance? Had he killed Lisette Jarlaud when she refused to marry him? Had he told that story about another man to conceal the truth? How could he have been involved with Annie Deffous?
The good weather held through the afternoon, as Damiot returned to Courville after many hours of driving on country roads.
When he parked behind the Auberge, he noticed a scattering of white clouds high in the western sky.
There was no sound of barking from the kitchen as he passed, so Fric-Frac must be asleep. Probably upstairs in Aurore’s private suite.
He saw sunlight pouring through the windows of the lounge for the first time, as he turned down the long corridor to his room.
Dropping his hat and waterproof on a chair, he went into the bath and ran himself a tub. Soaked in the hot water, muscles relaxing, then stretched out on the bed, wrapped in his robe, and slept immediately.
It was after seven-thirty when he left his room and headed toward the front. Crossing the circular lobby, he saw that only one table in the restaurant was occupied. Allan Tendrell was having an early dinner with his daughter.
“M’sieur Damiot!”
He turned to see Claude, behind the registration desk. “Telephone for you, M’sieur.” Holding out the phone, across the desk. “It’s M’sieur Bardou again.”
“Merci, mon ami.” He took the phone from the garçon’s hand. “Bardou? What’s happened now?”
“Wanted you to know. My friend in Toulon called back. Gave me a license number for the Deffous girl’s car that has gone out to every gendarmerie in Provence. They’ve been told to look for a gray Dauphine.”
“That may turn it up.”
“I stayed at the town hall most of the day, waiting for news from Toulon, but now I’m back at the hotel. The manager says they never buy their supplies in Toulon.”
“It was only an idea… Is your cold better?”
“Better than yesterday. A bientôt, M’sieur Inspecteur!”
“A bientôt…”
As he went toward the restaurant, Aurore came to meet him, smiling, wearing another attractive dress. This one was a soft rose color.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Pleasant. Except for a miserable lunch.”
“We must give you an excellent dinner to make up for that.” Lowering her voice. “Allan Tendrell and his daughter are here.”
“So I noticed.”
“They seldom dine with us Monday nights.” She led him toward his usual table. “I was surprised when Jenny phoned this morning for a reservation. Monday is always slow. You three may be our only customers.” She went ahead, past the Tendrells’ table.
The Englishman glanced up from his food. “Ah! Monsieur Damiot!”
Jenny looked around and smiled. “Hello, Inspector!”
“Mademoiselle!” He hesitated, facing the painter. “Monsieur…”
“I was hoping I might run into you tonight. May I join you for a moment after I finish this bit of fish?”
“Certainly, Monsieur. Whenever you wish.” As he followed Aurore, he realized that Jenny had once again managed to sit facing the doors. Through the glass portholes, before he sat down with his back to the kitchen, he glimpsed the blur of Michel’s toque blanche in rapid motion.
Aurore placed a menu on the table in front of him. “Michel has prepared another of his specialties tonight, hoping that it might please you. Civet de porcelet.”
“I will most certainly have that!” Unfolding his napkin as she went back toward her desk, pausing to chat with the Tendrells.
Jean-Paul appeared at his elbow. “An apéritif, M’sieur?”
“My usual, merci.” He picked up the menu and considered the pleasant problem of what to order.
The hors d’oeuvres provençaux? No soup. Civet de porcelet. Afterward, because of his wretched lunch, he could permit himself a dessert. The frozen nougat with glacéed fruits! One of his mother’s specialties…
As he sipped the vermouth, several more people arrived for dinner. None of their faces were familiar.
He was enjoying the hors d’oeuvres when Tendrell joined him.
“May I?”
“Please…” Motioning toward the other chair. “Will you have a glass of wine? Or, perhaps, some whisky…”
“Nothing. Merci… I’ve a bottle of wine to finish with my daughter and I’ll be doing some drinking later at the Château.”
He leaned across the table, his voice conspiratorial. “I had Jenny make dinner reservations because I wanted to see you, but I don’t want her to overhear what we say. Or, for that matter, Aurore! So, if I should change the subject abruptly, you’ll understand?”
“Of course.”
“First of all… I’m concerned for the safety of my daughter.”
“What do you mean?”
“You realize, now, that the so-called monster in the Château did not kill those two unfortunate young women. The monster is only a puppet—a harmless joke. So! Who did kill them? I didn’t want to acknowledge in front of Jenny, the other night, that I’ve been worried ever since that Jarlaud girl was murdered, because I knew there wasn’t any monster running loose. But whoever did kill those two girls still walks the village streets. Scot-free! I worry constantly about Jenny. Wondering when this beast—whoever he is—will kill again. I was hoping you were on to something…”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“I saw Nick this afternoon. Was worried about tonight. And with good reason! He’s determined to do his monster bit again.”
“I suspected from our conversation last night that he would.”
“Pouchet tells me he heard in the village this afternoon that more of the locals will be coming up there tonight. Quite a number of them, evidently, if the weather remains clear… Isn’t there something that could be done, Monsieur Inspecteur—anything you can do—that would stop Nick? Prevent this monster nonsense!”
“I have no authority to prevent anything.” He continued to eat with appetite as he explained. “The Comte can play his monster trick on the villagers or do anything else he wishes. As long as no one’s injured. The Château de Mohrt is his property. He’s not breaking any law.”
“I realize that, but I am quite genuinely concerned. This whole monster business is childish! Nick, like most geniuses, has an infantile sense of humor…”
As the Englishman talked, Damiot saw that his daughter was nodding toward the kitchen doors. She had attracted Michel’s attention and neither her father nor Aurore had noticed.
“Will you be there tonight?” Tendrell asked. “At the Château?”
“I may drive up after dinner and see what’s happening. I too heard that the villagers would be paying another visit. Their wives, apparently, are demanding that they destroy the monster.”
“Nick plans to destroy the thing himself before the villagers discover it’s a trick. He told me so today! I tried to persuade him to demolish it this afternoon but he wouldn’t hear of it. Where will you be tonight? On that hill again? Behind the castle?”
“Tonight I’ll drive up the lane to that side gate where I entered last night. That way I can be on ground level, near the front courtyard. Some dark spot where the villagers won’t notice me.”
“I’ve never seen that side entrance. Pouchet leaves the back gate open for me and I have a key to the kitchen door. Nick wants me with him tonight for the performance. I’ll tell him you’ll be coming.”
“My presence, I must remind you, will not be official.” He reluctantly finished the last morsel of artichoke vinaigrette.
“After the show why don’t you join us for a drink? Nick likes you, and he needs to see more people! I’ll have him send Pouchet to find you.”
“Might be wise not to make definite plans. Let’s see what develops.”
“You may be right.” Tendrell glanced beyond Damiot toward the swinging doors. “That grinning idiot! Keeps looking in here. Staring at my daughter! I’m not about to have her fall for any Don Juan of a chef. I’ve a suspicion they’ve been meeting somewhere when she drives down to the village, afternoons, while I’m painting. I suppose I should buy a second car and follow her! Although I must say I don’t care for that sort of thing. Suspicious parent playing detective!”
While the Englishman talked, Damiot noticed that Jenny seemed to be amused, sipping her wine and smiling to herself as though she had just played a trick on her father.
“Did you know, Monsieur Inspecteur?” Tendrell leaned forward again, confidentially. “Aurore’s selling the Auberge! Signing contracts to manage the restaurant in a fancy new hotel that will replace the Hôtel Courville…”
“Is she?”
“Taking her smiling chef along with her! Which, in my opinion, is a great mistake. Michel informed me, as I ordered dinner, that it will be a three-star restaurant!”
“That’s not impossible, I should think. He’s an excellent chef.”
“But such conceit!”
“All first-class chefs have tremendous egos. They too are artists, Monsieur.”
“I suppose he’s anticipating all the rich American women he’ll charm into bed. Aurore should get rid of him when she closes the Auberge. He amuses her for the moment, but I can’t believe she’s really serious about him. Except, of course, as a chef! And she wouldn’t have been interested in him even as a chef, while her husband was alive. Now there was a charming man!” He got to his feet as Claude cleared the table for Damiot’s next course. “See you later, Monsieur Inspecteur?”
“Perhaps, Monsieur. Perhaps…”
CHAPTER 21
The ruts in the narrow lane didn’t seem so deep tonight.
Damiot glanced down at Fric-Frac, curled beside him. “Tonight, Madame la Duchesse, you must stay close to me. And no barking! You understand?” He smiled as her tail thumped the leather seat.
The Peugeot rattled across the wooden bridge and followed the twisting road into the hills.
As he slowed through the familiar open gate into the narrow private lane, he wondered if Aurore would be waiting up when he returned to the Auberge tonight…
His headlights swept across the spectral white mausoleum where the de Mohrt ancestors were interred. Would the old Comtesse be there with all the others?
Driving on, Fric-Frac snuggling against his waterproof, he thought about the villagers driving up to the entrance gates. Before leaving the Auberge he had heard more cars passing by. Several had sounded like small trucks. One of those, very likely, belonged to Marc Sibilat… When Damiot stopped at the kitchen door to get Fric-Frac, Claude had told him that he was coming to the Château tonight on his motorcycle but would be delayed because of the people who had showed up late for dinner. Michel had been furious because he himself always tried to leave early Monday nights.
Turning left on the open strip that circled the Château, Damiot drove to the same spot, near the front, where he had parked last night. Switched off his headlights and was immediately aware of the silence.
The dog pawed at his waterproof and whimpered to get out. Damiot reached over, opened the door, and watched her jump down, a black shape against the darkness.
He realized that he had forgotten to buy another pocket torch. The other one had never been recovered from that hole in the floor. After meeting the Comte he hadn’t given it another thought…
He hesitated in the darkness at the edge of the courtyard.
Must be careful here! If he fell on these cobbles his hip could be damaged beyond repair.
The best vantage point for whatever was about to happen should be at the edge of the forest, on the eastern side of the courtyard. From there he could watch the terrace where the monster had appeared Friday night.
As he started to turn, he glimpsed a flash of reflected light in the dense shadow at the base of the castle.
Damiot froze.
Something metallic was catching that glow from the sky.
H
e moved cautiously toward it—whatever it was.
A solid black object took shape as he came closer. Glints of starlight flashed from several surfaces. It was a car…
The black Ferrari!
Damiot rested his open palm on the metal hood, which felt cold and damp. He tried a door but it was locked.
Did the Ferrari belong to somebody in the castle? Someone who drove through the countryside late at night. Through the sleeping village…
Was it the murderer?
The Comte or one of his assistants! Not likely that the Comte could handle such a powerful car.
Better have Bardou check those assistants. But that would give away the fact that the Comte was living here.
No matter! This whole business was getting out of hand. Perhaps he should tell Bardou everything he knew…
Damiot moved carefully on the cobbles as he crossed the corner of the courtyard, followed by Fric-Frac. He could see her black body against the pale cobbles.
Which meant that he too would be visible to anyone watching.
He moved closer to the edge of the forest and stood there, facing west, in a blot of shadow from the trees. This was beyond the cobbled area, and the earth felt soggy underfoot.
No lights in the castle or glow of lanterns from the drive.
“We’ll have a short wait, Madame. I hope that you too had a nap this afternoon.” He glanced back into the darkness where the Ferrari was parked.
What if it belonged to an outsider? Someone from a nearby city who had murdered those two girls and then started the story about the monster. Did he come here to watch the Comte’s monster and laugh at the gullible villagers then speed away in his Ferrari?
Was he lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting for what was about to happen? Watching…
“Watching me!” he muttered.
Glancing down, he saw that Fric-Frac had stretched out on the wet grass. “Don’t catch cold, Madame. Why do dogs like to get wet? Can you tell me that?” He smiled, remembering the dog he had owned so long ago. “I used to have one that sat in every puddle!”
Fric-Frac growled, softly.
A faint glow of light that seemed to float between the rows of poplars was moving up the distant entrance drive.
The Provence Puzzle Page 20