A few cautious cheers rose from the courtyard.
Damiot leaned forward again. He could feel panic in the air. The same mob hysteria he had experienced many times in Paris…
Now the villagers were crossing the courtyard toward the Château, moving slowly, almost reluctantly. Pointing up at the terrace.
A faint light had appeared there. Pouchet must have slid the cover back on his lantern.
The figure of the monster suddenly shot to its full height against a faint nimbus of light.
A gasp of horror rose from the villagers, followed by silence.
The swaying puppet figure with its enormous head was even more impressive in silhouette than it had seemed last week from the hill or last night inside the castle.
Pouchet was crouched behind it, holding his lantern.
The villagers below had come to a halt and stood frozen.
Still another group was rushing up the drive. Some of these carried flaming torches.
As he watched, Damiot wondered about Jenny Tendrell again. How could she go anywhere to meet Giroud without a car? The Tendrells had only one car, and her father had driven that tonight…
The tolling bell sounded again and the doves continued to circle above the towers, their wings and breasts blood-red from the torches that flushed the façade of the castle with a fiery glow.
The monster appeared to be glowering down at the intruders, its face seeming even more evil in the flickering light from the torches, long black hair swaying as the clumsy head tilted forward.
The last group of villagers had joined the others. Must be forty of them now, gathered together staring at the figure on the terrace.
The giant figure appeared to be withdrawing, its long cloak swaying as the monster slowly moved back from the balustrade. Now the light would fade on the terrace as Pouchet shuttered his lantern.
The monster had made his final appearance…
There was a sharp crack of sound.
Frightened birds shot up from the trees, their shrill cries flooding the night air.
“That was a gun!” Tendrell exclaimed.
“Rifle,” Damiot muttered.
Uproar from the courtyard. Shouting. More shots. Rifles and small arms.
Damiot froze, watching the monster slowly collapse.
The light from the lantern had been blotted out.
“What the devil are those bastards doing?” Tendrell shouted, staring down into the crowd.
“Never mind about them. We’d better find out what’s happened to the Comte.” He turned to Fric-Frac. “Stay here, Madame. Until I call you.” He saw her tail wag and hoped that she understood.
As they ran across the terrace, a flaming torch rose from the courtyard, arced through the air, and crashed onto the marble floor in a shower of sparks.
“Idiots!” Damiot growled.
The light from the torch rolling across the terrace revealed the monster slumped down, head tipping forward as though it were asleep. The puppet figure must have collapsed over the Comte’s head and shoulders.
Pouchet was sprawled behind the monster, and Madame Léontine hovered near the open windows, afraid to venture farther.
The great bell continued to toll. Damiot realized that it had never stopped.
Another torch flew up from the courtyard, cascading sparks, and struck the crumpled figure of the monster. There was a burst of flame as the long wig caught fire. The monstrous head seemed to explode.
“Nick!” Tendrell shouted.
Damiot moved away from the flying sparks and embers, pulling the Englishman with him as the figure of the monster was enveloped by fire.
A third torch smashed on the terrace, and flames sprayed.
“Don’t go any closer!” Damiot grasped Tendrell’s sleeve. “Nothing we can do to help him.”
“Good God!”
Lautrec sprang forward barking, pawing at the monster’s burning cloak. Trying desperately to rescue his master. Part of the burning cloth came away, caught in the dog’s nails. Lautrec yelped with pain as he shook his paws free, then lay whimpering, close to the blazing figure.
Damiot watched the two metal crutches slide out, unscathed, from under the burning mass. They seemed pathetically small. Moving closer, followed by the Englishman, he stood looking at the charred shape. Impossible to think that only a moment ago this had been a human being.
“What a beastly way to die!” Tendrell exclaimed.
“Only a moment of pain, before he suffocated.”
“I think for some time Nick has wished for death.”
“He wanted to be an eagle. And he has escaped…” Damiot turned as a hand touched his sleeve and saw Madame Léontine, her cheeks wet with tears.
“He’s dead, Madame.”
“Pauvre chéri! Perhaps it’s best this way. He was never happy, after the accident. I have heard him weeping many times, in the night, when he thought no one would hear…”
“Pouchet!” Damiot went toward the sprawled figure. “Are you hurt?”
“Bullet. My arm…” The old man’s face was drawn with pain, his eyes blinking from the acrid smoke. “What about M’sieur le Comte?”
“He’s dead.”
“Mon Dieu!” He turned his face to the marble floor.
“Bloody bastards!” Tendrell shouted.
Damiot looked around to see the Englishman leaning against the balustrade, shaking his fist at the crowd below.
“Murderers!” he screamed. “You killed him! You’ve murdered the Comte de Mohrt!”
An uneasy hum of voices rose from the courtyard.
Damiot joined Tendrell to look down at them. The crowd became silent as some recognized him.
“We need a doctor here!” He saw Marc Sibilat among those in the front. Their eyes met but Sibilat looked away.
“We have no doctor in Courville!” someone answered. Damiot looked in the direction of the voice and saw the gross face of Hercule Mauron.
“Monsieur le Maire!”
“Are you in charge?”
“Until I can reach Inspector Bardou.”
“Doctor Mondor does all our police work, but unfortunately he lives in Salon…”
“Send for him. Pouchet’s been shot. And there’ll have to be an autopsy on the Comte de Mohrt. His body can’t be touched until the médecin-légiste examines it.”
“Right away, M’sieur Inspecteur.” The Mayor looked around, squinting at faces in the crowd. “Someone go for Doctor Mondor…”
“I’ll get him!”
Damiot saw a familiar skinny figure, wearing a black leather jacket, step forward. “Claude!”
“I have my motorcycle, M’sieur! And I know where the doctor lives!”
“Explain what’s happened!” Damiot ordered. “And bring him here.”
“Service, M’sieur!”
The crowd moved apart for Claude to leave.
“And you, Monsieur le Maire!” Damiot raised his voice. “I would suggest you come up here until Inspector Bardou can be reached.”
“Well, I—I’m not here officially…” Mauron stepped forward, reluctantly. “How do I get up there?”
Damiot glanced behind him. “Madame Léontine! Would you go down and escort Monsieur le Maire?”
“Certainly, M’sieur.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and, pleased to have something to do, went toward the open windows.
Facing the courtyard again, Damiot saw Claude in the distance, running down the drive toward the gates. He remembered Jenny Tendrell riding past those entrance gates last week. Was it possible that she had taken the black mare tonight when she went to meet Michel Giroud?
The bell continued to toll.
Tolling for Nicolas Frederic Cesar Philippe Etienne—last Comte de Mohrt…
Damiot leaned against the balu
strade, staring at the faces. No sign of Marc Sibilat now, but he glimpsed Achille Savord trying to hide behind the others, which was impossible because of his height. “You are responsible for what’s happened here. All of you…”
A ripple of fear flowed like a visible current through the mob.
“And one of you is a murderer!”
The faces looking up at him, mouths agape, were reddened by the flames from the torches that some still clutched in their hands.
“Whichever one of you threw the torch that killed the Comte de Mohrt is a murderer! Or, perhaps, an autopsy will discover a bullet in his body. Certainly Doctor Mondor will remove a bullet from Pouchet’s arm. Tests will be made and bullets can be traced to the guns that fired them.” He realized as he talked that some of the villagers were leaving stealthily, darting across the courtyard toward the drive. “If you don’t turn those guns in you will certainly be denounced by your neighbors. Many of you know which persons fired their guns and which of you threw torches up here. Someone is going to tell who those persons are!”
The crowd turned in sudden panic and fled across the courtyard, leaving the Mayor exposed, standing alone.
As Damiot watched them pour down the drive, he thought of Jenny Tendrell and Blanche Carmet again…
Blanche had said that Michel Giroud was with her when those two girls were killed. Both nights. For several hours…
The last of the villagers seemed to be sucked like corks into the mouth of the drive, the light from their torches fading with them.
And suddenly, two things slipped into place in Damiot’s mind.
The garçon, Claude, had told him something important the day he arrived, but he hadn’t remembered it until this moment.
And Blanche Carmet had said that…
Damiot grasped the icy marble balustrade with both hands.
He knew the identity of the murderer! The puzzle was solved!
“What now?” Tendrell asked. “What do we do?”
“Stay here, mon ami.” He started across the terrace, the Englishman at his heels.
“Where the devil are you going?”
“There’s something I must do. Something important…”
“What’s more important than this?”
“There’s a real monster still to be caught. A monster who has murdered twice!” He continued on toward the open windows but, remembering, turned back. “Fric-Frac! Come! Quickly…”
The small black dog sped out of the darkness across the terrace and jumped into his arms.
“Think I’d forgotten you?” He glanced back and saw the mastiff crouched beside the charred shape that had been its master. “You’re a good girl. Staying where I told you.” He buried his face in Fric-Frac’s curls as he carried her inside, and again breathed the fragrance of Aurore’s bath oil.
From behind him on the terrace came a chilling sound.
The mastiff was howling. Mourning for his dead master…
CHAPTER 22
Glancing down at Fric-Frac, curled beside him in the Peugeot, he smiled. She had led him back without faltering, through those endless passages and down the curving stone steps out of the Château.
Nick’s body would go to the morgue in Courville. Into one of those metal drawers. Next to Annie Deffous…
Doctor Mondor would perform an autopsy.
He had a strong hunch that a bullet would be found. A bullet, not suffocation, had been the cause of death…
Several of the villagers should certainly come forward and name the ones who had brought guns to the Château.
Many things raced through his mind as he drove past the familiar farms and vineyards.
Aurore! Lonely after her husband’s death, she had fallen in love with Giroud…
Giroud pursuing Jenny. While sleeping with Blanche Carmet and, probably, several others…
What about Jenny Tendrell? Giroud had arranged a rendezvous with her for tonight. But where? She must have told Giroud earlier—probably on the phone, when she made reservations for dinner—that her father would be going off somewhere in his Citroën. Confirmed it at dinner, when Tendrell left her alone and Giroud appeared from the kitchen.
Where would she meet Giroud?
The Tendrells’ cook might know…
Damiot swerved the Peugeot onto a grassy verge as he glimpsed the rows of beech trees leading to the Tendrell farmhouse.
“Here we are, Madame,” he whispered, slowing to a stop.
She followed him out of the car, instantly alert, and trotted beside him up the road.
There were no lights in the farmhouse windows facing the highway. No smoke rising from any chimneys and no car parked in the lane.
“Not a sound, Madame. You understand? Stay close to me!” He walked halfway up the lane, then stepped onto the soft earth and continued on, keeping close to the beech trees on his right.
Hesitating when he reached the last tree, Fric-Frac at his feet, he listened for some sound.
Nothing. Not even a bird.
“We’ll check the side windows.” They crossed a stretch of grass and followed a pebbled path between flower beds. He wished he had been able to inspect this property more carefully, by daylight. His previous visit had been at night and in heavy rain.
Reaching the corner of the house, he saw that no light showed from any windows along the side. Still no sound from inside or from those cottages at the rear, which Tendrell had said were occupied by his staff…
He saw that he was approaching a row of tall double windows, which must have been installed when the place was restored. They faced a flagstone terrace where he glimpsed antique statues surrounded by shrubbery. As he came closer, he noticed that the far pair of windows stood open. Their glass panes, pushed back against the shutters, reflected a silver color from the night sky.
Had Jenny left them open for Giroud? Perhaps the two had come out through here and then walked to his car…
Damiot hesitated, listening for any sound from inside.
The windows were covered by heavy curtains, and no light was visible underneath.
The silence was broken suddenly by the neighing of a horse. Fric-Frac growled faintly. He reached down to stroke her head, reassuringly. Must be the English girl’s black mare. Locked up for the night in the barn.
Damiot waited, his ears straining. There was no other sound.
Then, barely a whisper, he heard something… A voice? From inside.
He moved close to the open window. A man’s voice…
Fingering one of the curtains carefully, until he found the edge, he pushed it back so that he could look into the room.
A shaded lamp glowed on a bedside table. The small circle of light revealed Jenny Tendrell, asleep in an enormous antique bed. The remainder of the room was in shadow.
A dark figure knelt at the foot of her bed.
Damiot leaned forward to see the man’s face…
Michel Giroud! Hands clasped and head bowed. His voice was a monotone. Only a few phrases were audible.
Damiot recognized the Latin words.
“Mea culpa! Mea culpa…”
He frowned, translating in his mind. “My fault! My fault…”
“Miserere mei…”
“Have mercy upon me…”
The Latin was like an incantation.
Moving cautiously, Damiot stepped inside.
“Miserere mei…”
Fric-Frac growled. The small sound was like an explosion in the room.
Giroud, with one swift motion, was on his feet. A knife flashing in his hand.
The dog continued to growl.
Giroud raised the knife.
Damiot saw that it had the special blade a chef uses for boning. Long and thin and deadly…
“Monsieur Inspecteur!” Giroud bowed slightly, a fa
int smile on his lips. “From the day of your arrival, I’ve known that you would be the one to discover the truth. But I did not expect you here tonight…”
Damiot saw that Giroud was wearing an expensive black leather jacket, black trousers, rubber-soled shoes. “Let me have that knife.”
“A chef never permits anyone to touch his favorite knife.” He continued to smile. “You must know that! Your father was a chef.”
“The knife…”
“You will have to take it from me, Monsieur. I suppose you have a gun.”
“No gun. I dislike violence. All violence! But especially murder.”
“Without a gun it will be impossible for you to take my knife. I suspect I’m much stronger than you. In better condition.”
“That is possible.”
“If you attempt to take my knife, I will be forced to kill you.”
“You have already killed twice.”
“You’ve no evidence of that.”
“I have proof.”
The smile faded. “I don’t believe you!”
“And tonight you planned to kill again.” He glanced toward Jenny, her long blond hair spread across the white pillows, and saw that she hadn’t moved. “Why this girl?”
“She’s much too clever. This girl… She too suspects the truth. I was afraid she might tell her father—or you—what it is she has guessed about the other two. I’m afraid I talked too much, the last time we were together.”
“The last time?”
“I drove up here after dinner, one night last week. Jenny had told me on the phone that her father would be out. He returned after midnight and, as usual, I departed through these windows. Apparently, during the evening, I said something—I’ve no idea what it was—that convinced Jenny I had killed Lisette Jarlaud. She’d been suspicious for some time, because I’d mentioned last year that I knew Lisette. She has questioned me repeatedly, but this time—without realizing it—I must have revealed more than I intended.”
“Murderers are notorious for their egos. Many have been caught because they couldn’t resist talking. Boasting…”
Giroud’s eyes flashed. “I will not be caught, Monsieur Inspecteur. Even by you! I’ve known, of course, that you suspected me. When I was playing billiards at the cafe last night, I was told that you’d been asking questions.”
The Provence Puzzle Page 22