CHAPTER 12

When he returned to the Auberge he switched on the lamps in his room and closed every curtain to shut out the rain. He tossed his Paris paper on the bed with the Simenon. Unwrapping the small torch, he slipped it into a pocket of his damp waterproof, which he then hung in the armoire.

The room was chilly, and he immediately ran a hot tub.

Undressed, he stood before the long bathroom mirror.

His scars were hideous. Each time he looked at them he was repulsed by the damage those doctors had done to his body. He had seen hundreds of dead bodies without flinching, but the desecration of his own flesh repelled him. The livid scars would be with him for the rest of his life.

After a long soak in the steaming water, he slipped into his robe and stretched out on the bed, placing the Simenon within reach on the bedside table. Save that for the first night, he couldn’t sleep.

He opened the newspaper but, turning the pages, found no crime news.

The paper said it was raining in Paris. Checking the date, he discovered that it was Wednesday’s paper. The day before he left Paris! No matter. He hadn’t seen a newspaper since leaving the hospital.

Turning more pages, he became interested in a political crisis. Same old politicians, new scandals…

* * * *

He wakened with a start, pushing the newspaper off his face.

Checking his wristwatch on the bedside table, he saw that he had slept for several hours. He flung the paper aside, jumped up from the bed, and went to the nearest pair of windows. Driving rain and a flooded garden! There would be no visit to the Château tonight.

He heard a dog barking in the darkness. The forlorn sound came from the front. Probably a stray, running loose on the avenue.

Damiot closed the curtains, shutting out the rain, and went into the bath, where he splashed his eyes with cold water to bring himself awake.

* * * *

Studying the menu, he saw that the specialty for the evening was ratatouille.

Only six other guests in the dining room—three middle-aged couples. The chef himself served Damiot, with both of the waiters and the garçon in attendance. One waiter removed the cover from a large earthen casserole on a serving cart. The other set a plate of ratatouille before Damiot, after Michel spooned it from a silver ladle, with fresh asparagus and gratin dauphinois in separate dishes.

Damiot sniffed the rich aroma. “Smells magnificent!” He picked up a fork, realizing that Giroud was waiting for him to taste his creation. As he did so he noticed Madame Bouchard at her desk, smiling in anticipation. He glanced up at the chef—remembering what Jenny Tendrell had said about him—as he took the first mouthful. Aurore Bouchard was in love with this young man and, quite obviously, the English girl was at least attracted to him…

Giroud leaned forward slightly. “Monsieur?”

“Haven’t tasted a genuine ratatouille in years! Can’t find anything like this in Paris.”

“Plaisir, Monsieur Damiot.” Michel Giroud bowed, his starched toque blanche stiff as a bishop’s miter. He waved the waiters ahead of him toward the kitchen, followed by Claude pushing the serving cart.

Damiot settled down to enjoy his dinner. The ratatouille was excellent, but no better than his father used to make…

Or was memory deceiving him?

He remembered his father, after Chez Damiot closed for the night, stirring a big pot of ratatouille and filling three plates. The family eating in the kitchen, sopping up the last drop of the stew with crusts of bread left from other people’s dinners. Afterward, he would always help his mother with the dishes. All the tableware from the restaurant. Pots and pans. Two hours of hard work before they could go upstairs, where his father would already be snoring…

Damiot finished his carafe of vin blanc with a local cheese and asked Jean-Paul to serve coffee, as usual, in the lounge. He left the dining room unobserved by Madame Bouchard, who had disappeared into the kitchen, and went into the lounge.

Relaxing near the open fire, he pondered several questions.

Was it possible that Pouchet was the monster? Or was it that small boy Jenny Tendrell had glimpsed through the entrance gates?

He wondered if Bardou was sleeping after his hot toddy…

“Jean-Paul said you didn’t want your Calvados tonight.”

He looked around to see Aurore Bouchard. “Not tonight. Merci!” Rising clumsily from the low fauteuil. “Won’t you sit down?”

“For a moment.” She sank onto a sofa, facing him.

“Another excellent dinner!” Lowering himself into the armchair again, favoring his hip. “Pity there were so few people to enjoy it.”

“We always expect that in this weather.” She clasped her hands on an arm of the sofa. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”

“But I did, Madame!”

“Yes, of course you did.” She smiled. “You even wrote your name in our guest book when you arrived. I simply didn’t associate it with the previous owners of this property. In fact, I’d completely forgotten that their restaurant was called Chez Damiot! After Madame Sibilat phoned this morning, I checked through a file of documents and found the names—Pierre and Clémence Damiot…”

“I suppose Madame Sibilat told you I placed roses on their graves?”

“She did.”

“I noticed fresh flowers on your husband’s grave.”

“Oh, yes! I get them every Saturday, when I pick up flowers for the restaurant.”

“Off the record, what do you think of the Sibilats? Mère et fils?”

She frowned. “The truth is—I do not like them. Either of them!” Facing him again. “Madame is much too inquisitive. Most of the village women have sharp eyes—and sharper tongues. Except Madame Mussot, at the patisserie. She’s a love!”

“I’ve known her since I was a child.”

“Madame Sibilat’s the worst! She asks the most personal questions and expects an answer. I also resent the way she dominates her son. Marc must be in his thirties, but he’s completely controlled by his mother. Madame Sibilat is constantly telling him what to do. Even in their shop. I find it uncomfortable to go there, but they do have the best flowers this side of Grasse!” She rose from the sofa. “Eh bien, Monsieur! Now that I know who you are…”

He got to his feet. “Yes, Madame?”

“Would you care to see what Julien and I have done to your old home? To your parents’ kitchen…”

“I would indeed.”

“I shall give you a personal tour.” She led the way, across the lobby and through the dark dining room with its ghostly tables. “My staff has departed for the night and Michel will be leaving shortly, in spite of the rain, for whatever diversion he may have planned for this evening. Perhaps some billiards or a visit to one of his lady friends. He has many local admirers.

Damiot was aware of a note of irony in her voice as she pushed the doors back, into the brightly lighted kitchen.

“We enlarged the old kitchen. Put in more windows…”

His eyes moved from the compact modern ranges to a row of white refrigerators as she talked, noticing the enormous stainless-steel pots, hanging copper pans, and rows of casseroles. Worktables holding electrical equipment—mixers and blenders. “My father would appreciate every change you’ve made in his kitchen, and my mother would admire what you’ve done to her dining room. Especially the chairs!”

“I am so glad, Monsieur.” She glanced toward a corkscrew wooden staircase that rose from a shadowy corner. “Now would you care to see my own suite?”

“If I wouldn’t be intruding…”

“Certainly not!” She started up the curving steps. “I suppose these were your family bedrooms?”

“My parents had the large one. Mine was the smallest. The other room, in front, was available for guests.” He clutched the polished baluster as he climbed after her. “You added this staircase…”

“Julien found it in an old farmhouse that was being torn down. It was his idea to put it here, so that we might have a private entrance to our apartment.” She turned to look down at him. “Oh, Monsieur, I forgot! Your hip…”

“No problem. I’m walking much better today.”

“How thoughtless of me!”

“Not at all.” He followed her to the top, hip barely protesting. All the exercise, these past three days, must have done some good.

“Here we are!”

He saw that they had reached a shallow landing with a carved antique door. She swung it open and snapped a wall switch, sending a spill of light from inside the room across the landing. “Come in, Monsieur.”

Damiot followed her into a spacious sitting room furnished with Provencal antiques. Warm pools of light from handsome pottery table lamps. “This must take up the space of both our old bedrooms! Mine used to be over there, I think, in the corner. And my parents’ room was about here! Where I was born…”

“My bedroom’s through there.” She indicated a closed door. “In the front.”

“That would be where our guest room used to be.”

“We added a new wing for guest rooms and a lounge. Two rooms downstairs, four above.”

“This is very comfortable.” He glanced around at the curtained windows, crowded bookshelves, and framed paintings of Provence.

“You’ve noticed the paintings! These were my husband’s favorites.”

Damiot saw her tapestry workbag, resting on a small sofa. “I’ve something here I’d like to show you.” He brought out the strand of wool from his pocket.

“What is it?” She moved closer as Damiot held the crimson yarn into the light.

He handed it to her, unexpectedly touching her fingers.

“Knowing that you do needlepoint, I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything about this…”

“It’s pure wool, of course. I haven’t seen such a deep scarlet dye in years.” She rubbed it between her fingers. “Or felt such a heavy texture. I’ve never found this color at the only shop in the village where they sell yarn.”

“It was caught in Fric-Frac’s hair.”

“Fric-Frac?”

“Today while we were out. What do you suppose it came from? Some garment?”

“Hard to say.” She peered at the ends of the strand. “A sweater or scarf, perhaps. Something old because it’s been washed many times. You can see that the color’s slightly faded.” Handing it back. “Afraid I’m not much help…”

“Where is Madame Fric-Frac?” He thrust the yarn into his pocket again. “Haven’t seen her tonight.”

“I left her in my bedroom before dinner, fast asleep.”

“That’s because I wore her out today, walking with me. There’s also something I’d like to ask you about the Courville monster…”

“There I’ll be even less helpful!”

“I’ve been told there’s a local legend that says a monster appears at the Château whenever there’s trouble there or here in the village. But as a child, I never knew of any such legend. Children are always the first to hear and repeat these things. And, of course, believe them! Have you heard this legend?”

“Matter of fact, I have.”

“Do you recall where you first heard it?”

“Months ago, I think…” She frowned, puzzled. “I believe it was shortly after that first girl was murdered.”

“Who told you?”

“I think it was the garçon…”

“Claude?”

“One morning when he arrived for work. He’s always bursting with gossip he picks up from his family and friends… Yes! I’m certain it was Claude who first mentioned a monster at the Château.”

Damiot glanced toward the curtained windows as a car roared down the drive.

“That’s Michel.” She shrugged. “Off early for his Saturday night entertainment in the village. Rain or no rain!”

“And I should say good night. Thank you for showing me the changes you’ve made here.”

“I’m so glad you approve.” She moved toward a third door. “You can get downstairs through here.” Unlocking and opening the door. “This corridor will take you past our other guest rooms to the front stairs. Sleep well, Monsieur…”

“And you!” He hesitated, feeling a sudden urge to embrace her before he went through the door, but restrained the impulse and continued on into the hall. “A demain, Madame!”

“A demain…”

Clutching the railing, Damiot went down the curving steps to the lobby and headed for his room. He unlocked the door and saw that someone had turned on the lamps, lighted a fresh fire on the hearth, and straightened his rumpled bed. Probably the garçon again…

He circled the room, switching off every lamp except the one on his bedside table. That, with the glow from the fireplace, would be enough.

As he moved in and out of the bath, preparing for bed, he could hear the rain through the closed curtains and shutters, beating against the windows.

Perhaps the weather would clear again tomorrow. Several things he wanted to do. And tomorrow night, if it stayed clear, he would have another look at the Château, on his own, without Bardou. Take Fric-Frac with him! She had certainly been useful this morning…

Standing before the tall mirror, behind the bathroom door, he examined his scars again and once more was repelled by what those surgeons in Paris had done to his flesh. If only he could get several days of sun—a good tan should hide some of the ugly marks they had left…

He slipped into his robe, securing it around his waist. As he folded the tailored cover back to the foot of his bed, he noticed the Simenon waiting on the bedside table. Wouldn’t do any reading tonight. Maigret would only keep him awake, he would have to read it through to the end. He began to untie the cord of his robe…

Someone knocked softly.

Damiot frowned as he stared at the offending door. Who the devil could be knocking at this hour? Perhaps Bardou was phoning…

He crossed the room reluctantly, as the knocking was repeated. “Who is it?”

“Madame Bouchard. I hope you weren’t in bed…”

“Not yet.” He unlocked the door and swung it open.

She stood there in her dark brown robe, the quilted satin gleaming like metal, bronze hair hanging free below her shoulders.

Her beauty made him speechless and he could only stare.

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy a Calvados now. My husband always liked to have a nightcap…”

Only then did he realize that she was holding a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses. “I would indeed! Please come in.”

She carried the tray without a word toward the lighted lamp and rested it on the bedside table.

He closed the door and followed her. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“There are several things, Monsieur, that I have decided I must tell you.” She uncorked the bottle as she talked. “Even though you’re not investigating the Courville monster or those murders…”

“I swear, Madame, I have no official reason for involving myself in either matter.”

“You don’t think they’re one and the same?” Now she was filling the glasses. “Those two unfortunate girls were killed by the monster.”

“I have no opinion as to that. I’ve been asking questions because, like all detectives, I have a larger curiosity than most. Eh bien! What is this you’ve decided to tell me?” Accepting one of the glasses from her. “Merci, Madame.”

“First of all, there is something I think you should know about Lisette Jarlaud…”

“First of all! Shall we sit down?”

“Of course…” She sank onto the yellow wool blanket. “I hope you’re finding this bed comfortable?”

“In every way.” He sat beside her, aware of her perfume again. Fresh and subtle, unlike the heavy scents worn by his wife and his mistress…

She raised her glass, the Calvados glowing amber in the firelight. “To your complete recovery, Monsieur! From that surgery…”

“I’ll happily drink to that possibility.” He touched his glass to hers. As they drank, he noticed that her robe, in this light, seemed to have a tawny golden sheen like the pelt of an animal. “You were saying—about the Jarlaud girl?”

“May not be important, but… I haven’t told this to anyone! Of course, the local police never questioned me. Lisette Jarlaud came here one morning, not long before her death.”

“Oh?”

“Two weeks before she died. Only Claude knew about it. He was alone in the kitchen when she knocked on the door, and came upstairs to tell me that Lisette wished to see me. I went down and found her sitting on the kitchen steps. I suppose Claude overheard what was said. I’ve never discussed it with him.” She sipped the Calvados slowly as she talked. “Lisette wanted to know if I might have work for her. Told me that she was unhappy at the Hôtel Courville—had to make a change—but I wanted no part of her. I’d been aware of her reputation since shortly after my husband and I arrived here. So I explained, as kindly as possible, that I already had two women who worked for me whenever maids were required. I never saw her again but I’ve wondered, since her death, why she wanted to leave the Hôtel Courville…”

“She offered you no explanation?”

“None. I’ve thought about it many times. Could she have been threatened by someone? Perhaps one of the guests at the hotel…”

“They would surely have followed her here!”

“Perhaps she knew they couldn’t afford our prices. Also, with only six rooms, our guests are somewhat more conspicuous.”

“But if anyone had threatened her—even someone on the hotel staff—she could have left Courville and found a job in Marseille!”

“With two small children? Surely she wouldn’t leave them with her parents.”

“I suppose not…”

“Ever since Lisette’s death, I’ve felt that I should tell someone about her coming here. It didn’t occur to me at first, because I thought I knew who had murdered her. I thought he would be caught right away, but it’s been several weeks.”

“And who did you think had killed her?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say!” She swallowed more of the brandy. “Now that I’m talking to you, I’m not so certain.”

“Why did you suspect this particular person?”

“Because I saw them together one morning, months ago, as I was parking in the square to do some errands. I first noticed him coming from the pharmacie, walking toward his truck parked near the fountain. I was about to speak when I realized that he hadn’t seen me because his eyes were on someone else. Lisette Jarlaud had apparently been waiting for him, hidden between his truck and another car, but when he reached her they began to quarrel…”

“Who was this man?”

“Must I tell you?”

“Only if you wish.”

“He has lived in Courville only a few years. A strange and lonely man. Not at all a friendly person…”

“Marc Sibilat?”

“I’ve said too much!”

“You think Sibilat killed the Jarlaud girl?”

“I wondered about that right after her death, but I’m not so certain any more. And I know nothing about that other girl who died. I’ve no reason to suspect Marc, except I did see him arguing with Lisette that morning in the square. And he is, well, rather strange…”

“In what way?”

She shrugged. “I have an uncomfortable feeling whenever I’m with him—in his shop or when he delivers flowers here—a suspicion that because of his mother he hates all women.” She frowned as she faced him. “If that were true—could he be the murderer?”

Now it was Damiot’s turn to shrug. “Perhaps he dislikes everyone. Men and women! There are people like that. Any man can be a murderer, or, for that matter, any woman. And every human being, in his own way, is strange—has his or her peculiarities—psychopathic or otherwise. Some of my strangest suspects have proved to be completely innocent.”

“Forget everything I’ve said about Marc Sibilat!”

“Let me assure you, I’ll not repeat it to anyone.” He reached across to set his empty glass on the bedside table.

“Another Calvados?”

“Not just now…” He placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the solid flesh under the satin robe. She leaned closer, touching his cheek lightly with her lips.

“Aurore…” He took her in his arms and kissed her on the mouth.

“How did you learn my name?” she whispered.

“I have learned many things.”

“I’m sure you have…”

As he loosened her robe, searching for the invisible buttons, he realized that she was wearing nothing underneath.

“Let me.” She pushed his hand away, gently.

“You are very beautiful…” He stretched out beside her, accommodating his hip cautiously to her warm flesh.

Her body was reacting. Rhythmically, spasmodically.

Damiot sighed, releasing his worries and tensions of the last weeks. Her body felt firm and warm against his. This woman was more real—more satisfying—than any woman he had known in Paris.

Afterward, relaxing, they drank another Calvados, sipping it slowly.

Aurore was the first to bring up the subject of the murders again. “There must be something that connects those two young women! Lisette and the other one…”

“I’ve known cases where several people were killed and their only link was the killer. None of the victims knew the others but all of them, unfortunately, did know their murderer. If these two met theirs by chance, your Courville monster may never be found!”

“I saw you this afternoon, in the Hôtel Courville.”

“I went there for lunch with a friend, but neither of us could eat. He had no appetite because of a cold, and I had none because of the food.”

“Their food is unmentionable! I lunched with two businessmen from Paris, and we had so many things to discuss, fortunately, that we barely tasted the miserable food. I saw you and your friend going into the brasserie, but you didn’t notice me in the dining room.”

“I saw you when I was leaving.”

She laughed, throwing her head back, bronze hair flowing over her shoulders. “Perhaps you recognized my companions? I’m told they’re well known in Paris.”

“Afraid I didn’t notice their faces. Only yours.” He reached across to set his empty glass on the bedside table.

“Those gentlemen represent an international hotel chain that has bought the Hôtel Courville.”

“I see!”

“There’s been no announcement because they hope to purchase several adjoining properties, and if word got out prematurely, prices would soar!”

“Naturally.”

“It’s to be an enormous hotel de luxe, as in Cannes or Monte Carlo. With a first-class restaurant and a swimming pool. Of course, this should bring new business to all the shops in the village.”

“Why did they select Courville for their new hotel?”

“Because of the traffic on this highway. They had surveys done which show that in the summer there’s a constant flow of tourists through the village, between Paris and the Riviera. I’ve told you, I’m always booked for the entire season. They naturally want no other restaurants in Courville—except those two cafés for the locals—so they’ve offered me a small fortune for this property.”

“Are you going to sell?”

“I have a month to decide. Next week I must drive to Lyon and discuss everything with my attorney.”

“Tell me…” He found it difficult to ask his next question. “What would happen to this building?”

“They plan to tear it down.”

“Mon Dieu!”

“I know. The house where you were born…” She sighed. “And the restaurant Julien and I created. Where we were so happy!”

“Do you wish to sell?”

“The money will make me independent. Julien would want that.”

“You should sell.”

“Is that your advice?”

“Whatever pleases you.”

“You are a very kind man.”

“Nobody’s ever accused me of that before!”

“Nonsense! You’re kind and…”

“I am a policeman. Obstinate and frequently unpleasant. Always searching for the truth.”

“And have you ever found the truth?”

“Once or twice, perhaps…”

She leaned closer and kissed him, lightly, on the shoulder. “One thing more, about the new hotel…”

“Yes?”

“They want me to take complete charge of their restaurant and advise the architect who is designing the kitchens and dining rooms. Seems for some time they’ve been hoping to find a woman manager for one of their restaurants.”

“That should certainly make you decide.” He slipped his arm carefully under her head.

“They had planned to bring a famous chef from Paris to supervise the menus and food, but…”

“What about your chef? Giroud’s first-class.”

“I’ve discussed Michel with them each time we’ve talked, and they are very interested. They’ll be having dinner here tomorrow night. I’m telling Michel that they’re friends of my husband’s and I want him to give them a perfect dinner. I will select the menu, some of the dishes he does best. Michel won’t know he’s being considered for such an important project. If he suspected the truth there could be scenes in the kitchen, and dinner might be a disaster! I’ve made only one demand of these people. They planned to call their restaurant the Relais de Provence, but I told them that if I do sign their contract they must call it Relais Julien. They’ve agreed to do that. So it would be Julien’s restaurant, as well as mine. Our restaurant!”

“You loved your husband very much.”

“We were very close.”

“But you are reasonably happy? Running a restaurant…”

“Reasonably? Yes… What about you? Are you reasonably happy in your métier?”

“Nobody’s ever asked me that before.” He stared at the ceiling, barely visible in the light from the fireplace and bath. “I’ve never thought about it Whether being a policeman satisfies me…”

“Did you always want to be a detective?”

“Such a thing never entered my mind! When I first went to Paris, years ago, I had to find a job while I studied law at night. I worked as a waiter, took tickets on a bus, was a telephone repairman… Then I went to classes during the day and got a job at Au Printemps as a night watchman. Which gave me more time to study. After three years, quite by chance, I discovered that I could apply for a job at the Prefecture. The fact that I had been studying law was in my favor…”

“And now you’re a famous detective!”

“The newspapers exaggerate!”

“Do you enjoy your work at the Prefecture?”

“I’m happiest when I’m away from my office. Working on a case. Meeting people. Asking questions… That’s when I’m really happy.” He felt her body, beside him, relaxing again as he talked. “When I’m doing that, every day is exciting…” Moving closer, pressing his mouth against her lips, he felt her fingers moving slowly down his spine. He buried his face in the soft cloud of her hair, breathing deeply of her fragrance as his lips found her ear.

Her caressing fingers had discovered the scars on his hip.

She gasped.

He realized that his scars had reminded her of another man. If Julien Bouchard had lived, survived that skiing accident, his body would probably have been scarred.

She was sobbing. Quietly…

He kissed her cheek. It was wet with tears.

Her fingers were stroking his scars…

“I understand,” he whispered.

“Do you? Yes! I believe you do…”

“‘But if my queen weeps, I too will weep…’”

“You will weep?”

“A famous poet wrote that. Many years ago. He was born in Provence…” His lips found her mouth again.