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 whenever 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.”

“I’ll go and meet M’sieur Tendrell.” Pouchet looked toward the Comte again. “Should I leave the dog here?”

“Yes. Take off his leash.”

Pouchet bent to unfasten the leash from Lautrec’s collar. “Would you care for a drink, Monsieur Inspecteur?” the Comte asked. “Calvados, perhaps?”

Damiot laughed. “How did you know I prefer Calvados?”

“I too have been learning things, Monsieur.” He pressed another section under the arm of his wheelchair.

“Yes, M’sieur le Comte?” A woman’s voice, coming out of the air.

“A bottle of our best Calvados, Madame Léontine. And a bottle of whisky for Monsieur Tendrell.”

“Right away, chéri!”

“Madame Léontine Guibert?”

“Grand-mère brought Madame Léontine to Paris after my accident, and she’s been with me ever since. Feeding me. Always complaining because I never put more flesh on my bones, in spite of her cooking. She even makes these robes I wear…”

He looked across the room. “Here she is!”

Damiot struggled up from the fauteuil as he saw the aproned figure, short and plump, bearing a tray with bottles and glasses. “Madame Léontine…”

“If it isn’t young Damiot!” Her eyes danced as she came toward them. “As handsome as ever! The last time I saw you, you came to sing carols for the old Comtesse. I gave you an almond cake and hot cider.”

“I remember your almond cake. That was in the yellow salon…”

“I’ve had the yellow salon restored,” the Comte interrupted. “All grand-mère’s furniture and her favorite paintings. I sit there many evenings, in the twilight…”

As Madame Léontine rested her tray on the desk, Damiot saw that she was wearing an old-fashioned shawl. It was the color of that strand of crimson yarn Fric-Frac had picked up yesterday. “You look the same, Madame.”

She laughed. “The hair is white and the legs aren’t so good…”

“My doctor keeps an eye on her.” The Comte was uncorking the Calvados bottle. “Madame Léontine took care of me day and night after I was released from that last hospital in Paris.”

“I’m still looking after him, grace a Dieu!” She stood, hands folded over her apron, watching the Comte with obvious adoration as he poured two drinks. “I’m seventy-eight but strong as I was at forty!” She picked up a glass of Calvados and presented it to Damiot.

“Merci, Madame. Your cooking smells delicious!”

“How could you know that, M’sieur?”

“Yesterday afternoon you were preparing something with herbs and truffles. Was it chicken?”

“Two chickens! For dinner.”

“Smelled incredible…”

“And it was!” The Comte laughed, filling the third glass with whisky. “Although Madame refuses to go near the electronic ovens I’ve had installed for her…”

“Food tastes better when it’s cooked over a wood fire.” She picked up the glass from the desk and turned to face the dark entrance passage. “Whisky for the English M’sieur!”

“Just in time, am I?”

Damiot looked around to see Tendrell materialize from the darkness.

“Monsieur Inspecteur—we meet again!” The Englishman accepted his drink from Madame Léontine. “Thank you, Madame.”

Damiot rose from the armchair to shake his hand. “You knew all the time that the Comte was here!”

“I also knew you were coming closer and closer to the truth. That’s why I told you to stay away from the Château.” He sat on a sofa near the desk, facing them. “It could only be a matter of time before you discovered my young friend.”

Damiot sank into the armchair as Madame Léontine left the room.

Tendrell raised his glass. “Cheers!”

“Sami!” the Comte responded.

“Sami…” Damiot took a large swallow of Calvados as he turned to the Comte. “How long has Monsieur Tendrell known you were here?”

“More than a year,” Tendrell answered. “I trespassed one day to have a closer look at the castle, and Nick tried to kill me.”

“Nothing of the sort!” The Comte laughed. “I sometimes hunt in my wheelchair along the edge of the forest, with Pouchet and Lautrec in attendance. But I only hunt for food—rabbit, wild boar, or pheasant. I stun them with another device I’ve invented. Lautrec guards them until Pouchet ties them up. One day I very nearly got an inquisitive Englishman!”

“Frightened the devil out of me!” Tendrell gulped his whisky. “We became friends after Nick almost bagged me that day.”

“I desperately needed someone new I could talk to evenings. I’d seen Allan drive past the gates many times and watched Jenny on her black mare. Pouchet had told me that she was his daughter. I was a complete surprise to Allan, but he was already like an old friend.”

Damiot glanced at the artist. “So you’ve known all along about the monster?”

“And begged Nick repeatedly not to continue with his little joke.”

“Then you did see it Friday night from that hill?”

“Of course! But I’ve denied seeing anything when it appears. Even to Jenny! I hope, Inspector, that you will persuade Nick to put an end to this ridiculous charade.”

“Now, Allan!” the Comte protested. “I’ve been enjoying my public performances.”

“The whole thing could so easily get out of hand. When you first had the idea, I thought it was amusing. Playing a joke on the villagers. But now I’m not so certain.”

“Help yourself to that whisky, mon ami. And more Calvados for Monsieur Damiot.”

Tendrell rose from the sofa and picked up the Calvados bottle from the desk. He filled Damiot’s glass as he talked. “My daughter, by the way, has no idea that the Comte exists. Although she’s getting terribly suspicious because of the evenings I spend away from the farm. Fortunately, we have only the one car, so Jenny can’t follow me.” Replenishing the Comte’s glass. “I suppose, one day soon, I shall have to tell her the truth and bring her to meet Nick.”

“I look forward to that day! Meeting your delightful daughter…” The Comte picked up his drink. “Merci, mon ami.”

“Inspector Damiot, I wish that somehow you could convince Nick that he mustn’t play this little game.” Tendrell filled his own glass to the brim. “He should destroy his monstrous toy!”

The Comte stared at his glass, frowning. “Why must I destroy my beautiful monster?”

“Because the thing is evil. Even though it’s only a clumsy contraption of cloth and metal!”

“Clumsy? It’s nothing of the sort!” Lifting his glass to Damiot as he talked. “We designed it here in our laboratory. One of my assistants created the head, the wig came from Paris, and Madame Léontine made the costume.” He sipped the Calvados, then abruptly set his glass down. “Would you like to meet my monster, Monsieur Damiot?”

“I would indeed.”

“Splendid!” His eyes gleamed mischievously as he got to his feet. Standing erect, his waist was barely level with the top of the table desk. “You shall judge for yourself whether he is clumsy.” He produced two oblong metal objects from somewhere in his wheelchair. Snapped and shook one, causing it to shoot out into a curiously shaped crutch. “I designed these too. Collapsible and much lighter than any others.”

Damiot saw that the crutch was made of flexible metal, jointed and shaped to support the arm. Like no crutch he had ever seen.

The Comte snapped a second crutch into shape and slipped both of them up his voluminous sleeves before circling the desk. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Monsieur Inspecteur!” He crossed the room, moving awkwardly, followed by the mastiff.

Under his long brown robe, the Comte appeared to have the muscular shoulders and torso of a grown man, but his invisible legs must be those of a child. This was the boy Jenny Tendrell had glimpsed through the entrance gates! Damiot watched the stunted figure swaying from side to side until it vanished into the dark passage with the mastiff.

Fric-Frac, left behind, came to sit at his feet.

“So now you know the truth!” Tendrell murmured. “I’ve no idea what Nick was telling you before I arrived, but I must add that, in my opinion, he’s an authentic genius. Many of his inventions are already being produced by a corporation he owns in Paris. I think the idea of creating a monster amused him, after the long hours he spends with his colleagues on more serious projects…” The Englishman moved around the room, glass in hand. “But the whole thing’s become much too dangerous. I hope, Monsieur Inspecteur, that you’re able to make Nick put his toy away and forget it!”

“He won’t listen to you?”

“No, indeed!”

“What about the murders of those two girls?”

“Nick had nothing to do with their deaths.”

“How can you be so positive?”

“You saw him! It would be physically impossible.”

“With Pouchet’s help, he might have reached that field across from here in his wheelchair.”

“Nick has killed no one! He could never get down to the village in his wheelchair, to that alley where the Jarlaud girl was found.”

“Pouchet has a car.”

“Nick did not kill Lisette Jarlaud. I know that for a fact.”

“Do you?”

“I was with him that night. We spent the evening together. I didn’t arrive home until long after midnight. Pouchet had to help Nick to bed and it was necessary for me to drive rather carefully.”

Damiot was distracted, as the Englishman talked, by a whisper of sound from the passage. A monstrous figure loomed out of the dark. Damiot recognized the great head with lank black hair hanging down to the huge shoulders. A long, multicolored cloak, not unlike the Comte’s robe, swaying with the body in an awkward rhythm that made the strange figure seem even more ominous.

Fric-Frac growled.

Tendrell turned and saw the approaching figure. “Ah! The famous Courville monster! In person…”

As the towering figure came closer, Damiot realized that the face was a skillfully painted mask with black holes for eyes, hollow waxen cheeks, and a crimson slash of mouth.

Tendrell set his empty glass on the desk. “Startling, eh?”

“Amazing!” Damiot jumped to his feet and crossed the room with Fric-Frac growling at his heels. “No wonder the villagers thought this was real!” He circled the slowly moving figure as Pouchet and the mastiff followed the monster out of the darkness.

Now the tall figure began to sink slowly toward the floor.

Fric-Frac barked.

Damiot stepped back, away from the collapsing monster. “This is what happened Friday night on the terrace!”

The figure shot up again to its full height.

“There you are!” The Comte’s voice, muffled, from under the cloak. “Tall as a giant or flat as a pile of rags. Pouchet?”

The old man stepped forward. “Here I am, M’sieur le Comte.”

“Take this thing off me!”

The old man lifted the cloak away as it began to collapse again.

Laughing, pleased with what he had done, the Comte lunged free of the contraption. “That wasn’t clumsy, was it? The figure’s designed on the principle of a toy I used to have when I was a child. A simple mechanism lifts the head and shoulders.” He circled the desk on his crutches and climbed into the wheelchair as he explained. “That’s why the monster never appears in bad weather. It could be torn apart by the wind and damaged by rain.” He reduced his crutches to their original size and returned them to their compartments in the wheelchair.

Damiot watched Pouchet carry the collapsed figure away through the passage. “Your trick has been a great success, Monsieur! This monster you created did not, however, kill those two girls.”

“That’s quite obvious,” Tendrell observed, refilling his glass. “But the question remains—who did? And why, Monsieur le Comte, did you play this trick on everyone?”

“Because of the stories Pouchet heard in the village about a monster lurking in the Château. That gave me the idea.”

“And when did you hear about this monster?” Damiot sat in the armchair again as Fric-Frac returned to stretch out at his feet. “Who was the first to tell Pouchet about it?”

“I’ve asked him that myself, but he doesn’t remember. It was after the death of the first girl that he told me what the villagers were saying.”

“You never heard it prior to her murder?”

“Never.”

“So there is no ancient legend about a monster in the Château?”

“Not to my knowledge. Certainly I’d have known about it when I was a child. One of the servants would have told me, even if the family hadn’t. I did of course hear tales of criminals tried here, in our courtyard, before they were hanged in that field where the first girl was murdered…”

“I heard similar stories when I was in school,” Damiot interrupted, “but nothing about any monster.”

“I created my monster to keep the villagers away from here, but unfortunately, the first time I showed him down in the courtyard nobody saw him. I had Pouchet light the monster from behind with a lantern, but there was nobody to see. The following night I played the tape of a tolling bell, certain that the sound would attract someone’s attention. Pouchet saw a car pass on the road and, after a moment, drive back. The driver got out and stood close to the gates. So I made the monster move up and down. The fellow ran to his car and sped away. He must have been from the village, because the following night, Pouchet reported that several people were gathered outside the gates. We did our performance for them and they departed in a hurry! The next night it rained, so we didn’t give them another show until the first clear night.”

“With an equally gratifying reception!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“This time there must’ve been a dozen villagers watching,” the Comte continued. “Allan, of course, knew what I was doing from the start. He was on the hill last Friday night when you turned up. What did you think, Monsieur, when you saw the monster?”

“I was certain that the murderer had arranged it, whatever it was, to confuse and frighten the villagers.”

The Comte laughed. “You are quite right as to my purpose, but I am not the murderer.” Motioning toward the bottles on the tray. “Help yourselves, gentlemen!”

“No more, at the moment.” Damiot glanced at his unfinished drink as Tendrell picked up the whiskey bottle to refill his own glass.

“I would never kill anyone, Monsieur Inspecteur,” the Comte continued. “My passion is for life. I am interested only in living!”

“Why did you let people think you had died?” Damiot asked quietly. “After your accident.”

“Grand-mère started that rumor to save me from having to meet people. She told some reporter in Paris that I had died, and he printed the story. This was after I had had several unfortunate experiences. One day, on the street, I heard a woman call me a monster! Grand-mère and I constantly discussed my future. She knew how difficult it would be for me to face strangers. Unlike the great Lautrec, I had no wish to ease my despair in absinthe or bury myself in the soft, impersonal world of prostitutes. It was grand-mère who, before her final illness, suggested I build a high wall around this family estate, install whatever laboratories I might require for my work, and establish a private world of my own. Madame Léontine prepares my favorite dishes, and Pouchet is my guardian, confidant, and friend. I am a reasonably happy human!”

Tendrell perched on the arm of the sofa, nursing his whiskey. “The villagers, of course, would think you quite mad if they learned you were living here. That you had tricked them with your monster…”

“They are the mad ones! Believing in a monster.”

“They are superstitious!” Damiot protested. “Foolish! And, of course, ignorant. Many of them…”

“Ignorance makes fools of men.”

Tendrell nodded. “Ignorance—stupidity—that’s what is wrong with the world! There should be one Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not be stupid!’”

Damiot got to his feet. “I wish, Monsieur le Comte, that you would not show your monster to the villagers again.”

“Ah! But I plan to have him make another appearance tomorrow night. If the weather clears.”

“I too wish you wouldn’t, Nick.” Tendrell rose from the sofa’s arm. “When ignorant people are frightened they become violent animals, and the villagers at this moment seem ready to explode. They talk of nothing but those murders and the monster in the Château. My daughter hears them every time she goes shopping…”

“I agree with Monsieur Tendrell.” Damiot moved closer to the desk. “It would be wise to put an end to this joke. I suggest that you destroy the Courville monster!”

“Not just yet, Monsieur Inspecteur. And you won’t tell anyone, I trust, what I’ve revealed to you tonight?” He frowned, suddenly childlike, as though he were about to have his wonderful toy taken away. “You won’t report to the local gendarmerie that I’ve played a trick on their friends in the village? Won’t tell them that I’m here in residence at the Château?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte. Nick… I will not tell anyone. Inspector Bardou’s the one who must find the murderer—or murderers. Not I…”

“Monsieur Inspecteur!” The Comte frowned. “You must have some theory about the murderer…”

Damiot shrugged.

“It has to be one of the villagers!” Tendrell exclaimed.

“I suspect,” Damiot finally answered, “that whoever started the rumor of a monster in the Château de Mohrt may be the murderer…”

* * * *

The rain had stopped before Damiot came to the edge of the village. He slowed his car as he reached the Auberge.

None of the windows were lighted. Perhaps Aurore had gone to bed.

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.