CHAPTER 4

Damiot opened his eyes reluctantly, reacting to a red glow that had seeped through his eyelids and wakened him.

Unfamiliar room? Brilliant diagonal bar of light…

Had he left a lamp turned on?

“Mon Dieu! It’s the sun.”

He pushed himself to a sitting position, in spite of a twinge of pain through his hip, and saw that the bar of light was an opening between two window curtains. When he had pulled them across the windows last night, they hadn’t closed.

There was a thin strip of blue sky and, lower down, something green that seemed to be alive and quivering.

Slipping cautiously out of bed to favor his hip, he limped across the cold floor to the windows. Grasped the curtains with both hands and flung them apart.

The sudden glare of sunlight made him blink. Then he saw that the sky was indeed a brilliant blue. Not a cloud! And the quivering green was a tree branch covered with young leaves.

He padded back to the bedside table and snatched up his wrist-watch. Not yet seven? Eh bien! Run a hot tub and relax in that for half an hour. Then back to bed and wait for breakfast.

He hadn’t slept so well in months! Must have been that second Calvados with Madame Bouchard…

* * * *

Damiot slowed the Peugeot to a crawl as he recognized a section of road he had walked hundreds of times in the past. Farther on there would be an old stone bridge across a small river where he used to fish.

He glanced at the dog beside him, seated on her haunches, muzzle thrust out through the open window. She had scampered into his room as Claude entered, and jumped onto the bed. Damiot had fed her bits of orange-flavored bread spread with lavender honey as he enjoyed his breakfast.

She had remained on the bed, watching him while he shaved and dressed, and followed him to the foyer, where he found Madame Bouchard.

“Bonjour, Monsieur! Did you sleep?”

“Without a dream. I feel completely rested this morning.”

“I’m so glad.” She glanced down at the dog. “Fric-Frac isn’t being a nuisance?”

“Certainly not. In fact, I was wondering if I might take her with me this morning for a drive in the foothills?”

“You’ll be doing my staff a favor. She gets underfoot when they’re busy in the kitchen. And she adores riding in a car.” Smiling as she ripped the page from her pad. “Will you return in time for dinner?”

“Long before that, I should think.”

“Then I’ll reserve your same table.”

He saw that she was wearing a pullover sweater the color of spring violets, well-fitting gray slacks, and elegant black boots.

“Friday mornings I take the station wagon and drive from farm to farm picking up fresh meat and vegetables. Enjoy the sun, Monsieur…”

And he was enjoying the sun. First sun he had seen in weeks! It was spreading a golden haze across the orchards that provided the apples for Calvados, extending beyond the low stone walls lining the highway.

The farmhouses were old but appeared to be in good condition. Provencal farmers always kept everything in working order.

Fields and vineyards teemed with activity. Women in straw hats working among the grapevines. Smoke rising from bonfires of twisted roots. Farmhands in one recently tilled field, planting seeds. He could smell the rich earth, damp from the rains.

Groves of silver-gray olive trees trimmed on top, not as in some other provinces. Villages perched like toy houses on distant hills, their stone walls pink in the hot sunshine. Almond trees on the higher slopes and a row of dark cypresses like sentries, black against the intense blue sky.

A flock of ravens, disturbed by his car, shot up from a field with a clatter of sound, cawing and flapping their purple-black wings.

Passing a hedge of hawthorn, he was startled when a small boy straightened to stare at him. Probably crouched there searching among the roots for snails. He had done that many times, along this same road.

When Damiot reached the old stone bridge, he stopped the Peugeot and got out. The dog ran down to the edge of the bank and dipped her muzzle into the water.

He had fished here many times, another small dog beside him, although he didn’t recall ever catching any fish. Had sat on this same bank for hours, dreaming in the summer sun…

What did he dream about in those days? He had no idea.

As he continued along the curved road, higher and higher, he realized that he was approaching the Château de Mohrt. For centuries the ancient castle had belonged to the de Mohrt family, but he and his young friends always called it Château Mort. Castle Death!

That was what the villagers, long ago, had named the place. Which gave the great estate a special fascination…

He and his pals climbed over the high wrought-iron fence to steal berries every spring and walnuts in the winter. There were plenty of both closer to the village, but they were supposed to taste better if they came from the dark forest surrounding the castle. Sweeter berries and larger walnuts! Many times when they got inside the grounds they had been chased away by a game-keeper with a pack of fierce dogs. Huge gray beasts that came crashing and snarling through the underbrush…

Damiot realized that he was passing a high stone wall he had never seen before. They had replaced the old wrought-iron fence with a wall!

In the past you could see the front of the castle from here, beyond a sloping green lawn where sheep grazed. He had driven by several times with Blanche Carmet, and always slowed his car to stare through the trees at the distant Château.

It was rumored that the de Mohrt family had died out or, if any members survived, that they were living elsewhere. The only tenant was said to be a caretaker. Some of the locals claimed that the castle was haunted. Lights had been glimpsed late at night through windows in the upper floors…

He slowed the Peugeot as he approached the entrance and saw the same tall wrought-iron gates that had always been there. Although not as high as he had thought when he was a boy. How the size of things diminished as you grew older.

The gates were closed, padlocked on the inside.

Damiot stopped his car and leaned across to the open window, pressing against the dog, to look between the elaborate grilles.

A broad drive lined with poplars led up to the lower edge of an open courtyard from which, in a glare of sunlight, rose the impressive stone bulk of the Château de Mohrt.

It was this cobbled courtyard that had given the name of Courville to the village. The first houses, and an inn, were built centuries ago, at the place where two highways crossed. People were said to have traveled great distances to attend the famous trials held in the courtyard of the castle.

He stroked the dog’s head, feeling the delicate bones of her skull, as he studied the distant Château through the locked gates.

The enormous mansion appeared to be unchanged. But from here he could only see the western wing and a corner of the central part of the castle. Through the open space in between he glimpsed far-off hills at the rear. Ivy climbed the stone walls like rising smoke, winding around the balustraded upper terrace and spreading upward around the small tourelles to one of the massive high towers with its slits of windows. The other towers and the main entrance, under its pillared arch in the center, were no longer visible because of that new wall.

Suddenly the sound of pounding hoofs made him turn and peer through the windshield. He saw a small figure on a black horse, racing toward him. Probably some farm boy. The rider would notice him sitting here and think he was a tourist, gawking at the famous Château.

The dog began to growl.

“No, Fric-Frac.” He reached out and patted her. “It’s all right.”

As the horse thudded closer, he realized that the rider was a girl. Long blond hair flying. Wearing a man’s sport shirt, riding breeches, and boots. Sitting the horse like a professional.

It was that girl he had seen yesterday in the village. She glanced at him as the horse galloped past, their eyes meeting briefly. The dog barked and tried to scramble across his knees.

“Stay where you are.” He lifted her back to the window, where she settled down after one final growl.

The great Château seemed to float in a haze of sunlight above the open courtyard. Perhaps, while he was here, he could do some research on the castle’s history. There must be documents at the town hall. That would give him something to do for a few hours…

He saw that the grass edging the entrance drive had not been trimmed in a long time. Heavy coils of ivy hid the stone columns on either side of the gates. Barely possible to make out the carved gargoyle heads that glared down from the top of each gatepost. They were supposed to be the faces of de Mohrt ancestors…

Fric-Frac sat up again, her head thrust out through the open window, and began to growl.

A sharp crack of sound came from beyond the wall. A branch snapping under the weight of an animal? Wild boar or deer…

He had a momentary feeling that he was being watched.

Damiot drove on, following the high wall to the west boundary of the estate, then passed through a wooded area where ancient oak trees joined their branches in an overhead arch. No other cars in sight and the only sounds were muted bird voices from the forest.

This country air was giving him an appetite. In Paris he seldom had more than a sandwich with a glass of wine, but today he would treat himself to a real lunch.

He wondered where that blond girl could have been going on her black horse? Either in a hurry to get somewhere or anxious to escape from something. Or someone…

He drove past more vineyards and farms.

Heads turned, eyes following his car, but no arm was raised in greeting. These country people were never friendly with strangers.

He slowed down as he approached another farm. The old stone house, to his surprise, had recently been roofed and painted. A flower garden extended around both sides to vegetable gardens at the rear, with stables beyond. There was a long lane, lined with beech trees, where one car was parked. It was the gray Citroën that blonde had driven yesterday. So this was where she lived!

Damiot drove on into the foothills, through rocky canyons that led up to shallow plateaus. Olive trees clung to the steep hillsides with desperate roots.

After driving for another hour, he checked a map and took a different route back toward Courville. The road descended gradually, and he glimpsed deep gorges and rock-tossed streams. One brief view of a river, probably the Rhône, snaking through a city that he didn’t recognize from this distance. Could it be Arles?

Several kilometers farther on, he passed a pleasant country inn with a small dining terrace at the side. Swerving off the road, he turned and came back. Slowed as he read a sign—La Terrasse—before he drove into the empty parking lot. Careful to leave his car under a tree, windows open, so that Fric-Frac would get air.

He followed a path to the dining area. All the tables, under yellow parasols, were empty, but a fat pigeon in a patch of sunlight was searching for crumbs on the stone terrace.

“M’sieur?”

Damiot turned as a swarthy waiter in shirtsleeves came from inside. “Are you serving lunch?”

“But certainly!” He led the way between the tables as he talked. “Yesterday, in the rain, there was nobody, but with this sunshine we should get several people today.”

Damiot eased into a chair that the waiter pulled out and flicked with a napkin. “I drove past, but your terrace looked so inviting I came back. Such peace and quiet can’t be found in Paris restaurants.”

“At the moment we have too much quiet. Another month and we’ll get a flood of tourists. The quiet will depart, of course, but business will improve. An apéritif, M’sieur?”

“A vin blanc cassis. What do you suggest for lunch?”

“The chef has prepared wild quail today. With a special stuffing.”

“I’ll have that.”

The waiter bowed and went inside.

Damiot realized that he was smiling in anticipation. He hadn’t tasted wild quail in years.

His table was near a low brick wall enclosing a flower garden whose rosebushes were a solid mass of green leaves. Another month and they should be covered with buds.

And, faintly, he heard the true sound of Provence. Les cigales! There seemed to be only a few of them, close at hand, probably hatched by the morning sun.

A shy-eyed garçon spread a checked cloth over the table and then, swift as a magician, produced napkin and silver.

“M’sieur…” The waiter set his apéritif in front of him.

“Merci. And what do you suggest for a start?”

“Perhaps the snail fritters…”

“Bien! With half a carafe of Tavel?”

“Certainly… M’sieur is in Provence on business?”

“I’m here for a holiday. Staying at the Auberge Courville.”

“Courville! Have they caught that monster yet?”

“Monster?”

“It was in one of the local papers. Another Courville murder! A young girl, like the first…”

“Why do you call the murderer a monster?”

“That’s what the newspaper called him. The Courville Monster!” He shrugged. “All murders are brutal, but this man’s a real beast. Pardon, M’sieur.” He bowed and disappeared inside again.

Another young girl murdered? And they were calling the killer “the Courville monster”…

Certainly all murderers were not monsters. Some of the most interesting people he had known were murderers. Fascinating people! Gentle and pathetic people…

A monster loose in Courville? Mustn’t think about that…“M’sieur?” The waiter again. “Is this your dog?”

Damiot looked down to see Fric-Frac dancing on her hind legs, tail wagging frantically. “I left her in the car but the windows were open. Would it be all right if she sits here beside me?”

“Of course, M’sieur. Le patron has two dogs of his own.” Damiot stroked the small black head and watched Fric-Frac settle down beneath his chair, revolving several times as though she were making a nest.

The fritters were excellent, rolled around succulent snails. The garçon removed his empty plate, and the waiter brought a steaming casserole containing two plump quail in a dark sauce, with baby carrots and small white onions.

Damiot sniffed the appetizing aroma rising from the stuffing.

He detected herbs, tomatoes, mushrooms and sweet peppers, and a trace of Calvados.

As Damiot ate, he slipped bits of quail to the dog.

His hip was paining again, even while he sat absolutely still. The metal pin they had inserted must be adjusting to his first real exercise. All that therapy at the hospital had been easy—walking on moving belts, clutching handrails, and arriving nowhere—compared to his activity yesterday and today.

That night in Montmartre, he had been foolish to go into Valzo’s warehouse alone. Once again he had taken an unnecessary risk. He should have waited until others arrived to back him up. But that had never been his way…

Valzo was dead, killed when he crashed his motorcycle escaping from the warehouse. Borell had heard the shots and was waiting in the police car when Valzo came out.

The informer who tricked Damiot into searching that warehouse had been arrested, and the pimp, Chulot, had spilled everything about the murder of the Laurent woman.

“How’s the quail, M’sieur?”

Damiot looked up to see the waiter again. “Just as I remembered! I’ve come home.”

“M’sieur is from Provence?”

“I was born in Courville.”

“Welcome home, M’sieur!”