The Twenty-Year Death
Page 19
Passemier had turned left, away from town. By the time Pelleter reached the street, the prison guard had realized his mistake, zigzagging down the center of the street as the buildings grew further apart from one another, providing no place to hide.
Pelleter called, “Stop!”
The big man was staggering, still winded from the blow to his stomach, his bulk awkward in the first place. He didn’t look back. He must have seen the roadblock one hundred yards ahead, where the last of the town’s outlying buildings gave way to pure farmland. Pelleter didn’t want him to cut into the fields. The inspector raised his revolver, and shot into the air.
Passemier looked back at the noise, tripping, but regaining his balance before going down.
The men at the roadblock had heard the shot and recognized it for what it was, and they had begun to run towards them.
Passemier saw that he was about to be surrounded, and he chose to turn around and charge Pelleter.
Pelleter paused, and took aim with his revolver. But the men from the roadblock were too close now. He couldn’t risk hitting one of Letreau’s men. He reholstered his gun, and bent his knees as the large man came.
The young men from the roadblock were almost on him now, too. They had begun to yell, “Stop! Police! Stop!”
Passemier dropped a shoulder.
Pelleter watched the other man’s eyes, but they were pinioned straight ahead.
“Stop! Police!”
Passemier was on him. Pelleter tried to step aside and trip the guard, but Passemier anticipated the move, traveling with Pelleter, barreling full-tilt into the chief inspector’s chest, knocking the wind out of Pelleter, whose vision went white. He barely managed to keep his feet.
Passemier pushed past the chief inspector, and on towards town.
The younger officers were there now, passing Pelleter.
Pelleter pulled out his revolver again, still gasping for breath. The air felt cold and dry along the back of his throat. “Move!”
He shot in the air.
The young men looked back, and Pelleter had already taken aim. One of the officers called to his companions, dropping to the ground.
Pelleter shot.
Passemier stumbled. Then began to run again. But now it was more of a loping hop.
One of the younger officers jumped to his feet, and was on Passemier in no time. He yelled at Passemier, but Passemier just turned and swiped at him.
Pelleter was there. He saw that his shot had been good. There was blood on Passemier’s pantleg at his left calf. Pelleter kicked for the spot, and Passemier went down.
Pelleter was on top of the large man, a knee in the prison guard’s back, and his revolver to Passemier’s head.
“Your friends are waiting for you,” Pelleter said.
He used his free hand to retrieve his handcuffs, roughly pulling Passemier’s hands back, first left, then right.
Passemier had too often been on the other side of the equation to struggle at that point. He knew it would go badly for him, and so he let his body go limp.
Pelleter looked up. The young police officer had been Martin. “Good job.”
Martin tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t hold back his smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Further along the street, in front of their house, the Rosenkrantzes were holding each other, Monsieur Rosenkrantz watching Pelleter, Passemier, and the police over Clotilde’s head. His expression was of a man defeated instead of triumphant. Verargent was supposed to be their safe haven. It had not been that.
Letreau was beaming. “Well, we wrapped this whole thing up thanks to you! You really saved me.”
Pelleter laughed. “You’ll just have to return the favor next time you visit me.”
Lambert rolled his eyes at Pelleter, and the chief inspector gave his man a stern expression.
The chief of police opened the top drawer of his desk and came out with three cigars. He handed them across the desk to the two other men. Pelleter’s heart leapt at the sight of it. He had a headache he needed to smoke so badly.
“Now if someone found out who killed all of those prisoners...” Letreau said, but he was still smiling. “But that, my friends is a prison problem. Illegally disposing of remains—that one we solved. And an old murder on top of that.”
Pelleter filled his lungs with the tobacco smoke. The cigar was not quite as good as the ones he was used to, the flavor a bit ashy, but it felt good anyway.
Letreau blew a series of broken smoke rings and then adjusted himself in his chair, looking down at his desk. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
Pelleter nodded.
“This whole business...” Letreau shook his head.
“I still should go out to the prison one last time, although I hate to do it,” Pelleter said.
Letreau waved it away. “It’s Fournier’s problem. His problem.”
Pelleter frowned, and tried to convince himself that was true. Really, how had any of this been his problem? “Don’t be surprised if Fournier manages to solve at least some of those stabbings.”
There was a knock at the open office door. All three men looked up.
An officer said, “Warden Fournier is on the phone, sir.”
“Warden!” Letreau said. “He does move fast.”
“Assistant Warden, sir, I’m sorry.”
Letreau grabbed up the phone from his desk. “You heard our good news?” Letreau’s brow furled. “What! When?”
Lambert looked at Pelleter who just shrugged, enjoying his cigar.
“We’ll be out.” Letreau hung up the phone. “There’s been another stabbing. It’s Mahossier.”
17.
Mahossier in the Infirmary
The infirmary had emptied now. It had been a flurry of activity for the last hour as the doctor and nurse saw to their new patient’s wounds, and various law officials were in and out, overwhelmed by the continued excitement of the day. Pelleter had asked Fournier for his chance to speak with the prisoner before he left, and Fournier had agreed, standing guard with Lambert outside of the infirmary door.
The man who had been stabbed four days before was still in a bed across the room. His color had returned, and he was sitting up in the bed without a problem. He would be returned to his cell later that day. He would have been returned already if it had not been for this new stabbing.
Pelleter sat beside Mahossier’s bed.
“How’s Madame Pelleter?” Mahossier said.
His voice was weak, but Pelleter knew from the doctor that Mahossier’s wounds were superficial. His weakness was a calculated act, like so much with Mahossier.
Pelleter ignored the familiar question.
“I hear that our warden is no longer our warden.”
“Are you happy about that?”
Mahossier shrugged. “We can’t plan what life gives us. We have to take it as it comes.”
Pelleter narrowed his eyes, trying to discover the best way to approach his topic. With Mahossier, it was never an easy matter of discovering the truth unless Mahossier decided to give it to you. “Fournier will no doubt be warden now.”
“A pity.” Mahossier seemed uninterested in that.
“That one’s going to live,” Pelleter said, indicating the man across the room.
“Oh, he’s going to die, inspector. We’re all going to die. We’re dying right now, as we speak.”
Pelleter’s face grew dark. He had uncovered too much already. He didn’t have the energy or the patience to philosophize with a multiple murderer. “You killed those men.”
“What men?” Mahossier said, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Those prisoners.”
Mahossier’s face changed to a sly smile. “Not my type.”
“Or you had them killed. You wanted to get at Fournier, and you figured that a lot of dead bodies soon after he showed up was going to make things difficult for him. You didn’t expect that the murders would be covered up by other people for o
ther reasons, and so when nothing happened, you had me brought in to stir things up.”
“You do like telling stories,” Mahossier said. “I hear you’ve been telling them a lot the last few days.”
Pelleter didn’t rise to the bait, or ask how Mahossier always was so well informed. He went on.
“You’re the one who called ‘here’ when Meranger was already dead. Your cell was next to his. You just wanted to throw further confusion into the mix.”
Mahossier winced, as though suddenly struck with pain, but the gleam in his eyes made it clear that it was just an act.
“You’ve missed your mark. You’ve deposed the warden, and put the man you hated in charge.”
Mahossier shrugged. “It is what it is.”
Pelleter reached out, ready to push on the cuts across Mahossier’s stomach. The prisoner didn’t move, and Pelleter stopped short of actually hurting the man. “You cut yourself up to put suspicion somewhere else. But what happens when the killings stop now? Fournier won’t let up, even if I’m gone.”
“Who said the killings were going to stop?”
“Oh, I think they will. You’ve done enough.”
“Perhaps.”
Pelleter’s eyes narrowed. Was that an admission? No, he could merely have meant that the killings would perhaps stop. Pelleter spoke through closed teeth. “Why?”
Mahossier smiled. “Why not?”
“Seven people!”
Pelleter could feel his face grow red with anger, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. It was wrong to let the man get to him. He was behind bars for life already. What more could be done to him?
Instead of responding to Pelleter’s outrage, Mahossier said, “How is Madame Pelleter? It really is a shame you’ve never had any children.”
Pelleter stood up at that. “Don’t expect me to come next time you call for me.” The inspector crossed the room for the door. Just as he reached it, Mahossier said behind him:
“We could all be dead by then, Inspector.”
There was joy in the murderer’s voice.
Pelleter went out into the hall, and walked past Lambert and Fournier without a word, heading for the front of the building. Seven people killed. And why? Because why not? And who actually held the knives might never be known.
Fournier overtook the chief inspector, and unlocked the doors in front of them as they walked, relocking them behind as they went.
Pelleter wondered if the American writer would use any of these events in his next book. It all seemed so unbelievable.
He reached for a cigar. They were at the front entrance to the prison.
“Thank you,” Fournier called from behind him.
Pelleter didn’t even wait to answer. He wanted to be out of Malniveau, free, away from locked doors.
The
FALLING
Star
in memoriam R.C. with apologies
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
ONE
Merton Stein Productions was twelve square blocks enclosed by a ten-foot brick wall with pointed granite capstones every three yards. There was a lineup of cars at the main gate that backed out into the westbound passing lane of Cabarello Boulevard. Every five minutes or so the line advanced one car length. If you had urgent business you were no doubt instructed to take one of the other entrances. Since I had been directed to this one, I figured my business wasn’t urgent.
It was just about noon on a clear day in the middle of July that wasn’t too hot if you didn’t mind the roof of your mouth feeling like an emery board. I smoked a cigarette and considered taking down the ragtop on my Packard to let in the mid-day sun. It was a question of whether it would be hotter with it closed or with it open. When it was my turn at the guard stand, I still hadn’t decided.
A skinny young man in a blue security uniform stepped up to my open window without taking his eyes off of the clipboard in his hands. His face had the narrow lean look of a boy who hadn’t yet grown into his manhood. His authority came from playing dress-up, but the costume wasn’t fooling anyone, including himself. “Name,” he said.
“Dennis Foster,” I said. “You need to see proof?”
He looked at me for the first time. “You’re not on the list.”
“I’m here to see Al Knox.”
He looked behind him, then out to the street, and finally settled back on his clipboard. “You’re not on the list,” he said again.
Before he could decide what to make of me, a voice said, “Get out of there.” The kid was pushed aside and suddenly Al Knox was leaning on my door, wearing the same blue uniform, only many sizes larger. There was a metal star pinned to his chest and a patch below it that stated his name and the title Chief of Security. He stuck his hand in my face and I took it as he said, “Dennis. How the hell are you?”
“Covering the rent. How’s the private security business?”
“Better than the public one. Give me a second, I’ll ride in with you.” He backed out of the window, told the skinny kid, “Open the gate, Jerry, this charmer’s with me,” and then crossed in front of my car in the awkward lope his weight forced on him. He opened the passenger door, grunted as he settled himself, and pulled the door shut. The sour smell of perspiration filled the car. He nodded his head and pointed at the windshield. “Just drive up Main Street here.”
Jerry lifted the gate arm and I drove forward onto a two-way drive lined with two-story pink buildings that had open walkways on the second floors. There was a lot of activity on either side of the street, people in suits and people in painters’ smocks and people in cavalry uniforms and women in tight, shiny skirts with lipstick that matched their eyes. Three men in coveralls with perfectly sculpted hair worked bucket-brigade-style unloading costumes from a truck. Workers walked in both directions across a circular drive to the commissary. Knox directed me to the third intersection, which had a street sign that said Madison Avenue. Messrs. Young and Rubicam wouldn’t have recognized the place. We turned left, drove one block over, past a building the size of an airplane hangar, and made another left onto a boulevard with palm trees in planters down the middle of the street. Here there was a four-story building large enough to be a regional high school. It had an oval drive and two flagpoles out front, one flying Old Glory and the other flying a banner with the Merton Stein crest on it. We drove past the oval and pulled into a spot at the corner of the building beside a row of black-and-white golf carts.
In front of us was a door with wired glass in the top half that had the word “Security” painted on it in fancy black-and-gold letters. I suppose the men who lettered all those title cards in the old days needed something to keep them busy now. To make doubly sure we knew where we were, a sign on a metal arm above the door read “Security Office.” Knox started around the car to lead the way when a woman’s voice said something that wasn’t strictly ladylike. We looked, and three cars over a blonde head bobbed into sight and then vanished again.
Knox said, “Do you need any help, Miss Merton?”
She straightened up. There was no sign of embarrassment on the sharp face that came into view, just annoyance and frustration. She brushed her hair back out of her face with one hand, and it stayed exactly where she wanted it, in an alluring sheet that just touched her shoulders. “Oh, Al. Can you help me get Tommy into the car again? He’s passed out and he’s too heavy for me.”
Knox started forward and Miss Merton stepped back out of his way. She looked at me, and a smile formed on her face that suggested we shared a private secret. “Hello,” she said. I didn’t say anything. Her smile deepened. I didn’t like that.
Knox wrestled Tommy’s legs into the back seat, a process that involved some heavy breathing and maybe a few choice words under his breath too. At last he had the feet stowed in the well behind the driver’s seat, and he slammed the door with satisfaction. “There you go, Miss Merton.”
She turned to him, and said in a hard voice, “Tommy can’t expect that I’ll always go around cleaning up after him.”
“No, ma’am,” Knox said.
Miss Merton looked at me, gifted me with another smile, and then pulled open the door and poured herself into the driver’s seat. Knox faced me, shaking his head but not saying anything as the Cadillac’s engine caught and started. Only once the car was out of view did he say, under his breath, “Vera Merton. Daniel Merton’s daughter. She’s always around here getting into some trouble or other. The son doesn’t usually even make it this far. He must have found himself caught out last night.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head again. “The bosses, yeah?”