prisoners stabbed or killed in the last month. ” Pelleter closed his notebook and put it away. “And that’s it, which is nothing.” He said it with the bitterness of a man who has failed at a simple task.
“Somebody had to have gotten Meranger out of prison whether it was before or after he was killed. If we could figure that out, then we might know a lot more.”
Pelleter didn’t answer. Instead he reached into his pocket, retrieved his cigar, and smoked in a restless silence without enjoying it.
Suddenly, he said, “What do you think of Fournier?”
Letreau shifted in his seat. “You know what I think of Fournier. I could wring his neck. Although really until today, I didn’t know anything about him. He’s only been here a few months. He came from another prison, and the word was that he is extremely good at what he does...But I don’t know. The prison really is its own entity.”
“You said the men who work there live in town,” Pelleter said.
“It’s as if there’s a wall of silence somewhere along this road. Sometimes things get said, and others...” He shrugged. “If only the warden were here. This Fournier seems intent on blocking us out at every step. That’s what I think.”
“And the warden?”
“He’s brutish and controlling. He started at the bottom, so administration might not be his forte, but he’s been there forever, and the prison gets run.”
Pelleter nodded, considering this.
“What are you thinking? That the staff has something to do with all of this? These are prison stabbings. They happen. This wouldn’t even be our problem if it wasn’t for this body in town.”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m just trying to understand. What can you tell me about the American author? Do you think he would have killed his father-in-law?”
“Rosenkrantz? He keeps to himself mostly. That’s why he chose to move out here, as far as I understand. He was part of the American scene in the city for many years, getting his photograph taken at bars, drinking until sunrise. He produces a book every year or two, and they’re apparently big sellers back in the States. He can seem loud, but I always figured that’s because he’s American. Clotilde caused him to settle down. She means everything to him.”
“Enough to kill for.”
“I don’t know. Somehow I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“He’s all bark and no bite.”
“So we still know nothing.”
“We know that one man’s dead,” Letreau said. “There’s that.”
“There’s that,” Pelleter said like it was a curse.
The mud-drenched fields made the whole countryside appear dirty.
Letreau looked over at the inspector, but Pelleter was lost deep in thought again, a scowl on his face.
The town had come alive in the sunshine. There seemed to be an impossible number of people on the streets, hurrying from shop to shop, sitting out in the center of the square along the base of the war monument. The café where Pelleter took lunch had every seat filled, and the inspector had to sit on one of three stools at the counter.
Letreau had returned to the station in order to see about his other duties.
Pelleter ate with his back to the crowd. Occasionally he would hear the name Benoît, and he knew that the town was discussing the murder, but the tone was of idle gossip, with little regard for the reality of the crime.
The man beside him pushed his plate back, and stood up, and another man took the seat immediately.
“Inspector Pelleter?” the man said. He sat sideways on the seat and had a notebook and pencil in hand. “Philippe Servières, reporter with the Verargent Vérité . Could I ask you a few questions about the Meranger murder?”
“No,” Pelleter said without looking at the man.
“What about what you’re doing in town? You arrived before the body was discovered. Was there another matter you were investigating?”
Pelleter drank from his glass and then pushed back his plate.
“I know that you and Chief
“Somebody had to have gotten Meranger out of prison whether it was before or after he was killed. If we could figure that out, then we might know a lot more.”
Pelleter didn’t answer. Instead he reached into his pocket, retrieved his cigar, and smoked in a restless silence without enjoying it.
Suddenly, he said, “What do you think of Fournier?”
Letreau shifted in his seat. “You know what I think of Fournier. I could wring his neck. Although really until today, I didn’t know anything about him. He’s only been here a few months. He came from another prison, and the word was that he is extremely good at what he does...But I don’t know. The prison really is its own entity.”
“You said the men who work there live in town,” Pelleter said.
“It’s as if there’s a wall of silence somewhere along this road. Sometimes things get said, and others...” He shrugged. “If only the warden were here. This Fournier seems intent on blocking us out at every step. That’s what I think.”
“And the warden?”
“He’s brutish and controlling. He started at the bottom, so administration might not be his forte, but he’s been there forever, and the prison gets run.”
Pelleter nodded, considering this.
“What are you thinking? That the staff has something to do with all of this? These are prison stabbings. They happen. This wouldn’t even be our problem if it wasn’t for this body in town.”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m just trying to understand. What can you tell me about the American author? Do you think he would have killed his father-in-law?”
“Rosenkrantz? He keeps to himself mostly. That’s why he chose to move out here, as far as I understand. He was part of the American scene in the city for many years, getting his photograph taken at bars, drinking until sunrise. He produces a book every year or two, and they’re apparently big sellers back in the States. He can seem loud, but I always figured that’s because he’s American. Clotilde caused him to settle down. She means everything to him.”
“Enough to kill for.”
“I don’t know. Somehow I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“He’s all bark and no bite.”
“So we still know nothing.”
“We know that one man’s dead,” Letreau said. “There’s that.”
“There’s that,” Pelleter said like it was a curse.
The mud-drenched fields made the whole countryside appear dirty.
Letreau looked over at the inspector, but Pelleter was lost deep in thought again, a scowl on his face.
The town had come alive in the sunshine. There seemed to be an impossible number of people on the streets, hurrying from shop to shop, sitting out in the center of the square along the base of the war monument. The café where Pelleter took lunch had every seat filled, and the inspector had to sit on one of three stools at the counter.
Letreau had returned to the station in order to see about his other duties.
Pelleter ate with his back to the crowd. Occasionally he would hear the name Benoît, and he knew that the town was discussing the murder, but the tone was of idle gossip, with little regard for the reality of the crime.
The man beside him pushed his plate back, and stood up, and another man took the seat immediately.
“Inspector Pelleter?” the man said. He sat sideways on the seat and had a notebook and pencil in hand. “Philippe Servières, reporter with the Verargent Vérité . Could I ask you a few questions about the Meranger murder?”
“No,” Pelleter said without looking at the man.
“What about what you’re doing in town? You arrived before the body was discovered. Was there another matter you were investigating?”
Pelleter drank from his glass and then pushed back his plate.
“I know that you and Chief
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