Clotilde-ma-Fleur was troubled by the sun. It had come up that morning already bright and clean. It was the kind of spring day in which everything existed in equal calm, the sun intense but not hot, the air cool but still. The house was suffused with light.
It was hard in the face of such perfection to not feel uplifted. Her husband had fallen to his knees before her when she came into the house two nights ago. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her stomach. It was only by a single intake of breath that she knew he was crying. He had then stood, picking her up in the same movement and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom. She had been afraid that he would hurt himself.
The next morning, he grinned at her in the sunlit dining room throughout breakfast, and doted on her all through the day. The attention made it difficult for her to look at him. This morning, after enduring a full day of such attentions, she sent him out under the pretext that she needed to do a proper housecleaning after her negligence of the past few days, but in fact she wanted a chance to check herself.
She did clean. The kitchen first, washing the dishes from breakfast, and then the counter, the sink, the floor, working up a fine sweat and a warm feeling in her chest. Her mind was clear with the task, but then it would come—my father is dead—and she would stop. Her sorrow was a wave of exhaustion. In the pauses between the peaks, she could raise herself before being knocked down again.
She was upstairs in their room now, changing the linens on the bed, humming in her task, no particular tune, just a wispy tone as she exhaled. She tightened the corner of the sheet at the head of the bed, pulling the excess material up in a right triangle before tucking it under the mattress and running her hand across the sheet to flatten it.
There was a noise downstairs, perhaps the door. She thought of calling to say that she was upstairs, but she was not quite ready to give up her solitude. She felt guilty about her inner calm, and felt unsure about herself if it were to break.
She walked around the bed, to tighten the sheet on the other side.
There was a loud crash downstairs as of a drawer being roughly closed and something tottering from a height. She stopped and stood up, looking at the stairs.
“Shem!” she called.
There was no reply.
She went to the window cut into the slanted ceiling, and looked out at the street. Their car was in the driveway—Shem hadn’t taken it—but no one else was there, no car parked at the curb.
She thought she heard another drawer being closed.
She went to the top of the stairs, reaching her hand out for the banister. She took a tentative step down. “Shem!”
There was a movement, someone walking. Why didn’t he answer?
She went down. When her head fell below the height of the upper floor, she stopped, her free hand going to her chest.
There was a strange suitcase standing just inside the door, which was ajar.
She tried to remember if she had left the door open, listening so carefully that she could hear her own breathing. She hadn’t. And that suitcase. The light from the door cast a severe shadow from the suitcase on the floor. She stepped down again.
“Shem, where are you!”
It was nothing, she told herself, an unexpected friend, even as she remembered that policeman’s face from two nights before. She started to hurry down the stairs, watching her feet so she didn’t trip.
“Lover!”
She stepped onto the first floor, and turned herself around the banister to head back towards her husband’s study. There were quick steps behind her then, and she began to turn, “You scared—”
Strong arms went around her shoulders, and a blade flashed in her peripheral vision. Her throat closed and her head went light.
“Hello, Madame Rosenkrantz.” The breath of the voice was hot on her ear. “Now, where do you keep the keys to your car?”
The car was still in the drive. That was the first thing Pelleter noticed. He wished he could have Lambert with him, or even Martin, but he was afraid there wasn’t time.
He stopped just short of the property, at the edge of the fence, breathing hard but still in control. The front door was open, but he couldn’t see anything inside. There were no sounds either. The natural thing would be to go right up to the front door as though he were just there for a visit and to see how it played out. But he didn’t like the idea of giving the man any advantage if he was here, and now Pelleter was certain he was. How had he thought that Passemier would go for the circuitous route, bypassing the roadblocks by going through the fields? He should have known that a man like Passemier—a man who would attack a police officer—would opt for a hostage and try to force his way through. Now the most important thing was to get Madame Rosenkrantz out unhurt.
The chief inspector sped along the side of the fence, retrieving his revolver and holding it ahead of him. He couldn’t make anything out in the windows as he passed. He let himself through the back gate.
There was no one in the backyard.
The search party had seen the chief inspector running, so there should be men on the way. The trick was to assess the situation if possible, and to prevent Passemier from getting away if necessary.
He hurried to the back door, standing off to the side with his back to the wall of the house. There was a small semi-circular window made of three panes in the upper portion of the back door. The chief inspector allowed himself a quick look.
The hall was shadowed, all of the light coming from the open door at the other end. All the chief inspector could be certain of was that it was empty.
Pelleter reached across the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. The hinges were mercifully silent.
He entered the house with his gun ahead of him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower light. It was bright in the house, but not quite as bright as outside.
There was a suitcase at the end of the hall near the open door. Passemier’s, surely. Where would the Rosenkrantzes be going? Monsieur Rosenkrantz had seemed in no hurry back in the square. The chief inspector listened for sounds, but the only sounds were the normal noises of an old country home talking to itself as it aged.
The door to the study on his right was closed. He reached down across his body with his left hand, still holding the revolver pointed towards the front door, and turned the doorknob. The study was as he had seen it two days before, messy and empty.
He left the door open, turned, and brought his head close to the kitchen door, listening.
There was nothing.
He pushed his way into the kitchen. It smelled of strong soap, which stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. This room was empty as well.
He stopped beside the center counter.
Had there been steps upstairs?
He looked up. The creak of a board.
He crossed the kitchen in two silent steps, but before he could push open the swinging door that led into the dining room, he heard the erratic drumming of feet stumbling down the steps. There was a soft cry and a man’s voice.
Pelleter brought up his gun and gripped it with both hands.
Somebody yelled, “Clotilde!”
The front door slammed.
Pelleter rushed into the dining room, his gun extended, and hurried past the table towards the front door, but stopped before he got there. The scene was framed in the dining room window as though it were a photograph.
Passemier had his back to the house with Clotilde part of the way in front of him, the suitcase now in his free hand, and the other one wrapped around her neck. Rosenkrantz was there, saying something and inching forward, almost at the front door of the automobile. From the slowness of the action, Pelleter knew that Passemier must have some kind of weapon in his hand.
Passemier began to move away from the house and toward the car, shoving Clotilde before him.
If the chief inspector came through the front door, Passemier would hear him at once, and then they would just be in a standoff, and either Clotilde was more likely to get hurt or they would be forced to let Passemier get away.
Pelleter ducked back into the kitchen and ran out the back door. His only chance was to come up behind Passemier unseen. He hurried around the other side of the house, which led down the drive, bringing the others into view. As he did, the car horn sounded. Once. Twice. Three times. Good man, Rosenkrantz.
Pelleter moved deliberately now, not wanting his footsteps to give him away even with the car horn blaring.
Passemier was yelling, “You cut that out. Cut that out right now or I’ll kill her!”
Pelleter was close enough that he could see the strain in the muscles in the back of Passemier’s neck. He could also see the knife clasped in Passemier’s closed fist.
Rosenkrantz stopped pressing the horn, holding up his hands, saying, “Okay,” in that American accent of his.
“I’ll kill her,” Passemier said again.
Pelleter kicked at the back of Passemier’s knee while grabbing at his knife hand, causing the man to lose his balance, and allowing Clotilde to duck away.
Passemier immediately began to pull his knife hand, and the chief inspector felt himself dragged forward, but instead of resisting, he allowed himself to be pulled, raising his knee so that it landed in Passemier’s stomach, doubling the man over and causing him to loosen his grip on the knife.
The chief inspector chopped at the prison guard’s wrist with the butt of his gun, and the knife clattered to the ground, but Passemier, still doubled over, swung both hands over his head, throwing Pelleter’s balance off just enough that the chief inspector had to fall back on the hood of the car with one elbow to keep from tumbling to the ground.
Passemier was around the edge of the car in an instant.
Inspector Pelleter came up with his gun raised, but the Rosenkrantzes were between him and the fugitive. Rosenkrantz pulled Clotilde out of the way. Pelleter ran around them.
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.”