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 other 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.