The Twenty-Year Death Read Online Free PDF

the moment, but that he would have everything under control, and that if we felt it was necessary, we could come tomorrow.”
    From the outside, it was impossible to read Pelleter’s expression, it appeared to be so calm, but in fact, he felt exactly the same way as Chief Letreau.
    “I could kill that man Fournier. He’s so cool. It’s not natural,” Letreau said.
    Pelleter had thought the same thing earlier in the day. The man acted as though nothing could surprise him. And the warden rushing out of town like that was a bit convenient too.
    Letreau said, “I guess I’m going to go see Benoît again. Take a look at his basement.”
    “The baker?”
    “I need to do something, damn it!” And Letreau went red once again. “We didn’t know it was a murder when we saw him this morning. Maybe we missed something.”
    Letreau went to the hook behind the door to retrieve his overcoat. He pulled open the door. An old woman stood in the public space of the station holding a small soaked dog under her right arm as though it were a handbag. A young man who had not removed his hat was standing next to her, and they were both talking at the same time to the two police officers who normally occupied the desks. The noise of the argument filled the small space of the station, creating an increased sense of tension. Martin was still on the phone, his left hand pressed against his free ear.
    Letreau crossed the station, ignoring the scene. Nearly at the door, he said to Pelleter, “Are you coming with me?”
    Pelleter said, “Go ahead.”
    Letreau went out, the sound of the rain momentarily blending in with the noise of the argument before the door slammed shut.
    Pelleter sat down in one of the waiting room chairs watching the scene. There was nothing to do but wait.
    The officers managed to get the two parties separated, and the story unfolded that the young man had nearly hit the old lady’s dog with his car as he parked it on the square. The young man claimed that the dog had been in the street. Nobody was hurt.
    Pelleter wondered what it would be like to be a policeman in such a town. The weather had everyone on edge.
    “Chief Inspector!”
    It was Martin at the counter. He had hung up the phone. Pelleter went up to him. “Got anything?”
    The young officer handed over a list in the now familiar handwriting. “Here’s the list. It’s a long one.” He was proud of his work, and watched Pelleter expectantly as the inspector scanned the names.
    There were at least ninety names on the paper written in small even lines. It was a lot of names to go through, but it could be done if it had to be. Pelleter scanned the list and recognized a few of them from many years ago, but for the most part they meant nothing to him. Many of them were probably also in prison or dead.
    “Chief Inspector,” Martin said, and he stood up from his stool to lean over the counter. He pointed to a name on the top of the list. “I thought I recognized that name,” he said.
    The name was Clotilde-ma-Fleur Meranger, and a note beside the name identified her as the dead man’s daughter.
    “It’s such an unusual first name, I figured how many people could there be? So I had the person on the phone look up whether or not Mademoiselle Meranger had since been married, and it turns out she is. She’s married to Shem Rosenkrantz, the American writer. She’s now Clotilde-ma-Fleur Rosenkrantz.”
    The woman with the wet dog had been appeased, and the group was now talking jocularly in more normal tones.
    Martin waited for a reaction from Pelleter, and then he said, “They live here in town.”
    Pelleter registered this new piece of information. Meranger’s daughter lived in town. If anyone knew anything about this, it would be the daughter.
    “Where?”

    The Rosenkrantz home was on the western edge of town on the Rue Principale where the houses were spaced further apart before giving way wholly to farmland. It was a small two-story wooden house