Game of Patience Read Online Free PDF Page A

let the murderer in himself,” Aristide said. “The door wasn’t broken in.”
    “So I went in on tiptoe,” Thibault continued, “thinking he’d just forgot to lock the door. And first thing I saw was the furniture all every which way, and then the poor young lady. I touched her cheek and she was cold. And then I went farther and saw him and I knew right away from that hole in his head that he was dead, and I ran down to send for help. Couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes about it.”
    Aristide stepped forward. “Thibault, I want you to tell us your honest opinion, no matter what it may be. What did you think of Saint-Ange?”
    “Well, he was always decent to me.” Thibault scratched his head. “Not a difficult man to work for, like some.”
    “Do you know the source of his income?”
    “Said he owned land in the country that he rented to farmers. Bought up cheap when they sold off the church property for the government. Said he’d once owned a sugar plantation in Saint-Domingue, though he lost that when the Negroes revolted.”
    “Did he?” Aristide glanced about him. “This apartment is furnished more luxuriously, I’d hazard, than a man could afford whose sole income was a few rents. Last year’s inflation would have ruined him.”
    “I wouldn’t know about that.”
    “Kept his affairs to himself? All right then,” Aristide continued, “tell me about his friends who called on him. You claim you’ve never seen the young lady before?”
    “Yes. I mean, no, I’ve never seen her before.”
    “But you’ve seen other women here.”
    “Oh, yes, a fair stream of them. His present lady friend was here yesterday. I know her; she’s been visiting him for weeks. They went out to the Palais-Égalité for luncheon, then came back here and spent the rest of the afternoon in his bedchamber,” he added, with a smirk. “Well, he was a young man, and good-looking, and with enough money in his pocket to have a good time; and living right by the Palais-Égalité, after all! You can’t blame him, can you?”
    “To each his own taste, I suppose. Did you see this woman leave? Did they seem on good terms?”
    “Yes, she left about four o’clock. There wasn’t nothing wrong between them—they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. That was a little before Citizen Saint-Ange told me to take the message to the caterer.”
    “Were all his visitors courtesans?”
    “He had other visitors now and then. A different sort. Some gentlemen, and other women; what they used to call—before the Revolution—‘ladies of quality.’ Well dressed; and most of them shy. They’d come wearing veils or deep hoods to their cloaks. Like they didn’t want to be recognized.”
    “Do you know what business they had with Saint-Ange?”
    “No, he sent me off on errands when they called, or gave me ten sous and told me to go have a glass in the gardens. And when he gave me ten sous for a glass of red that cost two or three, I was glad enough to get it and keep my mouth shut.”
    “Just one last question, Thibault. When was this salon swept last?”
    “Day before yesterday,” Thibault said promptly. “A woman comes in every day to do the heavy cleaning, except for décadi . She’ll be back today, or she would be if …”
    Brasseur snapped his notebook shut. “Thanks. You can go with one of the inspectors now, and give him your statement.” He turned to the window and stared out to the street as Thibault left the room.
    “I tend to wonder,” he said, still gazing out the window at the silent, shuttered house opposite, “when I hear of a prosperous fellow with no particular means of income, who’s visited by all sorts of women. And who keeps a loaded pistol in his cabinet. Dangerous thing to do, that, but useful if you’re on the lookout for trouble.”
    “What does it all smell like to you?” said Aristide.
    “A pander, I expect. A high-class one; a flesh peddler living off loose women.”
    Aristide