A Game for the Living by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page B

even less, sixty pesos, as little as the commonest laborer in Mexico. Theodore, hearing of Ramón’s low wages from Lelia, often tucked a hundred-peso bill into Ramón’s jacket pocket and sometimes insisted outright that Ramón take a few hundred from him. Ramón had a sense of economic justice and didn’t mind accepting money from Theodore, because Theodore had so much more and did nothing to earn it. He could take Theodore’s money with neither shame nor arrogance. He did not even show that he was glad to get it. This Theodore appreciated very much in Ramón. But Theodore noticed now that Ramón did not mention that he often gave him money. It was just as well, Theodore thought, because it would have confused things still more. They kept asking Ramón how he managed to live on so little money, or did he not try to supplement his income in other ways. Ramón certainly did not try to supplement his income in other ways, not even with the Loteria Nacional . He lived frugally, and he did not complain. When the police officer—there was no systematic interrogation, and anybody asked a question who wanted to—suggested that Ramón might have served as a pimp for Lelia, Ramón replied in the same dull tone: “No.” How often did he come to see Lelia? Maybe two or three times a week, maybe every evening sometimes.
    And sometimes, Theodore knew, he did not come to see her for two and three weeks. But always he came back, swallowing his pride, or rather concealing with debonair good humor the defeat of his pride once more.
    A canary’s trill came through the open window. A newsboy’s “ Excelsior! Novedades? ” And the thunderous roar of a truck. It was another beautiful, sunny day.
    â€œSeñor Schiebelhut, do you think he killed her?” Sauzas asked suddenly.
    â€œI don’t know,” Theodore said.
    â€œYou thought so a few hours ago,” said the fat officer.
    It was true, he had. Theodore could not think what had happened to make him doubt. Perhaps nothing.
    â€œWho do you think killed Lelia, Ramón?” Sauzas asked him.
    â€œMaybe he did,” Ramón said indifferently. His dark eyes rested on Theodore. “After all, he was found here with her. He can’t explain how he got in. She let him in.”
    â€œRamón!” Josefina said in an admonishing tone.
    Theodore felt only a slight start of fear, and yet his heart had begun pounding. He remembered a time when Ramón had thrown a platter of cooked duck out the kitchen window into the patio because he, Theodore, was a little late for dinner, and Ramón hadn’t liked to wait. But with such a temper—if Ramón thought he had killed Lelia, he would certainly kill him, probably throttle him with those strong hands before anybody could stop him.
    â€œSeñor Schiebelhut did explain how he got in, Ramón. Ramón!” Sauzas said over his shoulder, “Get another wet towel, Enrique. Ramón, you have the key to this apartment. You have it with you. The lock is not automatic, so the door had to be locked from the outside—perhaps by you. The drainpipe would not bear your weight. We have tried it. The transom shows from its dust that something came through it. Now do you want us to suspect you?”
    Ramón shrugged, and the very slightness of the shrug was an insult to Sauzas.
    Everybody waited uncomfortably as the detective approached with the wet towel, put it over Ramón’s face, and wiped it with a twist as if he were wiping a baby’s nose. Ramón sprang up and threw a wild blow at the detective with his fist. Instantly the policemen were on their feet around the table. Ramón kept swinging violently, even when he slipped to his knees. A tall policeman was thrown completely down when he caught one of Ramón’s arms. Then there was a cracking sound; Ramón sprawled on the floor, and a policeman hovered over him with bared