Game of Patience by Susanne Alleyn Read Free Book Online Page B

but he and Brasseur could testify that not all of them had been groundless… .
    “I’ve no cause to have loved Robespierre’s government,” he added. “My dearest friend—”
    He abruptly realized it was likely that the man before him had been present himself at Mathieu’s death. They exchanged level stares.
    “Forgive my poor manners,” Sanson said at last. “I don’t like myself on execution days, and after I’ve been drinking to forget them, I like myself even less.” He pushed back his chair. “I thank you for the wine. Good evening. I won’t embarrass you by offering you my hand to shake.”
    “But I offer you mine,” Aristide said, rising.
    Sanson gazed for a moment at Aristide’s outstretched hand. At last he pressed it, muttered a good-bye, and strode away.

CHAPTER 5
12 Brumaire (November 2)
     
    “ Nothing new yet on the Rue du Hasard affair?” Aristide inquired as he wandered into Brasseur’s office.
    “Nothing as of this morning,” Brasseur grumbled without looking up from the reports and letters strewn across his desk. “You needn’t have come in.”
    “Ah, well, what better have I to do?” Aristide tossed his hat on a bench. Hands clasped behind him, he looked over the dossiers in their cardboard folders, crammed onto the rows of shelves that covered one whitewashed wall of the small chamber. Most of them were the tawdry, humdrum records of petty thieves and confidence tricksters, crooked merchants, registered prostitutes; but a few evoked memories of shared chases and challenges. He turned to Brasseur, about to murmur, Do you remember the Martin affair? when he thought instead, Did we really get the right man there? He sighed, thinking back to a few occasions when a murderer had gone to the scaffold although they had never found indisputable proof of his guilt.
    A junior inspector thrust his head into the office and Brasseur glanced up impatiently. “Commissaire, Inspector Didier sent me over. They’re holding a woman who went up to Saint-Ange’s apartment half an hour ago.”
    “Well, well,” said Brasseur, brightening, “seems I spoke too soon. What’s she look like? A whore?”
    “Nicely dressed, young, looks scared to death. Should they bring her over here?”
    “Good God, no,” Aristide said, retrieving his hat. “She’s probably harmless. Let’s keep it discreet.” Brasseur grunted and gestured him out.
    #
    “ She’s in the porter’s room,” Didier announced, with a sullen glance at Aristide. “The commissaire did say we were to hold visitors for questioning.”
    Aristide brushed past him, Brasseur’s secretary following. Within, a petite, veiled woman perched on the edge of a rickety chair like a terrified bird.
    “Out, if you please,” Aristide told the inspector who waited beside her. “Good day, citizeness,” he continued when the man had left them and he had shut the door in Didier’s face. “My name is Ravel; I represent Commissaire Brasseur of the Section de la Butte-des-Moulins, and this is his secretary, Citizen Dautry.”
    “Am I under arrest?” the woman quavered. “I haven’t done anything …”
    Aristide sighed. “Did the inspector give you that impression? I apologize. I merely need answers to a few questions. Your name?”
    “Marie-Sidonie Beaumontel, née Chambly,” she whispered. She pushed an identity card toward him bearing an address in the prosperous faubourg Honoré and quickly looked away, shivering. “Please—I don’t know what I can tell you. I … I was merely visiting a friend.”
    “The friend you were visiting was Louis Saint-Ange?” Aristide said. She nodded. “I must inform you that Citizen Saint-Ange is dead.”
    “Dead!” she gasped. “But I—I don’t understand.”
    “Saint-Ange was murdered two days ago.”
    She sat frozen in her seat for a moment before hiding her face in her hands. Aristide let her sob for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the table before him, and silently handed her a