Free A Game for the Living by Patricia Highsmith Page A

eleven. Eleven is the earliest.”
    Or ten minutes to eleven, Theodore thought, remembering his watch had said one-fifty when the doctor gave his two-to-three-hour opinion. And Ramón only thought he was home by ten-thirty. “How is Señor Otero?” Theodore asked.
    â€œUgh! Exhausted, señor! No sleep for two nights in a row. I can assure you, a guilty man would have broken down. But your friend protested his innocence to the last. You did not think he was guilty, señor!”
    â€œWhere is he now?”
    â€œHe will be allowed to go home this morning. They have sent for his partner, Señor—”
    â€œBaldin.”
    â€œYes. He is going to see that he gets home. Ah—shall I send the bill to your address, señor, or to Señor Otero?”
    â€œYou may send it to me,” Theodore said.
    After he had hung up, Theodore sat on the edge of his bed thinking. A criminal lawyer, no matter how clever, couldn’t have got a guilty man away from the police that fast, Theodore supposed. So he had to believe then that Ramón wasn’t guilty. Perhaps. Things were not always logical in Mexico. In America, they might have spent a week rounding up Ramón’s friends and acquaintances and trying to establish when and where he had made every move before and after the time of the murder. Only then would they have come to a decision. But in Mexico—
    Theodore made another attempt at unpacking, but his mind wandered back to Ramón. He could not feel positive that Ramón hadn’t done it. With policemen, Ramón could turn his heart and his face to stone, if he wanted to. Theodore began to think it was possible that he had fooled the police.
    At ten-thirty he tried again to reach Sauzas by telephone. This time, after a ten-minute wait, he got him.
    â€œHave you definite proof that he is not guilty?” Theodore asked.
    â€œProof?” Sauzas hesitated. “No, except that he does not behave like a guilty man, señor. He behaves like a man who has lost his wife. We believe that the murderer got in by the ruse of delivering flowers or bringing flowers, and that he had a small boy buy them for him so the flower seller would not remember him. We are trying to find this boy in the neighborhood, but the flower seller does not remember enough about the boy.”
    â€œSo—there are no new clues at all?”
    â€œNo, señor. But now our work begins, eh? You will stay in your house, señor, until further notice, if you please.”
    â€œYou mean I can’t go out anywhere in the city?”
    â€œWell—yes. But don’t attempt to leave the city. We shall be wanting to question you again.”
    â€œVery well. And, Señor Capitán—I should like to be informed of any new thing you find out. Will you do that?”
    â€œVery well, señor.”
    Theodore debated for a moment, then called Ramón’s number. The telephone rang about ten times, but Theodore waited patiently.
    Finally, he heard a confusion of two voices and then Ramón’s partner, Arturo Baldin, said: “ Bueno? ”
    â€œ Bueno, Arturo. How are you? This is Theodore Schiebelhut.”
    â€œHow are you, Don Teodoro? I hope well.”
    â€œThank you. I wanted to ask about Ramón.”
    â€œAh, he is very tired, señor. I am trying to get him to go to sleep,” said Arturo in his kindly, paternal voice.
    â€œYes. I can understand. Is there anything I can—” Theodore hesitated, on an emotional fence as to putting himself out for Ramón.
    â€œI don’t think so, Don Teodoro. We have some sleeping-pills. They should have an effect soon.”
    In the background, Ramón murmured something.
    Theodore had wanted to talk to Ramón. Suddenly he did not. “I’m glad you’re there to look after him, Arturo.”
    â€œIt’s hard to keep him quiet, because he wants to go out to see—Who is it,