Fatale Read Online Free Page A

couples who were with him, the Rougneux and the Tobies.
    â€œIndeed I was obliged,” said the worthy, “to go as far back as the sad year of 1871! In 1871 the Bléville chamber of commerce, whose centenary coincided—how could I forget it?—with the assumption of my own municipal duties, in 1871, I say, the chamber of commerce enthusiastically underwrote the construction...”
    â€œDelighted, a great pleasure, how nice, how very nice to meet you,” Aimée and the Rougneux and the Tobies were saying meanwhile, their forearms crisscrossing as hands were thrust forward for shaking. “Well, well, how very charming, do you play bridge? Yes? Ah ha! some new blood at last!” They went on for some time in this vein.
    â€œ...the construction of the old market hall,” the worthy continued, “which today makes way in turn for this new hall in the center of which I stand at this very moment.”
    The Rougneux owned the bookstore where Aimée had bought her crime novel. The wife was thin and pale and wore a violet suit with a large gold brooch at the lapel and a string of cultured pearls around her neck. Her husband was thickset, the back of his neck close-shaven, his head large and cylindrical with a hairline low on his brow, and behind thick-lensed spectacles he had big glassy eyes. The Tobies were pharmacists, tall, thin, gray, and affable in a timid sort of way.
    â€œOh, look,” said Lindquist to Aimée, “here is someone your age.” And with that he introduced her to the senior manager Moutet, who had a good ten years on Aimée, sported a red mustache and a tobacco-brown suit, and worked at L and L Enterprises.
    Aimée was far from bored. She distributed smiles; she offered opinions. Nobody was listening to the town worthy on the platform, who was now paying tribute to the New Fish Market Initiative Committee, whose members he named, beginning with Messrs. Lorque and Lenverguez of L and L Enterprises, and including M. Tobie, M. Rougneux, and M. Moutet.
    â€œNor should we forget these gentlemen’s lovely wives,” he added.
    About ten meters from the group with whom Aimée was chatting, a guy of about thirty was looking at the young woman and smiling. He went on smiling as he came over to her.
    â€œSinistrat,” he told Aimée. “Dr. Claude Sinistrat. Let me introduce myself, because I know that that old Huguenot is not going to do it.”
    â€œOh, come off it, Sinistrat,” said Lindquist.
    â€œDelighted,” said Aimée.
    Sinistrat was tall and broad-shouldered, and by no means devoid of charm; his gestures were brusque and he had a big face, curly blond hair, and even teeth.
    â€œI saw your opinion piece in the Dépêche de Bléville ,” said Aimée.
    â€œI didn’t pull any punches, did I?” Sinistrat puffed his chest out.
    â€œSinistrat,” said Lindquist, “you are a scoundrel. And let me tell you—”
    The realtor broke off. He was staring at something that his interlocutors could not see, somewhere in the crowd. He pursed his lips.
    â€œShit!” he exclaimed, and coming from him the profanity was startling. “Shit! That lunatic!”
    The Rougneux, the Tobies, and senior manager Moutet all turned around at his words and scrutinized the crowd. Their attitudes bespoke anxiety and disgust. Aimée turned around too, her eyebrows slightly raised, and surveyed the gathering without seeing anything out of the ordinary. Sinistrat was all smiles. He lit a Craven A with a Zippo lighter.
    â€œI don’t see anything,” said Mme Rougneux.
    â€œNo! No!” responded Lindquist. “He was there—outside.”
    â€œI don’t see him.”
    â€œHe’s not there now. He must have gone off to plan more mischief.”
    â€œIt’s simply outrageous,” said Rougneux. “I don’t understand how they could have let him out. Those doctors are