Louisiana Stalker Read Free Page A

would accept the invitation.
    He had all day to decide.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Clint’s new suit was delivered to him before he left the hotel. He had the tailor hang it in his room. Then he waited for the saloons and gambling houses to open. He visited six of them, nursed half a beer in each, picking out the ones he would definitely visit later that night, while wearing his new suit, to do his gambling.
    During the course of the day he thought about the note in his pocket. How had Capucine Devereaux known that he was in Baton Rouge, and at what hotel he was staying? There were only two people who knew that, Ronald the clerk and Sheriff LeBlanc. What motive could either of them have for telling her? He could find out the answers to all those questions by accepting the lady’s invitation to supper. And he could do that while wearing his new suit. Of course, he’d also bring along his little friend, the Colt New Line, which would fit comfortably beneath his jacket without being seen.
    He didn’t mind accepting a blind invitation like this, but he’d never think of doing it unarmed.
    In fact, the Gunsmith never did anything unarmed. Even in bed—with or without a woman—his gun was always within arm’s reach.
    He finished the last of his beer in the sixth gambling house—once again drinking only half—and went back to his hotel to get ready for his supper date.

FIVE
    Resplendent in his new suit, with the Colt New Line comfortably nestled in the small of his back, Clint left the Cajun House and flagged down a cab.
    â€œDo you know where Chez Louis is?” he asked the driver—again, a young man, like the clerk and the lawman.
    â€œEverybody knows where Chez Louis is,” the driver said.
    â€œOkay, well, take me there, then.”
    â€œHop in, sir.”
    It was a mild night, so driving in the open-air cab was a pleasure. There were a lot more lights at night in Baton Rouge than there had been the last time he was there. He didn’t know who the mayor of the city was, but he was apparently doing a hell of a job.
    The cab pulled to a stop in front of Chez Louis, which was not lit up. It had a classy, dark front with a large, stenciled plate glass window.
    â€œHere ya go,” the driver said. “Hope you got a fat wallet.”
    â€œI’m a guest,” Clint said, paying the man his fare.
    â€œLucky you! Wish I had somebody who’d buy me supper here.”
    â€œMaybe you will someday.”
    â€œWant me to wait for you and take you back?”
    â€œWon’t be going right back,” Clint said. “I’ll be stopping to do some gambling first.”
    â€œI can come back and get ya,” the man said. “I know all the places a gent like you should gamble.”
    â€œWhy not? Come back in an hour. I should be finished by then.”
    â€œIf you’re not, I’ll just wait,” the young man said.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œHenri, sir.”
    â€œWell, Henri,” Clint said, handing the young man some extra money, “maybe this will make it worth your while to wait.”
    â€œYes, sir!”
    Clint left his jacket unbuttoned—easier access to the Colt—and entered the restaurant.
    Inside was dark, mostly burgundy leather, with an occasional gleam of gold. The tuxedoed maître d’ greeted him. He was glad to see that the man was middle-aged.
    â€œGood evening, sir. Can I help you?”
    â€œYes, I’m meeting Capucine Devereaux here.”
    â€œAh, then you would be Mr. Adams?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œExcellent,” the man said. “How wonderful to have you with us, sir. Please follow me.”
    The man led Clint through the crowded restaurant to a table in the back that seemed to have more room around it than the others, as if other tables near it had been removed.
    He led Clint to a table where two ladies were seated, one slightly older