Rex Stout - 1914 - Target Practice by Rex Stout

Author:Rex Stout [Stout, Rex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-5713-5
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

Sanétomo

ON THE DAY THAT Henry Brillon took a wife, he renounced—with a pang here and there—the habits and possessions of his single life.

Most important of all was the change from the luxurious bachelor apartments on Forty-sixth Street to a still more luxurious home on Riverside Drive; it he furnished in a style calculated to strain the purse even of a successful broker. Besides his clothing and some paintings and bric-à-brac, he kept only three articles from the downtown apartment: a lacquer-wood humidor, a case of books, and his Japanese manservant, Sanétomo. He could bring himself to part with none of these. Poor Sanétomo! He was lost in the great house on the drive. He could still dress his master; he could still arrange the shining linen, the trousers, the jackets, in neat rows for a hasty selection; but that was all. No longer was he called on to prepare those savory midnight repasts, those dainty breakfasts, those perfect little teas, which had made Harry Brillon’s rooms the Mecca of all jaded palates.

The house on the drive had a butler, a great man whom Sanétomo detested and feared, to attend to such things. Sanétomo was no longer a factotum and an artist; he was the merest valet.

And he could remember the time he had overheard the beautiful Nella Somi say to his master: “My dear M. Brillon, I do not come here for love of you, but to taste this gibelotte of Sanétomo’s!”

So it is not a question which of the two men, the master or the servant, most regretted the old free life. It may be doubted, in fact, whether Henry Brillon regretted it at all; at least in the first year or two of his marriage.

His wife, who had been Dora Crevel, daughter of old Morton Crevel, was fair—fair to divinity; and in her large, dark eyes, with their shadowy depths, Brillon found happiness and the recompense for his sacrifice of freedom.

Her face was noted for its beauty; she was young and healthy; she was intelligent; she was in love with the man she had married—small wonder if she filled his thoughts.

So they prospered and were happy. If now and then a tiny cloud appeared on the horizon, they rushed together to drive it away.

One or two small irritations there were, of course. Brillon’s favorite painting, a copy of a Degas, which hung in the reception hall, was an eyesore to his wife, though he never knew it. He was more frank in his disapproval of her activities—feeble and innocent enough, goodness knows—in the interests of women’s rights.

Of more importance, perhaps, than either of these, since it did cause them some slight inconvenience, was the unaccountable dislike Mrs. Brillon had taken to the Japanese valet.

She had said to her husband one night, a month or two after the wedding:

“Ugh! Every time I see him I shudder.”

“Who? Sanétomo?” asked Brillon in surprise.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” Already Dora was sorry she had spoken. “He seems so snaky, so silent—I don’t know just what.

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