Those Who Walk Away

by Patricia Highsmith

  “No, but he is nosy, you know. We ran into him around five o’clock. He stayed with us until seven and would have had dinner with us, but I just didn’t want him. He was asking all kinds of questions.”

  “About Ray?”

  “Yes. The Smith-Peters too thought he was a little rude. And silly—you know? I think he was nervous. But there is nothing to worry about from Laura and Francis.”

  “How do you mean?” Coleman was only mildly interested, but still interested.

  “They’re not going to say anything. No matter what they think. And they do think”—she nodded slowly, looking at his pillow—“that you pushed Ray off the boat.” She laughed nervously. “I think they are also shy about approaching the police with their bad Italian. It is really affreux! After a year they can barely order a coffee!”

  He had nothing to say. People like the Smith-Peters would of course keep their mouths shut, probably would never say anything to their friends in Florence, either. He thought of Mrs Perry, but he did not want to bring her name up. Anyway, she might have left Venice by now. “So Antonio’s off tomorrow?”

  “Yes, a noon plane.”

  “What was he talking about this afternoon?”

  He was asking questions. Where was Ray, what had we heard about him, all that. And somehow—he managed to ask if we did not think Signor Coleman could have—put him away somewhere, he said. He was speaking in English, because he was really asking Francis and Laura more than me. Trying to be funny. They didn’t think he was funny and neither did I.

  Coleman was becoming sleepy. If Antonio went to Rome or Positano and talked, what did it matter? Another dramatic story, probably without foundation, from a young Italian of no consequence. Garrett was missing, yes, but that another American, his father-in-law, had killed him sounded like other dramatic stories Italians made up.

  “But Edward—” Inez reached for his hand.

  Coleman lifted his sagging lids.

  “I did not admit a thing to Francis and Laura. I would not to anyone. To Antonio, I said he was mad to think such a thing. And so it is up to you now, if you want to do the right thing for yourself and me, to be perfectly natural with the Smith-Peters. Let them think what they wish, the proof of it is another matter. They may suspect, but they don’t know.”

  “Thank you, my dear. But I hope not to see them again.”

  Inez shook her head quickly. “If you avoid them, it will look strange. You can see that, Edward.”

  Yes, he saw that. “Darling, I’m getting awfully sleepy.”

  “Yes, I know. Let me attend to your knee once more. Then I will go.”

  She wet the towel again and applied it, covered Coleman with sheet and blanket, blew him a kiss and turned out his light.

  Coleman was asleep almost as soon as she shut his door.

  The weather took a turn for the better the next day. There was sunshine once more, and it was consequently a trifle warmer, though restaurants with terraces did not put their chairs and tables out. In the afternoon, Coleman and Inez went as guests of the Smith-Peters to a mediocre string quartet recital in a chilly palazzo on the canal, and afterwards made for Florian’s and Irish coffee. Francis was treating everyone that afternoon.

  Coleman was amused at their behaviour with him. They fairly bent over backwards to show their friendship, their loyalty, their solidarity. Not that a word was said about Ray. But their omission made their joviality more striking, reminding Coleman of the behaviour of some whites, determined to be liberal minded, with Negroes. Coleman remained pleasant and placid. The fact the Smith-Peters now believed he had killed Ray, however, made them a little less dull for Coleman.

  “Have you decided yet how long you’re staying?” Francis asked Coleman.

  “Another week, I dunno. I dunno if Inez said anything to her caretaker at the Ste Maxime house.”

  “You’ll be going to the South of France?” asked Laura.

  He had been indefinite about it before, Coleman remembered. He stated the truth. “I enjoy Inez’s company very much, but I’m longing to get back to my own place in Rome.”

  And Coleman could see, in the glance the Smith-Peters exchanged, that they were thinking what a bold, reckless soul he was to linger on in a town, to announce where he might be next, when the body of a man he had killed might be washed up any day—even if on the coast of Yugoslavia. Francis seemed to be studying Coleman’s hands, listening to the tone of his voice, with respectful attention. Laura gazed at him as on someone unique, the like of which she might never see again in her lifetime. Inez, Coleman saw, was not as relaxed as usual, and was careful not to miss a word anyone said. But nothing, he thought, from Inez’s point of view could be said to have gone wrong that afternoon.

  The Smith-Peters were hoping to leave on Friday for Florence. The workmen in their house had at last got the right-sized pipes for the upstairs bath, they thought.

  When Coleman and Inez got back to their hotel, there was a message for Coleman. A Mr Zordyi had called at 4 p.m. and would call again. Coleman did not like the look of the name; there was an ominous sound about it.

  “He was here twice,” the man at the desk told Coleman. “He will call in again.”

  “Oh, he came here?” Coleman asked.

  “Yes, sir. Oh, here he is, sir.”

  A big man with light brown hair walked towards Coleman smiling slightly. An American plain clothes man, Coleman thought.

  “Mr Coleman?” he said. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  “My name is Sam Zordyi. I’m here on behalf of Mr Thomas Garrett of St Louis. Mulholland Investigation Bureau.” He glanced with a smile at Inez, too.

  “How do you do?” said Coleman. “This is Mme Schneider.”

  “How do you do?” said Inez.

  Zordyi bowed slightly to her. “Could I speak to you for a few minutes, Mr Coleman—or is now not convenient for you?”

  “Now’s perfectly all right,” Coleman said. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, dear,” he said to Inez. “Got your key?”

  Inez had. She went off towards the elevators.

  Zordyi watched her as she moved away.

  “Shall we sit somewhere in the lobby?” Coleman asked, gesturing towards a quiet corner where two arm-chairs stood with a small table between them.

  Zordyi glanced over the lobby, and the corner evidently met with his approval. “All right, over here.”

  They took the two arm-chairs.

  “How long are you staying in Venice?” Zordyi asked.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps another week. Depends how the weather is. It hasn’t been good lately.”

  “And then where do you go?”

  “I think back to my apartment in Rome.”

  “I take it you haven’t a clue as to Ray Garrett’s whereabouts since that Thursday night, November eleventh,” Zordyi asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “I spoke with the police here this afternoon. My Italian’s not native, but it serves,” he added with his healthy smile. “Would you tell me in your own words what happened that night?”

  Coleman began to tell it again, patiently, saying also that Ray had seemed depressed, but not what Coleman would call desperately depressed. He had not been drinking. He had spoken to Coleman in a very regretful way about Peggy’s suicide, said he had no idea of her mental state and was sorry he hadn’t noticed any signs that would have warned him she was about to do something like that.

  “What did you say to him?” Zordyi asked.

  “I said, ‘It’s done. What can we do about it?’”

  “You weren’t angry with him? You like him?”

  “He’s all right. Decent enough. Or I wouldn’t have let my daughter marry him. He’s weak in my opinion. Peggy needed a firmer hand.”

  “Did you try to cheer him up that night?”

  “Coleman would have liked to say, ‘Yes,’ but he foresaw that the man was going to speak to the Smith-Peters. I said, ‘It’s done.
It’s been a shock to both of us,’ something like that.”

  “Was there any particular reason he wanted to speak to you that night? The police said the others had left the table. Just you and Garrett were left.”

  “He said he wanted to make something clearer to me. What it was, I gathered, was that he’d done his best with Peggy, tried to get her to go to a psychiatrist in Palma—she refused—and Ray wanted me to know it wasn’t his fault.” Coleman sensed that Zordyi wasn’t all that interested in why Peggy had killed herself. What he said was fitting pretty well into place, Coleman thought, the kind of statement a young man might have made before killing himself.

  “How long did you talk?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  Zordyi was not taking notes. “I looked over his things today at the Pensione Seguso. His suitcase. There’s a couple of bullet-holes in the sleeve of one of his jackets. A left sleeve. Made by one bullet going in and out.” He added with a smile, “The girl who packed up his things hadn’t noticed the bullet-holes. I found them also in a shirt which still had some bloodstains. He’d tried to wash the shirt—maybe just a few days ago.”

  Coleman was listening with attention.

  “He didn’t say anything to you about being shot in the arm?”

  “No. Not a thing.”

  “It’s a funny place to shoot if you’re trying to kill yourself. I think he was shot at.”

  Coleman appeared to ponder that. “In Venice?”

  “Or in Rome, or Mallorca. I don’t know.” Zordyi waited. “Has he any enemies?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The only things Zordyi wrote down were the names of the Smith-Peters and their hotel and of Mrs Perry at the Excelsior, Lido. Coleman thought Mrs Perry might have left, and said so.

  “What kind of person is Ray Garrett?” asked Zordyi.

  Coleman thought Zordyi must have had detailed information from Ray’s parents about him. “Oh, reasonably intelligent, I suppose. Rather calm, introverted—a little bit shy.”

  “Shy how?”

  “Modest.”

  “Melancholic?”

  “I don’t know him that well. Introverted, yes. He likes to spend time by himself.”

  “What do you think of his gallery plans? Are they going through all right?”

  “The last I heard, he was trying to get space in New York. He wants to handle European painters who paint in Europe. He has a lot of taste and knowledge about paintings, and he has money, so I suppose he can afford a failure, if it fails.”

  “You think he’s practical? Not flighty?”

  Coleman shrugged good-naturedly. “With money, you don’t have to be practical, do you? I’ve never seen him undertake anything before. When I met him in Rome, he was taking a course in fine arts somewhere, painting a little himself.”

  “You’re a painter, too, I understand, Mr Coleman. Rome is a beautiful city for a painter to live in.”

  “Magnificent. I used to be a civil engineer. I got tired of the New York life.”

  “You live by yourself in Rome?”

  “Yes. A small flat in Trastevere. Five-storey walk-up, but it’s nice and quiet. If I have any guests, they have to sleep on the sofa in the living-room.”

  “You can make enough to live on, painting?”

  “Not really. But I manage. I do framing in Rome; that’s what provides a steady income. Lots of painters do framing. More money in frames than canvases for most painters.”

  Zordyi smiled at this, then stood up and thanked Coleman.

  Coleman went upstairs and told Inez about the interview.

  Coleman felt quite unruffled. After all, Ray wasn’t dead. If Ray ever told the truth, they could charge him with attempted murder. A week ago, it had seemed a serious thing. Now it didn’t. And Coleman faced the fact Ray would be found. He didn’t know the exact odds on a man’s being able to hide for ever, but he thought they were not too good for Ray. More important, he didn’t think Ray wanted to hide for ever. What it came down to was whether Ray wanted to tell the truth eventually or not.

  “It’d be interesting,” Coleman said to Inez with a chuckle, “to hear what the Smith-Peters say when he talks to them.”

  “Oh, Edward, don’t joke!”

  “They’re on my side, you said.”

  There was no telephone call from the Smith-Peters that evening, which Coleman thought odd, as he’d had the feeling Zordyi was going straight over to the Monaco to see them. But perhaps they didn’t want to say anything, good or bad, over the telephone.

  Laura Smith-Peters did ring the following morning at nine. Coleman was in Inez’s room, though he had not spent the night there, and he answered the telephone. Laura asked if he and Inez wanted to meet them for a drink or coffee at eleven at Harry’s.

  “I would like to see you both this morning,” Laura added, almost pleading.

  Of course. Coleman made the appointment.

  In Harry’s, Inez and Coleman had coffee, and the Smith-Peters bloody Marys.

  It seemed that Francis had first spoken with the private detective alone, downstairs in the hotel lobby, because Laura had been taking her bath. But he had wanted to see her, too, so she had dressed and come down. Zordyi had been interested in what they thought was Ray’s state of mind.

  “I said and Francis said, too, that Ray hadn’t been very cheerful, naturally, but he hadn’t looked hor-rribly depressed.”

  Her hard ‘r’ made the word a glottal cauchemar, illustrative of what Ray had not been, and she gulped on the last word, or perhaps on her drink.

  All of them listened, leaning forward, like a table of conspirators, Coleman thought, or prisoners planning a break. Francis’s dry lips were pursed, his small eyes wide, innocent and neutral as he listened to his wife. Now and again, however, Francis looked towards the door, if it opened. Coleman no longer looked at the door.

  “I’m really very sorry to put you through this,” Coleman said. He really was sorry.

  “Oh, it’s not your-r fault,” said Laura, so earnestly it was a moment before Coleman saw the wild humour in it.

  Coleman smiled nervously, a smile which only Inez saw. Laura had come to believe the story she had told the ‘authorities,’ Coleman felt.

  “He asked about your attitude to Ray,” Laura went on in her subdued tone to Coleman. “I said I didn’t think you ever knew him very well. Isn’t that true?”

  “True,” Coleman said.

  “I know you—don’t like him much,” Laura said, “but I didn’t tell him that, because it would just stir up trouble, I thought.”

  It would, Coleman thought. It seemed to be the end of Laura’s story. She sat quietly, looking down at her hands in her lap, like a little girl who has performed, modestly but adequately, a part in a school play. Coleman wanted to ask if Zordyi had said or asked anything else, but he refrained. Zordyi evidently hadn’t mentioned the bullet-holes, but Coleman supposed that he had told the Italian police about them.

  “I am sure you said the right thing, Laura,” Inez said. “Let us not worry.”

  “That’ll get us no place!” Francis agreed with a smile.

  Coleman glanced up just as the door opened again. A woman entered, and Coleman recognized her as Mrs Perry, swathed in a loose grey cape with a hood. “Looks like Mrs Perry,” Coleman said, and raised a hand to her.

  She saw him, smiled, and came towards the table. Another chair was found.

  “I thought you were leaving on Friday,” said Laura. “We’d have called you up if we’d known you were still here.”

  “Well, the Lido weather got so bad,” Mrs Perry explained in her slow melancholic way, “or at least it looks so much worse over there, I decided to give Venice a better chance and move to the Danieli, which I did.”

  They ordered from the waiter. Coleman switched to Cinzano. Mrs Perry wanted a sherry. Then after a few moments’ chatter about shopping, Mrs Perry asked Coleman:

  “Have you heard anything about your son-in-law
?”

  “No. His father’s sent a private detective over, so that ought to help.”

  “Really?” said Mrs Perry with breathless interest, fluttering her thin eyelids. “Then they haven’t found him?”

  “No,” said Francis and Coleman together.

  “I thought since the paper said nothing, that they had. You know—clearing up a mystery isn’t as interesting as starting one, so they don’t print it. But still missing!”

  “Nobody knows what to think,” said Coleman.

  Mrs Perry looked at the Smith-Peters and at Inez, as if trying to divine what they were thinking. “Did anyone see him after you, Mr Coleman?”

  “If so, they haven’t come up to say so,” Coleman replied.

  “And you let him off at the Zattere quay, you said?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Coleman. “I was visited yesterday by the private detective. A Mr Zordyi.”

  “I thought probably he’d seen you,” Laura said with a glance at Inez. “What did he say?”

  “He asked questions.” Coleman produced a cigar. “I hope nobody minds this.”

  Everybody but Inez said no.

  “Asked me the same questions as the police.” Except, Coleman remembered, Zordyi had asked him if he had tried to comfort Ray that evening. “There’s not much else he can do.”

  “You don’t think a young man in his state—would’ve wandered off just on foot,” said Mrs Perry hesitantly. “Not with any objective, but just to get away from himself?”

  Her voice sounded as if she did not believe what she said, and the silence that followed suggested her words hadn’t even been heard. There was also something impossible about wandering off from Venice on foot. Ray had not been in ‘a state’ Coleman thought, and they all knew this.

  Mrs Perry seemed embarrassed by her own question, or the silence. “I’m sorry. I realize that you”—she was addressing Coleman—“that it’s especially hard on you. Being questioned by the police and a private detective. But I can understand that they—It’s because you were the last person who saw him, of course.” Her slender fingers trembled as she lifted her sherry.

  There was another silence in which Coleman sensed the effort of everyone to think of something to say. Mrs Perry thought he had killed Ray, Coleman felt. She wouldn’t be quite so rattled now unless she did. “Well, I’ll certainly stay on in case I can be of any help,” Coleman said finally. “But at this point I don’t see how I can tell them a thing more than I have.”