Those Who Walk Away

by Patricia Highsmith

  “That went all right,” Ray said, with a calmness he felt was unnatural to him.

  “Mr Garrett, where’d you get the bullet holes in your jacket? The jacket in the Pensione Seguso?”

  Ray noticed that the Italian captain showed no surprise at the question. “If you don’t mind—I don’t see that they have anything to do with what we’re talking about. I’d—”

  “That’s for you to tell me, I admit,” Zordyi interrupted, smiling again. “Maybe you can tell me where you got them. Here? In Venice?”

  “No. They—that happened weeks ago.”

  “Someone shot at you,” Zordyi said. “Was it possibly Coleman?”

  “No, it was not.”

  “They have nothing to do with Coleman?” Zordyi said.

  “No.”

  “Well—have you any enemies, Mr Garrett?” Zordyi asked with a slight smile, as if Ray’s reticence amused him. “I’m interested in protecting you, not accusing you—or suspecting you.”

  “No enemies,” Ray murmured, shaking his head.

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Capitano Dell’ Isola asked, “Mr Garrett, what do you think could have happened to Signor Col-e-man?”

  Ray hesitated. “I don’t know. I suppose—he could have suffered loss of memory—for a short time…Or he could have been robbed by someone who pushed his body—killed him, I mean, and pushed his body into the canal.” Ray shied away from saying the obvious, the most likely, that Coleman might want to hide in order to put a suspicion of murder on him. If they couldn’t think of that, why should he tell them? For an instant, Ray felt emotionally finished with Coleman. But he realized the feeling might be deceptive, or temporary, like others he had had before about Coleman.

  “You hit him with the stone, you said?” Dell’ Isola went on.

  “I threw it at him. I think it hit him on the neck or the ear.”

  The clerk was still writing.

  “He was on the ground then. Unconscious?”

  “I don’t know. He had just fallen.” Ray had to force the words out.

  Zordyi stood up. “If I may, Signor Capitano, I would like to send a cable. Or I can telephone collect.”

  “Please, yes, there is a telephone in the next room,” said Dell’ Isola.

  Ray stood up, too, tired of the straight chair.

  “Like to speak to your parents, Mr Garrett? It’ll be about four in the morning there,” Zordyi said with a smile.

  “Not just now, thank you,” Ray said. “Please tell them I’m well.”

  “That head wound—”

  “It’s only a cut.”

  When Zordyi went out, Dell’ Isola said. “For our report, Signor Garrett, we must know the places at which you have been staying. I promise you that people concerned will not be troubled.”

  Ray reluctantly gave him the name of Signora Calliuoli, whose house number he did not know, but he said it was in the Largo San Sebastiano. Dell’ Isola wanted to know the dates at which he had been there, and Ray gave them, 12-17 November.

  “And at present where are you?”

  “I assure you I shall keep in contact, Signor Capitano—”

  “But it is necessary,” the Capitano said emphatically, his patience beginning to collapse under the weight of officialism, and under that weight Ray knew there was no hope. If he refused to tell, they would follow him home.

  “He is Signor Ciardi,” Ray said. “Calle Montesino, Giudecca. Again I’m not sure of the number.”

  “Thank you,” said Dell’ Isola, watching the clerk write it down. “Signor Garrett, you know the Signora Perry, an American lady?”

  Ray dredged her up from memory. The Lido. The hostess the night of the eleventh. “I met her once.”

  “I spoke with her. So did the American.” He gestured towards the room where Zordyi had gone. “Yesterday afternoon. Signora Perry—well, we at last learned from her that Signor Col-e-man held a resentment against you.”

  The word was heavy and solid in Italian—risentimento.

  “It was Signor Zordyi who discovered that, I confess. She did not tell us. You know, there was a suspicion in all our minds that Signor Col-e-man had killed you.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?—You perhaps wanted us to think that?”

  Ray frowned, “No. I wanted to be myself. To forget the past weeks by getting away from my possessions—my passport.”

  Dell’ Isola seemed puzzled, or dubious. “I can imagine, if Signor Col-e-man had a resentment against you, you did not like him either? You did not like him?”

  “I neither like nor dislike him,” Ray said.

  Zordyi came into the room then. “Excuse me. The telephone takes so long, I sent a cable. I’ll try a call later,” he said to Ray.

  “We were discussing,” Capitano Dell’ Isola said, “what Signora Perry said yesterday about the resentment of Signor Col-e-man against Signor Garrett.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Zordyi glanced at Ray. “It wasn’t exactly the first thing she came out with. And Mme Schneider, she also had to admit Coleman wasn’t fond of you. She’ll be glad to hear you’re all right, Mr Garrett.” He turned to Dell’ Isola and said, “Well, your next work is to find Signor Coleman.”

  Dell’ Isola nodded. He asked Ray, “Has Signor Ciardi a telephone?”

  “No, he has not.”

  “I would like when you return to his house for you to telephone me at once and tell me the number of the house. Of course it would be on our records here,” with a gesture at his filing cabinets, “but buried under mountains of…” He trailed off vaguely.

  “I can telephone you within the hour,” said Ray.

  “Mr Garrett, I have a paper I’d like you to sign,” said Zordyi, pulling some papers from an overcoat pocket. “This is sort of an affidavit that you are really you.”

  It was a paper from Zordyi’s company relating to missing persons, and Ray’s signature was reproduced at the bottom of the page in a box marked sample. Ray was to sign in a box underneath this, and he did. Zordyi dated the paper and signed it also.

  “Are you leaving Venice at once, Signor Zordyi?” asked the Capitano.

  “No, not today, anyway,” said Zordyi. “If I learn anything about Coleman, I shall tell you immediately.”

  They parted, Zordyi going out with Ray. On the street, Zordyi said, “Why don’t we have lunch together, Mr Garrett? Have you time?”

  Ray did not want to lunch with Zordyi, yet he realized it was rather rude to refuse. “I did promise my host, Signor Ciardi, to lunch with him today. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Zordyi stood two or three inches taller than Ray. “Listen, you haven’t any idea where Coleman might be? Honestly?”

  “I really haven’t,” Ray said.

  Zordyi glanced behind him at the police station thirty yards away. “You don’t think you might have finished him off in that fight?” he asked in a low voice. “I’m asking for your own good. I’m trying to protect you. You can talk to me freely.”

  “I don’t think—I really don’t think I finished him off,” Ray said, but the words stuck in his throat as if they were a lie.

  Zordyi studied him a moment, then smiled. “Since you got the best of him in that fight, maybe he snuck off in a sulk, eh? He’s an arrogant type, I understand. Used to being top dog?”

  Ray smiled slightly also. “Very true.”

  “I’m at the Hotel Luna at least till tomorrow, maybe longer. And you, Mr Garrett, are where?”

  “Calle Montesino, Giudecca. The house of a Signor Ciardi. As I said to the Capitano, I don’t even know the house number and there’s no telephone.”

  Zordyi nodded, and Ray could feel him committing the name and street to memory. “I wish you’d call me at the Lima and tell me the house number. If I’m not in, could you leave a message?”

  Ray said he would.

  “I’ll tell the American Consulate you’re here,” Zordyi said absently, looking into space, “in case the Itali
ans don’t think of it. And what are your plans now?”

  “I’ll be going on to Paris.”

  “When?”

  Did Zordyi think he was going to disappear again, Ray wondered. He supposed Zordyi might. “In a day or so.”

  “You’ll get in touch with your parents today?” Ray said he would cable or telephone. They said good-bye then, Zordyi walking on past the railroad station, Ray catching a vaporetto for the Riva degli Schiavoni. He got off instead at San Marco and went to the post-telegraph office to which Coleman had never sent a letter. He cabled to his parents in St Louis:

  AM ALL RIGHT. LETTER FOLLOWS. LOVE TO YOU BOTH.

  RAY

  Then he went on, across the Giudecca canal. At least he could tell Signor Ciardi the truth before he saw it in the newspapers. Ray found his mind again drifting to the possibility that Coleman could be dead. He felt sick and weak for a moment, as if his own strength were ebbing, then the sensation ended, confidence began to come back, and with it a certain happiness. If he had killed Coleman, he had done it in self-defence. He’d done it after Coleman had fired a gun at him, and after Coleman had tried to drown him in the lagoon, after all. If there came a showdown, Ray thought, if Coleman’s body were found with a fractured skull in a canal, he had two stories in his defence to come up with, and there would be no need for further unappreciated gallantry in concealing them. His overcoat might be mended from the bullet-holes, but the graze still showed on his arm. The jacket with the unmended holes was at the Pensione Seguso. Luigi was his witness for the evening in the lagoon. Ray felt rather confident as he stepped ashore on Giudecca.

  17

  Edward Coleman, who gave out casually to the Chioggi fisherman only that his name was Ralph—Ralpho, he called him—spent 25 November, Thursday, in the house of Mario and Filomena Martucci. It was Mario with whom Coleman had gone fishing some ten days before on a Sunday. On the 25th, there was a nasty wet wind, and Coleman stayed indoors drinking Filomena’s homemade red wine and writing a few letters. He wrote to Dick Purcell in Rome, asking him to check with his landlord and make sure his apartment was all right and hadn’t been broken into, and said that he would be coming to Rome very shortly. But Coleman did not post this letter yet, nor any of the others.

  He had a purple bruise under his right ear, and also a black eye that was turning yellow. Coleman told Mario that he had been attacked in a dark street by a man who had tried to rob him, but that he had put up a fight and kept his billfold. Unfortunately, Coleman has only twenty thousand lire, about thirty dollars, with him now. He had given five thousand to Mario as a kind of thank you for taking him in. Coleman had arrived at Mario’s in mid-morning of the 24th, having made his way from Venice to Mestre late Tuesday night, a bedless night for him in various Mestre coffee-bars. He said, by way of explanation, that he wanted to avoid for a few days the husband of his girl friend, and that the husband had just come to Venice. Mario no doubt thought that the husband had beaten him up, but Coleman couldn’t help that, and swallowed his pride about it.

  What Coleman very much wanted to do was hire Mario or one of his friends to go to the police and say he had seen a man being rolled into the canal at about 11 p.m. on the 23rd. That would start the ball rolling nicely, Coleman thought, but as yet he had not dared approach Mario about it. A hundred thousand lire more in his billfold would no doubt have given him a little inspiration, but he hadn’t it.

  A dog barked in a backyard of a house next door. It was tied up, Coleman knew, because he had seen it from his window.

  Filomena came in about five without knocking, and asked Coleman if he would like a bowl of brodo that she had just made. A broth of eels.

  “No, thank you, dear Filomena; the lunch you gave me is still doing its work.” Coleman answered pleasantly. “But I’ll join Mario in a glass of wine when he returns. He’s due at six, you said?”

  “Si, Signor.” Filomena was slender, dark, and had a front tooth missing. She looked about thirty. She had had four children, but one had died. “You are warm enough, signor?”

  “Magnificent. Thank you.” Coleman was chilly, but Filomena had lavished much care on his tile stove’s fire, and he did not want to complain.

  Filomena left, and Coleman walked to the window and looked out. He chewed his lips and thought of Inez. He was sorry to be causing her worry, and he was sure he was. She hadn’t wanted him to go off on Thursday night after dinner for his walk—the walk on which he had spotted Ray—but Coleman had felt compelled to go. He absolutely could not have gone quietly back with Inez to their hotel that evening. Earlier that day, trailed by Zordyi, Coleman had given him the slip in Merceria. Well, if you couldn’t give someone the slip in Venice, where could you, Coleman thought, but still Zordyi was a professional, and it had pleased Coleman to outwit him. And if he couldn’t dispose of Ray in Venice, where could he? And luck had been definitely with him in finding Ray, even in the little matter of finding just the right rock handy in the street. Coleman had envisaged a back street exactly like the one Ray had run into, a canal exactly like that canal—but he hadn’t envisaged Ray standing up, anyone standing up, after the wallop he had given him with that rock. Coleman frowned and cursed his luck for the twentieth time since the fight had happened. Ray must surely not be feeling too well now, but the fact that he was probably alive galled Coleman and made him, a score of times a day, snatch something up instead of picking it up, made him set his teeth, made his heart beat faster. Coleman finished the last inch of the wine, and decided to approach Mario about speaking to the police. He’d have to think of a reason for Mario’s having been in Venice that night. Or was it better to have Mario write an unsigned letter? He should put it to Mario that he thought the husband of his girl friend deserved a bit of inconvenience for his murderous attack. He could offer Mario thirty thousand lire for the favour, payable later when he could get his hands on some money.

  Coleman had sent Filomena out for a Gazzettino this morning after Mario left the house, rightly guessing that she wouldn’t glance at the paper. After Coleman had seen his picture and read the item about his being missing, he had burnt the paper in his tile stove. He hoped Mario had not seen the paper that day. He had asked Mario to bring an evening paper home with him tonight, and he hoped Mario remembered.

  At last, Coleman heard the shout from Mario, and the answering cry from Filomena, that meant Mario had returned. Coleman went downstairs.

  The three children were clinging to their father’s legs. Mario held a fish in a basket over his head.

  “I didn’t catch it, I bought it,” Mario said cheerfully. “But I caught a lot of other fish today.”

  “A fortunate day?” Coleman asked. He saw the newspaper in Mario’s hip pocket.

  “An ugly wind, but a good day for the fish,” said Mario.

  They were all in the kitchen, which served also as their living-room. What looked a little more like a living-room was the room next door, but it was smaller and had a double bed in it, in which all three children slept.

  “Some wine now or a plate of brodo?” said Filomena to her husband.

  “My dear wife, when will you learn I don’t want soup before my wine? An hour before my dinner? When we all sit at the table, yes!” Mario gave her a kiss on the cheek, and a slap on the behind.

  Coleman laughed. “Can I see the newspaper, Mario?”

  Mario pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Coleman. Then he got glasses and poured wine for himself and Coleman.

  The newspaper looked like a lower-class, popular one, and Coleman had not heard of it before. Nothing on the front page. He turned the page, and started at the sight of Ray’s picture in the upper corner. He read it as quickly as he could, his attention fixed. Ray had given himself up to the police today. He had said he had had a fight with his father-in-law, Edward Coleman, on the night of 23 November in a small street in Venice. “The young American, who has been missing for fifteen days, said merely that he wanted to be by himself for a while, after
the recent suicide of his wife Peggy in Mallorca. Since their encounter on the night of 23 November, Edward Coleman has not been seen, and police are making inquiries about him.”

  “What are you reading? Something about you?” Mario asked.

  Coleman straightened abruptly—he had been leaning over the table where he had rested the newspaper—but Mario looked down at the picture.

  “You know that American?—Dica, is that the husband of your girl friend?” Mario demanded with sudden amusement and inspiration.

  “No, no, you can see that,” Coleman said with a casual gesture, then picked up the wine Mario had poured for him, and wished he had picked up the newspaper instead, because Mario lifted it to read it better.

  “Hm-m. A fight—strange,” Mario murmured as he read.

  “Che cosa?” asked his wife.

  Damn their curiosity, Coleman thought.

  “Not this man—is it not this man you had the fight with, Ralfo?”

  Mario didn’t know Coleman’s name. If he’d ever told Mario his name, Mario had probably forgotten, Coleman thought. “No, I told you no,” Coleman said. Coleman supposed his face was white.

  Filomena turned from the stove at his tone.

  “It was the night you had the fight, no? Is why I ask,” Mario pursued, smiling mischievously now.

  “But not with him,” Coleman said.

  “What is your true name?” Mario asked.

  Filomena looked worried. “No quarrelling, Mario. You should let Signor Ralfo keep his secrets.”

  Coleman slowly pulled his cigar-case from his pocket, and tried to think of something casual to say. Mario was watching him. And Coleman was getting no better control of himself. In fact, he was now trembling.

  “All right, all right,” Mario said with a shrug, a glance at his wife. Mario’s eyebrows twitched. He had a scar from a fishhook in his left eyebrow, a spot where the hair did not grow. “I can see you have some troubles, Signor Ralfo. If your daughter killed herself?”

  “Mario!” Filomena said in a shocked voice.

  “That’s not true!” Coleman said. “Not a word of that is true! She—” He had banged his glass down on the table, splashing wine.