Slowly, Slowly in the Wind

by Patricia Highsmith

  “Well, well, Steve!” said Roger, pumping Dr. McCullough’s hand. “It’s great to see you again. Come in, come in. Is that thing heavy?” Roger made a pass at the doctor’s suitcase, but the doctor caught it up first.

  “Not at all. Good to see you again, Roger.” He went into the apartment.

  There were oriental rugs, ornate lamps that gave off dim light. It was even stuffier than Dr. McCullough had anticipated. Roger looked a trifle thinner. He was shorter than the doctor, and had sparse blond hair. His weak face perpetually smiled. Both had eaten dinner, so they drank scotch in the living room.

  “So you’re joining Lillian in Rome tomorrow,” said Roger. “Sorry you won’t be staying longer. I’d intended to drive you out to the country tomorrow evening to meet a friend of mine. A woman,” Roger added with a smile.

  “Oh? Too bad. Yes, I’ll be off on the one o’clock plane tomorrow afternoon. I made the reservation from Paris.” Dr. McCullough found himself speaking automatically. Strangely, he felt a little drunk, though he’d taken only a couple of sips of his scotch. It was because of the falsity of the situation, he thought, the falsity of his being here at all, of his pretending friendship or at least friendliness. Roger’s smile irked him, so merry and yet so forced. Roger hadn’t referred to Margaret, though Dr. McCullough had not seen him since she died. But then, neither had the doctor referred to her, even to give a word of condolence. And already, it seemed, Roger had another female interest. Roger was just over forty, still trim of figure and bright of eye. And Margaret, that jewel among women, was just something that had come his way, stayed a while, and departed, Dr. McCullough supposed. Roger looked not at all bereaved.

  The doctor detested Roger fully as much as he had on the train, but the reality of Roger Fane was somewhat dismaying. If he killed him, he would have to touch him, feel the resistance of his flesh at any rate with the object he hit him with. And what was the servant situation? As if Roger read his mind, he said:

  “I’ve a girl who comes in to clean every morning at ten and leaves at twelve. If you want her to do anything for you, wash and iron a shirt or something like that, don’t hesitate. She’s very fast, or can be if you ask her. Her name’s Yvonne.”

  Then the telephone rang. Roger spoke in French. His face fell slightly as he agreed to do something that the other person was asking him to do. Roger said to the doctor:

  “Of all irritating things. I’ve got to catch the seven o’clock plane to Zurich tomorrow. Some visiting fireman’s being welcomed at a breakfast. So, old man, I suppose I’ll be gone before you’re out of bed.”

  “Oh!” Dr. McCullough found himself chuckling. “You think doctors aren’t used to early calls? Of course I’ll get up to tell you good-bye—see you off.”

  Roger’s smile widened slightly. “Well, we’ll see. I certainly won’t wake you for it. Make yourself at home and I’ll leave a note for Yvonne to prepare coffee and rolls. Or would you like a more substantial brunch around eleven?”

  Dr. McCullough was not thinking about what Roger was saying. He had just noticed a rectangular marble pen and pencil holder on the desk where the telephone stood. He was looking at Roger’s high and faintly pink forehead. “Oh, brunch,” said the doctor vaguely. “No, no, for goodness’ sake. They feed you enough on the plane.” And then his thoughts leapt to Lillian and the quarrel yesterday in Paris. Hostility smoldered in him. Had Roger ever quarreled with Margaret? Dr. McCullough could not imagine Margaret being unfair, being mean. It was no wonder Roger’s face looked relaxed and untroubled.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said Roger, getting up to replenish his glass.

  The doctor’s glass was still half full.

  “I suppose I’m a bit tired,” said Dr. McCullough, and passed his hand across his forehead. When he lifted his head again, he saw a photograph of Margaret which he had not noticed before on the top of the highboy on his right. Margaret in her twenties, as she had looked when Roger married her, as she had looked when the doctor had so loved her. Dr. McCullough looked suddenly at Roger. His hatred returned in a wave that left him physically weak. “I suppose I’d better turn in,” he said, setting his glass carefully on the little table in front of him, standing up. Roger had showed him his bedroom.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like a spot of brandy?” asked Roger. “You look all in.” Roger smiled cockily, standing very straight.

  The tide of the doctor’s anger flowed back. He picked up the marble slab with one hand, and before Roger could step back, smashed him in the forehead with its base. It was a blow that would kill, the doctor knew. Roger fell and without even a last twitch lay still and limp. The doctor set the marble back where it had been, picked up the pen and pencil which had fallen, and replaced them in their holders, then wiped the marble with his handkerchief where his fingers had touched it and also the pen and pencil. Roger’s forehead was bleeding slightly. He felt Roger’s still-warm wrist and found no pulse. Then he went out the door and down the hall to his own room.

  He awakened the next morning at 8:15, after a not very sound night’s sleep. He showered in the bathroom between his room and Roger’s bedroom, shaved, dressed and left the house at a quarter past nine. A hall went from his room past the kitchen to the flat’s door; it had not been necessary to cross the living room, and even if he had glanced into the living room through the door he had not closed, Roger’s body would have been out of sight to him. Dr. McCullough had not glanced in.

  At 5:30 P.M. he was in Rome, riding in a taxi from the airport to the Hotel Majestic where Lillian awaited him. Lillian was out, however. The doctor had some coffee sent up, and it was then that he noticed his briefcase was missing. He had wanted to lie on the bed and drink coffee and read his medical quarterlies. Now he remembered distinctly: he had for some reason carried his briefcase into the living room last evening. This did not disturb him at all. It was exactly what he should have done on purpose if he had thought of it. His name and his New York address were written in the slot of the briefcase. And Dr. McCullough supposed that Roger had written his name in full in some engagement book along with the time of his arrival.

  He found Lillian in good humor. She had bought a lot of things in the Via Condotti. They had dinner and then took a carozza ride through the Villa Borghese, to the Piazza di Spagna and the Piazza del Populo. If there were anything in the papers about Roger, Dr. McCullough was ignorant of it. He bought only the Paris Herald-Tribune, which was a morning paper.

  The news came the next morning as he and Lillian were breakfasting at Donay’s in the Via Veneto. It was in the Paris Herald-Tribune, and there was a picture of Roger Fane on the front page, a serious official picture of him in a wing collar.

  “Good Lord!” said Lillian. “Why—it happened the night you were there!”

  Looking over her shoulder, Dr. McCullough pretended surprise. “ ‘—died some time between eight P.M. and three A.M.,’ ” the doctor read. “I said good night to him about eleven, I think. Went into my room.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “No. My room was down a hall. I closed my door.”

  “And the next morning. You didn’t—”

  “I told you, Roger had to catch a seven o’clock plane. I assumed he was gone. I left the house around nine.”

  “And all the time he was in the living room!” Lillian said with a gasp. “Steve! Why, this is terrible!”

  Was it, Dr. McCullough wondered. Was it so terrible for her? Her voice did not sound really concerned. He looked into her wide eyes. “It’s certainly terrible—but I’m not responsible, God knows. Don’t worry, Lillian.”

  The police were at the Hotel Majestic when they returned, waiting for Dr. McCullough in the lobby. They were both plainclothes Swiss police, and they spoke English. They interviewed Dr. McCullough at a table in a corner of the lobby. Lillian had, at Dr. McCullough’s insistenc
e, gone up to their room. Dr. McCullough had wondered why the police had not come for him hours earlier than this—it was so simple to check the passenger list of planes leaving Geneva—but he soon found out why. The maid Yvonne had not come to clean yesterday morning, so Roger Fane’s body had not been discovered until 6 P.M. yesterday, when his office had become alarmed by his absence and sent someone around to his apartment to investigate.

  “This is your briefcase, I think,” said the slender blond officer with a smile, opening a large manila envelope he had been carrying under his arm.

  “Yes, thank you very much. I realized today that I’d left it.” The doctor took it and laid it on his lap.

  The two Swiss watched him quietly.

  “This is very shocking,” Dr. McCullough said. “It’s hard for me to realize.” He was impatient for them to make their charge—if they were going to—and ask him to return to Geneva with them. They both seemed almost in awe of him.

  “How well did you know Mr. Fane?” asked the other officer.

  “Not too well. I’ve known him many years, but we were never close friends. I hadn’t seen him in five years, I think.” Dr. McCullough spoke steadily and in his usual tone.

  “Mr. Fane was still fully dressed, so he had not gone to bed. You are sure you heard no disturbance that night?”

  “I did not,” the doctor answered for the second time. A silence. “Have you any clues as to who might have done it?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” the blond man said matter of factly. “We suspect the brother of the maid Yvonne. He was drunk that night and hasn’t an alibi for the time of the crime. He and his sister live together and that night he went off with his sister’s batch of keys—among which were the keys to Mr. Fane’s apartment. He didn’t come back until nearly noon yesterday. Yvonne was worried about him, which is why she didn’t go to Mr. Fane’s apartment yesterday—that plus the fact she couldn’t have got in. She tried to telephone at eight-thirty yesterday morning to say she wouldn’t be coming, but she got no answer. We’ve questioned the brother Anton. He’s a ne’er-do-well.” The man shrugged.

  Dr. McCullough remembered hearing the telephone ring at eight-thirty. “But—what was the motive?”

  “Oh—resentment. Robbery maybe if he’d been sober enough to find anything to take. He’s a case for a psychiatrist or an alcoholic ward. Mr. Fane knew him, so he might have let him into the apartment, or he could have walked in, since he had the keys. Yvonne said that Mr. Fane had been trying for months to get her to live apart from her brother. Her brother beats her and takes her money. Mr. Fane had spoken to the brother a couple of times, and it’s on our record that Mr. Fane once had to call the police to get Anton out of the apartment when he came there looking for his sister. That incident happened at nine in the evening, an hour when his sister is never there. You see how off his head he is.”

  Dr. McCullough cleared his throat and asked, “Has Anton confessed to it?”

  “Oh, the same as. Poor chap, I really don’t think he knows what he’s doing half the time. But at least in Switzerland there’s no capital punishment. He’ll have enough time to dry out in jail, all right.” He glanced at his colleague and they both stood up. “Thank you very much, Dr. McCullough.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said the doctor. “Thank you for the briefcase.”

  Dr. McCullough went upstairs with his briefcase to his room.

  “What did they say?” Lillian asked as he came in.

  “They think the brother of the maid did it,” said Dr. McCullough. “Fellow who’s an alcoholic and who seems to have had it in for Roger. Some ne’er-do-well.” Frowning, he went into the bathroom to wash his hands. He suddenly detested himself, detested Lillian’s long sigh, an “Ah-h” of relief and joy.

  “Thank God, thank God!” Lillian said. “Do you know what this would have meant if they’d—if they’d have accused you?” she asked in a softer voice, as if the walls had ears, and she came closer to the bathroom door.

  “Certainly,” Dr. McCullough said, and felt a burst of anger in his blood. “I’d have had a hell of a time proving I was innocent, since I was right there at the time.”

  “Exactly. You couldn’t have proved you were innocent. Thank God for this Anton, whoever he is.” Her small face glowed, her eyes twinkled. “A ne’er-do-well. Ha! He did us some good!” She laughed shrilly and turned on one heel.

  “I don’t see why you have to gloat,” he said, drying his hands carefully. “It’s a sad story.”

  “Sadder than if they’d blamed you? Don’t be so—so altruistic, dear. Or rather, think of us. Husband kills old rival-in-love after—let’s see—seventeen years, isn’t it? And after eleven years of marriage to another woman. The torch still burns high. Do you think I’d like that?”

  “Lillian, what’re you talking about?” He came out of the bathroom scowling.

  “You know exactly. You think I don’t know you were in love with Margaret? Still are? You think I don’t know you killed Roger?” Her gray eyes looked at him with a wild challenge. Her head was tipped to one side, her hands on her hips.

  He felt tongue-tied, paralyzed. They stared at each other for perhaps fifteen seconds, while his mind moved tentatively over the abyss her words had just spread before him. He hadn’t known that she still thought of Margaret. Of course she’d known about Margaret. But who had kept the story alive in her mind? Perhaps himself by his silence, the doctor realized. But the future was what mattered. Now she had something to hold over his head, something by which she could control him forever. “My dear, you are mistaken.”

  But Lillian with a toss of her head turned and walked away, and the doctor knew he had not won.

  Absolutely nothing was said about the matter for the rest of the day. They lunched, spent a leisurely hour in the Vatican museum, but Dr. McCullough’s mind was on other things than Michelangelo’s paintings. He was going to go to Geneva and confess the thing, not for decency’s sake or because his conscience bothered him, but because Lillian’s attitude was insupportable. It was less supportable than a stretch in prison. He managed to get away long enough to make a telephone call at five P.M. There was a plane to Geneva at 7:20 P.M. At 6:15 P.M., he left their hotel room empty-handed and took a taxi to Ciampino airport. He had his passport and traveler’s checks.

  He arrived in Geneva before eleven that evening, and called the police. At first, they were not willing to tell him the whereabouts of the man accused of murdering Roger Fane, but Dr. McCullough gave his name and said he had some important information, and then the Swiss police told him where Anton Carpeau was being held. Dr. McCullough took a taxi to what seemed the outskirts of Geneva. It was a new white building, not at all like a prison.

  Here he was greeted by one of the plainclothes officers who had come to see him, the blond one. “Dr. McCullough,” he said with a faint smile. “You have some information, you say? I am afraid it is a little late.”

  “Oh?—Why?”

  “Anton Carpeau has just killed himself—by bashing his head against the wall of his cell. Just twenty minutes ago.” The man gave a hopeless shrug.

  “Good God,” Dr. McCullough said softly.

  “But what was your information?”

  The doctor hesitated. The words wouldn’t come. And then he realized that it was cowardice and shame that kept him silent. He had never felt so worthless in his life, and he felt infinitely lower than the drunken ne’er-do-well who had killed himself. “I’d rather not. In this case—I mean—it’s so all over, isn’t it? It was something else against Anton, I thought—and what’s the use now? It’s bad enough—” The words stopped.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said the Swiss.

  “So—I’ll say good night.”

  “Good night, Dr. McCullough.”

  Then the doctor walked on into the night, aimlessly. He felt a c
urious emptiness, a nothingness in himself that was not like any mood he had ever known. His plan for murder had succeeded, but it had dragged worse tragedies in its wake. Anton Carpeau. And Lillian. In a strange way, he had killed himself just as much as he had killed Roger Fane. He was now a dead man, a walking dead man.

  Half an hour later, he stood on a formal bridge looking down at the black water of Lake Leman. He stared down a long while, and imagined his body toppling over and over, striking the water with not much of a splash, sinking. He stared hard at the blackness that looked so solid but would be so yielding, so willing to swallow him into death. But he hadn’t even the courage or the despair as yet for suicide. One day, however, he would, he knew. One day when the planes of cowardice and courage met at the proper angle. And that day would be a surprise to him and to everyone else who knew him. Then his hands that gripped the stone parapet pushed him back, and the doctor walked on heavily. He would see about a hotel for tonight, and then tomorrow arrange to get back to Rome.

  The Baby Spoon

  Claude Lamm, Professor of English Literature and Poetry, had been on the faculty of Columbia University for ten years. Short and inclined to plumpness, with a bald spot in the middle of his close-cropped black hair, he did not look like a college professor, but rather like a small businessman hiding for some reason in the clothes he thought a college professor should wear—good tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows, unpressed gray flannels and unshined shoes of any sort. He lived in one of the great dreary apartment buildings that clump east and south of Columbia University, a gloomy, ash-colored building with a shaky elevator and an ugly miscellany of smells old and new inside it. Claude Lamm rendered his sunless, five-room apartment still more somber by cramming it with sodden-looking sofas, with books and periodicals and photographs of classic edifices and landscapes about which he professed to be sentimental but actually was not.