Those Who Walk Away

by Patricia Highsmith

  “Well, Ed, dear, you know where to find us till Friday, if you need any moral support,” Laura said with her slightly bucktoothed smile, the first smile from her that morning.

  “And I’m not so sure we can take off Friday,” her husband said to her. “I’m going to make sure those pipes are in and working before I budge from here. I’ll call ‘em again Thursday afternoon. Not a move before then.”

  Coleman gathered himself and said to Mrs Perry, “It’s really nice of you, Ethel, to take such an interest.” It was the first time Coleman had called her by her first name, but he felt she would like him to now. “It is upsetting, because one doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead.” Coleman spoke solemnly.

  “Oh, but anyone would be interested. Anyone,” said Mrs Perry.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Inez,” Francis said.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Inez said, opening her hands quickly.

  Her voice trembled slightly, but Coleman thought he was the only one who noticed. Then Francis reached out, smiling, gripped Inez’s wrist, shook it gently, and said:

  “Don’t you worry. We’ll all stick together.”

  There was another round of drinks, then the Smith-Peters proposed that they have lunch somewhere. The lunch was good, and the atmosphere even jolly. Coleman felt secure among them. He began to feel, when his coffee arrived, a sense of invulnerability. It was then that he decided to have another try at Ray, this time more casual even than pushing him off a boat. An attack in a street, for instance. He imagined himself following Ray through dark narrow streets in Venice, taking up a convenient rock, and simply smashing Ray on the head with it. If there were time, he might dump the body into a canal, but if he did not—what matter? If no one saw him, what could be proved?

  Coleman thought he would take more walks in Venice, trail Ray carefully, if he saw him again, and find out where he was spending his nights. That would give him a neighbourhood. And once he knew the neighbourhood, it was a matter of choosing the right time of night. Or it might be possible to do it by day, if the lanes around were quiet enough. Of course, he would have to see that the private detective wasn’t on his own trail.

  14

  Ray discovered that Signor Ciardi gave wine parties nearly every night—not exactly parties, but five or six of his men friends could sound like fifty in the tile kitchen, and they stayed from nine o’clock till midnight. Ray had joined them, at Signor Ciardi’s invitation, the first night, but only for half an hour. He did not want to show his face to many people. The other evenings, he politely declined to join them, saying he had some work to do: he had told Signor Ciardi he was interested in architecture. The curious thing was that after a few moments that first night—the night he had spent half an hour in the kitchen—Ray did not mind the din, whole sentences of which boomed up to his second-storey room, though ordinarily such noise irritated him.

  It was true that he was interested in architecture, and he had bought a book (very like one he owned, but the one he owned wasn’t with him) on the architecture of Venice in the fifteenth century. With this, he had wandered about the town on two occasions, comparing the originals with the photographs in the books, very much tempted to make sketches of some of the churches he looked at, but drawing on the street would have attracted attention, whereas with an art book and a bent neck, he looked like a tourist, and in fact the art book was a slight protection against the inquiring eye. Ray had started out in life intending to become a painter, but at twenty-four had abandoned painting as a career, believing he would never be good enough.

  Ray stayed away from the San Marco district, except for his two quick trips on Monday afternoon and this morning, Tuesday, to see if there was a letter from Coleman. “Garrett,” Ray had said, taking a chance that the clerk would not be aware that a man named Garrett was ‘missing,’ and the clerk had calmly searched for a letter for Garrett, and had found none. Ray had left the place immediately on both days, via the Frezzeria. Ray strongly suspected that his parents had sent over a detective or two to look for him, and they would be equipped with photographs. He would go tomorrow for the last time, he thought, to see if Coleman had written, but Ray doubted very much that Coleman would, unless he felt inspired to send an insulting blast. If Coleman hadn’t written by tomorrow, Wednesday, he would give the whole thing up. This he swore to himself, as if it were something he was not sure he could stick to; but he did see the logic in giving it up, and saw Inez’s logic in so advising him. There was also the possibility that Coleman would leave Venice, or even had left, if the police permitted him to, and that therefore there was no purpose in all the dramatics. The police were probably not grilling Coleman, therefore Coleman wouldn’t admit to anything. Ray doubted if he would admit anything under grilling. There was grilling and grilling, of course, but Ray could imagine that, if Coleman put his mind to it, he would die of torture before admitting anything he didn’t want to admit, and certainly he was not going to be tortured by the Italian police or even the American. Ray had found out two things: that people—even people as apparently sensitive as Inez—didn’t much care if a man had committed murder or not; and secondly, that it was hopeless to try to placate Coleman’s wrath. Ray saw himself, by tomorrow afternoon, going to the police, telling them a story which would be no credit to himself, that he had wanted to disappear for a while, even at the expense of worrying his family, that he was sorry and ashamed of it, but had been in a bad state of mind. He would say he had seen the item about himself in the paper days ago, but nothing since, and he hoped his disappearing had not caused undue trouble. Ray did not want to tell the police about Coleman’s attempt in the motor-boat. Just let that, he thought, go by the board.

  Late that afternoon, when Ray was walking in the San Trovaso section, not far from the Pensione Seguso but beside and behind it, he came face to face with Antonio in a narrow street.

  Both of them stopped short and looked at each other, Antonio open-mouthed. Then Antonio broke into a smile.

  “Signor Garrett! It is! You are all right?”

  “Yes.” Ray felt frozen. Antonio was wringing his hand.

  “Dio mio, everybody thinks you’re dead!”

  “Sh-h,” Ray said, conscious of Antonio’s fuchsia-coloured tie, the scent of his hair tonic. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  “Where were you? What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” Ray said. The Italian, as tall as he, still clung to his hand. Ray extricated it. “No, I’m all right, Antonio.”

  “You should tell the police!” Antonio said, still looking at Ray as if he couldn’t believe him. He said more quietly, “You know, everybody thinks Edward keeled you?” He rocked back on his heels and laughed, perhaps with relief, and nearly lost his balance. “Let’s take a caffé.”

  Ray hesitated. This young man could muck up everything. On the other hand, over a coffee, he might be able to persuade him not to tell anyone he’d seen him. “All right, let’s.”

  They found a small bar-caffé around a corner, a place with one table in it, and that only a couple of feet from the counter. Antonio bought two caffés and brought them to the table. The proprietor, after making the coffee, returned to his newspaper.

  “So,” said Antonio, “you have just been—somewhere else?”

  “Just in a room. Near here,” Ray said. “You mustn’t question me too much, Antonio. I wanted to get away from everyone—and even forget who I was for a while. Can you understand that?”

  “Sure, I can,” Antonio replied earnestly, his bright eyes fixed on Ray. “But that night—that night on the Lido, what happened?”

  “Nothing. He put me off at San Marco and—I just walked. I went to another hotel that night.”

  Antonio frowned. “San Marco? Edward said the Zattere.”

  “Or maybe it was the Zattere, I don’t know. Yes, I think it was.” He saw doubt in Antonio’s very readable face. “At the Zattere. I owe a bill at the Seguso, but I’ll pay it.”

  Antonio
waved a hand airily, as if to say, ‘Bills!’ He frowned harder and pulled at his full under lip. “You know, Inez think Edward keeled you. She is very worried. She didn’t say it, but I know. She asked me to leave Venezia.” He smiled. “But leave Venezia so soon? No. I know she would be displeased if she thought I was still here, so I move myself yesterday to a little place in vicinity here.” He gestured vaguely. “Venezia is too beautiful to leave! And besides I was interested in what happens to you. But you see”—he hunched forward, glancing at the proprietor, though they were speaking in English—“she ask me to leave because she think I may say something against Edward.”

  “Oh? Say what against him?”

  “I dunno. I dunno anything—except he hates you.” Antonio smiled gently, a little mischievously. “But Inez is worried. Edward maybe told her he keel you. Or maybe she just suspect. You see?” Antonio was almost whispering. “You maybe don’ unnerstand, but I unnerstand. Today—I see them all going together down a street, the Smith-Peters, Edward, Inez, all friends together. They all think Edward keel you. Or they suspect. But they don’t want no Italian—You see what I mean? Is very usual for Italians to stay together but strange for Americans, no? But maybe we are all alike unnerneath!” He came down on his thighs with both hands, laughing as softly as he had spoken.

  Ray smiled. “I suppose it’s strange.”

  “They all know Edward hates you,” Antonio said in a whisper, “but I don’t think they say that to the police or they would not go out in the street with Edward to have lunch, no?” Antonio paused to let this sink in. “I think Edward maybe brag to Inez that he keel you. Or why is she so worried? Is like Edward to say something like that to her. He don’t give a damn. You know?”

  Ray knew. He let Antonio talk on. Antonio’s English was at that stage of fluency that it gave him enjoyment to rattle on.

  “He say to police he let you down at Zattere, and to Inez maybe that he keel you. Or maybe he tell Inez he let you down at Zattere and she does not believe, I dunno.” Antonio turned a box of wax matches over and over on the table-top. “What you going to do now?”

  The question annoyed Ray, but he felt he had to answer it for courtesy’s sake, or possibly to keep Antonio’s belief in his sanity. “I’ll go to the police in a day or so and tell them I’m all right. But meanwhile, Antonio, I wish you would not tell anyone that you saw me. Not even anyone who doesn’t know me. Will you promise me that?”

  Antonio looked surprised and a little disappointed. “Why?”

  “I want to be by myself—incognito—just a few more days. Maybe just till tomorrow. But let me handle it.” He realized the impossibility of making Antonio understand. He could make him understand by saying, ‘I’m hiding in order to put the blame for my death on Coleman, but you see that doesn’t work, because nobody cares, and anyway I’m not dead,’ but his motive was not so simple and, what was more important, he did not care to explain his motives to Antonio. “It’ll all be straightened out,” Ray said. “I’ve—” He started to say that he had had a grief, but he did not want to mention Peggy. “Let’s leave, shall we?”

  Antonio got up. “Can I walk with you a little? I am free until seven.”

  “All right,” Ray said, not really caring.

  They walked along the San Trovaso canal towards the Zattere quay. Neither was leading the other; it was just the way the turnings took them, the jogging lanes narrower and more crooked here in this neighbourhood, which seemed older, simpler and poorer than most of Venice.

  “You have a room in vicinity now?” asked Antonio.

  “Yes,” Ray replied. Giudecca was in view as he spoke, that huge island across an expanse of water, his refuge that he was not going to betray.

  “Edward let you down here?” Antonio asked as they entered the Fondamento delle Zattere, gesturing vaguely to the left, towards the Pensione Seguso.

  “Yes, somewhere along here.”

  They turned to the right. The Fondamento was broad, its house fronts straight and unornamented. It was growing dark, and the street-lamps had come on.

  “We run into Stazione Marittima there and we can’t pass,” Antonio said, nodding ahead. “Let’s go here.”

  They walked into a narrow street going right, and after a moment, crossed a bridge over a canal. Ray realized he would have to go back the same way in order to catch a boat for Giudecca. He wanted to be free of Antonio, but did not want to appear as though he did. He would walk five minutes more and leave him, Ray thought, and he would also make sure Antonio didn’t follow him when they separated.

  “Maybe the police make Edward stay in Venezia,” Antonio mused. “I know Inez wants to go to France.”

  “I don’t know,” Ray answered as vaguely. He turned up the collar of his overcoat.

  “Why you grow a beard? To hide yourself?”

  “Just for a change. I don’t think it hides me much, do you?”

  “You know, I thought too Edward keel you,” Antonio said, as if it were a deep confidence. “I thought, what a strange man, walking around—an American—and—nobody do anything.”

  Not even you, Ray thought, but quite without judgement on him. “People don’t want to make an accusation like that, I’m sure.”

  “But even Inez, she still stays with him in the—”

  Ray had started suddenly, but he had stopped walking. In the shadows ahead, emerging from a triangular shadow that clung to a small church like a dark pyramid, he saw Coleman, looking over both shoulders, obviously looking for something, someone.

  “What is it?” Antonio asked.

  “Nothing. I thought I saw someone,” Ray replied.

  Antonio looked around quickly. “Who?”

  Coleman was still in sight. Then in another second, he wasn’t. He had vanished in the slit of an alley on the left of the church square. “I thought I saw Inez,” Ray said. “It doesn’t matter. I should be leaving you now. I’m glad I saw you, Antonio. But remember what I said. Don’t tell anyone you saw me. Leave that to me, will you?”

  “But—I won’t be seeing any of them. Honest,” Antonio said. “Ray, I am very glad you are alive!” He held out his hand.

  Ray shook it. “Arrivederci, Antonio.”

  “Arrivederci, Ray!”

  Ray went off to the right, in the opposite direction from Coleman’s, not caring where it led him. After a few moments, he looked back, and did not see Antonio. Then his street bent, and he could no longer see any distance behind him. At another corner, he paused and looked back and waited.

  No sign of Antonio. He breathed a little more easily, and went on towards the Zattere quay—at least, he thought he was going in the right general direction for it, and he glanced around for one of the helpful arrows that were sometimes painted on house sides to show the way to the nearest vaporetto or traghetta stop. Tonight he found none. At the Zattere quay, he gave a convulsive sigh. His shoulders ached. He glanced behind him—for Coleman now, not Antonio—and not seeing him, walked on more slowly. He supposed he could trust Antonio not to say anything, and it was a little to his advantage that Antonio was apparently not going to see Inez again. And it was quite true that, in two days, he would go to the police himself. Meanwhile, he must take up the pieces of his life again. He could make a list of four or five:

  Write to Bruce Main in New York; cable his parents (tomorrow, perhaps); go to Paris and take care of business there; write and see how Mac was handling the sale of the boat and some furniture in Mallorca; and in Paris, post would probably be awaiting him at the Pont Royal from Bruce, possibly also the lease for the Lexington Avenue gallery space. The question in New York was, was the building going to be torn down or not? Surely Bruce would have found out by now.

  On Zattere, he bought a Corriere della Sera at the newsstand. There had been nothing about him in the morning’s Gazzettino, He tucked the paper under his arm without looking at it. Rain began to fall as he boarded the boat for Giudecca.

  Ray leaned against the cabin, only half shel
tered, watching Giudecca come closer. Was Coleman really on the prowl again for him? Or had he been trying to avoid the private detective who might have been trailing him? But why would the detective trail Coleman in a place like Venice, when he knew Coleman’s hotel? Ray knew, and had known really since the first glimpse of Coleman this evening, that Coleman was looking for him. And maybe the gun was with him now, too. Coleman obviously stuck at nothing, and nothing would satisfy him but killing him. Ray began to see the advantage of showing himself to the police tomorrow, and of leaving Venice tomorrow, too.

  When he arrived at the house on the south side of Giudecca, Signor Ciardi was not in, or at least Ray heard and saw no one as he crossed the court and climbed the stairs to his room. Well, his room was here still, just the same, even tidied by Giustina. Ray looked around at his few books, his new suitcase, and at the grapevine stem beside his window. It was six-ten by his watch. Tomorrow morning, he would go to the police (even if there was a letter from Coleman at the San Marco post office, and he would be a different person, the person called Ray Garrett. The name was like a label, familiar, dull, like a package’s label: this box contains twelve sixteen-ounce cans—not eleven or thirteen, but exactly twelve. Rather than bother Giustina with heating bath-water, Ray removed his shirt and washed in cold water at a stone sink he had discovered in a dark alcove one floor below. He rubbed himself hard with the rough towel, shaking with cold. He leapt up the stone steps, into his room again. There was still time to buy things in Venice, and he wanted to buy a present for Elisabetta.

  Before seven, Ray was back on the mainland, trotting through the passage from the Zattere quay to Accademia, leaping over the arched bridge, down again into Campo Morosino, past San Maurizio church, on towards San Marco. He bought a handbag for Elisabetta in a reliable but rather expensive shop near San Marco. The bag was black, squarish, sturdy, and beautifully lined in beige kid. He walked to the Largo San Sebastiano and pressed Elisabetta’s bell. It was seven-thirty, and he hoped they were not at dinner.