Those Who Walk Away

by Patricia Highsmith

  “I’ll have another cappuccino, I think,” Ray said, and gestured to the boy behind the counter. “And what will you have, Signor Ciardi? A caffé? A glass of wine?”

  “A glass of wine, si,” said Signor Ciardi, beaming at the return of strength to his patient.

  Ray ordered it.

  Signor Ciardi frowned suddenly. “Exactly where did you fall?”

  “Some little steps—not far from the Ponte di Rialto. The street was dark, or it would not have happened.” Ray suddenly wondered if Coleman could be dead. His body found by now, perhaps found even last night. Ray could not decide what was logical to believe, that he was dead or not, and was more inclined to believe that it was his own guilt feelings—at having struck Coleman with a rock—that made him fear he might be dead.

  “And no one was around? To help you?” asked Signor Ciardi.

  “No. I found a small fountain and washed myself. It’s not so bad, you see, only the blood.” Ray began to feel weak again. He downed his coffee as rapidly as Signor Ciardi finished his wine.

  “We will go back to the house,” Signor Ciardi said firmly.

  “Yes.” Ray pulled a five-hundred lire piece from his pocket for the bill, insisted, over Signor Ciardi’s protest, on paying. He was remembering, with some satisfaction, how last night he had won out over unconsciousness by sheer will-power, it seemed to him. Surely a blow such as he had received would have knocked out most people. He walked back home with Signor Ciardi with his head higher than usual, walked as erectly as he could, even though Signor Ciardi’s hand gripping his arm was an important, maybe even a necessary support.

  In his room he slept for several hours. Then he was awakened at 4 p.m., as Signor Ciardi had said he would be, by Giustina bringing a tray of tea, toast and a brace of boiled eggs.

  He enjoyed a state of bliss that he knew was temporary. And it was not actually bliss, whatever that was, he realized, only a considerable improvement over his state since just before Peggy’s suicide, or even weeks before. It had been a curious and horrible thing to realize, when Peggy was alive, that their marriage was not working, not succeeding in making either of them happy, despite all the ingredients that were supposed to make a marriage go: time, money, a pretty place to live, objectives. His objective had been the New York art gallery, which Peggy had been interested in, too. She had known some painters for him to get in touch with from Mallorca, and three of them were on his list for the gallery now. Their idea had been to gather young European painters who still lived in Europe, since New York had enough European painters who were New York based. At openings, the painter would not be present unless he wanted to come over, but there would be photographs and well-displayed biographies of him or her at the gallery. New York was full of exhibitionist painters who turned up at their openings in purple velvet suits, diapers, or anything at all to get attention, and after that, success was a matter of whom the painter knew. Ray’s idea was a gallery without the circus atmosphere, without even background music, just a good deep carpet underfoot, plenty of ashtrays, proper lighting. The gallery need not have tied him and Peggy to New York, if they hadn’t wished to be tied there, as they could have left it in Bruce’s hands. Or, it could have provided an interest for them in New York, if they had chosen. It seemed to Ray that they had had everything, except hardship.

  And then Peggy’s death and the Coleman onslaught—like a sea of log-laden water that had rushed over him. He had not only bowed to it, he had been knocked out by it. But he had finally stood up against it. Ray liked to imagine that it was the first time anyone had stood up to Coleman. He recalled Coleman’s stories in Rome, shortly after they had met (Coleman wasted no time in boasting). Coleman, the self-made man, blustering his way into moneyed society in America, carrying off one of the prizes as a wife, forging to the top of his engineering firm, forming a company of his own soon after, and then quitting the business cold. Onward to new glories, more with women than by painting, it seemed. I like them big. The bigger the challenge, the bigger the win, Coleman had said in Rome not two years ago. Had Coleman been talking about women, men, painting, jobs? It didn’t matter. It was Coleman’s attitude that mattered. And Coleman must now be furious, Ray thought.

  Ray summoned Giustina with the aid of a long-handled bell that stood outside his door, returned the tray with thanks, and asked if she would prepare a bath. The doctor was coming at six. Ray had his bath, and received the doctor and Signor Ciardi. The doctor found no fever, and did not look at the wound. The stitches could come out in four days. He prescribed rest. Ray had thought to go out that evening to ring the police, but he could see that Signor Ciardi was rather keeping a watch on him. Ray supposed the matter could wait one more day.

  “Luigi is coming,” Signor Ciardi told Ray, and repeated it at two minute intervals, until at last they heard the bell.

  Giustina hurried down to open the door, and then Luigi came up, grizzle-cheeked as usual, beret in hand, his gondolier’s striped shirt showing in the V-neck of his black blouse.

  “Ciao, Luigi,” Ray said. “Tutto va bene, never fear. Have a seat.”

  “Dear Signor Weelson—Giovanni! Costanza told me…” Once more his words were lost to Ray, as they were in dialect.

  “Your kind wife brought me broth,” Ray informed him, he was sure unnecessarily.

  The conversation was not exactly smooth, but the oil of affection was there. Luigi had saved his life once. He was helping, through his friends, to preserve it now. Ray managed to convey this, much to the delight of Signor Ciardi and Giustina, who appreciated a flowery sentiment, but perhaps did not grasp the first part about Luigi’s having saved his life, and took it to mean that Luigi had found him a place to stay.

  Signor Ciardi had Giustina fetch wine. Everyone except Giustina had one of Ray’s American cigarettes. The atmosphere was gay in the room. Luigi produced two fine oranges from his blouse, and they were put on Ray’s night table. He questioned Ray about the street where he had fallen, and deplored the lack of light in some streets. The party might have gone on longer, but the doctor had said that Signor Weelson should have some rest, so they all filed out.

  Giustina brought Ray a supper of fettucini and salad and some of Signor Ciardi’s fortifying wine. Ray gathered his energy for the next day.

  He had asked Giustina to buy a Gazzettino, and it arrived on his breakfast tray. Since he had braced himself, Ray was not too surprised—yet surprised with the solid impact of having anticipation confirmed—to see Coleman’s straightforward passport photograph on the front page. Edward Venner Coleman, fifty-two, American painter and resident of Rome, was reported missing since the evening of 23 November. His friend Mme Inez Schneider, forty-eight, of Paris, staying at the Gritti Palace Hotel, had notified the police at noon on 24 November, when Coleman had not returned to the hotel the preceding evening. The paper added that Coleman was the father-in-law of Rayburn Cook Garrett, twenty-seven, who had been missing since 11 November. If anyone had seen Coleman on the evening of 23 November after 9.30 p.m. or since, would he please inform the police.

  Ray had a brief sense of alarm: Coleman could be dead. But he didn’t believe Coleman was dead, or that he had blacked out and pushed Coleman into a canal. Coleman was probably hiding out, turning the tables on him, in a way. Ray realized he would be answerable when he spoke to the police. He would have to tell them about the fight.

  Ray got out of bed and shaved with the hot water Giustina had brought in a jug on his tray. He put on a fresh shirt. It was still only a quarter to nine. He felt much stronger than he had been yesterday, but he descended the stairs slowly instead of running as he wished to do. He met Giustina.

  “I am going out for perhaps half an hour,” Ray said. “Thank you for the good breakfast, Giustina.”

  “Un mezz’ ora,” she repeated.

  “Si. O forse un ora. Arrivederla.”

  Ray prudently slowed his steps on the fondamento, and made his way to the same bar-caffé at which he had started th
e telephone call to the police yesterday. Again he looked up the six-digit number which he had forgotten. The same voice answered.

  “May I speak to someone in regard to the Rayburn Garrett—history,” Ray began.

  “Si, Signor. Cui parla, per favore?”

  “Rayburn Garrett is speaking,” Ray said.

  “Ah, Signor Garrett! Benissimo. Wait one moment. We are very pleased to hear from you, sir.”

  Ray waited.

  He was asked by another voice if he could come as soon as possible to the station at Piazzale Roma. Ray said he would.

  16

  Ray braced himself, during the boat ride to the Piazzale Roma, to tell his not very proud story. His only consolation, a rotten one perhaps, was that many other men before him had had a worse story to tell—a confession of murder or theft, for instance—and that he was going to leave out Coleman’s two attempts on his life, thereby putting himself in a category that might be called ‘noble’ with a stretch of the imagination. At any rate, he was not in a mood to hang his head. He thought a better word than noble might be simply charitable or generous.

  With bandage tidy and bloodless, head up, then, Ray walked through the doorway of the questura at Piazzale Roma, which he had found after making only one inquiry. He gave his name to a clerk, and was shown farther into the building and presented to a Capitano Dell’ Isola.

  “Signor Garrett! And what has happened to you?” Dell’ Isola—a short, intelligent-looking man—opened his eyes wide.

  Ray realized that he referred to the bandage. “I had an encounter. The evening before last. An encounter with Signor Coleman.”

  “We must take this down.” The Capitano gestured to a clerk.

  Pen and paper were produced. The clerk sat at the side of Dell’ Isola’s desk.

  “We must cable your parents at once. You have no objection, I trust, Signor Garrett?”

  “No,” Ray said.

  “And we shall also inform the private investigator, Signor Zordzi—Zord-yi. We were unable to reach him after you telephoned, but we have left a message at his hotel that you are here, and I hope he will come at once. You should stay to speak with him. Allora.” The Capitano stood behind his desk, hands behind his hips, smiling at Ray. “Where have you been for the past—” he referred to a paper on his desk—“fourteen days?”

  “I have been in Venice. I stayed in rooms that I rented. I am sorry for the trouble I have caused, but—I was full of grief and I wanted to disappear for a while.”

  “You certainly did that. Now tell me—about the encounter the evening before last. November twenty-third. First, where did it take place?”

  “In a street near the Ponte di Rialto. I was aware that Signor Coleman was following me. I tried to run from him. This was about ten-thirty at night. I was suddenly in a street with no exit. Signor Coleman had a stone in his hand. He hit me in the side of the head. But I also hit him. I think he must have been unconscious when I left him.”

  “And do you know exactly what street this was?” asked Dell’ Isola, glancing at the clerk to see if it was being taken down.

  “No, I don’t. It was beside a canal. I could perhaps find it again. The Ponte di Rialto vaporetto was about a hundred and fifty metres distant.”

  “With what did you say you hit Signor Col-e-man?”

  “I threw the stone at him. The same stone. I had pushed him down to the ground, I think. I was—almost not conscious myself.”

  “You know that Signor Col-e-man is missing?”

  “Yes, I read that this morning.”

  “In what condition was he when you left him?”

  Ray glanced at the clerk, who was looking at him now. “He was lying on the ground. On his back.”

  “No one saw you?” asked the Capitano.

  “No. It happened very quickly. It was beside a small canal, a narrow—” Ray suddenly could not think of the word for walk or pavement. He passed his hand quickly across his forehead, and encountered the bandage. “I do not think anyone saw us.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” said the Capitano.

  A tall American in a brown topcoat came in. He smiled in an astonishing way at Ray. “Good morning. Good morning,” he repeated to Dell’ Isola. “Mr Garrett?”

  “Yes,” Ray said.

  “My name is Sam Zordyi. Your parents sent me to find you. Well—where have you been? In a hospital?”

  “No. This happened night before last. As I was saying to the Capitano,” Ray began, embarrassed at having to repeat the story, “I’ve been staying in a rented room. I wanted to be alone for a while, and—Tuesday night I ran into Coleman and had a fight with him.” Ray noticed that the Capitano was listening attentively, and perhaps he understood English.

  Dell’ Isola spoke to Zordyi in Italian, offering him a chair. Zordyi sat down and looked at Ray in a puzzled, speculative way. Zordyi had large blue eyes. He looked powerful and energetic.

  “I better cable your parents right away,” Zordyi said. “Or have you done that?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Ray answered.

  “Or you, sir?” he asked Dell’ Isola. Then in Italian, “Have you told his parents—he has appeared?”

  “No, signor,” Dell’ Isola took a deep breath and said, “I am wondering—Signor Garrett says he was almost unconscious from the blow that Signor Col-e-man struck him on the head. He remembers that Signor Col-e-man was lying on the ground, perhaps unconscious also. I am wondering if Signor Garrett—in his anger which I understand, since Signor Col-e-man attacked him first—if he could have done him more damage than he thinks?” Dell’ Isola looked at Ray.

  “I hit him once with the stone. In the neck, I think.” Ray shrugged nervously, and felt he looked guilty. “Before that, he simply fell to the ground because I pulled his legs. Unless he fractured his skull when he fell to the ground—”

  “Just what happened?” Zordyi asked Ray.

  Ray told him in English about Coleman following him, about the stone in his hand—he made an oval with his fingers to show its size, the size of a large avocado—and about his getting the worst of it at first, but coming back at Coleman and leaving him on the ground.

  “Where was this?” asked Zordyi.

  Ray again explained as best he could.

  Zordyi was frowning. “Was this the first time you’d seen Coleman? In the past two weeks?” He said to Dell’ Isola in stiff but correct Italian, “I hope that you can follow what we are saying, Signor Capitano.”

  “Sissi,” said Dell’ Isola.

  Ray foresaw a pit that would grow deeper and deeper before him. He said cautiously, “I saw him once in a restaurant. I don’t think he saw me.”

  “Were you avoiding him? Well, obviously. Why?”

  “I was avoiding everyone, I’m afraid.”

  “But,” Zordyi continued, “when you arrived in Venice, you saw Coleman. Mme Schneider—I just spoke with her—said you saw Coleman a couple of times. What happened then?”

  Ray hesitated, was about to say they had discussed Peggy, when Zordyi said:

  “What happened the night Coleman brought you back from the Lido? On the motor-boat?”

  “Nothing, we—talked a little. He dropped me on the Zattere quay. I was depressed that night, so I just kept walking around. I slept in a small hotel, and the next day looked for a room to rent for a few days. I hadn’t my passport with me.”

  “Where was this room?” Dell’ Isola asked in Italian.

  “Is it important?” Ray asked. “I don’t want to get innocent people into trouble. The income tax—”

  A smile from Dell’ Isola. “All right. We shall return to that later.”

  “Did you quarrel with Coleman that night on the Lido?” Zordyi asked.

  “No.” Ray realized it was not making sense. “I only failed to make him understand why—why his daughter killed herself. Maybe because I don’t understand either.”

  “Coleman blamed you for it—did he?” Zord
yi asked.

  Ray doubted if Inez had told Zordyi that, but perhaps Zordyi assumed it, or had picked it up from the Smith-Peters. “I don’t know if he so much blamed me as wanted to find out if I were to blame. I don’t know if he came to any conclusions.”

  “Was he angry?—When did he become angry?” Zordyi asked.

  “He couldn’t understand her death,” Ray said rather miserably. He felt tired, the tiredness of futility.

  “I’ve spoken to Coleman and a few other people about your wife. Everyone thinks she was a—an unworldly kind of girl. Unrealistic. I’m sure you felt awful about the suicide. That you suffered.”

  Did that matter? Ray could feel Zordyi prodding round in a circle, trying to find the soft spot in the centre that he would strike with a single question. “I suppose I felt stupid for not foreseeing the suicide.”

  “Did Coleman ever make any threats to you?” Zordyi asked briskly.

  “No.”

  “No statements like, ‘I’ll get back at you?’”

  “No.”

  Zordyi shifted his athletic bulk in the chair. “You came to Venice especially to see your father-in-law, didn’t you?”

  Ray was now on guard against Zordyi. Zordyi’s job, for his parents, was finished. Why all the questions? “I had some business here in Venice also in connection with an art gallery. But I wanted to see him again, yes.”

  “Why exactly?”

  “Because he didn’t seem satisfied with my explanations about his daughter’s suicide—such as they were.”

  “He was angry with you. Or he wouldn’t have attacked you in a street with a rock.” Zordyi smiled suddenly, a flash of healthy teeth.

  “He had angry moments. He adored his daughter.”

  “Not the night of the Lido? That went smoothly?”