Small g

by Patricia Highsmith

  The woman had a point, Rickie supposed. “I would like to ask Willi—if he knows anything about a piece of metal—” Rickie turned to Willi and continued. “About this long, Willi? A little rusted, painted yellow? Did you use it to hit Teddie?”

  Willi visibly tried to collect himself, shifted, smiled a little, looked at Frau Wenger and back to Rickie. “Di’n’ even see him.”

  “By his big car, Willi. Under the trees? Young man in a light blue jacket—remember? Feldenstrasse.” Rickie gestured. That street wasn’t far from here.

  “I was—was in Jakob’s last night.” Willi stuck his thumbs in the top of his cotton trousers, hitched them up on his flat waist.

  “So was I. I saw you leave a few minutes after midnight. Out the main door, Willi. Front door.”

  “Herr Markwalder, you are putting ideas in his head,” Frau Wenger murmured, as if to keep her words out of the hearing of a child. “You can see, officer—Willi is not the most—able type, but he has his rights. He shouldn’t have it suggested to him that he did something he didn’t do, if you understand me.” She looked sharply at Freddie.

  “I do, Madame,” said Officer Schimmelmann. “We’ll be asking a few other people the very same questions, though. Jogging their memories. It’s the usual procedure.” Freddie had pulled out his pad, and he continued to take notes.

  The doorbell rang, and Frau Wenger lifted her hands and let them drop at her sides, as if the evening were already too much for her. “I suppose—” She looked at her husband with a doubtful expression.

  “I’ll get it, Therese,” said the mild-mannered Herr Wenger, and went to the buzzer in the front hall.

  Murmurs at the apartment door, then to Rickie’s surprise Renate entered, a nervous cloud of rose, pink, and blue in a long, full-skirted dress. “Therese, I—” She saw Rickie, glanced at Herr Wenger, and again at Willi Biber, who stood as if frozen. “I see you have visitors tonight!”

  “Ah yes, and last night too,” said Therese Wenger. “As I told you, Willi’s doors are broken.”

  “This is fortunate, Officer Schimmelmann,” Rickie said. “You can meet one of my neighbors, Frau Hagnauer. Madame—Officer Schimmelmann of the police force. We came to see Willi.”

  Freddie nodded to Renate, and displayed his open wallet once more.

  Renate looked at it, long enough to compare the photograph with the man before her. “So—came to see Willi. And I hope Frau Wenger’s doors too. Herr Markwalder and a friend were doing some celebrating last night, it seems.” She addressed Freddie. “Kicking people’s doors in. Drunken vandalism!”

  “Oh well, Renate,” said Herr Wenger, “I told you Herr Markwalder will pay for the repairs.”

  “Gladly,” Rickie put in. “We came to ask Willi a question—Madame,” he said to Renate. “Does he know anything about a young man being injured last night—or this morning about half-past midnight. Feldenstrasse. Teddie Stevenson. Hit in the back.” Rickie watched Renate turn her lavender-mascaraed eyes to Willi.

  “And what did you say, Willi?” Renate asked him.

  Willi shook his head slowly. “Never seen him—this boy. What boy? No.” The head kept shaking, no.

  Renate began a slow nod of approval, and checked herself. “You should look elsewhere—among your own rather odd acquaintances, Herr Markwalder—and let other people and their property alone. Otherwise you’ll simply get yourself into trouble.” Renate felt better now, on the attack. Not too much, just enough, she told herself: keep the enemy off balance. “Officer—Herr Markwalder—one would think he is a law unto himself. Couldn’t wait for Willi to open his door, it seems, so he broke in!”

  Rickie glanced behind him at the two open windows, where thin curtains stirred not at all, and dragged his palm across his wet forehead. “Maybe you have heard of Peter Ritter, Willi—or you remember him? A young man—stabbed? He died seven—eight months ago.”

  Willi continued to look blank, no blanker than before, but no less. He shifted slightly.

  “Why do you try to put ideas into his head?” Renate asked with impatience. “These names?”

  “Just what I said a few minutes ago.” Frau Wenger drew herself up and went on. “People can give Willi the idea he’s done something wrong—or accuse him when he hasn’t.”

  Rickie sensed an opportunity. “Yes. Maybe you know, Frau Wenger, that some people believe my friend Peter Ritter was stabbed in my apartment? That’s the story Willi tells, in spite of the newspapers stating that he was found stabbed in a street in Zurich.” Rickie glanced at the Wengers and at Willi.

  Renate, head high, turned her attention to the Wengers, whose male half listened with a frowning attention. “You see? Some kind of fantasy here, Karl. Willi talking about a stabbing?” She put on an amused smile. Rickie’s balcony door had been unrepaired then, for months on end (Willi himself had noticed that the french windows didn’t close). Renate knew she had taken a small risk, telling Willi such a story, but he had so swallowed it! That had given her satisfaction, plus the pleasure of taking Rickie down a few pegs—hoodlums in his apartment! The story would get around, Renate had thought, and it had—just enough. Renate laughed with feigned gaiety, and her thin cheeks creased for an instant. “Can you imagine?”

  “No,” said Herr Wenger, still frowning.

  “That,” said Rickie, “is my point too. Talk about putting ideas into Willi’s head! The French Foreign Legion—deeds of— Did you tell him that, Frau Hag—”

  “I was there!” Willi interrupted, waking up. “France! The Foreign Legion.” Willi Biber nodded, sure of himself. “Jawohl, mein Herr!” Willi might have been addressing a Legion superior.

  “Frau Wenger, does Willi talk to you about the Foreign Legion?” Rickie asked.

  “Once, yes—I think he did.”

  “And did you believe him—about being in it?”

  Therese Wenger looked at her carpet and smiled. “No, to be honest. But then I know how Willi is.”

  “What’s this got to do with Herr Markwalder attacking Willi in his home?” Renate asked.

  “Don’t you want to sit down, Renate?” asked Frau Wenger. “It’s ridiculous, all of us standing.”

  Renate Hagnauer might not have heard. She glanced at Willi, who was staring most of the time at her, and maintaining his nearly catatonic position at the foot of the sofa. “Thank you, Therese. What Herr Markwalder is saying is fantasy—even libelous, I’d think. I’m pleased that an officer of the law is here tonight.” Renate turned and clumped toward the door; her skirt swirled, and a laced boot was briefly revealed to Rickie’s gaze. But she stayed.

  “Herr Markwalder,” said Karl Wenger, stepping forward, “I think tonight, the main thing is that a police officer has seen our damaged doors—I believe?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” said Officer Schimmelmann.

  “And Herr Markwalder agrees to pay for their repair. I don’t see that anything else much matters tonight—at least not to us.” His tone was polite.

  Rickie frowned. “I’m here, sir, to ask a question about Teddie Stevenson—early this morning.” He addressed Karl Wenger. “A nasty wound in his back. It happened two streets from here.”

  “But why do you think Willi did it?” asked Frau Wenger.

  Because he’s been told by Renate Hagnauer to hate Teddie, Rickie wanted to say, but would these people believe it? Rickie had the feeling that he had a wonderful argument in hand, all on his side, and that he was not presenting it properly. “May I say, Willi is influenced by what Frau Hagnauer tells him, and I know that Frau Hagnauer disliked Petey Ritter and now dislikes Teddie Ste—”

  “Nonsense!” Renate interrupted. “Teenaged boyfriends of Luisa! Why should I waste time disliking them?”

  “You can make Willi dislike them,” Rickie asserted.

  Here Karl Wenger shook his he
ad, as if to say Rickie’s argument was personal and hopelessly thin.

  “Officer, why do you bother writing things that aren’t facts?” asked Renate.

  “My work, Madame. May I have your address, please, Madame?”

  “Yes, why not? Since it’s easily found in the phone book too.” Renate gave him her address, and cast a smiling supportive glance at Therese Wenger.

  “Herr Markwalder,” said Therese Wenger, “my husband and I believe in tolerance. Live and let live. If you look closely—”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, Madame,” Rickie interrupted. “I was talking about Frau Hagnauer. Her attitude.”

  “Attitude? You’re giving me attitudes now!” A toss of the head, a clump closer to the door, followed by Herr Wenger who may have intended to open the door for her, but again she turned. “I would like to say, Officer—”

  “Schimmelmann.”

  “Schimmelmann, that you can’t entirely trust what Willi may say. He is somewhat handicapped—as you see.” Her last words were soft and gentle, as if to spare the weak.

  “Yes, Madame, I realize.”

  Now Renate departed. In the silence that followed the door closing, Rickie took a deep breath.

  “Frau Wenger—Thank you for giving us so much of your time tonight.”

  Rickie and Freddie were at the hall door, when Frau Wenger said, “May I ask, Herr Markwalder, just where you heard this story—that your friend was stabbed in your apartment? Your friend called Peter?”

  Rickie was aware that her voice was loud enough for Willi to have heard. “In Jakob’s. I think from a stranger—who asked me had the killer been caught. Willi, you know that story, someone came into my apartment when the balcony door lock was broken.”

  “Yes,” said Willi, calm as ever.

  “And the story is,” Rickie went on, “a friend or ex-friend of mine killed Petey with a knife.” He felt breathless on the last word.

  “Yes,” Willi repeated.

  Rickie made a gesture to Frau Wenger, as if to say, “You see?” He cleared his throat. “Who told you that, Willi? Do you remember?”

  Here came the slow head-shaking.

  It was as if Renate had rehearsed him, Rickie thought, to shake his head whenever she was in danger of being mentioned. “A stranger, maybe, Willi?”

  After a pause, Willi nodded.

  Rickie gave a smile, rather to himself. “A stranger to me too, you see, Frau Wenger. It gets retold until—it’s like something in the air, a gas you can’t see, this balcony story. But Luisa had heard it—from Renate.” Rickie reached for the doorknob. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” said Freddie.

  Out in the slightly cooler air, they walked in the direction of Rickie’s apartment.

  Rickie glanced up on his right, and saw a light in what he thought was the Hagnauer floor. “That’s where she lives.”

  “Who?”

  “The old witch. Renate. Luisa too. I told you. It’s the seamstress factory.”

  Freddie made no comment. At Jakob’s corner, he said, “Look in?”

  “No, I’m dead.”

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  Freddie came in with Rickie, and asked to use the toilet. When he came out, he said, “Can I stay the night, Rickie?”

  Rickie had to muster the kind of strength he hated. “No. I’m sorry, Freddie. I’m whacked and—talking about Petey tonight—”

  “Just to go to sleep, I swear. My wife’s not going to phone here.”

  Rickie was not worried about Freddie’s wife. “I really want to be by myself.”

  Somehow they embraced. In the next seconds, they were holding each other tight, and Rickie felt a wave of gratitude, of strength, wash over him as if from Freddie’s hard, smaller body. Freddie had been a friend tonight. Rickie recalled with shame that he had brushed Freddie off as to a date on Saturday night last, because Teddie was going to be at Jakob’s, because Rickie might have met a more handsome stranger.

  “G’night, Rickie. Call me anytime.” Freddie went out.

  18

  The telephone woke Rickie just before eight the next morning.

  Luisa’s voice said, “Rickie, sorry to phone so early. I’m in the booth at L’Eclair—out buying groceries. I spoke with Teddie last night when Renate was out.”

  “Yes?”

  “His mother doesn’t want him to come to Aussersihl anymore, for one thing.”

  “I could have predicted that. Frau Stevenson talked with the police?”

  “Yes! She got the police to come to the house and look at that piece of metal. She gave them the address of the house where I found it. It seems nobody’s living there now, or they’re away. The police wanted to ask about people hanging around.”

  Rickie frowned. “Do you know what the police intend to do now?”

  “No, I don’t. Teddie said he’d tell you any news. Rickie, I’d better go now.” The line went dead.

  So Teddie couldn’t come to the neighborhood anymore; at least not with his mother’s car, Rickie was sure, maybe even without. Yet love would find a way, it always did.

  Rickie went back to bed, intending to sleep for an hour. Lulu leapt up and joined him with a lick of her pink tongue at the empty air, then she lay down on the top sheet and closed her eyes. On the bottom sheet was a dark red circle of Teddie’s blood, the size of a five-franc piece.

  The telephone awakened him.

  “Dorrie Wyss,” the voice said, and Rickie at once saw the jester in red vest, with her short blonde hair. “Tried to get you last night. Now how is our dear boy?”

  Rickie was sure she didn’t mean him. “Doing well. He’s home now, in Mum’s care.” Dorrie had been at Jakob’s late enough to see Teddie on the back terrace after he’d been hurt, Rickie recalled.

  “And Luisa?”

  “She reports this morning that Teddie’s mother doesn’t want him coming to this neighborhood again.”

  “I can understand. Rickie, I had an idea. Can’t we visit Teddie? You and I, Luisa, bring him some flowers? What’s his number? I’ll phone. I’d imagine you can’t—or maybe shouldn’t.” She gave a laugh. “I’ve got a BMW hatchback, you know. I could swoop by anytime after five today—take us all in my car.”

  They planned. Rickie would reach Luisa somehow. Dorrie could park at or near the Small g. Dorrie would ask Frau Stevenson if they could pay Teddie a visit around six. Rickie took Dorrie’s work number, and made sure she had his studio number.

  Rickie closed shop before five that afternoon, in order to go home and change. He showered and put on black cotton trousers, and chose his yellow jacket, which was still clean. A white shirt—no tie but a good silk scarf at his neck.

  “Farewell, Lulu, I’ll be back before eight anyway.” On second thoughts, why not take her? She could stay in Dorrie’s car while they visited Teddie. Lulu didn’t mind that.

  Dorrie Wyss’s shiny black van was parked near Jakob’s when Rickie approached, which was five twenty-five. And here came Luisa, crossing the street, smiling on sight of him.

  “What’s up?” asked Luisa.

  “We’re going to see Teddie! All three of us,” said Rickie. “Didn’t Dorrie tell you?”

  Luisa looked startled. “My fault. I had to hang up so fast.”

  “We’re going to Teddie’s house. Dorrie’s idea,” said Rickie. “Hello, Dorrie, angel! Now let’s escape while we can!” Renate might appear at any instant, he was thinking.

  They were off, Lulu beside Rickie in the seat behind Dorrie, Luisa in front with Dorrie, heading toward the town’s center.

  “The address, Rickie!” said Dorrie. “Do you know how to get there?”

  Rickie had consulted a city map in his studio, and was able to instruct Dorrie.

 
It was a large beige apartment house some ten stories high, with a few trees in front. They had to park a street away, and Rickie made sure the car was locked, that Lulu had enough air. The car was out of the sun, anyway. They had stopped at a florist’s shop, and Rickie had bought two bouquets, one for him, one for Luisa to give.

  “Swank,” said Dorrie, on entering the glass-doored lobby. Up they went to the ninth floor, exactly on time.

  The door of apartment 9B opened as they stepped out of the lift. Teddie stood there, in blue jeans and a white T-shirt and sandals.

  “Welcome, honored guests, come in! Hey, I’m not dead yet!” Teddie said, on Rickie’s thrusting flowers toward him.

  Frau Stevenson stood in the living room, smiling a greeting. The apartment was air-conditioned with wide windows, a baby grand piano in one corner, and one wall of books.

  “Dorrie Wyss,” Rickie said, “Frau Stevenson.”

  “A pleasure,” both said.

  Dorrie was looking quite chic, Rickie thought, with small green earrings, a good shirt, and narrow black slacks.

  “May I, Frau Stevenson,” said Luisa, presenting her bouquet to Teddie’s mother.

  “Oh, thank you, Luisa! Excuse me, I’ll get a vase or two.”

  “I’ll get ’em, Mum,” said Teddie, looking eager to debarrass himself of the flowers.

  “Teddie, don’t leap about like that! You promised.” This from a frowning mother.

  “I wasn’t leaping, Mum. Please sit—all of you—anywhere,” Teddie said with an effort at calm. “I’ll give my mother a hand. Excuse me.”

  Rickie saw a bulge of bandage under the T-shirt, as Teddie left the room. “If the ladies don’t sit—”

  The ladies smiled. They were looking the room over.

  “Then I’ll sit.”

  “I’ll beat you!” said Dorrie, darting for an easy chair, landing before Rickie touched the brown leather sofa.

  The flowers returned in vases, followed by iced tea and lemon cake.

  Frau Stevenson asked what kind of work Dorrie Wyss did. She called her Dorrie.