The Cry of the Owl by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page A

giving lavish parties for reviewers and gallery owners. Nickie had a small income from her family and with that, plus Robert’s salary, she could afford rather fancy parties. But every gallery manager, it seemed, had told her to try showing on Tenth Street and then work up, and at last Nickie had accepted the fact that she had to do this. And it was difficult enough even to show on Tenth Street. During the two years and six or seven months they had been married, Nickie had had perhaps three shows and they had been in Tenth Street group shows. Reviews were few.
    Robert went to his closet and felt for the wax paper of cookies in his overcoat pocket. There they were, tangible, even edible. He smiled. There were nice people in the world after all, kind people, friendly people, maybe even married people who didn’t quarrel like mortal enemies when they quarreled. Robert blamed himself fortaking his and Nickie’s breakup overly hard just because it had been theirs, his pain too hard just because it was his. One had to see things in proportion. That was what made the difference between a sane person and an unbalanced one. Remember that, he told himself.
    He nibbled a cookie and thought of Christmas. Jack Nielson had invited him to spend Christmas with him and Betty, and Robert thought he would accept. He would buy a lot of toys for their little girl. It seemed better than going all the way to Chicago to see his mother and her husband, Phil, and if he went, he’d certainly have to tell them something about the breakup with Nickie, even though his mother wasn’t the kind to ask a lot of questions. Robert’s stepfather had two daughters by his first marriage, and they had children, so the house would be full on Christmas, anyway. The Nielsons’ invitation was also more attractive than the two or three he had received from friends in New York, because the people in New York were friends of Nickie’s, too.

4
    “Hello,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”
    “Who’s this?”
    “This is Jenny Thierolf,” said the slow, smiling voice. “I just thought I’d call and say hello and see how you are. Did you have a nice Christmas?”
    “Very nice, thanks. I hope you did.”
    “Oh, sure. My parents and Greg’s. It was very homey.”
    “Well—that’s the way Christmas should be. Were you snowbound?”
    “Was I? I am now. Where are
you
?”
    He laughed. “In a town. I suppose things are easier.”
    “I’m getting plowed out tomorrow morning. Eight dollars a whack. It’s my third whack. What a winter! The only good thing is my phone wires didn’t come down, but my electricity did one night.”
    Silence. He couldn’t think of anything to say. His mind dwelt for a couple of seconds on the fact he hadn’t sent her flowers at Christmas, that he’d had an impulse to and checked it. He’d sent her nothing.
    “You don’t sound depressed anymore,” she said.
    “Things are better.”
    “I thought one night this week you might like to come for dinner. How is Wednesday for you?”
    “Thank you, but—why can’t I invite you? Don’t you like to go out?”
    “I love to go out.”
    “There’re two good restaurants near here. Do you know the Jasserine Chains at Cromwell?”
    “The Jasserine Chains?”
    “It’s the name of an inn. With a restaurant. I’ve heard it’s very good. Shall we meet there?”
    “All right.”
    “At seven?”
    “Seven’s fine,” she said.
    Her call put him in a good mood for several minutes, until a thought came to him: She would come with Greg, and Greg would report him to the police. Then the idea vanished. The girl simply wasn’t that type, wasn’t that calculating, he felt sure. It pleased Robert that without forethought he had proposed she meet him at the restaurant rather than for him to call for her. It made their appointment a little more casual.
    On Wednesday evening, sleet fell upon a ten-day-old snow, and made the roads icy and dangerous. Robert expected the girl to be