Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page B

money couldn’t make Peggy happy. She’s always had money,” Coleman said tersely.
    And Ray knew he had said the wrong thing, used the wrong comparison, because Coleman resented his having money, though he would never have let his daughter marry anyone who hadn’t it. “Of course it wasn’t merely money. I’m trying to describe the atmosphere. I tried many times to talk to Peggy. I wanted us to move to Paris for a while, take an apartment there. That would’ve been a step towards reality. The climate’s worse, there’s noise and people and—and there’s a calendar and a clock to watch in Paris.”
    “What’s all this nonsense about reality?” Coleman demanded, puffing on the cigar between his teeth. His eyes were a little bloodshot now.
    Ray realized it was hopeless, as Inez had told him. And during his silence, Ray saw Coleman’s anger harden again, as he had seen it do in Mallorca. Coleman sat back in his chair with an air of finality, of dignity in his bereavement. Peggy had been the reason for his existence, his only true source of pride, Peggy whom he had begotten and raised single-handed—or at least since she had been four or five—a paragon of beauty, grace and good manners. Ray could see all this going through Coleman’s mind, and no explanation, apology, atonement from him would ever change it. Ray realized now that he could never do it on paper, either, Coleman’s eyes as well as his ears were closed.
    “I am utterly sick of discussing it,” Coleman said, “so let’s take off.” He looked swimmingly, absently about as if for a waiter. “And let bygones be bygones,” he mumbled.
    That was not a phrase of reconciliation, as Coleman said it, and Ray did not take it as such. He got his trench-coat and followed Coleman out. Neither had tried to do anything about paying for the last brandy. Ray fumbled in the left pocket of his trench-coat, checking to see if he had his lighter. He pulled out his Seguso key, which he thought he had left at the desk, and with it came the folded scarf. He pushed the scarf back with the key, but Coleman had seen the scarf.
    “What’s that?” Coleman asked.
    They were walking into the lobby.
    “My hotel key.”
    “The scarf. The handkerchief.”
    Ray’s hand was in his pocket, and he pulled it out again, with the scarf. “A scarf.”
    “That’s Peggy’s. I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.”
    Coleman’s voice was audible to the man behind the Excelsior’s desk and to the young bellhop by the door. Coleman’s hand was out. Ray hesitated an instant—he had a right to the scarf—then rather than have an argument, he gave the scarf to Coleman. “Take it.”
    Coleman let the scarf drop from a corner, as they went through the hotel’s doors, looked at it, and said, “Just like Peggy. Thank you.” On the pavement, he said, “After all, you gave away her clothes in Mallorca.” He pushed the scarf into his overcoat pocket.
    “I didn’t think you wanted any,” Ray replied. “After all, you took all her work—her paintings and drawings.” He was sorry that his bitterness was audible. But the scarf was phoney, in a way, and this gave him a rather nasty satisfaction.
    Their steps crunched again on the gritty road with the rhythm of the night in Rome, three nights ago. Ray was watchful for a sudden move from Coleman, a draw of the gun, perhaps—Coleman thought his life worthless—so he walked some two feet to one side of Coleman. Coleman wanted him to know he considered his life worthless, Ray realized. It was part of Coleman’s punishing him. They passed only two people, two men walking separately, in the walk across the island.
    “I don’t have to go back with you,” Ray said. “I’m sure there’s a vaporetto.”
    Coleman seemed to shrug slowly. Then he said, “No trouble. Same direction. Here it is. The ‘ Marianna number two.’” He walked towards a group of three motor-boats, moored against the dock which turned at right angles