Those Who Walk Away (18 page)

Stupidity! Coleman thought at once of the
Marianna II
, her varnished brown hull, and of the fact that they hadn’t used her after that night. Their four-day rental period had run out. “Well, I can’t help what they think, can I? What are they going to do about it?”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re going to do anything about it. Or rather, I don’t know,” she said quickly, shrugging in a nervous way.

She must know, Coleman thought. That was an important point. Coleman smoked a little, then started putting his pastels back in their wooden box. “Well, what did they say? Just said out of the blue they thought I killed him?”

“Oh, no, my goodness!” Her French accent was stronger now, which Coleman knew meant she was under a strain. “They asked me if I thought you could have done him harm, and then they said they thought you might have. They saw so well, you know, that you hate him.”

“And what if I do?”

“Hate him?”

“Yes.”

Inez hesitated. “But did you kill him?”

“And what if I did?” Coleman asked in a quieter tone.

“Did you, Edward?”

Coleman walked across the room with his empty glass, walked on springy feet, and turned towards her. “Yes, I did. But who’s going to prove it, and who’s going to do anything about it?” He felt he had thrown down a gauntlet—and yet, unfortunately, his adversaries did not seem important or even aroused enough to make the contest very exciting.

“You did, really, Edward? You are not joking with me?” she asked almost in a whisper.

“I am not joking. I pushed him off the boat. The motor-boat. After fighting with him. He wasn’t unconscious, but he probably drowned. We were a long way from land.” He said it bitterly, but defiantly, and without regret. He said it with all the power of wishing it were true. And Inez believed him, he saw that, too. He said more calmly, “You probably want to tell the police. Go ahead. You probably want to leave—leave me now, too.” He gestured with both arms. “Go ahead and tell the Smith-Peters, too. Get on the telephone now and tell them.”

“Oh, Edward, as if I would say a thing like that over the telephone!” Inez said in a shuddering voice. “As if I would tell them at all!” Now she was shrill with tears. She bit her underlip, then said, “You did.”

Coleman slowly poured himself another drink, one not too big.

“The body will surely be washed up. It will surely be found,” Inez said.

“Yes. Surely,” Coleman said from the bathroom.

“Why do you stay in Venice then? It’s not very safe.”

Coleman was pleased at her concern, evident in the words and the tone. “If they want to attach it to me, they’ll do so, whether I’m in Venice or New York or Rome.” He walked back into his bedroom, stood with his feet apart, looking down at Inez who still sat in her erect, side-saddle position on his bed. “I am not worried,” Coleman said flatly, and walked towards his dark window. He turned around and said, “I detested him, yes. He caused the death of my daughter. And I consider him—considered him utterly worthless. There are people and people. Souls! Souls, they say. Some souls are worth more than others. And my daughter’s was worth a million like his. I wouldn’t even compare them, wouldn’t even assume they’re made of the same stuff. Do you see what I mean? I took justice in my own hands; yes, and if I pay for it, I pay for it. So what?” Coleman set down his untouched drink on the night-table. He took a cigar from his case and lit it, his lips loose around it as he held it between his teeth.

Inez was still watching him.

“I don’t know if you understand what I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter if you do or not. That’s the way it is.”

“I understand what you are talking about,” Inez said.

“And I don’t expect your approval,” he added.

“It’s as if you stay here—just defying his body to wash up somewhere.”

“Maybe,” said Coleman. He was looking into space.

There was a yell and a splash from beyond the window, beyond the hotel’s terrace, but the splashing sound had not been a large one, and the yell might have been one of surprise, maybe even a laugh. Only Inez had jumped at it slightly. In the distance, a large ship sounded its deep horn, which vibrated like an organ note in the wet air. Coleman thought of the water that surrounded them, the deep water into which the whole city might one day slide.

When he looked at Inez again, she had a different expression, as if her thoughts were far away, though she still looked at him. She looked, Coleman thought, content. He frowned, trying to assess this. Was it relief? He waited for her to say the next words, strolled over to the ashtray and rolled his cigar in it. Was she going to say she was leaving tomorrow? Or stay and stand by him?

He walked once more to the window, cigar between his teeth, and rested his hands on the sill. He looked out into foggy, yellowish lights on the canal, at the inevitable vaporetto passing, windows all tight shut against the weather. “I thought tomorrow,” he said, “I’d take a boat—maybe hire one and go over Chioggia way. Just to take a look again. Maybe you can see the Smith-Peters, do something with them.” He did not want Inez on the Chioggia trip, because he wanted to rough it, pay a fisherman to take him out on his boat for the day, something like that. “I’ll be back late evening.”

“All right, Edward,” Inez said docilely.

Coleman went over and pressed her shoulders, bent and kissed her on the cheek. She did not resist him now. “Finish your drink and have another. You ought to have a hot bath, if you’ve been out in this weather all afternoon. Rest a little bit, and I’ll knock on your door about eight and we’ll think of a nice place for dinner. I’d like to see the things you bought for Charlotte, unless they’re all wrapped.”

“They’re not wrapped,” Inez said, getting up. She did not take another drink, but she went off to her room, to take a hot bath as he had suggested, Coleman was sure.

13

C
oleman spent his Sunday in Chioggia, arriving back in Venice at 11 p.m. to an hotel empty of Inez. She hadn’t checked out, but had left no message for him. Coleman didn’t care. He was tired, and he had bruised his knee, falling on it when he slipped in a fishing-boat around five o’clock. The knee was swelling. He did not feel like looking for Inez in the Monaco, or even in the hotel dining-room downstairs. He had a bath, and went to bed with a nightcap and a London Observer which he had bought at Piazzale Roma.

His telephone rang just before midnight.

“‘Allo, Edward,” Inez said. “Were you awake?”

“Yes. I got in a few minutes ago. You’re in your room?”

“Mm-m. I’ll come in to see you.”

“Very good.” Coleman put the telephone down.

Inez came in smiling, still in her short fur jacket and a hat. “You had a good day?”

“Great,” Coleman said. “Except I didn’t bring back any fish. And I banged my knee.”

Inez had to see his knee. She recommended a cold towel, and brought one from the bathroom, with a second towel to put under it so his bed would not become wet. She told him there had been a celebration at della Salute, the anniversary of the saving of Venice from the plague in the sixteen hundreds, for which occasion Santa Maria della Salute had been built. Coleman stared down imperturbably at his ugly, hairy leg, his knotty knee, now much bigger than normal, which Inez was tending so carefully with her slender, pink-nailed hands. His knee was grotesque, Coleman thought without amusement, without even concern for its swelling. It was like something drawn by Hieronymus Bosch.

“I suppose you saw those bores today,” Coleman said.

“Yes, and I saw Antonio, too. I have sent him on his way.” Inez gave the wet towel a final gentle pat, and pulled the sheet over it.

“And where is his way?”

“Positano now. He’s going tomorrow morning. I made the reservation for him on the plane to Naples.”

And no doubt paid for the ticket, Coleman thought, but he was glad Inez had taken the initiative and urged him off. Coleman felt Inez was protecting him. “You didn’t have a quarrel?”

“No, but he is nosy, you know. We ran into him around five o’clock. He stayed with us until seven and would have had dinner with us, but I just didn’t want him. He was asking all kinds of questions.”

“About Ray?”

“Yes. The Smith-Peters too thought he was a little rude. And silly—you know? I think he was nervous. But there is nothing to worry about from Laura and Francis.”

“How do you mean?” Coleman was only mildly interested, but still interested.

“They’re not going to say anything. No matter what they think. And they do think”—she nodded slowly, looking at his pillow—“that you pushed Ray off the boat.” She laughed nervously. “I think they are also shy about approaching the police with their bad Italian. It is really
affreux!
After a year they can barely order a coffee!”

He had nothing to say. People like the Smith-Peters would of course keep their mouths shut, probably would never say anything to their friends in Florence, either. He thought of Mrs Perry, but he did not want to bring her name up. Anyway, she might have left Venice by now. “So Antonio’s off tomorrow?”

“Yes, a noon plane.”

“What was he talking about this afternoon?”

He was asking questions. Where was Ray, what had we heard about him, all that. And somehow—he managed to ask if we did not think Signor Coleman could have—put him away somewhere, he said. He was speaking in English, because he was really asking Francis and Laura more than me. Trying to be funny. They didn’t think he was funny and neither did I.

Coleman was becoming sleepy. If Antonio went to Rome or Positano and talked, what did it matter? Another dramatic story, probably without foundation, from a young Italian of no consequence. Garrett was missing, yes, but that another American, his father-in-law, had killed him sounded like other dramatic stories Italians made up.

“But Edward—” Inez reached for his hand.

Coleman lifted his sagging lids.

“I did not admit a thing to Francis and Laura. I would not to anyone. To Antonio, I said he was mad to think such a thing. And so it is up to you now, if you want to do the right thing for yourself and me, to be perfectly natural with the Smith-Peters. Let them think what they wish, the proof of it is another matter. They may suspect, but they don’t know.”

“Thank you, my dear. But I hope not to see them again.”

Inez shook her head quickly. “If you avoid them, it will look strange. You can see that, Edward.”

Yes, he saw that. “Darling, I’m getting awfully sleepy.”

“Yes, I know. Let me attend to your knee once more. Then I will go.”

She wet the towel again and applied it, covered Coleman with sheet and blanket, blew him a kiss and turned out his light.

Coleman was asleep almost as soon as she shut his door.

The weather took a turn for the better the next day. There was sunshine once more, and it was consequently a trifle warmer, though restaurants with terraces did not put their chairs and tables out. In the afternoon, Coleman and Inez went as guests of the Smith-Peters to a mediocre string quartet recital in a chilly palazzo on the canal, and afterwards made for Florian’s and Irish coffee. Francis was treating everyone that afternoon.

Coleman was amused at their behaviour with him. They fairly bent over backwards to show their friendship, their loyalty, their solidarity. Not that a word was said about Ray. But their omission made their joviality more striking, reminding Coleman of the behaviour of some whites, determined to be liberal minded, with Negroes. Coleman remained pleasant and placid. The fact the Smith-Peters now believed he had killed Ray, however, made them a little less dull for Coleman.

“Have you decided yet how long you’re staying?” Francis asked Coleman.

“Another week, I dunno. I dunno if Inez said anything to her caretaker at the Ste Maxime house.”

“You’ll be going to the South of France?” asked Laura.

He had been indefinite about it before, Coleman remembered. He stated the truth. “I enjoy Inez’s company very much, but I’m longing to get back to my own place in Rome.”

And Coleman could see, in the glance the Smith-Peters exchanged, that they were thinking what a bold, reckless soul he was to linger on in a town, to announce where he might be next, when the body of a man he had killed might be washed up any day—even if on the coast of Yugoslavia. Francis seemed to be studying Coleman’s hands, listening to the tone of his voice, with respectful attention. Laura gazed at him as on someone unique, the like of which she might never see again in her lifetime. Inez, Coleman saw, was not as relaxed as usual, and was careful not to miss a word anyone said. But nothing, he thought, from Inez’s point of view could be said to have gone wrong that afternoon.

The Smith-Peters were hoping to leave on Friday for Florence. The workmen in their house had at last got the right-sized pipes for the upstairs bath, they thought.

When Coleman and Inez got back to their hotel, there was a message for Coleman. A Mr Zordyi had called at 4 p.m. and would call again. Coleman did not like the look of the name; there was an ominous sound about it.

“He was here twice,” the man at the desk told Coleman. “He will call in again.”

“Oh, he came here?” Coleman asked.

“Yes, sir. Oh, here he is, sir.”

A big man with light brown hair walked towards Coleman smiling slightly. An American plain clothes man, Coleman thought.

“Mr Coleman?” he said. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

“My name is Sam Zordyi. I’m here on behalf of Mr Thomas Garrett of St Louis. Mulholland Investigation Bureau.” He glanced with a smile at Inez, too.

“How do you do?” said Coleman. “This is Mme Schneider.”

“How do you do?” said Inez.

Zordyi bowed slightly to her. “Could I speak to you for a few minutes, Mr Coleman—or is now not convenient for you?”

“Now’s perfectly all right,” Coleman said. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, dear,” he said to Inez. “Got your key?”

Inez had. She went off towards the elevators.

Zordyi watched her as she moved away.

“Shall we sit somewhere in the lobby?” Coleman asked, gesturing towards a quiet corner where two arm-chairs stood with a small table between them.