Those Who Walk Away (13 page)

Coleman had never thought he was violent, but perhaps he was, compared to most men. He wondered what had happened to the five or six fellows he used to go around with at engineering school? Maybe they were a little more violent than most men, too. Coleman had lost touch with all of them in the last fifteen years since he had become a painter. But when they were all about twenty, they had menaced an old watchman at school. Denis had hit him in the ribs once, Coleman remembered, and that was what had liberated them. The old watchman had guarded a certain back door of the dorm, and he sat inside or outside the door, depending on the weather. But Coleman’s group, if they wanted to get out and go on the town around midnight, did. They simply demanded that the door be unlocked. The old man opened it always. And he had never reported them to the dean for fear of another blow.

Then there was one occasion of near-violence, Coleman remembered, and smiled, then chuckled. A certain Quentin Doyle in Chicago, who had played around with Coleman’s wife Louise, trying to start an affair. Coleman simply acquired a pistol, and one evening casually showed it to Doyle. Doyle had let Louise strictly alone after that.

And it had been so easy, Coleman thought with amusement. He hadn’t fired the pistol, he had had a legal permit for it, and the mere showing of it had had such splendid effect.

Coleman opened a flat drawer in the wardrobe and took from below a stack of handkerchiefs (brand new, given him by Inez) the scarf of Peggy’s. He glanced at the door and listened, then opened the scarf and held it so the light made its colours their brightest. He imagined it round Peggy’s smooth, slender neck, and around her head when the wind blew in Mallorca. He saw her grace when she walked, heard even her voice, when he looked at the Florentine-Art-Nouveau design. The black in the scarf added drama, but suggested death to Coleman. Nevertheless, it was Peggy. He pressed it gently to his face, kissed it. But no scent was on it. Coleman had washed it once, Thursday night late after returning from the Lido, to remove Ray’s touch from it. He had hung it at the back of the wardrobe in his room, from a hook. It was not ironed, but at least it was clean. He folded the scarf quickly, his back to the door, and replaced it where it had been.

He might, of course, marry and have another child—a son or another daughter, it didn’t matter. Coleman admitted that he was as paternal as any mother was ever maternal. But a daughter, for instance, would never be another Peggy. And there simply wasn’t time any longer to watch her grow up. No, never, never would there be anything for him like Peggy.

From the floor of the wardrobe, Coleman got a bottle of Scotch. He did not permit himself a Scotch before 6 p.m., but now it was 6.05. He poured some in a bathroom tumbler and sipped it straight, enjoying its burn in his mouth. He stood again at the window.
And by God
, he swore to himself,
if that bastard is still alive and hanging around Venice, I’ll get him
. Ray Garrett was asking for it, that was the funny part.

His eyes were begging for it. Coleman rocked back on his slippered heels and laughed, and felt pleased and comforted by the richness of his own laughter.

Then he heard behind him the closing of a door, and stopped.

Inez had come in, and had put on the light. “What were you laughing at?”

“I was thinking—of another painting. With my aerial view. You weren’t very long with Antonio.”

“He had a date at seven.”

“Oh, with a girl? That’s nice.”

“No, two young men he met in Venice.”

More talking, Coleman supposed. Antonio would tell his friends about his American painter friend Edward Coleman and the woman Antonio would claim he shared with him, and the interesting disappearance of Ray Garrett. But they wouldn’t do anything about it, Coleman thought. It would be as remote from them as an item in the newspaper about people they didn’t know.

Inez had removed her blouse and skirt, put on her dressing-gown, and was washing her face at the bathroom basin.

Coleman could not understand her maternal tolerance for crumbs like Antonio—men she’d sleep with only two or three times, yet was so slow to get rid of. There’d been one hanging about when he’d first met Inez in Ascona a year ago. “I hope you didn’t give him any more money,” Coleman said.

“Edward, I gave him just a few thousand lire,” Inez said patiently, but in her tone Coleman heard her irritation with him, the start of resistance. “After all, he has no money and I did invite him on this trip.”

“It’s quite natural that if a person doesn’t work, he has no money. Just wondering how long it’s going to go on, that’s all.”

“Antonio said he was leaving in a few days. Meanwhile he is at a very cheap hotel.”

Coleman thought of saying that if Antonio met another rich woman, he’d move out of the cheap hotel and into her palazzo or whatever, and that would be the last Inez ever saw of him, but he decided not to say this.

Inez was putting lotion on her face. Coleman liked the smell of it. It reminded him of a bouquet of old-fashioned flowers. He went up behind her and put his arms around her, pulled her against his body. “You’re looking very ravishing today,” he said, and put his lips to her ear. “How about a nice little split of champagne?” That was Coleman’s phrase for going to bed. Sometimes Inez ordered a split of champagne, sometimes not.

A moment later, Coleman was stubbing out the cigar he had left in the ashtray in his room. It was a lovely time to go to bed, six-thirty in the evening, before dinner, and Inez’s little smile as she said, “Yes, let’s,” made Coleman feel very happy, cheerful, contented. Coleman removed his clothes in his own room. “Come into my room,” Coleman said.

Inez did.

9

D
uring the next two days, Coleman more than once—in fact, three times—felt that Ray’s eyes were on him. Once it was while crossing San Marco’s, though in that open space maybe anybody would have felt observed, if he suspected the presence, the observant presence, of someone like Ray Garrett. No place for an agoraphobe, San Marco’s Square. Another time was at lunch in the Graspo di Ua. Coleman had looked over both shoulders—if Ray had been there, he was behind him, because he was not among the people in front of Coleman—and Inez had noticed his looking. From then on, Coleman had been careful not to appear to be looking for Ray. If he were alive and in Venice, Coleman wondered what he was waiting for, or hiding for?

On another occasion, Coleman had felt while walking past a tobacconist’s, that Ray was inside, that Ray had seen him as he walked by. Coleman had turned and walked back and looked directly into the shop through the door. Ray had not been inside. Then there was what Inez had said about the head and shoulders of some man in the street resembling Ray. Coleman did not know what to make of his feelings, but he knew he was not inclined to imagine things that weren’t there. And Ray could, of course, be spying on the Bauer-Gruenwald. If Coleman had been alone, he would have moved, but he did not want to propose moving to Inez.

Meanwhile, Coleman waited for a new development because of the American Consulate’s notifying Ray’s parents. It was a wealthy family. They would do something.

On Thursday morning, 18 November, there was a telephone call in Inez’s room. It was from Mrs Perry of the Lido. Coleman, in his dressing-gown and sitting on Inez’s bed, had answered it.

“I wonder if you’ve seen this morning’s paper, Mr Coleman?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Your son-in-law—his picture’s in the
Gazzettino
. They say he’s missing. Missing since last Thursday night. That’s the night we had dinner.”

“Yes, I did know,” Coleman said, with a successful attempt at casualness. “That is, I knew just in the last couple of days. Not missing. I think he’s gone off on a trip somewhere.” Coleman put his hand over the telephone and said, “Mrs Perry.”

Inez was listening attentively, standing six feet away, her comb in her hand.

“I’d forgotten his name,” said Mrs Perry, “but I did recognize his face. I suppose you’ve spoken to the police?”

“No. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

A knock on the door. Inez let the breakfast tray in.

“I think maybe you should,” Mrs Perry said, “because the police want to know the last people who saw him. You went back with him that evening, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I dropped him on Zattere by his pensione.”

“I’m sure the police would want to know that. I could say I saw him that evening, until just after midnight, but you saw him after I did. I haven’t rung Laura and Francis yet, but I thought I would. Is he apt to go off on a trip, just like that?”

“Oh, I think so. He’s a free agent. Used to travelling.”

“But he left his passport, the paper said. I couldn’t translate all of it, but I got the manager to help me. I just happened to see the newspaper on someone else’s breakfast tray in the hall. He seems to come from a nice family in the States. They’ve been notified. So you see, it doesn’t sound like just a trip.”

Coleman wanted to hang up. “I’ll get a paper and sec what I can do, Mrs Perry.”

“And do keep in touch, would you? I’m very interested. I thought he was such a nice young man.”

Coleman promised that he would.

“What’s in the paper?” Inez asked.

“Let’s have some coffee, dear.” Coleman gestured to the tray on the writing-table.

“Have they found out something?”

“No.”

“Then what is in the paper? What paper? We’ll get it.”

“The
Gazzettino
, she said.” Coleman shrugged. “It’s to be expected, if the Consulate was notified.”

“Nothing about where he is? In the paper?”

“No, just a report he’s missing. I wish I’d thought to order orange juice. Wouldn’t you like some?”

Inez brought Coleman his coffee, then picked up the telephone and ordered two orange juices and asked if she could have a
Gazzettino
.

The Smith-Peters would ring up next. Coleman thought. They had gone to the theatre with the Smith-Peters last evening, and Francis had asked him how Ray was. Coleman had said, before Inez could answer anything, that they hadn’t seen him lately. “He’s still in Venice?” Laura had asked. “I don’t know,” Coleman had replied. The Smith-Peters were leaving for Florence as soon as their central heating and plumbing was ready, but that was running into Italian delays, and they kept themselves informed by telephoning their housekeeper. It looked as if they would be here another week. Coleman wished they weren’t here.

“Perhaps you should speak to the police, Edward,” Inez said.

“Wait till I see the paper. I’ll speak with them if I have to.”

The paper and the orange juice arrived.

Ray Garrett’s picture, probably his passport picture, was one-column wide on the front page, and the item below it some two inches long. It stated that Rayburn Cook Garrett, 27, American, had not returned to his room at the Pension Seguso, 779 Zattere, since last Thursday evening, November nth. His passport and personal effects were still in his room. Would anyone who had seen him that evening or since come forward and speak to the police at their local police station? It went on to say that Garrett was the son of Thomas L. Garrett of so-and-so address, St Louis, Missouri, president of the Garrett-Salm Oil Company. The police or the American Consulate had perhaps spoken to Ray’s parents by telephone, Coleman, however, was as yet unworried.

“If he is in Venice, I should think they can find him—with this picture,” Inez said. “Where could he be staying without a passport?”

“Oh—if he’s here, maybe some private house where they take in roomers,” Coleman said. “Not every place asks for a passport.”

Inez poured their orange juice from two small cans. “Promise me you’ll speak to the police today, Edward.”

“What can I tell them?—I put him on the Zattere quay and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“Was he walking towards his pensione? Could you see?”

“Seemed to be. I didn’t stay to look.”

He could see that Inez would not rest until she got him to a police station. It crossed his mind to refuse, even if it meant making Inez angry with him, if it meant leaving her and going back to his Rome apartment, but if he did not speak to the police, she or eventually the Smith-Peters or Mrs Perry would, Coleman thought; he would be mentioned in that case, so the best thing to do was to speak to the police on his own. It was damned annoying. Coleman would have given a lot to get out of it. If Ray hadn’t had money, if he’d been an ordinary American beatnik, his disappearance wouldn’t have raised this stink, Coleman thought. Ray’s parents had probably cabled the Consulate in Venice, asking them to do everything they could.

So Coleman promised to go to the police that morning.

He and Inez left their room by lo a.m., and Coleman was congratulating himself on the fact he hadn’t had to deal with the Smith-Peters, when the telephone rang. They heard it from the hall, and Inez went back into the room. Coleman wanted to walk on to the elevators, but he was curious as to what Inez would say, so he went back into the room with her.

“Yes…Oh, she did? Yes, she rang us up also…We are going this morning to speak to the police…The last time was when Edward dropped him at the Zattere near his pensione Thursday night…I don’t know him that well…Yes, oh yes, of course we will, Laura. Good-bye.” Inez turned to Coleman and said, as if she were rather happy about it, “Mrs Perry rang up the Smith-Peters. They hadn’t seen the paper. Let’s go, darling.”

At the first police station they tried, near San Marco, Coleman was pleased to learn that the chief officer there had not heard of Ray Garrett. He made a telephone call, then Coleman was told that another officer was coming over. Coleman and Inez had a ten-minute wait. Inez’s feet were getting cold, so they went out for a coffee and came back.

The new official was a bright-looking man of around forty, greying at his temples, in dapper uniform. His name was Dell’ Isola.

Coleman explained his relationship to Rayburn Garrett, father-in-law, then said that he and the Signora Schneider and three other people had seen Garrett last Thursday evening until after midnight on the Lido, and that Coleman had then taken him home in their rented motor-boat, the
Marianna II
.