Read Online Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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tight. It was a man asleep. Ingham had touched a pair of legs.
‘ Hell of a place to sleep, ’ Ingham murmured.
No sound from the sleeping form.
Out of curiosity, Ingham struck a match. Coverless, the man lay with one arm crumpled under him. A black scarf was around his neck. Black trousers, soiled white shirt. Then Ingham saw that the black scarf was red, that it was blood. The match burnt his fingers, and Ingham struck another and bent closer. There was blood all over the ground under the man ’ s head. Under his jaw was a long glistening cut.
‘ Hey! ’ Ingham said. He touched the man ’ s shoulder, gripped it convulsively, and just as suddenly pulled his hand back. The body was cool. Ingham looked around him and saw nothing but blackness and the vague white forms of houses. His match had gone out.
He thought of going back to get Jensen. At the same time, he drifted away from the corpse, drifted on away from Jensen, towards the road. It wasn ’ t his business.
The end of the alley showed a pale light from the streetlights of the road. His car was a hundred yards to the left, down by Melik ’ s. When Ingham was some thirty yards away from his car, he saw the old humpbacked Arab in the baggy trousers standing by the right rear window. Ingham ran towards him.
‘ Get the hell away! ’ he yelled.
The Arab scurried with a surprising agility, hunched over, and disappeared into a black street on the right.
‘ Son of a bitch! ’ Ingham muttered.
There was no one about, except two men standing under a tree in the light that came from the Plage ’ s front windows.
Ingham unlocked his car, and glanced into the back seat when the light came on. Hadn ’ t his beach towel (his own, not the hotel ’ s) and his canvas jacket been on the seat? Of course. One rear window was open three inches. The Arab had fished the things out. He cursed the Arab with a new fury. He slammed the door and went to the dark street into which the Arab had vanished.
‘ Son of a bitch, I hope it kills you! ’ he shouted, so angry now that his face burnt. ‘ Bastard son of a bitch! ’
That the Arab couldn ’ t understand didn ’ t matter at all.
6
The next morning, lying in bed at 9 a.m. with the sun already warm through the shutters, Ingham did not remember getting home. He did not remember anything after cursing the humped Arab with the yellow-tan, filthy turban. Then he remembered the corpse. My God, yes, a corpse. Ingham imagined it a hell of a cut, maybe the kind that nearly severed the neck, so that if he had lifted the man, the head might have fallen off. No, he wouldn ’ t tell Ina that part of the evening. He wouldn ’ t tell anyone about the corpse, he thought. People might say, ‘ Why didn ’ t you report it? ’ Ingham realized he was ashamed of himself. Regardless of the red tape that might have followed, he should have reported the thing. He still could report it. The time he saw the body might be of some significance. But he wasn ’ t going to.
He sprang out of bed and took a shower.
When he came out of the bathroom, Mokta had set his breakfast-tray on the windowsill near his bed. That was good service. Ingham ate in shorts and shirt, sitting on the edge of his chair. He was thinking of a letter he would write to Ina, and before he finished his coffee, he pushed the tray aside and began it on his typewriter.
July 1, 19—
Sat. A.M.
Darling,
A strange day yesterda y. In fact all these days are strange. I was furious not to have more news from you. I ’ ll hold this till I hear from you. Would you mind telling me why he killed himself and secondly why were you so thrown by it?
It seems fantastic, but I have 47 pages done on my book and I think it is going along pretty well. But I am horribly lonely. Such a new sensation for me, it ’ s almost interesting. I thought I had been lonely many times before and I have been, but never anything like this. I ’ ve set myself a mild schedule
‘ Hell of a place to sleep, ’ Ingham murmured.
No sound from the sleeping form.
Out of curiosity, Ingham struck a match. Coverless, the man lay with one arm crumpled under him. A black scarf was around his neck. Black trousers, soiled white shirt. Then Ingham saw that the black scarf was red, that it was blood. The match burnt his fingers, and Ingham struck another and bent closer. There was blood all over the ground under the man ’ s head. Under his jaw was a long glistening cut.
‘ Hey! ’ Ingham said. He touched the man ’ s shoulder, gripped it convulsively, and just as suddenly pulled his hand back. The body was cool. Ingham looked around him and saw nothing but blackness and the vague white forms of houses. His match had gone out.
He thought of going back to get Jensen. At the same time, he drifted away from the corpse, drifted on away from Jensen, towards the road. It wasn ’ t his business.
The end of the alley showed a pale light from the streetlights of the road. His car was a hundred yards to the left, down by Melik ’ s. When Ingham was some thirty yards away from his car, he saw the old humpbacked Arab in the baggy trousers standing by the right rear window. Ingham ran towards him.
‘ Get the hell away! ’ he yelled.
The Arab scurried with a surprising agility, hunched over, and disappeared into a black street on the right.
‘ Son of a bitch! ’ Ingham muttered.
There was no one about, except two men standing under a tree in the light that came from the Plage ’ s front windows.
Ingham unlocked his car, and glanced into the back seat when the light came on. Hadn ’ t his beach towel (his own, not the hotel ’ s) and his canvas jacket been on the seat? Of course. One rear window was open three inches. The Arab had fished the things out. He cursed the Arab with a new fury. He slammed the door and went to the dark street into which the Arab had vanished.
‘ Son of a bitch, I hope it kills you! ’ he shouted, so angry now that his face burnt. ‘ Bastard son of a bitch! ’
That the Arab couldn ’ t understand didn ’ t matter at all.
6
The next morning, lying in bed at 9 a.m. with the sun already warm through the shutters, Ingham did not remember getting home. He did not remember anything after cursing the humped Arab with the yellow-tan, filthy turban. Then he remembered the corpse. My God, yes, a corpse. Ingham imagined it a hell of a cut, maybe the kind that nearly severed the neck, so that if he had lifted the man, the head might have fallen off. No, he wouldn ’ t tell Ina that part of the evening. He wouldn ’ t tell anyone about the corpse, he thought. People might say, ‘ Why didn ’ t you report it? ’ Ingham realized he was ashamed of himself. Regardless of the red tape that might have followed, he should have reported the thing. He still could report it. The time he saw the body might be of some significance. But he wasn ’ t going to.
He sprang out of bed and took a shower.
When he came out of the bathroom, Mokta had set his breakfast-tray on the windowsill near his bed. That was good service. Ingham ate in shorts and shirt, sitting on the edge of his chair. He was thinking of a letter he would write to Ina, and before he finished his coffee, he pushed the tray aside and began it on his typewriter.
July 1, 19—
Sat. A.M.
Darling,
A strange day yesterda y. In fact all these days are strange. I was furious not to have more news from you. I ’ ll hold this till I hear from you. Would you mind telling me why he killed himself and secondly why were you so thrown by it?
It seems fantastic, but I have 47 pages done on my book and I think it is going along pretty well. But I am horribly lonely. Such a new sensation for me, it ’ s almost interesting. I thought I had been lonely many times before and I have been, but never anything like this. I ’ ve set myself a mild schedule
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