Dark Passage (17 page)

He told her that. He put the blame on his
own shoulders, saying he was one of these selfish specimens and he
could never give her the attention she was looking for. She came
leaping from the sofa, crying loudly he was all wrong, they would
really click, they really would, and let them have the courage to
take a shot at it, and please, Vincent, please, and she had her
arms around him again, and his resistance was flowing away. If she
wanted him that badly maybe he ought to give it a try despite all
the reasons against it. He wanted to smoke a cigarette and think it
over and again he tried to get free of her arms and the feel of her
arms was like a chain and frantically he wanted to get
away.

His head turned and again he was looking
at the window. He knew he had to take a chance with that window. He
moved toward it.

He heard Bob Rapf saying, “You’re very
funny, Irene.”

Irene said, “What’s funny about
it?”

Madge said, “What was Vincent Parry doing
here?”

“He came to here to kill me,” Irene
said.

“Hilarious,” Bob said.

“Well,” Madge said, “what
happened?”

“I talked him out of it,” Irene
said.

“Aw,” Bob said, “for Christ’s
sake.”

“I’m afraid to be alone,” Madge
said.

“Keep quiet, Madge.” Again Bob’s voice was
twisted. “Listen, Irene, I think before I go you should tell me who
was really here yesterday.”

“I told you.”

“All right,” Bob said. “I think I
understand. This is the final stop, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Irene said. “I should
have told you before. But I didn't think it was serious with him.
Yesterday he said it was serious. I don't know yet how it is with
me. But I keep thinking about it and at least that's something. I
think I ought to give it a chance.”

“Who is he?” Bob said.

“Just another man. Nothing
extraordinary.”

“What does he do?” Bob said.

“He’s a clerk in an investment security
house.”

“That’s what Parry was,” Madge
said.

“Madge, why don’t you keep quiet?” Bob
said. “Irene, I want you to know I valued our friendship. I valued
it highly. I hope things work out nicely for you.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

“Good-by, Irene.”

“Are you going to call a taxi?” Madge
said.

“No,” Bob said. “We’ll get a taxi outside.
Where's your car?”

“It’s getting fixed,” Madge said. “Maybe
we won't see a taxi.”

“Keep quiet,” Bob said. “Come on, I’ll
take you home.”

“Good night, honey.” Madge was starting to
sob again. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“I’m going to be rather busy,” Irene
said.

“When should I call you?” Madge
said.

“Well,” Irene said, “I’m going to be
rather busy from now on, ”

“Oh,” Madge said. “Well, I’ll get in touch
with you in a couple of days. Or maybe I'll call you tomorrow
night.”

Bob said, “I’ll tell you what to do,
Irene. You pick up the sofa and throw it at her. Maybe that would
make her understand. Come on, Madge.”

The door opened and closed. The place was
quiet. Parry leaned against a wall and looked at the floor. Minutes
were sliding past and he was waiting for the bedroom door to open.
He heard the sound of his breathing and it was a heavy sound. He
was trying to get it lighter and he couldn’t bring it down from the
heaviness.

The bedroom door opened. Irene came in and
walked to the window. She said, “They’re going down the street.
They’ll probably go to the traffic light intersection and get a
taxi there.” She turned and looked at Parry. She said,
“Well?”

He shook his head slowly.

“If you were in there,” Irene said, “if
you had seen their faces, you’d know I handled it right. I had to
be funny. I couldn't work on Madge alone. And I had to be delicate
with Bob. Now he won't bother me and he won't let her bother
me.”

He kept on shaking his head. And he was
waiting for the buzzer to sound again. He was waiting to hear the
voice of Bob Rapf, demanding to see the bedroom, to search the
place. He was waiting for Studebaker and the police. He was waiting
to hear the voice of Madge Rapf, asking if it was really Parry who
had been here yesterday afternoon.

Then yesterday was yesterday no longer.
Yesterday was two days ago.

And yesterday was three days ago. He went
through four magazines and dreadful itching under the bandage and
waiting for her to come in, and taking the food through the glass
straws. And smoking up pack after pack of cigarettes.

And yesterday was four days ago and the
itching was unbearable and the waiting was without time, without
measurement. There were no calls. There were no visitors, no
buzzing, nothing, only the food through the glass straws and the
itching, the endless itching, and his wrists tied to the bedposts
at night, and orange juice through the glass straws in the morning,
and the waiting, and alone in the afternoon waiting for her to
arrive with the food and the magazines and the cigarettes and the
papers. In the papers, it was no longer on the front page. The
column was shrinking. The headline was in smaller face type now,
and they were saying they were still looking for him but that was
all. And she had a new dress. And he wondered why there was no
buzzing, why there were no visitors. He wondered what happened to
Studebaker. He couldn’t see any car out there now. He wondered why
he was still afraid of Studebaker when there was no Studebaker out
there now.

Then yesterday was five days
ago.

It was raining again.

It was raining very hard, and he heard the
rain before he opened his eyes. As he knocked his fist against the
side of the bed to bring her in so she could untie his wrists, he
was turning his head and looking at the rain coming down. The door
opened and she was in the doorway, saying good morning and asking
him if he had slept well, then putting a cigarette in the holder,
lighting a match for him.

The itching under the bandage was a soggy
itching, and it remained that way all through the day, and in the
early evening it was a flat itching, without the burning, as it if
was going away, as if it was smoothing out and going away from
itself. The bandage felt very loose, getting looser every hour, and
it was as if the bandage was telling him now it was ready to come
off, now he didn’t need it any more.

He was glad the time had come to take the
bandage off, he was afraid to take the bandage off, he sensed the
itching going away finally and completely, actually felt it walking
away as he sat there on the sofa a few hours after dinner, as he
sat there with a cigarette in the holder and the holder in his
mouth, as he looked at Irene sitting across the room. She was
reading a magazine, and she looked up and looked at him. He looked
at his wrist watch. It said ten twenty. Coley had said five days.
And at four thirty it would be exactly five days. He had six hours
to go until it would be five days. He was sitting there wearing the
grey worsted suit with the suggestion of violet in it and he was
waiting for another hour to go by. Then the hour was behind him and
it was five hours to go until it was five days. Under the bandage
his face felt dry and flat and smooth. He picked up a magazine. It
was a picture magazine and it showed him a girl in a bathing suit,
on tiptoe with her arms flung out toward the sea, with the waves
rolling in toward the smooth beach where she stood, and his face
felt smooth like the beach looked, and the girl wore a flower in
her hair which was blond, very blond though not as blond as the
hair Irene wore sort of long so that it sprayed her shoulders,
where it was very yellow against the yellow upholstery of the chair
on the other side of the room. The girl in the bathing suit was
slim but not as thin as Irene, who was very thin there on the other
side of the room where she sat wearing a yellow dress, light and
loose, and yet not as light and loose as the bandages on his
face.

He closed his eyes. He let his head sag,
let the magazine slide from his fingers, and he knew he was going
to stride halfway toward sleep and stay there, dangling at the
halfway point, and she couldn’t wake him up. She would let him stay
there, half asleep until it was four thirty, until it was time to
get the bandage off. Now he could feel his face separated from the
bandage, knowing it was new and ready under the bandage, all ready
with the bandage so loose and air in there and everything dry and
fresh and ready. And clean, like the clean shirt he wore, and new,
like the new tie, and ready as his body was ready, ready to get
moving and go away. And he thought of Patavilca, and he thought of
George Fellsinger and he thought of the money remaining in the
pocket of the grey worsted suit. Almost eight hundred dollars, and
it was enough, very much enough. It was enough for food and lodging
and railroad tickets. Down through Mexico, down through Guatemala,
Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica. Down through Panama. Or perhaps he
could fly. It would be better to fly. It would be swift and
luxurious. Down through Mexico. Past them all and down through
Colombia and Ecuador. Down to Peru, landing in Lima, then going up
to Patavilca, staying in Patavilca, staying there for always. And
the things he had seen in the travel folder were spreading out,
going out very wide, and now immense, and moving in all the
dimensions, the water purplish out there away from the bright white
beach, the water moving, the waves coming in, smooth under the sun,
smooth as his face was smooth, smooth under the bandage.

He wondered who had killed George
Fellsinger.

The money would last long in Patavilca.
American money always lasted long down there in those places, and
after he made certain arrangements with papers he would find work
and gradually he would learn to speak Spanish, learn to speak it
the way they spoke it down there and would have something to start
with, something to build from, something that would grow by itself
even as he kept building it.

He wondered about his health. The kidney
trouble. The sinus.

He would be all right if he watched
himself, and if he did have attacks now and then he knew how to
handle these attacks and he would be all right. He would be all
right in Patavilca. He would be fine down there, and he wondered if
they had cigarettes down there, and he wondered what Peruvian
cigarettes tasted like, and wondered if he would see a woman down
there who would be very thin, very graceful with the thinness. He
decided that after a while when his Spanish was all right he would
open up a little shop and sell the things they needed down there.
He could make trips to Lima and buy things and bring them up and
sell them in the shop. He wouldn’t work hard. He wouldn't need to
work hard. He would have everything he needed and would really have
everything he wanted. And it would be delightful down there in
Patavilca.

He wondered why anyone would want to kill
George Fellsinger.

It there was anything wrong with the
Patavilca idea, it was only that he would be alone down there. But
wherever he went he would be alone because he couldn’t afford to
take up with anyone. Sooner or later that someone would begin
asking questions that had no direct answer and it would lead to a
puzzle and that someone would want to solve the puzzle. So
Patavilca was logical after all, and he was glad it was logical
because it was the place where he wanted to be, because he so much
liked what he had seen in the travel folder, and he had seen many
travel folders, many pictures of many places and he had never seen
anything quite like Patavilca. So he was glad it was going to be
Patavilca after all, and when he was down there for a while maybe
he wouldn't be alone after all because then he would be speaking
Spanish and he would get to know Peruvians and there would be
things to talk about and places to see and he would have everything
he wanted in Patavilca. He wouldn't get too friendly with anyone,
but he would know just enough people to prevent himself from
getting lonely.

He wondered if things had happened in the
Fellsinger case that weren’t in the papers.

And in Patavilca they would never get him.
For the rest of his life he would be away from them. He saw
something that had happened long ago. It was when he was in Oregon
to see that basketball game. That day when he arrived up there it
was snowing in Eugene. He was in his room in a little hotel and
outside it was gradually clearing but there was much snow. A little
bus came down the street. There were some children playing on the
sidewalk and they were making snowballs. As the bus passed them
they threw snowballs at the windows. He remembered one of the
children was wearing a bright green sweater and a bright green wool
cap. And the bus was bright orange, and as the snowballs hit the
windows the driver let loose with the exhaust that caused a minor
explosion, a spurt of black smoke that frightened the children and
sent them scampering away. But they were away and that was what
they wanted. And he would be away and that was what he wanted. The
spurt of black exhaust smoke was the futile attempt to grab him,
but it wasn’t enough to grab him and in Patavilca he would be away.
He would be away from everything he wanted to be away
from.