Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (34 page)

‘
It isn
’
t. Mokta knows. He wants to deny there was
anyone
around that night
.’
Ingham sighed, baffled and tired of the subject.
‘
They want to hush up anything about thieving. In Tunisia, I mean. And that old Arab, let
’
s face it, nobody
’
s going to make a stink about
his
life
—
if he was killed. You see, I don
’
t know, Ina. I know it was a hard blow. It bent the typewriter.
’

She said nothing. Her face looked a little paler.

‘
The police didn
’
t come into it.
—
There
’
s one thing I
’
d like to ask, darling.
’
He came closer to where she was standing.
‘
Don
’
t tell OWL this, would you? It
’
s not his business, and he
’
d only gloat because he suspects something like this happened. He
’
d keep telling me it
’
s on my conscience, I ought to tell the police or something, when as a matter of fact it
’
s not on my conscience.
’

‘
Are you sure? You seem to be taking it pretty seriously.
’

Ingham put his hands in the pockets of his dungarees.
‘
I may take it a bit seriously
—
if I
killed him. It
’
s not the same thing as its being on my conscience. The guy was coming into my bungalow, maybe not for the first time. I
’
ve got a right to throw something at somebody who
’
s coming into my place at night in a stealthy manner, intending no good. It wasn
’
t a hotel guest who
’
d made a mistake and walked into the wrong bungalow!
’

‘
You could see it was an Arab?
’

1 think he had a turban. He was like a black silhouette in the doorway, sort of stooped. God, I
’
m sick of it,
’
Ingham
said.

1 think you could do with a Scotch.
’
Ina went to her closet. She fixed his drink in the bathroom, with a splash of water.

‘
Don
’
t you want to read your letter from Joey?
’

‘
I can tell by his handwriting he
’
s all right.
—
You told Anders about this?
’

‘
Yes. Only because he knows more about Tunisia than I do. I asked him what I should do, what I should expect. He told me not to do anything.
’

‘
And that the Arab
’
s life was worthless.
—
It
’
s a funny country.
’

‘
It isn
’
t fun
ny. They just have their ways about things.
’

‘
I can understand another Arab throwing something, but it seems a
little
violent from you. A typewriter!
’

The Scotch was a comfort.
‘
Maybe. I was scared.
—
You know, a couple of months ago, I was walking back from Anders
’
s place in the dark, and I stumbled over a man lying in the street. I struck a match
—
and I saw that his throat had been cut. He was dead. An Arab.
’

‘
How awful P She sat down on the edge of her bed.

‘
I wasn
’
t going to mention it. It
’
s just a horrible story. I suppose these things happen more often here than they do in the States. Though maybe that
’
s debatable!
’
Ingham laughed.

‘
So what did you?
’

‘
That night? Nothing, I
’
m afraid. The street was dark, nobody around. If I
’
d seen a policeman, I
’
d have told him, but I didn
’
t see a policeman. And
—
yes. That was the night Abdullah was hovering around my car, or rather he
’
d just fished my canvas jacket out of the back window which was open a
little
. Anyway, I yelled at him and he scutded away. He could scuttle like a crab I
’

‘
You seem to think he
’
s dead.
’

‘
I think it more than likely.
—
But if I can
’
t get it out of Mokta for money, even promising him I won
’
t tell the police, do you think the police are going to get anything out of anybody?
’

‘
Or out of you?
’

‘
The police haven
’
t asked me anything.
’

She hesitated.
‘
I think, Howard dear, you
’
d go to the police in the States just by way of protecting your property. I think you don
’
t want to here because you probably killed the man. It
’
s no doubt awkward here if—
’

‘
Less awkward, probably.
’

‘
Wouldn
’
t you talk to the police in the States if you thought you
’
d killed someone?
’

‘
Yes. I think so. But
—
you
’
d have to imagine chums of the thief
—
or maybe chums of mine
—
dragging the body away. I suppose it could happen in the States. But in the States it
’
s a
little
hard to get rid of a body. The real point is, why should I go and announce that I
’
ve killed someone when it
’
s not necessarily true? The point is —
’

‘
But you said you think he
’
s dead.
’

‘
The point is, my house was broken into. Or entered. That
’
s worth reporting in the States, yes. But here, why bother? It happens all the time.
’
Ingham saw that his argument irritated her.
‘
And any corpses are just buried in the sand somewhere.
’

‘
The point is,
’
she said,
‘
as a member of society, you should report it. In either place. It
’
ll bother you if you don
’
t.
’

‘
It doesn
’
t bother me. You sound like OWL
.’

‘I’m
sorry you didn
’
t tell me all this from the start.
’

Ingham sighed and put down his empty glass. It was an unpleasant, vague story.
’

‘
Even when the boys dragged something off your terrace?
’

‘
Suppose Abdullah was simply knocked out? Suppose he went to another town
—
considering his unpopularity here?
’

‘
I think I will have a Scotch after all.
’
When she had made it, she said,
‘
What about the hotel people? The management. Don
’
t they know?
’

He sat down near the foot of the bed. She had leaned back against a pillow.

‘
I doubt it. The boys wouldn
’
t report it, because they
’
re supposed to keep prowlers off the grounds.
’
He shrugged.
‘
If the management knew, I don
’
t think they
’
d tell the police. They don
’
t want the rumour spreading that the Reine has burglars.
’

‘
Mm-m,
’
she said on a dubious note.
‘
Curious reasoning. But you
’
re an American. It
’
s customary to report things like that. I mean attempted r
o
bbery. Maybe the police wouldn
’
t do anything to you, if he
’
s found dead. He was invading your
house. All right. But they must have a census or registration of some kind, and presumably Abdullah
’
s missing
.’

Ingham smiled, amused.
‘
I can
’
t imagine a very accurate census here, I really can
’
t.
’

‘
You
—
just didn
’
t consider reporting it,
’
she went on.

1 considered it, and gave the idea up.
’
After talking with Anders, he thought, but he didn
’
t want to mention Anders again.

It hadn
’
t helped, his telling her. He could see that she wo
ul
d always disagree with him. Ingham felt adamant about not reporting it
—
especially at this late date it seemed silly
—
but he wondered if that would be the next ultimatum, the next hurdle he had to take to please her?

‘
In view of the atrocities going on in some parts of Africa,
’
Ingham said,
‘
Arabs massacring blacks south of Cairo, murders as casual as fly-swatting, I dunno why we make so much over this. I didn
’
t murder the fellow.
’
He took her hand.
‘
Darling, let
’
s not let this throw a gloom over everything. Please don
’
t worry, Ina.
’

‘
It
’
s not really for me, it
’
s for you
—
to worry.
’
She said it with a shrug, looking towards the window.

The shrug hurt him.
‘
Darling, I want to marry you. I don
’
t like
—
secrets between us. You wanted me to tell you the truth, so I did.
’

‘
You compare it to a lot of Africans or whatever killing each other. But you
’
re not an African. I just find it surprisingly callous of you, I suppose. When you see a man fall
—
I presume
—
knowing you
’
d hit him, wouldn
’
t you turn on the light and see what had happened to him, at least?
’

‘
And get hit over the head myself by his pals who might be on the terrace? Imagine yourself. You
’
d throw the heaviest thing you could, then shut the door!
’

‘
Yes, a woman might.
’

“
Then I
’
m not very noble. Or manly.
’
Ingham got up.
‘
Think about it for a bit. Till tonight. I thought you might like to be alone for a while today.
’

‘
I think I would. I
’
ve got a couple of letters to write. I
’
ll just sit in the sun and be lazy.
’

A minute later, he was gone, walking down the carpeted corridor towards the wide staircase. He felt worse than ever, worse than when he had been lying to her. He stopped before he reached the bottom of the stairs, and looked up, wondering if he should go back,
now,
and talk with her. But he could not think of anything he could say that he had not already said.

He drove quickly back home, thinking only of talking with Jensen.

Jensen was home. The smell of turpentine was powerful in the warm air. Jensen was reheating a pan of boiled coffee. Ingham told him about his talk with Ina.

‘
I don
’
t know why you told her,
’
Jensen said.
‘
You can
’
t expect her to understand. She doesn
’
t understand this part of the world. Anyway, women are different.
’
He poured the coffee through a strainer into two cups.
‘
A man may not like causing a death, but it can happen. Mountain-climbing. A mistake with the rope, a slip
and
fwit!
—
your partner, maybe a good friend, is dead. An accident. You could say what you did was an accident.
’

Ingham remembered his arm with the typewriter drawn back, his effort to get a perfect aim. But he knew how Jensen meant
‘
accident
’
. 1 told you why I told her. Last night I asked her to marry me. She practically said she wouldn
’
t or couldn
’
t
until
I told her the truth about that night. She knew I wasn
’
t telling the truth, you see.
’

‘
Um-m. Now Adams is going to hear about it. It wouldn
’
t surprise me if he told the police. Not that you should worry.
’

‘
I asked Ina not to tell him.
’
But Ingham couldn
’
t remember that Ina had given him a promise that she wouldn
’
t.
‘
Yes —
’
Ingham stretched back on Jensen
’
s sloppy bed, and pushed off his tennis shoes.
‘
Is it social responsibility or bloody meddling?
’