Patricia Highsmith - Strangers on a Train

Bruno knew that Gerard had not spoken to Guy yet. He did not think Gerard would question Guy more than a few minutes. But Guy sounded so cold, Bruno could not bring himself to tell him now that Gerard had gotten his name, that he might be interviewed, or that he intended to see Guy strictly secretly from now on—no more parties or even lunches—if Guy would only let him.

“Okay,” Bruno said mutedly, and hung up.

Then the telephone rang again. Frowning, Guy put out the cigarette he had just lighted relievedly, and answered it.

“Hello. This is Arthur Gerard of the Confidential Detective Bureau….” Gerard asked if he could come over.

Guy turned around, glancing warily over the living room, trying to reason away a feeling that Gerard had just heard his and Bruno’s conversation over tapped wires, that Gerard had just captured Bruno. He went upstairs to tell Anne.

“A private detective?” Anne asked, surprised. “What’s it about?”

Guy hesitated an instant. There were so many, many places where he might hesitate too long! Damn Bruno! Damn him for dogging him! “I don’t know.”

Gerard arrived promptly. He fairly bowed over Anne’s hand, and after apologizing for intruding on their evening, made polite conversation about the house and the strip of garden in front. Guy stared at him in some astonishment. Gerard looked dull, tired, and vaguely untidy. Perhaps Bruno wasn’t entirely wrong about him. Even his absent air, heightened by his slow speech, did not suggest the absent-mindedness of a brilliant detective. Then as Gerard settled himself with a cigar and a highball, Guy caught the shrewdness in the light hazel eyes and the energy in the chunky hands. Guy felt uneasy then. Gerard looked unpredictable.

“You’re a friend of Charles Bruno, Mr. Haines?”

“Yes. I know him.”

“His father was murdered last March as you probably know, and the murderer has not been found.”

“I didn’t know that!” Anne said.

Gerard’s eyes moved slowly from her back to Guy.

“I didn’t know either,” said Guy.

“You don’t know him that well?”

“I know him very slightly.”

“When and where did you meet?”

“At—” Guy glanced at Anne—“the Parker Art Institute, I think around last December.” Guy felt he had walked into a trap. He had repeated Bruno’s flippant reply at the wedding, simply because Anne had heard Bruno say it, and Anne had probably forgotten. Gerard regarded him, Guy thought, as if he didn’t believe a word of it. Why hadn’t Bruno warned him about Gerard? Why hadn’t they settled on the story Bruno had once proposed about their having met at the rail of a certain midtown bar?

“And when did you see him again?” Gerard asked finally.

“Well—not until my wedding in June.” He felt himself assuming the puzzled expression of a man who does not yet know his inquisitor’s object. Fortunately, he thought, fortunately, he had already assured Anne that Bruno’s assertion they were old friends was only Bruno’s style of humor. “We didn’t invite him,” Guy added.

“He just came?” Gerard looked as if he understood. “But you did invite him to the party you gave in July?” He glanced at Anne also.

“He called up,” Anne told him, “and asked if he could come, so—I said yes.”

Gerard then asked if Bruno knew about the party through any friends of his who were coming, and Guy said possibly, and gave the name of the blond woman who had smiled so horrifically at Bruno that evening. Guy had no other names to give. He had never seen Bruno with anyone.

Gerard leaned back. “Do you like him?” he smiled.

“Well enough,” Anne replied finally, politely.

“All right,” Guy said, because Gerard was waiting. “He seems a bit pushing.” The right side of his face was in shadow. Guy wondered if Gerard were scanning his face now for scars.

“A hero-worshiper. Power-worshiper, in a sense.” Gerard smiled, but the smile no longer looked genuine, or perhaps it never had. “Sorry to bother you with these questions, Mr. Haines.”

Five minutes later, he was gone.

“What does it mean?” Anne asked. “Does he suspect Charles Bruno?”

Guy bolted the door, then came back. “He probably suspects one of his acquaintances. He might think Charles knows something, because he hated his father so. Or so Charles told me.”

“Do you think Charles might know?”

“There’s no telling. Is there?” Guy took a cigarette.

“Good lord.” Anne stood looking at the corner of the sofa, as if she still saw Bruno where he had sat the night of the party. She whispered, “Amazing what goes on in people’s lives!”

Thirty-six

“Listen,” Guy said tensely into the receiver. “Listen, Bruno!”

Bruno was drunker than Guy had ever heard him, but he was determined to penetrate to the muddled bram. Then he thought suddenly that Gerard might be with him, and his voice grew even softer, cowardly with caution. He found out Bruno was in a telephone booth, alone. “Did you tell Gerard we met at the Art Institute?”

Bruno said he had. It came through the drunken mumblings that he had. Bruno wanted to come over. Guy couldn’t make it register that Gerard had already come to question him. Guy banged the telephone down, and tore open his collar. Bruno calling him now! Gerard had externalized his danger. Guy felt it was more imperative to break completely with Bruno even than to arrange a story with him that would tally. What annoyed him most was that he couldn’t tell from Bruno’s driveling what had happened to him, or even what kind of mood he was in.

Guy was upstairs in the studio with Anne when the door chime rang.

He opened the door only slightly, but Bruno bumped it wide, stumbled across the living room, and collapsed on the sofa. Guy stopped short in front of him, speechless first with anger, then disgust. Bruno’s fat, flushed neck bulged over his collar. He seemed more bloated than drunk, as if an edema of death had inflated his entire body, filling even the deep eye sockets so the red-gray eyes were thrust unnaturally forward. Bruno stared up at him. Guy went to the telephone to call a taxi.

“Guy, who is it?” Anne whispered down the stairway.

“Charles Bruno. He’s drunk.”

“Not drunk!“Bruno protested suddenly.

Anne came halfway down the stairs, and saw him. “Shouldn’t we just put him upstairs?”

“I don’t want him here.” Guy was looking in the telephone book, trying to find a taxi company’s number.

“Yess-s!” Bruno hissed, like a deflating tire.

Guy turned. Bruno was staring at him out of one eye, the eye the only living point in the sprawled, corpselike body. He was muttering something, rhythmically.

“What’s he saying?” Anne stood closer to Guy.

Guy went to Bruno and caught him by the shirtfront. The muttered, imbecilic chant infuriated him, Bruno drooled onto his hand as he tried to pull him upright. “Get up and get out!“Then he heard it: “I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her—I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her,” Bruno chanted, and the wild red eye stared up. “Don’t send me away, I’ll tell her—I’ll—”

Guy released him in abhorrence.

“What’s the matter, Guy? What’s he saying?”

“I’ll put him upstairs,” Guy said.

Guy tried with all his strength to get Bruno over his shoulder, but the flaccid, dead weight defeated him. Finally, Guy stretched him out across the sofa. He went to the front window. There was no car outside. Bruno might have dropped out of the sky. Bruno slept noiselessly, and Guy sat up watching him, smoking.

Bruno awakened about 3 in the morning, and had a couple of drinks to steady himself. After a few moments, except for the bloatedness, he looked almost normal. He was very happy at finding himself in Guy’s house, and had no recollection of arriving. “I had another round with Gerard,” he smiled. “Three days. Been seeing the papers?”