Read Online Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page A

the perilous events of the past hour or so had somehow held his emotions back. The sensation lasted only a few seconds, and ebbed as his strength had ebbed. He cupped his hand around the hot cup. The hollow-eyed boy behind the counter looked at him from time to time. Ray pulled the collar of his trench-coat straighter. It was a new trench-coat, waterproof, and it was beginning to look presentable. Only his shoes and trouser cuffs were a mess. Ray decided to go to a small hotel near by that might not insist on his passport, because his passport was at the Seguso. He had another cappuccino, another cognac, and bought cigarettes and matches. The iron door of the bar came down with a rattle and a bang. There was a smaller door in it through which he could get out, and a ring of keys dangled from its lock. Ray paid and left.
    He saw the kind of hotel he wanted a minute later in a narrow lane, a blue-lit sign over its short, filigree marquee saying Albergo Internazionale or something like that. The decor of the lobby was imitation old-Venetian. At the bar to the left of the lobby, two Italians sat talking.
    “You wish, sir?” The white-jacketed barman had come to the unattended desk.
    “A room for one tonight?” Ray asked.
    “With bath, sir?”
    “Yes. Is the water hot?”
    “Oh, yes, sir.”
    A few moments later, he was in a small room by himself, empty-handed, without luggage. What had the boy said? You can register tomorrow morning. The manager has locked up the desk . He had given Ray the white card that hotel guests had to fill out for the police. Ray turned on the hot water in the tub, and smiled at the sight of steam rising. He undressed and eased himself into the water, which he had been careful to make not too hot. He began to feel sleepy, or faint, so he got out and dried himself as briskly as he could with a smallish towel. There was an enormous towel hanging folded on a rod, but Ray had not the energy to deal with it. Then he hung up his clothes with some care, slowly because he was exhausted, and got naked between the sheets. His throat was already sore, and he did not know what he was in for.
    In the morning, he sat up, blinked, and realized where he was. He had slept with the light on. He turned it off. His throat was fiery now, his head light and empty as if he might faint. He was frightened, and not merely because he might have pneumonia. It was a nameless, vague fear that he had, combined with a sense of shame. His trousers were still wet. He looked at his wrist-watch—still running because it was waterproof-and saw that it was 9.20. A small plan came to him, so small he felt moronic for finding pleasure in it: he would order breakfast, have his suit pressed, and try to sleep again while they were pressing it. He put on his trench-coat, which was only slightly damp in its lining, and picked up the telephone and ordered. He felt a lump inside his coat, up on the right, and recalled that his book of Traveller’s Cheques was in the buttoned pocket there. He pulled them out. What luck that he’d put them there, left them there, rather, after buying them in Palma. Two thousand dollars’ worth of hundred-dollar bills. There was a smaller book of Traveller’s Cheques in his pensione, left over from Xanuanx days, only a few hundred in it, Ray thought. He flattened the book of cheques out. He had signed them in India ink with his fountain-drawing-pen, so the signatures were intact, but the pages were stuck together. He laid the book on the four-barred radiator.
    His breakfast tray arrived, and Ray sent the girl away with his damp suit and also his shirt. She looked a little surprised, but said nothing.
    After his breakfast, he filled out the card with a made-up name and passport number, because he felt for some reason ashamed to write his own.
    He was awakened at eleven, when his suit was brought back. He hung the suit in the closet and went back to bed, thinking to wake up around one, leave the hotel, and have