Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (best books to read now .TXT) 📕

up by sections, still wearing the insulting smile. I'm not afraid to take a turn around the grounds with a murderer, he might have been saying.

       Vic took him into the garage first. He pointed out his snails, and talked about their eggs and their babies with a malevolent fervor when he saw that Don was mildly disgusted by them. He talked volubly about their rate of reproduction and about prodding them in races he staged for his own amusement, making them go over razor blades stood on edge, though he had never tried racing them in his life. Then he told Don about his bed bug experiment and the letter he had written to the entomological journal, which they had printed, and the letter of thanks they had written to him in return.

       "I'm sorry I can't show you the bedbugs, but I got rid of them after the experiment was over," Vic said.

       Don Wilson stared politely at Vic's power saw, then at his herbs, then at the neat rows of hammers and saws that hung on a panel of the back wall of the garage, murderous instruments all, then at a small bookcase that Vic was in the process of building for Trixie's room. Don's face was betraying a certain surprise.

       "Let me get you another drink!" Vic said suddenly, taking Don's glass from his hand. "Wait here. I'll be right back. You've got to see our brook!"

       Vic was back in a few minutes with a fresh drink for Don. Then they started out for the brook behind the house. "This is where I sleep," Vic said as they passed his wing on the other side of the garage, though he was sure Don had heard about his separate quarters. Don stared thoughtfully at the curtainless windows. Vic discoursed for at least ten minutes on the glacial origin of a rise of ground behind the brook and of certain stones which he picked up from the brook's bed. Then he launched into the arboreal life around them. He was careful to keep his enthusiasm on the brink of hysteria, of aberration. Don could hardly have got a word in edgewise if he had wanted to.

       Finally Vic stopped and said with a smile, "Well, I don't know if all this interests you or not."

       "You must be a very happy man," Don said with sarcasm.

       "I can't complain. Life's been very good to me," Vic replied.

       He added, "I was lucky enough to be born with an income, which helps, of course."

       Don nodded, his long jaw set. It was obvious that he hated people with incomes. Don took a swallow from his glass. "I wanted to ask you something tonight."

       "What?"

       "What do you think killed Charley De Lisle?"

       "'What' do I think? I don't know. I suppose it was cramp. Or else he really did get into water that was over his head."

       Don's dark-brown eyes bored into him, or tried to. "Is that all?" "What do you think?" Vic asked, teetering on a loose rock in the bank. He was on lower ground than Don, who towered now some five feet above Vic. Don was hesitating. No courage, Vic decided, not really any guts there.

       "I thought you might have done it," Don said in a casual tone. Vic laughed a little. "Guess again."

       Don said nothing, only continued to stare at him.

       "Some people thought I killed Malcolm McRae, too, I hear," Vic said.

       "I didn't." "Good for you."

       "But I thought it was a very peculiar story to be spreading around," Don added, mouthing the word "peculiar."

       "It's funny that so many people attached importance to it. I think Ralph Gosden was scared out of his wits. Wasn't he?"

       "It's a funny thing for you to get so much pleasure out of," Don said unsmilingly.

       Vic climbed the bank slowly, feeling very bored with Don Wilson."You seem to share an opinion with my wife that I killed Mr. De Lisle," Vic said.

       "Yes."

       "Do you consider yourself psychic? Can you see what isn't there? Or do you just have a writer's imagination?" Vic asked in a pleasant tone.

       "Could you take a lie detector test that you didn't kill him?"

       Don was becoming angry. The three strong drinks had begun to thicken his speech.

       "I'd certainly be willing to," Vic said tensely. Whether his sudden tension was due to boredom or hostility he didn't really know. He thought it was probably both.

       "You're a very odd man, Mr. Van Allen," Don Wilson said.

       "You're a very rude one:' Vic replied. They were standing on even ground now. Vic saw Don's bony hand tighten around his empty glass and he would not have been surprised if Don had suddenly hurled it into his face. Vic smiled with a deliberate blandness at him.

       "Mr. Van Allen, I don't care what you think of me. I don't care if I never see you again."

       Vic gave a laugh. "That feeling is mutual."

       "But I think I will see you again."

       "You can't really avoid it unless you move." Vic waited. Don said nothing, only stared at him. "Shall we join the ladies?" Vic began to walk toward the house, and Don followed him.

       Vic was sorry he had let himself speak sharply to Don—it wasn't really in character—but, on the other hand, one ought to be sensible occasionally, he supposed. It was sensible to let Don see that he could react with anger, normal anger, if he were sufficiently provoked. And as it was now, Vic could sense a subtle backing down in Don Wilson. For all Don's aggression, the evening was not going to him.

       "How about you people staying for dinner?" Vic said affably to June Wilson as he and Don came into the living room. "Well—I think that's up to your wife," June said. "But I think—"

       "Oh, I'll be glad to do the cooking," Vic said. "I think we've got