The Cry of the Owl by Patricia Highsmith

Author:Patricia Highsmith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 2011-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

16

When Ralph left the apartment building on East Eighty-second Street, he walked downtown on First Avenue and went into the first bar he came to. He ordered a Scotch and soda, drank half of it, then went to the telephone directory by the hat-check booth and looked up the number of the Sussex Arms Hotel. He asked to speak to Mr. Gresham. A funny name for Wyncoop to have chosen, Ralph thought. It made him think of Gresham’s Law, which he doubted if Wyncoop knew or could quote, about bad money driving out good, causing people to hoard the intrinsically more valuable, and though there seemed some possible connection between this law and the perhaps intrinsically valuable girl in Pennsylvania whom two men were fighting over, or he had thought Robert was fighting over her, Ralph hadn’t come to any clearer notion before Wyncoop was on the telephone.

“Ralph Jurgen,” Ralph said. “I’d like to see you tonight.”

“Tonight? Anything the matter?”

“No-o. Are you going to be in?”

“I was thinking of cruising around a little, maybe going to a late movie.”

“Well, never mind that. I want to see you.” Ralph was a little high and also angry, or he wouldn’t have spoken so firmly, but it got results. Greg said he would stay in and wait for him.

Ralph took a taxi down. The Sussex Arms was a third-rate hotel off Fourth Avenue. The lobby was vaguely dirty and so shabby one could not even imagine that it might once have seen better days, or known a more distinguished clientele. And it was for curious reasons, Ralph thought, that Wyncoop had chosen such a place—only partly because he felt less conspicuous here than at a more expensive hotel, but mostly to feel humble, to admit he was doing something dishonest, maybe to punish himself a little. Certainly Nickie would have paid his hotel bill anywhere. Greg had run out of cash, of course. Ralph took the elevator to the fourth floor. Even the elevator operator’s uniform was threadbare. Ralph Jurgen came from a poor family. Signs of poverty anywhere shocked his sensibilities, his aesthetics, even his morals. Poverty was ugly, tragic, and unnecessary.

Greg was in shirtsleeves, an unbuttoned vest, and stocking feet. “Well, what’s up?” he asked when he had closed the door, but he asked it with a smile and rather politely.

Ralph took off his topcoat and kept it over his arm as he sat down on a straight chair. “Bob Forester was in town tonight. He came to see Nickie.”

“Nickie just called,” Greg said with a slight smile.

“Yes, I thought she would,” Ralph said. “Well, Greg, why don’t you call it off? You’ve bothered Bob enough, haven’t you? What more do you want?”

“Jenny,” Greg said.

“Hm-m. Of course.” Ralph looked at his loosely locked fingers. He wanted a cigarette, but the doctor had cut him down to ten a day. He was saving his tenth for the last moments before he fell asleep. “Pretty hard to get a girl if you’re not

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