Glass Cell by Patricia Highsmith

Author:Patricia Highsmith
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780393345681
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

16

A couple of mornings later, Carter found a letter from Gawill in the box downstairs. Somehow he knew it was from Gawill before he opened it. It was a small white business envelope with no return address, the handwriting tall and thin and a little wobbly. Then Carter noticed the Queens postmark, barely legible. Carter was on his way out to buy a couple of things Hazel had forgotten on her shopping list, but he climbed the stairs again to read Gawill’s letter in the apartment. It said:

Dear Phil,

I feel like finishing what I started to tell you. I had my men watching Sullivan’s apartment and the apartment he had before that on 53rd Street. I guess you know about 53rd Street when your wife was plainly living with him. I’m talking about the four years after that. Even your son ought to know about it, because kids aren’t so dumb. I had the feeling you didn’t believe me the other day about any of this, and considering what I’ve put up with from Sullivan that’s annoying. Maybe you don’t know that your wife went twice (maybe more, I mean we saw her twice) to Sullivan’s apartment in the last month? Do you think I’d be putting this all down on paper if it wasn’t true? Did your wife tell you she saw Sullivan twice in the last month by herself? I bet she didn’t. Is he still stringing her along, saying he’ll get a job for you or something like that for a little attention she might give him? Probably. That’s like Sullivan. It’s still going on, Phil. Wake up. Proof you want, I guess. Okay. I’ve got the notes of my boys and I’ve got a tape record of conversations Sullivan had with your wife—I wasn’t after those but they came in. They happened about six months ago, some later. You are welcome to hear them when you want. I can also have one of the boys snap her picture going in his house any time now if you want it.

I don’t like anybody to think I’m a liar. Address at top of paper in case you want to get in touch with me. All the best,

Greg

“One of the boys,” as if Gawill had a paid staff. Gawill had delusions of grandeur. He glanced at the multinumbered, Jackson Heights address again, plus the telephone number, then he tore the letter up and stuck it in the garbage pail among the breakfast orange rinds.

David Sullivan telephoned that afternoon around 3 and said that his friend Butterworth was back in New York, and that Carter ought to call him for an appointment.

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Phil. Are you free today around six?”

“Sure, David. Want to come over here?”

“I’d rather talk to you alone. Would you mind coming to my place?”

Carter said he would come. He felt uneasy after he had hung up. Was this going to be another confession? A confession perhaps of a

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