Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📗

McRae for separating himself and his sister as a professional team. They were nightclub entertainers, specializing in magic tricks. Phyllis Olney had met McRae in Chicago and had broken her contract to come with him to New York a year and a half ago. Olney had run out of money, his sister had never sent him any though she had promised that she would (who'd ever been able to squeeze a nickel out of Mal?), and, according to Olney, McRae had abandoned his sister, leaving her destitute. Nearly a year later Olney had hitchhiked to New York for the express purpose of avenging himself and his sister by killing McRae. Psychiatrists who had examined Olney said he showed manic-depressive tendencies, which would probably be taken into account when his trial came up.

       "Daddy!"Trixie had finally got his attention."I said I'm going to finish your belt today!"

       Vic had the feeling she had yelled it at him three times. "That' great. You mean the braided belt."

       "The 'only' belt I'm making this summer," Trixie said in a tom that showed her annoyance with him. She dumped some puffed wheat from the little package in front of her onto her corn flakes stirred them together, then reached for the bottle of ketchup Trixie was in a ketchup period. Ketchup had to be on everything from scrambled eggs to rice pudding.

       "Well, I'm looking forward to it," Vic said. "I hope you made it big enough."

       "It's a whopper."

       "Good." Vic stared at her brown, smooth little shoulder crossed by the denim overall straps, thought vaguely of telling her to take a sweater this morning, then returned to the paper in his hand.

       The remoteness of the murderer's relationship to his victim and the fact that he left no clues [said the paper] made this a nearly "perfect" crime. It was only after months of patient inquiry into every friend and acquaintance of the murdered man that the police were able to pick up the trail of Olney ...

       Whether the story would be in the 'New Wesleyan' this evening or not, Vic thought, many people in Little Wesley received the 'Times' every morning. Everybody who was interested in the story was going to know about it by tonight.

       "Aren't you going to have any bacon and eggs?" Trixie asked.

       Trixie usually claimed one piece of his bacon. He didn't want any bacon and eggs now. He saw that she had a big pool of ketchup in her bowl and that the cereal was probably inedible, even for Trixie. He got up slowly, went into the kitchen, and mechanically lit the fire under a skillet. He put in two pieces of bacon. He felt faintly nauseous.

       "Daddy? I've just got fi-yuv 'min-n-nits'!" Trixie yelled to him in a minatory tone.

       "Coming up, puss," he called back.

       "Hey! Since when do you call 'me' puss?"

       Vic didn't answer. He'd tell Melinda this morning, he thought, before she had a chance to hear it from anybody else.

       He had barely set the bacon down in front of Trixie when he heard the low moan of the school bus coming up the road. Trixie scurried about, collecting her badminton racket and the big red workman's handkerchief she was crazy about and wore around her neck most of the time, holding a piece of bacon in the fingers of one hand. She turned at the door, popped the bacon into her mouth, and Vic heard the crunch of baby teeth on it. "'Bye, Daddy!" and she was gone.

       Vic stared at the sofa in the living room, remembering a time when Mal had passed out there and had had to spend the night—though Mal had revived enough to ask to be put into a guest room, Vic recalled. He thought of Ralph lying there, that last evening, his head in the same spot Mal's head had been. Ralph was going to be amused by the story, Vic thought. Ralph might be back before long.

       Vic went into the kitchen, heated the coffee for a moment, then poured a cup for Melinda, adding a scant teaspoon of sugar. He carried the coffee to her door and knocked.

       "Umm-m?"

       "It's me. I've got some coffee for you."

       "Com-me in-n," she drawled, half with sleepiness, half with n annoyance.

       He went in. She lay on her back, her arms under her head. She wore pajamas, she slept without a pillow, and there was always something peculiarly Spartan about her, to Vic, on the rare occasions when he went into her room to awaken her, and when he saw her lying in her bed alone. There would be the wind sweeping the room, billowing the curtains as he opened the door on the coldest winter mornings. There would be a blanket kicked off onto the floor, because even in a temperature nearly freezing Melinda could keep warm under practically nothing. There was a blanket kicked off on the floor now. Melinda lay under a sheet. Vic handed her the big cup of coffee. It was her own blue and white cup, with her name on it.

       She winced at the first hot sip. "Oh-h-h-ah-h," she groaned, falling back on the bed, letting the cup tip dangerously in her hand.

       Vic sat down on the hard little bench in front of her dressing table. "Read some news this morning," he said.

       "Yes? What?"

       "They found the man who killed Mal."

       She raised up on one elbow, all her sleepiness gone. "Did they? Who was it?"

       Vic had the paper under his arm. He handed it to Melinda. She read it avidly, with a twinkling amusement that kept Vic staring at her. "Well, what do you know," she said finally.

       "I trust you're pleased," Vic said, managing a pleasant tone. She shot a look at him, hard and quick as a bullet. "Aren't 'you'?"

       "I doubt if I'm as pleased as you," Vic said.

       She sprang out of bed and for