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

       For a few moments, as Melinda snuffled into a fresh tissue, Vic felt something in him hardening against her. She had got what she deserved, and she was powerless to do anything against him. If she went to the police again, who would believe her? How could she prove it? She could divorce him, that was all. But Vic did not think that she would. He might refuse to give her alimony—and he had ample grounds to refuse—and he could also win the child with ease, not that Melinda would probably care. He did not think she would relish the prospect of having no money, of going back to her parents' dreary, boring household in Queens.

       Melinda got out of the car when he stopped in front of the garage and went on into the house. Vic carried his herb boxes back into the garage. It was a quarter to four. He looked up at the sky and saw that there was going to be a slight rainfall around six.

       He went into the garage again and carried out, one by one, his three aquaria of land snails, each of which was covered with a framed piece of copper screen to admit rain and to prevent the snails from crawling out. The snails loved the rain. He bent over one aquarium, watching the snails he called Edgar and Hortense as they slowly approached each other, lifted their heads, kissed, and glided on. They would probably mate this afternoon, in the light rain that filtered through the screen. They mated about once every week, and they were genuinely in love, Vic thought, because Edgar had eyes for no other snail but Hortense and Hortense never responded to the attempt of another snail to kiss her. Three-quarters of the thousand-odd snails he had were their progeny. They were quite considerate of each other as to which had the burden of egg-laying—a twenty-four-hour procedure at least—and it was only Vic's opinion that Hortense laid more often than Edgar, which was why he had given her the feminine name. That was true love, Vic thought, even if they were only gastropoda. He remembered the sentence in one of Henri Fabre's books about snails crossing garden walls to find their mates, and though Vic had never verified it by his own experiment, he felt that it must be so.

Chapter 11

Vic's guilt did not materialize. Perhaps it was because there were so many other things to think about and to take care of. Melinda was telling all their friends that she thought Vic had killed Charley, which could have been put down as the result of her shock after Charley's death, except that it went on for three weeks and she became more eloquent about it. And in the house she sulked and snarled at him. She seemed to be brewing some retaliation against him, and Vic did not know what form it would take. Between wondering what Melinda was going to do next and trying to minimize her behavior to her friends, which he did in the most gallant and sympathetic manner, Vic had quite enough to occupy him in his hours away from the printing plant.

       Horace came to see Vic at the plant about three days after the coroner's inquest. For the first few minutes Horace looked over the loose sheets of Greek type that were the day's work, looked at the design that Vic had chosen—not the one Melinda had so carelessly selected—for the cover of the book, but Horace got to the point of his visit before five minutes had passed.

       "Vic, I'm a little worried," he said firmly. "You know what I'm worried about, don't you?"

       Stephen and Carlyle had gone home. They were alone in the pressroom.

       "Yes," Vic said.

       "She's been twice to see Evelyn, you know. Once to see Mary."

       "Oh," Vic said, without surprise. "I think she told me she'd been to Evelyn's."

       "Well, you know what she's saying?" Horace looked embarrassed. "She told Mary she'd said the same thing to you at home." He paused, but Vic did not speak. "I'm not so much interested in that—except that it's a horrible thing to get around town—but what's going to happen to Melinda?"

       "I suppose she'll quiet down," Vic said in a patient tone. He slid one thigh onto the corner of a composing table. A robin's "'Cheep?—Cheep'?" came clearly through the closed window behind Horace. He could see the robin on the sill, the little male robin. It was dusk. He wondered if the robin wanted something to eat or if there was some kind of trouble. Last spring the robin lived with his wife in a nest they had built in a low stone wall just outside the back door.

       "Well, will she? What're you thinking?" Horace asked.

       "Frankly, I was thinking about that robin," Vic said, sliding off the table and walking to the back door. He looked at the still unfinished bread crumbs and diced fat that Carlyle had dropped below the tree that morning. Vic came back. "Maybe he was just saying good night," Vic said, "but last spring we had to chase a snake away from their nest."

       Horace smiled, a little impatiently. "I never know whether you're pretending unconcern or you're really unconcerned, Vic."

       "I suppose I'm concerned," Vic said, "but don't forget I've had it a good many years."

       "Yes, I know. And I don't want to meddle, Vic. But can you imagine Evelyn or Mary," Horace said, raising his voice suddenly, "going around to you and their other friends saying that their husband is a murderer?"

       "No. But I always knew Melinda was different."

       Horace laughed, a despairing laugh."What're you going to do about it, Vic? Is she going to divorce you?"

       "She hasn't said anything about it. Did she say anything to Mary about it?"

       Horace looked at him a moment, almost with surprise. "No, not that I know