The Quiet American Read Free

opium reasoned within me. But I looked cautiously at Phuong, for it was hard on her. She must have loved him in her way: hadn’t she been fond of me and hadn’t she left me for Pyle? She had attached herself to youth and hope and seriousness and now they had failed her more than age and despair. She sat there looking at the two of us and I thought she had not yet understood. Perhaps it would be a good thing if I could get her away before the fact got home I was ready to answer any questions if I could bring the interview quickly and still ambiguously to. an end, so that I might tell her later, in private, away from a policeman’s eye and the hard office-chairs and the bare globe where the moths circled. I said to Vigot, “What hours are you interested in?”
    “Between six and ten.”
    “I had a drink at the Continental at six. The waiters will remember. At six forty-five I walked down to the quay to watch the American planes unloaded. I saw Wilkins of the Associated News by the door of the Majestic. Then I went into the cinema next door. They’ll probably remember they had to get me change. From there I took a trishaw to the Vieux Moulin—I suppose I arrived about eight thirty-and had dinner by myself. Granger was there-you can ask him. Then I took a trishaw back about a quarter to ten. You could probably find the driver. I was expecting Pyle at ten, but he didn’t turn up.” “Why were you expecting him?” “He telephoned me. He said he had to see me about something important.” “Have you any idea what?” “No. Everything was important to Pyle.”
    “And this girl of his?-do you know where she was?” “She was waiting for him outside at midnight. She was anxious. She knows nothing. Why, can’t you see she’s waiting for him still?” “Yes,” he said.
    “And you can’t really believe I killed him for jealousy -or she for what?-he was going to marry her.” “Yes.”
    “Where did you find him?” “He was in the water under the bridge to Dakow.”
    The Vieux Moulin stood beside the bridge. There were armed police on the bridge and the restaurant had an iron grille to keep out grenades. It wasn’t safe to cross the bridge at night, for all the far side of the river was in the hands of the Vietminh after dark. I must have dined within fifty yards of his body.
    “The trouble was,” I said, “he got mixed up.” “To speak plainly,” Vigot said, “I am not altogether sorry. He was doing a lot of harm.”
    “God save us always,” I said, “from the innocent and the good.” “The good?”
    “Yes, good. In his way. You’re a Roman Catholic. You wouldn’t recognise his way. And anyway, he was a damned Yankee.”
    “Would you mind identifying him? I’m sorry. It’s a routine, not a very nice routine.”
    I didn’t bother to ask him why he didn’t wait for someone from the American Legation, for I knew the reason. French methods are a little old-fashioned by our cold standards: they believe in the conscience, the sense of guilt. a criminal should be confronted with his crime, for he may break down and betray himself. I told myself again I was innocent, while he went down the stone stairs to where the refrigerating plant hummed in the basement.
    They pulled him out like a tray of ice-cubes, and I looked at him. The wounds were frozen into placidity. I said, “You see, they don’t re-open in my presence.” “Comment?”
    “Isn’t that one of the objects? Ordeal by something or other? But you’ve frozen him stiff. They didn’t have deep freezes in the Middle Ages.” “You recognise him?” “Oh yes”
    He looked more than ever out of place: he should have stayed at home. I saw him in a family snapshot album, riding on a dude ranch, bathing on Long Island, photographed with his colleagues in some apartment on the twenty-third floor. He belonged to the sky-scraper and the express elevator, the ice-cream, and the dry Martinis, milk at lunch, and chicken sandwiches on the Merchant