Suspension of Mercy by Patricia Highsmith

alone for a bit. She did not seem to want to tell me exactly where she was going, perhaps wasn’t sure herself, but I’m writing this to assure you she was in a calm frame of mind when she left. When you hear from her, I’d appreciate it if you told me where she is, but only if she is agreeable to letting me know. I know she does not want to be disturbed for a while, so I have no intention of disturbing her.
    Life goes on here quietly. I am working, though with no notable success as yet. I hope you and Mr. Sneezum are well.
    Affectionately yours,
Sydney
    His letter, which he forgot to post until after the 3 P.M. collection on Sunday, brought a telephone call from Mrs. Sneezum Tuesday morning.
    “I wondered if you’d heard anything from Alicia?” she asked.
    “No, I haven’t, but I wasn’t—”
    “When did she leave?”
    “She left Saturday before last. July second.”
    “Good heavens. I’ve rung a couple of her friends in London, but she’s not there and nobody has any idea where she is, which I think is most unusual.”
    “I think there’s a strong chance she’s in Brighton, Mrs. Sneezum. She went to Brighton for a few days about three weeks ago, as you probably know.” Sydney was sure Mrs. Sneezum knew, because Alicia said she had dropped her mother a postcard.
    “Oh,” Mrs. Sneezum said thoughtfully. She excused herself to speak to her husband, then said, “How long did she say she might be gone?”
    “She didn’t say. A few weeks—I don’t know. I hope you won’t be worried about her.”
    “But it’s not like Alicia not to tell anybody where she’s going. Being alone is one thing but being so secretive isn’t like her at all. Was she upset about anything?”
    “No. It was Alicia’s idea.”
    Mrs. Sneezum was silent, but Sydney heard her impatient sigh.
    “Also Alicia’s not very good about writing, as you know.” But Alicia was fairly good about writing to her mother. Sydney thought of Smith, saying one of his brides-in-the-bath had injured her right hand.
    “Didn’t she say where to forward her post?”
    “No, she didn’t. There’re only three letters here. They don’t look important.”
    “Well, Sydney, would you let us know as soon as you hear anything from her? Reverse the charges, that doesn’t matter. You’re all by yourself down there?”
    “Oh, yes,” Sydney said. Did she think he had a girl with him?
    “I’ll say good-bye. Do ring us.”
    Sydney said he would, then hung up. The sun was boiling through the living-room window. It was a rare day, rather warm, hot for England. The conversation would have been the same, Sydney thought, if he had killed Alicia and he were trying to make her mother and everyone else believe that she had taken herself off to Brighton. Alicia was probably lolling in a beach chair at Brighton, wriggling her toes in the sand, with her long, pretty face turned up to the sun and her eyes closed. It should be lovely in Brighton with a sea breeze thrown in. Meanwhile, the Sneezums— kah-choo! —were getting worried down in Kent, mainly because they had nothing else to occupy themselves with. Mr. Sneezum had retired before Alicia’s marriage with plenty of money and a heart condition that kept him from eating meat, Sydney remembered. He had a passion for gardening, and the Chelsea Flower Show was the high spot of his year. Mrs. Sneezum was active in county politics and various do-gooder kind of things. She was smaller than Alicia and thinner. Alicia was their only child. Naturally, they’d be a little worried.
    He started to reread the next page of his manuscript, then reached for a brown notebook at the back of his desk. The notebook was blank except for two poems, hastily written, which Sydney had intended to polish at some time and never had. He wrote, five blank pages beyond the last poem:
    July 11. The first of many conversations, no doubt, with Mrs. Sneezum. This in response to my letter of Saturday explaining Alicia’s absence and