The Two Faces of January by Patricia Highsmith Page A

looking at it below the level of the table. His face relaxed. He smiled. He looked into the other passport. Then he nodded. “It’s good, isn’t it? They look fine.”
    Rydal nodded. “I think so.”
    â€œWant to see, honey?” Chester asked Colette.
    â€œWell . . . not here. I’ll take your word. What I’m interested in is a hotel.”
    â€œIf you’d like to go on now,” Rydal said, “don’t wait for me to have my coffee. Bring my suitcase with yours, if you will. The man’s already been tipped.” Their suitcases were still with the proprietor of the fish restaurant, except for Chester’s canvas suitcase with his money in it. They had decided to stay at the Hotel Astir, which appeared to be the best in town.
    But Chester and Colette said they would wait—“What’s ten more minutes now?” asked Chester, but he was smiling—so they waited, livened and cheered by the passports and the prospect of a hot bath. When Rydal had finished his coffee, Chester paid the bill and they left, Rydal and Chester going down the street for their luggage, while Colette waited for them in the lobby of the Astir.
    â€œIt might be well for you to practise Mr. Chamberlain’s signature as soon as possible,” Rydal said. “The hotel will make you sign a registration card, you know.”
    â€œYes. You’re quite right. I’ll do it now,” Chester said, and he looked rather nervous, but he sat down on the low cement parapet beside the sea, pulled out the passport and a small spiral-bound notebook, opened the passport to its second page, and began to copy the signature of William James Chamberlain. He wrote hastily, scratched out with impatience his first two efforts, and surveyed the third at arm’s length. He made a fourth and fifth try.
    Rydal moved closer. Even seen upside down, Chester’s imitation of the signature appeared quite good in his last attempts, much better reproductions than the average person could have made of somebody else’s handwriting. But then Chester was no tyro, Rydal supposed.
    Chester glanced up at him with an amused smile. Obviously he was proud of his talent.
    â€œNot difficult?” Rydal asked.
    â€œNo, not this. It’s tall and slim. Scrawls are hard for me. I’ll do fine with this.”
    He was very sure of himself. Rydal kept his mouth shut, and in fact he had nothing to say. It was Chester’s risk, not his. Chester tore out the notebook page, stood up and snapped his pen shut and pocketed the passport and the notebook. He flicked the wadded piece of paper over the parapet out towards the sea, and they walked on towards the fish restaurant.
    They were at the Hotel Astir with their luggage in a taxi within five minutes. The tall bellboy in the beige uniform helped them out with it. Rydal and Chester asked for rooms at the desk, taking no trouble to hide the fact they were friends; and no doubt, Rydal thought, the whole town knew it by now. It was a good-sized town, but it had a small town’s atmosphere, perhaps due to the absence of tall buildings. And there were few tourists at this time of year. That was bad. Rydal wondered if they were going to be challenged today or tomorrow by some wiseacre who wanted to know if Chester were Chester MacFarland? If they’d have to drag out Chester’s passport and show his name to shake him off? Rydal wasn’t afraid of a plain citizen, but if a policeman asked any questions—
    â€œSir? With bath, did you say?” The clerk had been trying to get his attention.
    â€œOh, yes. Please. With bath.”
    Chester’s and Colette’s room was 414 on the fourth floor, and Rydal’s 408 on the same floor. They all agreed that they would simply clean up and take a nap for the rest of the afternoon.
    The bath was delicious to Rydal, the water hot, the tub big and white. Then he put on pajamas, the better to relax and