The Quiet American Read Online Free Page A

Phuong into the house, so I went in search of a French officer. In Pyle’s bathroom Vigot was washing his hands with Pyle’s soap and drying them on Pyle’s towel. His tropical suit had a stain of oil on the sleeve-Pyle’s oil, I supposed. “Any news?” I asked.
    “We found his car in the garage. It’s empty of petrol. He must have gone off last night in a trishaw-or in somebody else’s car. Perhaps the petrol was drained away.”
    “He might even have walked,” I said. “You know what Americans are.”
    “Your car was burnt, wasn’t it?” he went thoughtfully on. “You haven’t a new one?” “No.”
    “It’s not an important point.” “No.”
    “Have you any views?” he asked. “Too many,” I said. “Tell me.”
    “Well, he might have been murdered by the Vietminh. They have murdered plenty of people in Saigon. His body was found in the river by the bridge to Dakow-Vietminh territory when your police withdraw at night. Or he might have been killed by the Vietnamese Surete-it’s been known. Perhaps they did not like his friends. Perhaps he was killed by the Caodaists because he knew General The.”
      “Did he?”
    “They say so. Perhaps he was killed by General The because he knew the Caodaists. Perhaps he was killed by the Hoa-Haos for making passes at the General’s concubines. Perhaps he was just killed by someone who wanted his money.”
    “Or a simple case of jealousy,” Vigot said. “Or perhaps by the French Surete,” I continued, “because they didn’t like his contacts. Are you really looking for the people who killed him?”
    “No,” Vigot said. “I’m just making a report, that’s all. So long as it’s an act of war-well, there are thousands killed every year.”
    “You can rule me out,” I said. “I’m not involved. Not involved,” I repeated. It had been an article of my creed. The human condition being what it was, let them fight, let them love, let them murder, I would not be involved. My fellow journalists called themselves correspondents; I preferred the title of reporter. I wrote what I saw: I took no action-even an opinion is a kind of action. “What are you doing here?”
    “I’ve come for Phuong’s belongings. Your police wouldn’t let her in.”
    “Well, let us go and find them.” “It’s nice of you, Vigot.”
    Pyle had two rooms, a kitchen and bathroom. We went to the bedroom. I knew where Phuong would keep her box-under the bed. We pulled it out together; it contained her picture books. I took her few spare clothes out of the wardrobe, her two good robes and her spare trousers. One had a sense that they had been hanging there for a few hours only and didn’t belong, they were in passage like a butterfly in a room. In a drawer I found her small triangular pants and her collection of scarves. There was really very little to put in the box, less than a week-end visitor’s at home.
    In the sitting-room there was a photograph of herself and Pyle. They had been photographed in the botanical gardens beside a large stone dragon. She held Pyle’s dog on a leash-a black chow with a black tongue. A too black dog. I put the photograph in her box. “What’s happened to the dog?” I said.
    “It isn’t here. He may have taken it with him.” “Perhaps it will return and you can analyse the earth on its paws.”
    “I’m not Lecoq, or even Maigret, and there’s a war on.”
    I went across to the bookcase and examined the two rows of books-Pyle’s library. The Advance of Red China, The Challenge to Democracy. The Role of the West-these, I suppose, were the complete works of York Harding. There were a lot of Congressional Reports, a Vietnamese phrase book, a history of the War in the Philippines, a Modern Library Shakespeare. On what did he relax? I found his light reading on another shelf: a portable Thomas Wolfe and a mysterious anthology called The Triumph of Life, and a selection of American poetry. There was also a book of chess problems. It