Ripley Under Water

by Patricia Highsmith

  “You are tense, cheri.” Heloise was holding his arm, mainly so that they could stay together in the jostling crowd on the pavement.

  “I am thinking. Sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “About us. About Belle Ombre. Everything.” He took a quick glance at Heloise’s face, just as she brushed her hair back with her left hand. I want us to be safe, Tom might have added, but he didn’t want to upset Heloise any further. “Let’s cross the street.”

  Once more, they had begun walking down the Boulevard Pasteur, as if the throngs and the shop fronts were a magnet. Tom saw a red and black shingle hanging over a doorway: Rubi Bar and Grill, in English with Arabic letters under it.

  “Shall we look in?” Tom asked.

  This was a smallish bar and restaurant, with three or four non-tourist types standing or sitting.

  Tom and Heloise stood at the bar, and ordered a cafe express and a tomato juice. The barman pushed a little saucer of cold beans and another of radishes and black olives toward them, plus forks and paper napkins.

  A well-built man on a stool behind Heloise, reading an Arabic newspaper with an air of serious absorption, seemed to be lunching from the saucers. He wore a yellowish djellaba, which hung down almost to his black business shoes. Tom saw him shove a hand into a slit in order to get at the pocket of his trousers. The edges of the slit looked a bit soiled. The man blew his nose, then shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket, never taking his eyes from the newspaper.

  Tom was inspired. He would buy a djellaba, and, with some courage, wear it. He so informed Heloise, and she laughed.

  “And I’ll photograph you—in the Casbah? Outside our hotel?” she asked.

  “Oh, anywhere.” Tom was thinking how practical the loose garment was, because one could wear shorts or a business suit under it, even a bathing suit.

  Tom was in luck: just around the corner from the Rubi Bar and Grill was a shop where djellabas hung amid bright scarves on the shop front.

  “Djellaba—s’il vous plait?” Tom said to the proprietor. “Not pink, no,” he continued in French, on seeing the shop owner’s first offering. “And long sleeves?” Tom indicated with a forefinger on his wrist.

  “Ah! Si! Ici, m’sieur.” His heelless sandals clap-clapped on the old wooden floor. “Ici—“

  A rack of djellabas, partly obscured by a couple of display counters. No room even to sidle to where the shop owner was, but Tom pointed to a pale green number. This had long sleeves and two slits for reaching pockets. Tom held it up against himself to verify the length.

  Heloise doubled over, and for politeness’ sake coughed and made her way toward the door.

  “Bon, c’est fait,” Tom said, after asking the price, which struck him as reasonable. “And these?”

  “Ah, si—” There followed a eulogy—Tom could not make out every word, although the man spoke in French—on the quality of his knives. For the hunt, for le bureau, and for the kitchen.

  These were pocketknives. Tom made his choice quickly: one with a haft of light brown wood with inlaid brass fittings, a blade sharp and pointed, and concave on its non-cutting edge. Thirty dirhams. Folded, his knife was not six inches long, suitable for any pocket.

  “A taxi ride?” Tom said to Heloise. “A quick tour—any direction. Does that appeal?”

  Heloise took a look at her wristwatch. “We could. Aren’t you going to change into your djellaba?”

  “Change? I can do that in the taxi!” Tom waved to the shopkeeper, who was watching them. “Merci, m’sieur!”

  The shopkeeper said something Tom did not understand, and Tom hoped it was “God be with you,” no matter what God.

  The taxi driver asked, “Yacht Club?”

  “That’s for lunch some day,” Heloise said to Tom. “Noelle wants to take us.”

  A drop of sweat slid down Tom’s cheek. “Someplace cool? With a breeze?” he said in French to the driver.

  “La Haffa? Brize—ocean. V’near.”

  Tom was lost. Still, they got in and gave the driver his head. Tom made a statement: “We must be at Hotel Minzah in one hour,” and made sure the driver understood it.

  Checking of watches. They were to pick up Noelle at seven.

  Again high speed, and faulty springs in the taxi. The driver was clearly aiming for somewhere. They headed west, Tom thought, and the city began to fade away.

  “Your dress,” said Heloise, slyly.

  Tom pulled the folded garment from its plastic bag, got it into position, ducked and hauled the flimsy pale green gown over his head. Then a shimmy or two and it was over his jeans, and he made sure he could sit down without splitting it before he did sit down. “There!” he said triumphantly to Heloise.

  She surveyed him with a sparkle in her eyes, approvingly.

  Tom checked his trouser pockets: accessible. The knife was in his left pocket.

  “La Haffa,” said the driver, pulling up at a cement wall with a couple of doors in it, one open. The blue Atlantic Strait lay beyond, visible through a break in the wall.

  “What is it? A museum?” asked Tom.

  “The cafe,” said the driver. “J’attends? Demi-heure?”

  Wisest to say yes, Tom thought, and replied, “Okay, demi-heure.”

  Heloise had already got out, and with head lifted was gazing out at the blue water. The breeze blew her hair steadily out to one side.

  A figure in black trousers and limp white shirt slowly beckoned to them from a stone doorway, like some evil spirit, Tom thought, leading them into hell or at least corruption. A skinny mongrel, black and much underfed, started to sniff at them, apparently lost the energy, and went limping away on three legs. Whatever the problem with his fourth leg was, he seemed to have had it for a long time.

  Tom almost reluctantly followed Heloise through the primitive stone doorway onto a stone path that led in the direction of the sea. Tom saw a kitchen of sorts to their left, with a stove capable of heating water. Broad, railless stone steps descended toward the ocean. Tom glanced into cubicles on either side, rooms with no walls on the sea side, and with straw mats on poles for a roof, mats on the floor, and no furnishings otherwise. No customers just now either.

  “Curious,” Tom said to Heloise . “Would you like some mint tea?”

  Heloise shook her head. “Not now. I don’t like this.”

  Neither did Tom. The waiter was not hovering. Tom could imagine the place being fascinating at night, or at sunset, with friends, with a little liveliness, an oil lamp on the floor. One would have to sit cross-legged on those mats, or recline like the ancient Greeks. Then Tom heard laughter from one cubicle, where three men sat smoking something, legs folded on the mat-covered floor. Tom had an impression of tea cups, a white plate in the shade there, where the sunlight fell like tiny flecks of gold.

  Their taxi was waiting, the driver talking and laughing with the skinny fellow in the white shirt.

  Back to El Minzah, where Tom paid the driver off, and he and Heloise entered the lobby. Tom did not see Pritchard anywhere, from where he stood. And his djellaba excited not the least notice, he was glad to see.

  “Darling, there’s something I want to do just now—for an hour, maybe. Can you—would you mind going alone to the airport to pick up Noelle?”

  “Non-n,” said Heloise thoughtfully. “We will come back here at once, of course. What are you going to do?”

  Tom smiled, hesitated. “Nothing important. Just—be on my own for a while. See you then around—eight? Or soon after? My greetings to Noelle. See you both soon!”

  Chapter 8

  Tom walked out into the sun again, hiked up his djellaba and pulled his schematic map from a back pocket. The Grand Hotel Villa de France that Pritchard had mentioned was indeed two steps away, apparently, approachable by the Rue de Hollande. Tom started walking, wiped sweat from his forehead with the upper part of the pale green djellaba, then hoisted it up at the sides, and pulled it over his head as he walked. Pity he had no plasti
c bag, but the garment folded into a rather small square.

  No one looked at him, and Tom did not stare at the passers-by either. Most of the people, male and female, carried shopping bags of some kind, and were not out for a walk.

  Tom entered the lobby of the Grand Hotel Villa de France and looked around. Not so plush as the Minzah; four people occupying chairs in the lobby, none Pritchard or wife. Tom went to the desk and asked if he could speak with M. David Pritchard.

  “Ou Madame Pritchard,” Tom added.

  “Who shall I say?” asked the young man behind the desk.

  “Just say Thomas.”

  “M’sieur Thomas?”

  “Oui.”

  M. Pritchard was not in, it seemed, although the young man looked behind him and remarked that his key was absent.

  “May I speak with his wife?”

  Hanging up the telephone, the young man remarked that M. Pritchard was alone.

  “Thank you very much. Please say that M’sieur Thomas called, would you? No, thank you, M’sieur Pritchard knows where to reach me.”

  Tom turned toward the door, and at that moment saw Pritchard emerging from a lift, with camera on a strap over one shoulder. Tom strolled toward him. “Afternoon, Mr. Pritchard!”

  “Well—hello! Nice surprise.”

  “Yes. Thought I’d come and say hello. Have you got a few minutes? Or have you an appointment?”

  Pritchard’s deep pinkish lips parted in surprise, or was it pleasure? “Yum—yes, why not?”

  Favorite phrase of Pritchard’s, it seemed, why not. Tom put on an affable manner, and moved toward the door, but had to wait while Pritchard deposited his key.

  “Nice camera,” Tom remarked, when Pritchard came back. “I was just at a great place on the coast near here. Well, it’s all on the coast, isn’t it.” He gave an easy laugh.

  Out of the air-conditioning into the hot sunlight again. It was close to six-thirty, Tom saw.

  “How well do you know Tangier?” Tom asked, ready to play the knowledgeable. “La Haffa? That’s the spectacular-view place. Or—a cafe?” He made a circular gesture with a finger to indicate the immediate neighborhood.

  “Let’s try the first place you mentioned. The view place.”

  “Perhaps Janice would like to come?” Tom stopped on the pavement.

  “She’s taking a nap just now,” said Pritchard.

  They got a taxi after a few minutes’ effort on the boulevard. Tom asked the driver please to go to La Haffa.

  “Isn’t the breeze lovely,” said Tom, letting the air rush through an inch of open window. “Do you know any Arabic? Or the Berber dialect?”

  “Very little,” said Pritchard.

  Tom was prepared to fake that a bit too. Pritchard wore white shoes with a basket-weave structure that let the air in, the kind of shoes Tom couldn’t abide. Funny how everything about Pritchard irked him, even the wristwatch, the stretchable gold-bracelet variety, expensive and flashy, with gold case for the watch, gold-colored face even, suitable for a pimp, Tom thought. Tom preferred infinitely his conservative Patek Philippe on a brown leather strap, which looked like an antique.

  “Look! I think we’re already here.” As usual, the second time to the destination seemed to be shorter than the first. Tom paid over Pritchard’s protest, twenty dirhams, and dismissed the driver. “It’s a tea place,” Tom said. “Mint tea. Maybe other things.” Tom gave a chuckle. Kif, cannabis, might be obtainable on request, he supposed.

  They entered via the stone doorway and descended the path, remarked by one of the white-shirted waiters, Tom noticed.

  “Now look at that view!” Tom said.

  The sun still floated above the blue Strait. Looking out to sea, one might think no dust particle existed, yet underfoot and to right and left the dust and sand lay thinly, bits of man-made straw mats were visible on the stone path, plants looked thirsty in the dry soil. One cubicle, or whatever the partitioned spaces were called, was rather full, with six men sitting and reclining, talking animatedly.

  “Here?” Tom asked, pointing. “Just so we can order, if the waiter comes. Mint tea?”

  Pritchard shrugged, and turned some dials on his camera.

  “Why not?” Tom said, beating Pritchard to it, he thought, but Pritchard said it at the same time.

  Stony-faced, Pritchard lifted his camera to his eyes and aimed it at the water.

  The waiter came, with empty tray hanging in one hand. This waiter was barefoot.

  “Two mint teas, please?” asked Tom in French.

  An affirmative response, and the boy went away.

  Pritchard took three more pictures, slowly, his back mostly toward Tom, who stood in the shade of the cubicle’s sagging roof. Then Pritchard turned and said with a faint smile, “One of you?”

  “No, thank you,” Tom replied genially.

  “Are we supposed to sit here?” asked Pritchard, strolling farther into the sun-speckled cubicle.

  Tom gave a short laugh. He was in no mood for sitting. He took the folded djellaba from under his left arm and dropped it gently to the floor. His left hand returned to his trouser pocket, where his thumb moved over his folded knife. There were a couple of cloth-covered pillows on the floor also, Tom noticed, no doubt comforting for the elbow, if one was reclining.

  Tom ventured, “Why’d you say your wife was here with you, when she isn’t?”

  “Oh—” Despite his faint smile, Pritchard’s brain was busy. “Just joking, I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  “Fun.” Pritchard lifted and pointed his camera at Tom, as if to pay Tom back for his insolence.

  Tom made a violent gesture toward the camera, as if to swat it to the ground, though he didn’t touch it. “You can stop that right now. I’m camera-shy.”

  “Worse’n that, you seem to hate cameras.” But Pritchard had lowered his camera.

  What a good place to kill the bastard, Tom thought, since nobody knew they had a date, nobody knew they had a date here. Knock him out, wound him enough with the knife so that he’d bleed to death, drag him into another cubicle (or not), and depart.

  “Not really,” said Tom. “I have two or three at home. I also don’t like people taking pictures of my house with the look of making a survey—as if for future use.”

  David Pritchard held his camera in his hands, at the level of his waist, and smiled benignly. “You are worried, Mr. Ripley.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Maybe you’re worried about Cynthia Gradnor—and the Murchison story.”

  “Not at all. You’ve never met Cynthia Gradnor, for one thing. Why did you imply you had? Just to have fun? What kind of fun?”

  “You know what kind.” Pritchard was warming, but ever so cautiously, to the fray. He obviously preferred the cynical, cool-looking front. “The pleasure of seeing a snob crook like yourself go belly up.”

  “Oh. Best of British luck, Mr. Pritchard.” Tom was balanced on his feet, both hands in his trouser pockets now and itching to strike. He realized that he was waiting for the tea, and here it came.

  The young waiter set the tray smack on the floor, poured out two glasses from a metal pot, and wished the gentlemen pleasure in the imbibing.

  The tea did smell lovely, fresh, almost enchanting, everything that Pritchard wasn’t. There was also a saucer of mint sprigs. Tom pulled his wallet out and insisted on paying, over Pritchard’s protests. Tom added a tip. “Shall we?” said Tom, and stooped for his glass, taking care to remain facing Pritchard. He wasn’t going to hand Pritchard his glass. The glasses were in metal holders. Tom dropped a mint sprig into his tea.

  Pritchard bent and picked his glass up. “Ouch!”

  Maybe he’d spilt some drops on himself, Tom didn’t know or care. Was Pritchard, in his sick way, enjoying this tea hour with him, Tom wondered, even when nothing happened except that the relationship between them became more hateful on both sides? Did Pritchard like it the more hateful it became? Probably. Tom thought of M
urchison again, but in a different way: oddly, Pritchard was now in Murchison’s position, acting like someone who could betray him, and possibly the Derwatt forgeries, and the Derwatt Art Supply business, now owned in name by Jeff Constant and Ed Banbury. Was Pritchard going to stick to his guns, like Murchison? Had Pritchard any guns, or only vague threats?

  Tom sipped his tea, standing up. The similarity, Tom realized, was that he had to ask both men whether they preferred to stop their inquiries or be killed. He’d pleaded with Murchison to let the forgeries be, let them alone. He hadn’t threatened Murchison. But then when Murchison had been adamant -

  “Mr. Pritchard, I’d like to ask what is perhaps the impossible for you. Just get out of my life, quit your snooping and why not get out of Villeperce? What’re you doing there besides heckling me? You’re not even at insead.” Tom laughed in an indifferent way, as if Pritchard’s tales about himself were puerile.

  “Mr. Ripley, I have a right to live where I want to. The same as you.”

  “Yes, if you behave like the rest of us. I’ve a mind to put the police on to you, ask them to keep an eye on you in Villeperce—where I’ve been living for several years.”

  “You calling on the police!” Pritchard tried to laugh.

  “I could tell them about your photographing my house. I’ve three witnesses for that, besides myself, of course.” Tom might have mentioned a fourth, Janice Pritchard.

  Tom put his tea down on the floor. Pritchard had also set his down after burning himself, and had not picked it up.

  The sun dropped ever closer to the blue water on Tom’s right, and beyond Pritchard. For the moment Pritchard was trying his cool act. Tom remembered that Pritchard knew judo, or so he’d said. Maybe he’d been lying? Tom suddenly lost his temper, exploded, and swung his right leg to give Pritchard a kick in the abdomen—ju-jitsu style, maybe—but the kick was low and got Pritchard in the crotch.

  As Pritchard doubled over, holding himself in pain, Tom delivered a neat right to the jaw with his fist. Pritchard hit the mat over the stone floor with a thud that sounded utterly limp and unconscious, but perhaps wasn’t.