Ripley Under Water

by Patricia Highsmith

  Chapter 11

  At Ed’s flat, Tom accepted a gin and tonic, and composed his thoughts. Ed had written Cynthia Gradnor’s number for him on a slip of paper.

  Tom practiced his French commissaire accent on Ed. “Ees nearly seven. Eef Jeff arrive—you let heem in, go on as usual, yes?”

  Ed nodded, almost bowed. “Yes. Oui!”

  “I am reenging from ze bureau of police in—I’d better make it Paris instead of Melun—now—” Tom was on his feet, walking around Ed’s big workroom, where the telephone sat on a busy, paper-littered desk. “Background noises. Leetle clack on typewriter, please. Zees is a police station. A la Simenon. We all know each ozzer.”

  Ed obliged and seated himself, stuck a piece of paper into his machine.

  Clackety-clack.

  “More thoughtful,” Tom said. “Doesn’t have to be fast.” He dialed, and braced himself to verify that he was speaking to Cynthia Gradnor, to say that David Pritchard had been in touch a few times, and could they ask a few questions in regard to M’sieur Reepley?

  The telephone rang and rang.

  “She ees not een,” Tom said. “Damn. Et merde!” He looked at his watch. Ten past seven. Tom put the telephone down. “Maybe she’s out to dinner. Maybe she’s out of town.”

  “There’s always tomorrow,” Ed said. “Or later tonight.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’s Jeff,” said Ed, and went to the front hall.

  Jeff came in, with umbrella but still dampish. He was taller, bigger than Ed, and balder on top than when Tom had last seen him. “Hello, Tom! An unexpected and welcome pleasure, as usual!”

  The two shook hands warmly, almost embraced.

  “Out of the wet raincoat and into a dry—something or other,” said Ed. “Scotch?”

  “You guessed it. Thank you, Ed.”

  They all sat in Ed’s living room, which had a sofa plus a convenient coffee table. Tom explained to Jeff why he was here: things had hotted up since their last telephone conversation. “My wife’s still in Tangier, with a woman friend, at a hotel called the Rembrandt. So I came over to try and find out what Cynthia’s doing—or maybe trying to do—in regard to Murchison. She might be in touch—”

  “Yes, Ed’s told me about that,” Jeff said. ”—in touch with Mrs. Murchison in America, who of course would be interested in how her husband disappeared. I’ve got to sound that out, I think.” Tom turned his gin and tonic on a coaster. “If it comes to looking for Murchison’s corpse in my neck of the woods—they just might find it, the cops. Or a skeleton, anyway.”

  “Just a few kilometers from where you live, you once said, didn’t you?” Jeff spoke with a trace of fear or awe. “In a river?”

  Tom shrugged. “Yes. Or a canal. I’ve conveniently forgotten exactly where, but I’d recognize the bridge Bernard and I dumped it from—that night. Of course”—Tom straightened up and his expression became more cheerful—“nobody knows why or how Thomas Murchison disappeared. Could’ve been kidnapped at Orly, where I took him—you see.” Tom’s smile widened. He had said “took him,” Murchison, as if he believed it. “He was carrying The Clock and that disappeared at Orly. A genuine Tufts.” Now Tom laughed. “Or Murchison could have decided himself to disappear. Anyway, somebody pinched The Clock and we never saw or heard of it again, remember?”

  “Yes.” Jeff’s high forehead wrinkled in thought. He was holding his glass between his knees. “How long are these people, the Pritchards, staying in your neighborhood there?”

  “It could be a six-month rental, I suppose. Should’ve asked, but I didn’t.” He would disembarrass himself of Pritchard in less than six months, Tom was thinking. Somehow. Tom felt his wrath mounting, and proceeded to tell Ed and Jeff about the house the Pritchards had rented, by way of letting off steam. Tom described the pseudo-antique furniture, and the pond in the lawn on which the afternoon sun shimmered, making designs on the living-room ceiling. “Trouble is, I’d like to see them both drowned in it,” Tom concluded, and the other two laughed.

  “How’s your drink, Tom?” asked Ed.

  “No more, thanks, I’m fine.” Tom glanced at his watch: a little past eight. “I want to try Cynthia again before we take off.”

  Ed and Jeff cooperated. Background noise of typewriter provided by Ed again, as Tom limbered up by talking with Jeff. “No laughter. Zees ees a police bureau een Paris. I ‘ave ‘eard from Preechard,” Tom said earnestly, on his feet again, “and I must question Madame Gradnor, because she may know somezing about M’sieur Murcheeson or hees wife. Yes?”

  “Oui,” said Jeff, with equal seriousness, as if he were swearing something.

  Tom had pen and paper ready to jot anything down, plus the paper on which Cynthia’s number was written. He dialed.

  On the fifth ring, a female voice answered.

  ” ‘Ello, good evening, madame. C’est Madame Gradnor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Commissaire Edouard Bilsault here, een Paris. We are in communication with M’sieur Preechard concerning to a Thomas Murcheeson—whose name you know, I think.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  So far, so good. Tom was pitching his voice higher than normal, and making it more tense. Cynthia after all might recollect his usual pitch and recognize him. “M’sieur Preechard ees now een l’Afrique du Nord as you may know, madame. We would like to know Madame Murcheeson’s address americaine—een America, eef you have it.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Cynthia Gradnor, sounding her old brusque self, which included the stiff upper lip, if circumstances demanded.

  “Because we may ‘ave some information—very soon—een regard to ‘er ‘usband. M’sieur Preechard has telephoned once from Tanger. But we cannot reach ‘eem now.” Tom made his voice rise with urgency.

  “Hm-m,” in a dubious tone. “Mr. Pritchard has his own way of dealing with—the matter you are talking about, I think. Not my affair. I suggest you wait until his return.”

  “But we cannot—should not wait, madame. We ‘ave a question to ask Madame Murcheeson. M’sieur Preechard was not een when we telephoned and telephone in Tanger ees ver-ry bad.” Tom gave a grumpy throat-clearing that hurt him, and signaled for background noises. Cynthia had not seemed surprised that Pritchard was in Tanger, as the French called it.

  Ed slammed a book on to a clear spot on his desk, continued pecking at the typewriter, and Jeff at a distance and facing a wall cupped his hands and created an end of a siren wail, exactly like the Parisian wails, Tom thought.

  “Madame—” Tom continued, in earnest tone.

  “One moment.”

  She was getting it. Tom took up his pen, without a glance at his friends.

  Cynthia returned and read out an address in the East Seventies in Manhattan.

  “Merci, madame,” said Tom politely, but as if it were no more than the police’s due. “And zee telephone?” Tom took this down too. “Merci infiniment, madame. Et bonne soiree.”

  “Whee-ee-glug-glug.” This from Jeff, as Tom politely bade his adieus, convincing cross-Channel noises, Tom had to admit, but maybe unheard by Cynthia.

  “Success,” Tom said calmly. “But to think that she had Mrs. Murchison’s address.” Tom looked at his friends, who were for the moment silent and looking at him. He pocketed the data on Mrs. Murchison, and again looked at his wristwatch. “One more call, may I, Ed?”

  “Go ahead, Tom,” said Ed. “Want to be alone?”

  “Not necessarily. This time France.”

  The two drifted into Ed’s kitchen, however.

  Tom dialed Belle Ombre, where it would be half-past nine.

  ” ‘Allo, Madame Annette!” said Tom. The sound of Mme Annette’s voice conjured up the front hall, and the equally familiar kitchen counter by the coffee machine, where there was also a telephone.

  “Oh, M’sieur Tome! I did not know where to find you! I have bad news. M—”

  “Vraiment?” said Tom frowning.

  “Madame Hel
oise ! She was kidnapped!”

  Tom gasped. “That can’t be true! Who told you?”

  “A man with an American accent! He telephoned—about four o’clock this afternoon. I did not know what to do. He said that, then he hung up. I spoke with Madame Genevieve. She said, ‘What can the police here do?’ She said, ‘Tell it in Tangier, tell it to M’sieur Tome,’ but I did not know how to find you.”

  Tom shut his eyes tight, as Mme Annette continued. Tom was thinking: Pritchard had told the lie, had discovered that Tom Ripley was no longer in Tangier, or not with his wife, anyway, and had decided to make more trouble. Tom took a breath and tried to get a coherent statement through to Mme Annette.

  “Madame Annette, I think it is a trick. Please don’t worry. Madame Heloise and I changed our hotel, I think I told you that. Madame is now at the Rembrandt Hotel. But don’t you worry about that. I shall telephone my wife there this evening and—I shall wager she is still there!” Tom gave a laugh, a real laugh. “American accent!” Tom said with contempt. “That would not be a North African, madame, or a police officer of Tangier, giving you correct information, now would it?”

  Mme Annette had to concede that this was so.

  “Now how is the weather? Here it is raining.”

  “Will you telephone me, when you find out where Madame Heloise is, M’sieur Tome?”

  “Tonight? Y-yes.” He added calmly, “I hope to speak with her tonight. Then I’ll telephone you.”

  “At any hour, m’sieur! Here I have locked every door carefully and the big gates.”

  “Well done, Madame Annette!”

  When he had hung up, Tom said, “Whew!” He shoved his hands into his pockets and drifted toward his friends, who were now in the library or book room with their drinks. “I have news,” Tom said, taking pleasure in being able to share the news now, bad as it was, instead of keeping silent, as he usually had to do with bad news. “My housekeeper says my wife has been kidnapped. In Tangier.”

  Jeff frowned. “Kidnapped? Are you joking?”

  “A man with an American accent rang my house and informed Madame Annette—then hung up. I feel sure it’s false. It’s typical Pritchard—making all the trouble he can.”

  “What should you do?” Ed asked. “Ring her hotel, see if she’s there?”

  “Exactly.” But meanwhile Tom lit a Gitane, savoring a few seconds of detesting David Pritchard, hating every ounce of his body, even his round-rimmed glasses and his vulgar wristwatch. “Yes, I’ll ring the Rembrandt in Tangier. My wife usually comes back to her room around six or seven to change for the evening. The hotel can at least tell me if she’s been in.”

  “Of course. Go ahead, Tom,” said Ed.

  Tom went back to the telephone near Ed’s typewriter, and fished his memo book from an inside pocket of his jacket. He had written down the Rembrandt number with the Tangier code. Hadn’t somebody said that 3 a.m. was the best time to ring Tangier? Tom still tried now, dialing carefully.

  Silence. Then a buzzing, three short buzzes that gave promise of activity. Then silence.

  Tom tried the operator, asked the woman please to put the call through, and gave Ed’s number. The operator told him to hang up. She rang back after a minute and said she was trying the Tangier number. The London operator gave saucy, irritated replies to someone whose voice Tom could barely hear, but she also had no luck.

  “Sometimes at this time of the evening, sir—I suggest you try again, much later tonight.”

  Tom thanked her. “I have to go out. I’ll try again myself later.”

  Then he went into the book room, where Ed and Jeff had almost finished making up his bed. “No luck,” Tom said. “I couldn’t get through. I’ve heard that about the Tangier telephone. Let’s go out and have a bite and forget it for now.”

  “Hellish,” Jeff said, straightening up. “I heard you say you’ll try again later.”

  “Yes. By the way, my thanks to you fellows for making my bed. That’s going to look welcome tonight.”

  A few minutes later, they were out in the drizzle, two umbrellas among them, making their way to Ed’s recommended pub-restaurant. It was close by, full of warm brown rafters and wooden booths. They sat at a table, which Tom preferred because he could see more of the patrons from a table. He ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, for old times’ sake.

  Tom asked Jeff Constant about his work, which was freelance. Jeff had to take on some jobs for money, which he didn’t like as much as what he called “artistic interiors with people or no people.” He meant good-looking house interiors, maybe with a cat or plants. The commercial work had to do with industrial design a lot of the time, Jeff said, close-ups of electric irons.

  “Or buildings out of town,” Jeff went on, “in a half-finished state. I have to photograph them, sometimes in weather like this.”

  “Do you and Ed see each other very often?” Tom asked.

  Both Ed and Jeff smiled and glanced at each other. Ed spoke first.

  “I wouldn’t say so, would you, Jeff? But if one needs the other—we’re there.”

  Tom was thinking of the early days, when Jeff had made the excellent photographs of Derwatt’s genuine paintings, and Ed Banbury had talked them up, had written articles on

  Derwatt, carefully dropped a word here and there that would start the publicity ball rolling, they had hoped, and the ball had started rolling. The story was that Derwatt had been living in Mexico, still lived there, but was a recluse, refused interviews, and refused even to give the name of the village where he lived, though it was believed to be near Veracruz, from which port he shipped his paintings to London. The former owners of the Buckmaster Gallery had been handling Derwatt without impressive success, because they hadn’t tried to push him. Jeff and Ed had done that only after Derwatt had gone to Greece and drowned himself. They had all known Derwatt (all except Tom, curiously, though Tom often felt as if he had known him). Before his death, Derwatt had been a good and interesting painter, ever on the edge of poverty in London, an admired acquaintance of Jeff and Ed and Cynthia and Bernard. Derwatt was from some dreary northern industrial town, Tom forgot which. It was the talking up that had done it, Tom realized. Curious. But then van Gogh had suffered from the lack of talking up. Who had talked Vincent up? No one, maybe only Theo.

  Ed’s narrow face frowned. “I’ll ask it just this once tonight, Tom. Are you really not at all worried about Heloise ?”

  “No. I was thinking about something else just now. I know this Pritchard, Ed. Slightly, but enough.” Tom gave a laugh. “I never met anybody quite like him, but I’ve read about such types. Sadistic. Independent income, so says his wife, but I suspect them both of lying in their teeth.”

  “He’s got a wife?” Jeff asked, surprised.

  “Didn’t I tell you? American. It looks like a sado-masochistic setup to me. They love and hate each other, you know?” Tom continued to Jeff, “Pritchard told me he was studying marketing at insead—it’s a business school near Fontainebleau—absolutely untrue. His wife has bruises on her arms—and neck. He’s in my neighborhood solely to make my life as rotten as possible. And now Cynthia has fired his imagination by bringing up Murchison.” Tom realized, as he cut into his roast beef, that he did not wish to tell Ed or Jeff that Pritchard (or wife) had attempted to imitate Dickie Greenleaf by telephone and had spoken with both Tom and Heloise . Tom did not like harking back to Dickie Greenleaf.

  “And followed you even to Tangier,” Jeff said, pausing with knife and fork in his hands.

  “Without wife,” Tom said.

  “How does one get rid of a pest like that?” Jeff asked.

  “That is the interesting question.” Then Tom laughed.

  The other two looked a bit surprised by his laugh, then managed smiles, too.

  Jeff said, “I’d like to come back to Ed’s, if you’re going to try for Tangier. I’d like to know what’s happening.”

  “Come along, Jeff! How long does Heloise intend to stay, Tom?”
Ed asked. “In Tangier? Or Morocco?”

  “Maybe another ten days or so. I don’t know. Her friend Noelle has been there before. They want to go on to Casablanca.”

  Espresso coffee. Then some shop talk between Jeff and Ed. It was evident to Tom that each could turn a bit of work the other’s way from time to time. Jeff Constant was good at portrait photos, and Ed Banbury often interviewed people for Sunday supplements.

  Tom insisted on paying for dinner. “My pleasure,” he said.

  The rain had stopped, and Tom proposed a turn around the block when they were near Ed’s. Tom loved the little shops interspersed with entrances to flats, the polished brass slits in the doors for letters, even the cozy late-night deli, well-lit and with fresh fruit, canned goods, shelves of bread and cereals and open at nearly midnight.

  “Run by Arabs or Pakis,” Ed said. “Anyway, a blessing, open on Sundays and holidays, too.”

  They arrived back at Ed’s doorway.

  Tom thought he had a slightly better chance now for a telephone connection with the Hotel Rembrandt, though perhaps not so good as at 3 a.m. Again he dialed carefully, hoping that someone competent and able to speak French would be manning the switchboard.

  Jeff and Ed drifted in, Jeff with a cigarette, to hear the news.

  Tom made a gesture. “They’re not answering yet.” He dialed the operator and put the matter into her hands. She was to ring back when she made contact with the Rembrandt. “Damn!”

  “You think there’s any hope?” asked Ed. “You could send a telegram, Tom.”

  “The London operator’s supposed to ring back. Don’t wait up, you two.” Tom looked at his host. “Do you mind, Ed, if I run and get it in here, if Tangier rings back tonight?”

  “Of course not. I won’t hear it in my bedroom. No phone there.” Ed patted Tom on the shoulder.

  It was the first physical touch Tom could recall from Ed, apart from handshakes. “I’m going to take a shower, which will surely make the call come through when I’m in the middle of it.”