“What other threats, Tom—from Cynthia?” Ed asked in a soft voice, when Tom came back. “Or hints of threats?”
Ed had almost grimaced as he spoke: he had never been able to handle Cynthia, Tom knew. Cynthia made people uncomfortable sometimes, because she had an air, always, of being undisturbed by and somehow above anything and everything anyone else might think or do. Toward Tom and his Buckmaster Gallery associates, of course, she had shown frank contempt. But the fact remained, Cynthia had not been able to persuade Bernard to stop his forging, and she had presumably tried.
“None, I think, that she stated,” Tom said finally. “She enjoys knowing that Pritchard is annoying me. She’s going to help him do that, if she can.”
“She talks with him?” asked Jeff.
“On the telephone? I dunno,” Tom said. “Maybe. Since Cynthia’s in the book, it’s easy for Pritchard to telephone—if he wants to.” Tom was thinking, what else, what of import could Cynthia give Pritchard, if she wasn’t going to betray the forgeries? “Perhaps Cynthia wants to annoy us—all of us—just because she could spill the beans any time she wishes.”
“But you said she didn’t give a hint of that,” said Jeff.
“No, but then Cynthia wouldn’t,” Tom replied.
“No,” Ed echoed. “Think of the publicity,” he added softly, as if musing, and his tone was earnest.
Was Ed thinking about unfavorable publicity for Cynthia, or for Bernard Tufts and the gallery, or all three? At any rate, horrid it would be, Tom thought, not least because it would be provable not by analysis of canvases but by absence of provenance records, and the already only half-explained disappearances of Derwatt, Murchison and Bernard Tufts would add weight.
Jeff’s sizable chin lifted, and he smiled his wide and easygoing smile that Tom hadn’t seen for a long time. “Unless we could prove that we knew nothing about the forgeries.” He said it with laughter, as if of course it was impossible.
“Yes, if we were not chummy with Bernard Tufts, and he never came to the Buckmaster Gallery,” said Ed. “In fact, he never did come to the gallery.”
“We dump the blame entirely on Bernard,” said Jeff, more soberly now but still smiling.
“Won’t hold water,” Tom said, pondering what he had heard. He drained his glass. “My second thought is, Cynthia would tear our throats out with her fingernails, if we dumped the blame on Bernard. I shudder to contemplate it!” Tom laughed loudly.
“Ho-ow true!” said Ed Banbury, smiling at the black humor of it. “But then—how could she prove we were lying? If Bernard had been sending his stuff from his London atelier—and not from Mexico—“
“Or would he take the trouble to get it sent from Mexico so we’d believe the postal labels?” asked Jeff, his face alight with the joy of fantasy.
“At the prices of those paintings,” Tom put in, “Bernard might have taken the trouble to post them from China! Especially with the aid of a pal.”
“A pal!” Jeff said, raising a forefinger. “We’ve got it! The pal’s the culprit, we can’t find the pal, neither can Cynthia! Ha-ha!”
They guffawed again. It was a relief.
“Nonsense,” Tom said, and stretched his legs out. Were his friends possibly tossing him “a thought” to play with, by which playing all three of them and the gallery might free themselves of Cynthia’s veiled threats and all past sins? If so, the pal idea was not viable. Tom was really thinking of Heloise again, and of trying Mrs. Murchison while in London. What could he ask Mrs. Murchison? Logically, plausibly? As Tom Ripley, or as the French police, as he’d successfully done with Cynthia? Would Cynthia already have rung Mrs. Murchison to say that the French police had wanted her address? Tom doubted that. Though Mrs. Murchison would be easier to fool than Cynthia, it was wise to be careful. Pride goeth before a fall. Tom wanted to know if busybody Preechard had spoken recently or ever with Mrs. Murchison by telephone. Well, Tom wanted to know that mainly, but he could ring on the pretense of checking her address and telephone number, in regard to the quest for her husband. No, he’d have to pose a question of some kind: did she know where M’sieur Preechard was at this minute, because ze police had lost him in North Africa, and M’sieur Preechard was aiding them in regard to her husband.
“Tom?” Jeff took a step toward Tom, extending a bowl of pistachios.
“Thank you. May I have several? I love them,” Tom said.
“As many as you want, Tom,” said Ed. “Here’s the wastepaper basket for the shells.”
“I’ve just thought of something obvious,” Tom said, “re Cynthia.”
“And what’s that?” asked Jeff.
“Cynthia can’t have it both ways. She can’t tease us or Pritchard by asking ‘Where’s Murchison?’ without admitting there was a reason to get rid of him, namely to shut him up about the forging. If Cynthia keeps on, she’ll—expose the fact that Bernard was doing the forging, and I think she doesn’t want to expose Bernard to anything. Not even to having been exploited.”
The others were silent for a few seconds.
“Cynthia knows Bernard was an odd one. We exploited him, his talents, I grant you.” Tom added musingly, “Would she ever have married him?”
“Yes,” said Ed, nodding. “I think so. She’s the motherly type, underneath it all.”
“Motherly!” Sitting on the couch, Jeff laughed, and his feet left the floor. “Cynthia!”
“All women are, don’t you think?” said Ed, earnestly. “I think they’d have married. That’s one reason why Cynthia is so sore.”
“Is anyone interested in food?” Jeff asked.
“Oh—yes,” Ed replied. “I know a place—no, that’s Islington.
There’s another good place near here, different from last night, Tom.”
“I want to try Madame Murcheeson,” Tom said, getting up from his chair. “New York, you know. Might be a good time, if she’s in for lunch.”
“Go ahead,” said Ed. “Want to use the phone in the living room? Or here?”
Tom knew he looked as if he wanted to be alone, frowning and a bit nervous. “Living room, fine.”
Ed gestured, and Tom pulled his little notebook out.
“Make yourself at home,” Ed said, and set a chair near the telephone.
Tom stayed on his feet. He dialed the Manhattan number, and rehearsed himself silently for the French police officer’s introduction of himself, Edouard Bilsault, Commissaire, Paris—and thank God he had noted the unlikely name under Mrs. Murchison’s address and telephone number, or he might not have remembered it. This time, he might make his accent not so pronounced, but rather like Maurice Chevalier’s.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Murchison was not at home but was due back at any minute, said a female voice, of a type Tom thought could belong to a servant or cleaning woman, though he was not sure of this, and so kept up his French accent with care.
“Weel you say, please, zat I—Commissaire Bilsault—non-non, no need to write—weel ring again—tonight—or tomorrow … Zank you, madame.”
No need to say that the telephone call had been in regard to Thomas Murchison, because Mrs. Murchison would guess that. Tom supposed he should try later tonight, as the lady was expected back so soon.
Tom was not sure what he should ask her, if he got her on the telephone: had she heard from David Pritchard, of course, with whom for the moment the French police had lost touch. Tom fully expected a “No, I haven’t” when he posed this question, but still he ought to pose something, or state something, because Mrs. Murchison and Cynthia just might be in touch, at least now and then. He had no sooner entered Ed’s workroom, when the desk telephone rang.
Ed answered. “Oh—yes! Oui! Just a moment! Tom! It’s Heloise!”
“Oh!” said Tom, and took the instrument. “Hello, my dear!”
”Allo, Tome!”
“Where are you?”
“We are in Casablanca. Ver-ry breezy—nice! And—what do you know? This Mister Preechard has turned up? We
arrived at one in the afternoon—and he must have come very soon later. He must have found out our hotel, because—”
“Is he in the same hotel? The Miramare?” asked Tom, impotent and livid, squeezing the telephone.
“Non! But he—looked in here. He saw us, Noelle and me. But he did not see you, we could see him looking around. Now Tome—”
“Yes, my sweet?”
“This was seex hours ago! Now—Noelle and I looked around. We telephoned a hotel, two hotels, he is not in them. We think he has departed because you are not with us.”
Tom was still frowning. “I’m not so sure. How can you be sure?”
There was a conclusive click, as if they had been cut off by some malicious hand. Tom took a deep breath, and refrained from uttering a four-letter word.
Then Heloise ‘s voice came back, speaking more calmly, through oceanic noises: “… is now the evening and we don’t see him anywhere. Of course it is disgusting that he follows us. Le salaud!”
Tom was thinking that Pritchard might have returned to Villeperce by now, believing that he, Tom, had also returned. “You should still be careful,” Tom said. “This Pritchard is full of tricks. Don’t trust even any stranger who may say, ‘Come with me—somewhere. Even into a shop, for example. You understand?”
“Oui, mon cher. But now—we go around just in daytime, look and buy little things of leather, brass. Don’t worry, Tome. Just the opposite! It is fun here. Hey! Noelle wants to say a word.”
Tom was often startled by Heloise’s “Hey!” but it sounded comforting tonight, and made him smile. “Hello, Noelle. It seems you are having a good time in Casablanca?”
“Ah, Tome, wonderful! It has been three years since I was in Casablanca, I think, but I remember the port so well—a better port than Tangier, you know? Much bigger here …”
Sealike noises swelled, drowned her voice. “Noelle?”
“… not to have seen this monster for several hours is a pleasure,” Noelle continued in French, apparently unaware of the interruption.
“Preechard, you mean,” Tom said.
“Preechard, oui! C’est atroce! Cette histoire de kidnapping!”
“Oui, il est atroce!” Tom said, as if echoing the French words could confirm David Pritchard as insane, a figure to be hated by all mankind, and put behind bars. Alas, Pritchard wasn’t behind bars. “You know, Noelle, I may go to Villeperce very soon, tomorrow, because Pritchard may be there—causing some kind of trouble. May I try to check with you tomorrow?”
“But of course. Say, midday? We can be here,” Noelle replied.
“Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me, because daytime phoning is difficult.” Tom verified the Miramare number with Noelle, who in her efficient way had it handy. “You know Heloise—she sometimes isn’t worried enough, when situations are dangerous. I do not wish her to walk out in the street alone, Noelle, even in daylight to buy a newspaper.”
“I understand, Tome,” said Noelle in English, “and here it is so easy to hire somebody to do anyzing!”
Horrid thought, but Tom said gratefully, “Yes! Even if Preechard has gone back to France.” Tom added in coarse French, “Wish to hell he’d drag his”—Tom had to leave it unsaid—“out of our village.”
Noelle laughed. “Till tomorrow, Tome!”
Tom again pulled out his notebook with the Murchison number in it. He realized that he was seething with anger against Pritchard. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
Mrs. Murchison answered, or so Tom thought.
Tom introduced himself once more: Commissaire Edouard Bilsault in Paris. Was this Madame Murcheeson? Yes. Tom was prepared to give precinct and arrondissement, made up on the spot, if need be. Tom was also curious to know—if he could gracefully learn it—if Cynthia had already tried to ring Mrs. Murchison this evening.
Tom cleared his throat, and pitched his voice higher. “Madame, this concerns your ‘usband who ees missing. We are at the moment not able to find David Preechard. We are recently in touch with ‘eem—but M’sieur Preechard went to Tanger—did you know zat?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Murchison said calmly, in her civilized voice that Tom now recalled. “He said he might go, because Mr. Ripley was going there—with his wife, I believe.”
“Oui. Exact, madame. You ‘ave not ‘eard from Meester Preechard since he was in Tanger?”
“No.”
“Or from Madame Cynthia Gradnor? I believe she ees also in touch weet you?”
“Yes, lately—she writes or telephones me. But not in regard to anybody in Tangier. I can’t help you there.”
“I see. Zank you, madame.”
“I don’t—um-m—know what Mr. Pritchard is doing in Tangier. Did you suggest that he go? Is it the idea of the French police, I mean?”
It was the idea of a loony, Tom thought, loony Pritchard to follow Ripley, not even to assassinate but to heckle. “No, madame, eet is M’sieur Preechard who wanted to follow M’sieur Reepley to—Afrique du Nord, not our idee. But usually ‘e ees in better touch with us.”
“But—what is the news about my husband? Are there any new facts?”
Tom sighed, and heard a couple of New York cars honk outside an open window near Mrs. Murchison. “None, ma-dame, I am sorry to report. But we try. Ees a delicate situation, madame, because M’sieur Reepley ees a respected man where ‘e leeves and we ‘ave nozzing against M’sieur Reepley. Ees M’sieur Preechard who ‘as his own idees—wheech of course we note, but—you understand, Madame Murcheeson?” Tom continued in a polite tone, but slowly drew the telephone away, so that his voice would fade. He made a sucking noise, a gurgle, and hung up, as if they’d been cut off.
Whew! It had not been as bad as Tom had feared, not dangerous at all, he thought. But Cynthia definitely in touch! He hoped it would be the last time he had to ring Mrs. Murchison.
Tom then went back to the workroom, where Ed and Jeff showed signs of readiness to depart for dinner. He had decided not to ring Mme Annette tonight but tomorrow morning after her shopping hour, which he was sure hadn’t changed. Mme Annette would know from her faithful sentinel—Genevieve, wasn’t it?—whether M. Preechard had returned to Villeperce or not.
“Well,” Tom said, smiling. “I spoke with Madame Murcheeson. And—”
“We thought it best not to hover, Tom.” Jeff looked interested.
“Preechard has been in touch enough to let Mrs. Murchison know he went to Tangier. Imagine! I gather one telephone call did that. And she told me Cynthia rings or writes—sometimes. Bad enough, isn’t it?”
“All in touch, you mean,” said Ed. “Yes—rather.”
“Let’s go out and get something to eat,” Tom said.
“Tom—Ed and I’ve been talking,” Jeff began. “One or the other of us or both will come over to France and help you—against this”—Jeff sought a word—“obsessed nut Pritchard.”
“Or to Tangier,” Ed put in promptly. “Wherever you have to go, Tom. Or wherever we’re useful. We’re all in this together, you know.”
Tom let it sink in. It was comforting, indeed. “Thanks. I shall think—or zink—about what I or we must do. Let’s go out, shall we?”
Chapter 14
Tom didn’t think too hard about his current problems while having dinner with Jeff and Ed. They had finally taken a taxi to a place Jeff knew of in the Little Venice area, quiet and small. It was indeed so quiet and unpatronized that evening that Tom kept his voice low, even when talking of innocent matters like cooking.
Ed said he had been giving some attention to his neglected cooking talents, if any, and next time he would venture to cook for both of them.
“Tomorrow evening? Tomorrow lunch?” asked Jeff, smiling incredulously.
“I’ve got a little book called The Imaginative Cook,” Ed went on. “It encourages combining things and—“
“Leftovers?” Jeff lifted a piece of asparagus, with butter dripping from it, and put the tip into his mouth.
“Have y
our fun,” Ed said. “But next time, I swear.”
“But you’re not game for tomorrow,” said Jeff.
“How do I know Tom’s here tomorrow night? Does Tom know?”
“No,” said Tom. He had espied, a couple of empty tables away, a very pretty young woman with fair straight hair, talking to a young man opposite her. She wore a black sleeveless dress, gold earrings, and had that happy self-assurance that Tom seldom saw outside of England and the kind of good looks that made his eyes keep drifting toward her. The young woman had made him think about a present for Heloise .
Gold earrings? Absurd! How many pairs had Heloise already? A bracelet? Heloise liked a surprise, even a small one, when he came back from a trip. And when would Heloise be back home?
Ed glanced to see what fascinated Tom.
“Pretty, is she not?” said Tom.
“Is—she—not,” Ed agreed. “Look, Tom—I could be free at the end of this week. Or even by Thursday—two days from now—to go to France—or anywhere. I have an article to polish up and type. I’ll hurry, if necessary. If you’re in straits.”
Tom didn’t reply at once.
“And no word-processor for Ed,” Jeff put in. “Ed’s the old-fashioned type.”
“I am a word-processor,” said Ed. “How about your old cameras, for that matter? Some of them are old.”
“And they’re excellent,” Jeff said quietly.
Tom saw that Ed stifled a retort to this. Tom was enjoying delicious lamb chops, and a good red wine. “Ed, old pal, I am most grateful,” Tom said in a low voice, glancing to his left, where beyond one empty table, the next table now had three people. “Because you could get hurt. Mind you, I don’t know exactly how, because I haven’t seen Pritchard with a gun, for instance.” Tom lowered his head and said as if to himself, “I may have to tackle the son of a bitch hand to hand. Really finish him, I dunno.”
His words hung in the air.
“I’m pretty strong,” Jeff said in a cheerful tone. “You may need that, Tom.”
Ripley Under Water Page 17
