“Bien sur, m’sieur. Et …”
She would buy fresh string beans this afternoon, and something else, and perhaps a kind of cheese Mme Heloise liked. Mme Annette was in seventh heaven.
Tom returned to the living room where Ed was looking at that morning’s Herald Trib. “All is well,” Tom announced. “Want to take a walk with me?” Tom felt like jogging, or leaping a fence.
“Great idea! Stretch our legs!” Ed was ready.
“And maybe run into Heloise in that fast car? Or is Yves running the car in? Anyway, it’s due.” Tom went to the kitchen again, where Mme Annette was calmly at work. “Madame—M’sieur Ed and I are going out for a short promenade. Back in fifteen minutes.”
Then Tom rejoined Ed in the hall. Again he thought of the depressing possibility that had occurred to him that morning, and Tom paused, hand on the doorknob.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing specific. Since I’ve—so taken you into my confidence—” Tom pushed his fingers through his straight brown hair. “Well, it occurred to me this morning that old Preekhard might have kept a diary—or even she, more likely. They might have written down that they found the bones,” Tom continued, lowering his voice, glancing into the broad doorway to the living room, “and dumped them on my doorstep—just yesterday.” Here Tom opened the door, needing sunlight and fresh air. “And that they hid the head somewhere on their property.”
They both went out on to the graveled forecourt.
“The police would find the diary,” Tom went on, “and learn soon enough that one of Pritchard’s pastimes was harassing me.” Tom disliked talking out his anxieties, usually so fleeting anyway. But certainly Ed was to be trusted, he reminded himself.
“But both of them were so cracked!” Ed frowned at Tom, and his whisper was hardly louder than their tread on the gravel. “Whatever they wrote—might be fantasy or not necessarily true. And even so—their word against yours?”
“If they’ve written anywhere that they delivered any bones here, I’m simply going to deny it,” Tom said in a quiet and firm tone, as if that were the end of the matter. “I don’t think it’ll happen.”
“Right, Tom.”
They walked on, as if to get rid of nervous energy, able to walk side by side because cars were few or none. What color was Yves’s car, Tom wondered, and did people have to run in any new car these days? He imagined the car yellow, tres sportif.
“D’you think Jeff might like to come over, Ed? Just for fun?” Tom asked. “He said he could make himself free now. By the way, I hope you’ll stay on at least two more days, Ed. Can you?”
“I can.” Ed glanced at Tom. The English pink was back in his cheeks. “You might ring Jeff up and ask. That’s a nice idea.”
“There’s a couch in my atelier. Quite comfortable.” Tom much wished to enjoy even two days of holiday at Belle Ombre with his old friends; at the same time, he was wondering if his telephone was ringing at this moment, ten past twelve, because the police would like to speak with him about something. “There! Look!” Tom jumped into the air and pointed. “The yellow car! I’ll bet!”
The car with its top down rolled toward them, and Heloise was waving from the passenger seat. She raised herself as much as her seatbelt permitted, and her blonde hair blew back.
“Tome!”
Tom and Ed were on the same side of the road as the car.
“Hi! Hello!” Tom waved both arms. Heloise looked very suntanned.
The driver braked, but still went past Tom and Ed, who trotted back toward it.
“Hello, darling!” Tom kissed Heloise on the cheek.
“This is Yves!” said Heloise , and the dark-haired young man smiled and said, “Enchante, M’sieur Ripley!” He was driving an Alfa-Romeo. “Would you like to get in?” he asked in English.
“This is Ed.” Tom gestured. “No, thank you, we’ll follow,” he replied in French. “See you at the house!”
The back seat of the car had been laden with small suitcases, one definitely new to Tom, and Tom had not seen room even for a small dog there. He and Ed went off trotting, then running, laughing, and they were no more than five meters behind the yellow Alfa by the time it turned right and went through the gates of Belle Ombre.
Mme Annette appeared. Much chatter and greetings and introductions. Somehow they all helped with the luggage, because there were innumerable small items in plastic bags in the trunk. For once, Mme Annette was permitted to carry the lighter items upstairs. Heloise hovered, pointing out certain plastic bags which contained “patisserie et bonbons de Maroc,” and which no one should squeeze.
“I shall not squeeze,” said Tom, “just take them to the kitchen.” He did, and returned. “May I offer you a glass of something, Yves? And you are also welcome to stay for lunch.”
Yves declined both with thanks, and said he had a date in Fontainebleau and was a bit late now. Goodbyes and thanks between Heloise and Yves.
Then Mme Annette served two bloody Marys at Tom’s request, for himself and Ed, and an orange juice for Heloise, her choice. Tom did not want to take his eyes from her. She had not lost or gained weight, he thought, and the curve of her thighs under the pale blue trousers seemed things of beauty, works of art. Her voice, as she chattered on, half in French and half in English, about Morocco, was music to him, more delicious than Scarlatti.
When Tom looked at Ed, who stood with his tomato-colored drink in hand, he found Ed equally fixated, gazing at Heloise as she looked out the French windows. Heloise asked about Henri, and when was the last time it had rained? She had two other plastic bags in the hall, and brought them in. One contained a brass bowl, plain and not decorated, Heloise pointed out with pleasure. Another item for Mme Annette to polish, Tom thought.
“And this! Look, Tom! So pretty and it costed so little! A briefcase for your desk.” She produced a rectangle of soft brown leather, tooled, but not too elaborately, and just at its borders.
What desk, Tom wondered. He had a writing-table in his room, but - Heloise was opening it, showing Tom the four pockets within, two on each side, also made of leather.
Tom still preferred to stare at Heloise, so close to him now that he imagined he could smell the sun on her skin. “It is lovely, darling. If it’s for me—”
“Of course it is for you!” Heloise laughed and gave a quick glance at Ed, pushed her blonde hair back.
Again her skin was a bit darker than her hair. Tom had seen this a few times before. “It’s a wallet, darling—no? I think not a briefcase—which usually has a handle.”
“Oh, Tome, you are so serious!” She gave him a playful push in the forehead.
Ed laughed.
“What would you call this, Ed? A letter-holder?”
“The English language—” Ed began and didn’t finish. “Anyway not a portfolio. I’d say a letter-holder.”
Tom agreed. “It is beautiful, my dear, and I thank you.” He seized her right hand and gave it a quick kiss. “I shall love it and keep it polished—or cared for.”
Tom’s thoughts were more than half elsewhere. Where and when could he tell her about the Pritchard tragedy? Mme Annette would not mention it in the next two hours, because she was occupied with serving lunch. But the telephone might ring at any moment with more news from someone, the Grais, perhaps, even the Cleggs if the news had spread for kilometers. Tom decided at any rate to enjoy a pleasant lunch, and listen to accounts of Marrakesh and the two French gentlemen who were nice for dinner, Andre and Patrick. There was much laughter.
Heloise said to Ed, “We are so glad to have you here at our house! We hope you will enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you, Heloise,” Ed replied. “It’s a beautiful house—very comfortable.” Ed glanced at Tom.
Tom was at that moment thoughtful, biting his underlip. Maybe Ed knew what he was thinking: that he had to inform Heloise soon about the Pritchards. If Heloise had asked about them during lunch, Tom was prepared to be evasive. He was happy that she didn’t ment
ion them.
Chapter 23
No one wanted coffee after lunch. Ed said that he felt like taking a longer walk, “all through the village.” “Do you think you’ll ring Jeff—really?” Ed asked.
Tom explained to Heloise, who was having a cigarette at the table. He and Ed thought that their old friend Jeff Constant, a photographer, might like to come over to visit for a couple of days. “We happen to know he’s free now,” Tom said. “He’s a freelancer, like Ed.”
“Mais oui, Tome! Why not? Where will he sleep? Your atelier?”
“I’d thought of that. Unless I join you for a couple of days and he takes my room.” Tom smiled. “As you wish, my sweet.” It had been done before, Tom recalled, several times: it was easier for him to sleep chez Heloise, somehow, than for her to move necessities into his room. Each of their rooms had a double bed.
“But of course, Tome,” Heloise said in French. She stood up, and then Tom and Ed did.
“Excuse me a sec,” Tom said, mainly to Ed, and went off to the kitchen.
Mme Annette was putting plates into the dishwasher, just as on any other day.
“Madame, an excellent lunch—thank you. And two matters.” Tom lowered his voice, and said, “I shall tell Madame Heloise now about the Preechard affair—so that she does not
hear it from a stranger in—well, so it is not such a shock, perhaps.”
“Oui, M’sieur Tome. You are right.”
“And the second thing, I shall invite another English friend to come tomorrow. I’m not sure he can, but I shall inform you. In which case he’ll have my room. I’m going to telephone London in a few minutes, then I’ll let you know.”
“Very good, m’sieur. But about the meals—le menu?”
Tom smiled. “If there are difficulties, we’ll dine out somewhere tomorrow evening.” Tomorrow was Sunday, Tom realized, but the village butcher was open tomorrow morning.
He then hurried up the stairs, thinking that at any minute the telephone could ring—the Grais, for instance, who knew Heloise was due home—and someone might start talking about the Pritchards. The upstairs telephone was now in Tom’s room, not in Heloise’s as it usually was, but she would likely answer it if it rang in his room.
Heloise was in her own room, unpacking. Tom noticed a couple of cotton blouses that he had not seen before.
“Do you like this, Tome?” Heloise held a vertically striped skirt against her waist. The stripes were of purple, green and red.
“It is different,” Tom said.
“Yes! That’s why I bought it. And this belt? Then I have something for Madame Annette too! Let me—”
“Darling,” Tom interrupted, “I have to tell you—something—rather unpleasant.” Now he had her attention. “You remember the Pritchards—”
“Oh, the Prtfechards,” she repeated, as if she thought them the most boring or unattractive people on earth. “Alors?”
“They—” It was painful to get the words out, even though he knew Heloise disliked the Pritchards. “They had an accident—or committed suicide. I don’t know which, but the police can probably tell.”
“They are dead?” Heloise’s lips stayed parted.
“Agnes Grais told me this morning. She telephoned. They were found in that pond on the lawn. Remember? The pond we saw when we went to look at that house”
“Oh, yes, I remember.” She was standing with the brown belt in her hands.
“They may have slipped—one could have dragged the other in, I don’t know. Then the bottom’s mud—de la boue—not easy perhaps to get out of.” Tom winced as he spoke, as if he felt sympathy for the Pritchards, but it was the sheer horror of that muddy drowning that made him wince, the nothing underfoot but mush and softness, mud in the shoes. Tom hated the thought of drowning. He continued, and told Heloise of the two boys selling raffle tickets, who had come running to the Grais’ house afterward, scared, with the news of seeing two people in the pond.
“Sacrebleu!” Heloise whispered, and sat down on the edge of her bed. “And Agnes called the police?”
“No doubt. And then—I don’t know how she heard, or I forgot, the police found below the Pritchards a bag of human bones.”
“Quoi?” Heloise gasped with shock. “Bones?”
“They were odd—strange. The Pritchards.” Now Tom sat down in a chair. “All this was just a few hours ago, darling. We’ll learn more later, I suppose. But I wanted to tell you before Agnes or someone else did.”
“I should telephone Agnes. They’re so close there. I wonder—that bag of bones! What were they doing with it?”
Tom shook his head and stood up. “And what else will they find in that house? Instruments of torture? Chains? Those two belong in Krafft-Ebing! Maybe the police will find more bones.”
“How terrible! People they have killed?”
“Who knows?” And in fact Tom didn’t know, and thought it a possibility that David Pritchard might have among his treasures some human bones that he had dug up somewhere, or which were just possibly of someone he had done in; Pritchard was a good liar. “Don’t forget, David Pritchard liked to beat his wife. Maybe he has beaten other wives.”
“Tome!” Heloise put her hands over her face.
Tom went and pulled her to him, put his arms around her waist. “I shouldn’t have said that. But it is possible, that’s all.”
She held him tightly. “I thought—this afternoon—could be for us. But not with this horrible story!”
“But there’s tonight—and lots of time ahead! You want to ring Agnes, I know, dear. And then I’ll telephone Jeff.” Tom stepped away. “Didn’t you meet Jeff once in London? A little taller and heavier than Ed? Also fair-haired?” Tom did not want to remind her just now that Jeff and Ed were among the original Buckmaster Gallery founders, as was Tom, because that would evoke Bernard Tufts, with whom Heloise had never been comfortable, Bernard having been visibly cracked and peculiar.
“I remember the name. You should ring him first. Agnes will know more if I wait.”
“True!” Tom laughed. “By the way—Madame Annette of course heard the news about the pond this morning, from her friend Marie-Louise, I think.” Tom had to smile. “With Madame Annette’s telephone network, she’ll probably know more now than Agnes!”
Tom found that his personal address book was not in his room, therefore probably down on the hall table. He went downstairs, looked up Jeff Constant’s number and dialed. On the seventh ring, he had luck.
“Tom here, Jeff. Now look—all is at the moment quiet, so why don’t you come over for a short holiday with Ed and me—or a longer one, if you can. How about tomorrow?” Tom realized that he was speaking as cautiously as if his line might be tapped, but so far it had never been. “Ed’s out for a walk just now.”
“Tomorrow. Well, yes, tomorrow, I suppose I could. With pleasure, airlines permitting. You’re sure there’s room for me?”
“Absolutely, Jeff!”
“Thank you, Tom. I’ll look into the plane schedules and ring you back—I hope in less than an hour. Is that all right?”
Of course it was all right. And Tom assured Jeff that he would be happy to pick him up at the airport.
Tom informed Heloise that the telephone was free, and that it looked as if Jeff Constant could come over tomorrow and stay for a couple of days.
“Very nice, Tome. So now I telephone Agnes.”
Tom drifted off, downstairs again. He wanted to check the charcoal grill, get it ready for tonight. He was thinking, as he folded up the waterproof cover and rolled the grill to a convenient place, what if Pritchard had informed Mrs. Murchison about his find, saying he was sure the bones were those of her husband, because of the class ring on the little finger of the right hand?
Why hadn’t the police rung him by now?
His problems were perhaps far from over. Pritchard, if he had informed Mrs. Murchison—and maybe informed Cynthia Gradnor also, good God—might have added that he had dumped or intended to du
mp the bones on Tom Ripley’s doorstep. He wouldn’t have said dump, Tom thought, but deliver or deposit, certainly to Mrs. Murchison.
On the other hand—and Tom had to smile at his wandering thoughts—in speaking to Mrs. Murchison, Pritchard might not have said he intended to deliver the bones anywhere, because there would have been something disrespectful in doing so: the correct thing, Tom supposed, would be to have transported the bones to his house, Pritchard’s, as Pritchard had done, and then called the police. In view of Tom’s old undisturbed ropes, maybe Pritchard hadn’t looked for rings.
Still another possibility, Pritchard having made small gashes in the old canvas, was that Pritchard might have removed the wedding ring himself, stored it in his house somewhere, and the police just might find it. If Mrs. Murchison had been informed of the bones by Pritchard she might have mentioned the two rings that her husband had always worn, and might be able to identify the wedding ring—if the police found it.
His thoughts were becoming ever thinner, wispier, Tom felt—meaning that he could not believe in the reality of the last: suppose Pritchard had hidden the ring in a place only he knew of (this was assuming that the wedding ring had not fallen off in the Loing), that place might be so unlikely that no one would ever find it unless the house were burnt quite down, and the ashes sifted through. Did Teddy possibly -
“Tom?”
Tom started, and turned. “Ed! Hi!”
Ed had come round the house and was behind Tom. “Didn’t mean to scare you!” Ed had his sweater tied around his neck by its arms.
Tom had to laugh. He had jumped as if shot. “I was daydreaming. I reached Jeff and it sounds as if he can come tomorrow. Isn’t that great?”
“Is it? It sounds nice for me. And what’s the latest news?” he asked in a lower tone. “Anything?”
Tom carried the charcoal bag to a corner of the terrace. “I think the ladies are comparing notes now.” He could just hear the voices of Heloise and Mme Annette in lively discourse near the front hall. They were talking simultaneously, but Tom knew that each was understanding the other perfectly, albeit after some repetition. “Let’s go and see.”
Ripley Under Water Page 27
