Three French operators were on the telephone at once, plus the woman at the Mandeville switchboard.
At last, Mme. Annette came on. “It is very beautiful here this morning. Sunlight!” Mme. Annette said.
Tom smiled. He badly needed a voice of cheer. “Mme. Annette . . . Yes, I am very well, thank you. How is the tooth? . . . Good! I am telephoning to say I will be home this afternoon around four with an American gentleman.”
“Ah-h!” said Mme. Annette, pleased.
“Our guest for tonight, perhaps for two nights, who knows? Will you prepare the guest room nicely? With some flowers? And for dinner perhaps tournedos with your own delicious béarnaise?”
Mme. Annette sounded delirious with joy that Tom would have a guest and she would have something definite to do.
Then Tom rang Mr. Murchison, and they agreed to meet in the hotel lobby around noon and to take a taxi together to Heathrow.
Tom went out, intending to walk to Berkeley Square, off which was a haberdashery where he bought a pair of silk pajamas as a small ritual nearly every time he came to London. It might also be his last chance this trip for a ride on the Underground. The Underground was a part of the atmosphere of London life, and Tom also was an admirer of Underground graffiti. The sun was struggling rather hopelessly through a wet haze, though it was not actually raining. Tom ducked into Bond Street station along with some last stragglers, perhaps, of the morning rush hour. What Tom admired about London graffiti-writers was their ability to scrawl things from moving escalators. Underwear posters abounded on the escalator routes, nothing but girls in girdles and panties, and they were adorned by anatomical additions male and female, sometimes whole phrases: I LOVE BEING HERMAPHRODITE! How did they do it? By running in an opposite direction from the escalator’s while writing? WOGS OUT! was a favorite everywhere, varied by WOGS OUT NOW! Down on the train platform, Tom spotted a poster for the Zeffirelli Romeo and Juliet with Romeo naked on his back and Juliet crawling over him with a shocking proposal coming out of her mouth. Romeo’s reply in a balloon was “Okay, why don’t you?”
Tom had his pajamas by 10:30. He bought a yellow pair. He had wanted purple, as he had none now, but he had heard enough about purple lately. Tom took a taxi to Carnaby Street. For himself, he bought a pair of narrow satin-like trousers, as he did not care for flared cuffs. And for Heloise flared hipsters of black wool, waist twenty-six. The booth where Tom tried on his own trousers was so tiny, he could not step back from the mirror to see if the length was right, but Mme. Annette loved to adjust little things like that for him and Heloise. Besides, two Italians who kept saying “Bellissimo!” were pulling back the curtain every few seconds, wanting to come in and try on their own gear. When Tom was paying, two Greeks arrived and began discussing prices loudly in drachmas. The shop was about six feet by twelve, and no wonder there was only one assistant, because there would have been no room for two.
With his purchases in big crisp paper bags, Tom went to a pavement telephone booth and rang Jeff Constant.
“I spoke to Bernard,” Jeff said, “and he’s absolutely terrified of Murchison. I asked him what he said to Murchison, because Bernard told me he’d spoken with Murchison, you see. Bernard said he’d told Murchison not to buy any more—paintings. That’s bad enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “And what else?”
“Well—I tried to tell Bernard he’d already said all he could or should. It’s difficult to explain because you don’t know Bernard, but he’s got such a guilt thing about Derwatt’s genius and all that. I tried to convince Bernard that he’d eased his own conscience by saying that to Murchison, and why not let well enough alone?”
“What did Bernard say to that?”
“He’s so down in the mouth, it’s hard to tell what he said. The show was a sellout, you see, except for one picture. Imagine! And Bernard feels guilty about that!” Jeff laughed. “‘The Tub.’ It’s one of the ones Murchison is picking on.”
“If he doesn’t want to paint more just now, don’t force him.”
“That’s exactly my attitude. You’re so right, Tom. But I think in about a fortnight, he’ll be on his feet again. Painting. It’s the strain of the show, and seeing you as Derwatt. He thinks more of Derwatt than most people do of Jesus Christ.”
Tom didn’t have to be told that. “One small thing, Jeff. Murchison may want to see the gallery’s books for Derwatt’s paintings. From Mexico. Do you keep some kind of record?”
“N-not from Mexico.”
“Can you fake something? Just in case I can’t persuade him to drop the whole thing?”
“I’ll try, Tom.” Jeff sounded a bit off balance.
Tom was impatient. “Fake something. Age it. Regardless of Mr. M., isn’t it a good idea to have a few books to substantiate—” Tom broke off. Some people didn’t know how to run a business, even a successful business like Derwatt Ltd.
“All right, Tom.”
Tom detoured to the Burlington Arcade, where he stopped in a jewelry shop and bought a gold pin—a little crouched monkey—for Heloise, which he paid for with American traveler’s checks. Heloise’s birthday was next month. Then he walked on toward his hotel, via Oxford Street, which was crowded as usual with shoppers, women with bulging bags and boxes, children in tow. A sandwich man advertised a passport photo studio, service fast and cheap. The old fellow wore an ancient overcoat, a limp hat, and a sordid unlit cigarette hung from between his lips. Get a passport for your cruise to the Greek islands, Tom thought, but this old guy was never going anywhere. Tom removed the cigarette butt and stuck a Gauloise between the man’s lips.
“Have a cigarette,” Tom said. “Here’s a light.” Tom lit it quickly with his matches.
“Ta,” said the man, through his beard.
Tom pushed the rest of the Gauloise pack, then his matches, into the torn pocket of the overcoat, and dashed away, his head ducked, hoping no one had seen him.
Tom rang Murchison from his room, and they met downstairs with their luggage.
“Been doing a little shopping for my wife this morning,” Murchison said in the taxi. He seemed in a good mood.
“Yes? So have I. A pair of Carnaby Street trousers.”
“For Harriet, it’s Marks and Spencer sweaters. And Liberty scarves. Sometimes balls of wool. She knits, and she likes to think the wool came from old England, y’know?”
“You canceled your appointment for this morning?”
“Yep. Made it for Friday morning. At the man’s house.”
At the airport, they had a rather good lunch with a bottle of claret. Murchison insisted on paying. During lunch Murchison told Tom about his son, who was an inventor working in a California laboratory. His son and daughter-in-law had just had their first baby. Murchison showed Tom a photograph of her, and laughed at himself for being a doting grandfather, but it was his first grandchild, named Karin after her grandmother on her maternal side. In answer to Murchison’s questions, Tom said he had chosen to live in France because he had married a French girl three years ago. Murchison was not blunt enough to ask how Tom earned his living, but he did ask how he spent his time.
“I read history,” Tom said casually. “I study German. Not to mention that my French still needs work. And gardening. I’ve got a pretty big garden in Villeperce. Also I paint,” he added, “just for my amusement.”
They were at Orly by 3 p.m., and Tom went off in the little gaso bus to fetch his car from the garage, and then he picked up Murchison near the taxi rank with their suitcases. The sun was shining, and it was not so cold as in England. Tom drove to Fontainebleau and went past the château so that Murchison could see it. Murchison said he hadn’t seen it in fifteen years. They reached Villeperce around 4:30 p.m.
“Where we buy most of our groceries,” Tom said, indicating a store on his left on the main village street.
“Very pretty. Unspoiled,” Murchison said. And when they came to Tom’s house: “Why, this is terrific! Really beauti
ful!”
“You should see it in summer,” Tom said, modestly.
Mme. Annette, hearing the car, came out to greet them and to help with the luggage, but Murchison could not bear to see a woman carrying the heavy things, only the little bags of cigarettes and spirits.
“Everything goes well, Mme. Annette?” Tom asked.
“Everything. Even the plumber came to repair the WC.”
One of the WCs had been dripping, Tom remembered.
Tom and Annette showed Murchison up to his room, which had an adjoining bath. It was actually Heloise’s bath, and her room was on the other side of the bath. Tom explained that his wife was in Greece now, with friends. He left Murchison to wash and to open his suitcase, and said he would be downstairs in the living room. Murchison was already gazing with interest at some drawings on the walls.
Tom went down and asked Mme. Annette to make some tea. He presented her with a bottle of toilet water from England, “Lake Mist”—which he had bought at Heathrow.
“Oh, M. Tome, comme vous êtes gentil!”
Tom smiled. Mme. Annette always made him feel grateful for her gratitude. “Good tournedos for tonight?”
“Ah, oui! And for dessert mousse au chocolat.”
Tom went into the living room. Here were flowers, and Mme. Annette had turned up the heat. There was a fireplace, and Tom loved fires, but he felt he had to watch them constantly, or he loved watching them so much he could not tear himself away, so he decided not to light one now. He stared at “Man in Chair” over the fireplace, and bounced on his heels with satisfaction—satisfaction with its familiarity, its excellence. Bernard was good. He’d just made a couple of mistakes in his periods. Damn periods anyway. Logically, “The Red Chairs,” a genuine Derwatt, should have the place of honor in the room over the fireplace. Typical of him that he had put the phony in the choice spot, he supposed. Heloise didn’t know that “Man in Chair” was bogus, and knew nothing of the Derwatt forgeries, in fact. Her interest in painting was casual. If she had any passions, they were for traveling, sampling exotic food, and buying clothes. The contents of her two closets in her room looked like an international costume museum without the dummies. She had waistcoats from Tunisia, fringed sleeveless jackets from Mexico, Greek soldiers’ baggy pants in which she looked quite charming, and embroidered coats from China that she had bought somehow in London.
Then Tom suddenly remembered Count Bertolozzi, and went to his telephone. He didn’t particularly want Murchison to hear the Count’s name, but on the other hand Tom was not going to do any harm to the Count, and perhaps maintaining his open manner was all to the good. Tom asked for inquiries for Milan, got the number, and gave it to the French operator. She told Tom the call might take half an hour.
Mr. Murchison came down. He had changed his clothes, and wore gray flannel trousers and a green-and-black tweed jacket. “The country life!” he said, beaming. “Ah!” He had caught sight of “The Red Chairs” facing him across the room, and went over for closer inspection. “That’s a masterpiece. That’s the real McCoy!”
No doubt of that, Tom thought, and a thrill of pride went over him which made him feel slightly foolish. “Yes, I like it.”
“I think I’ve heard about it. I remember the title from somewhere. I congratulate you, Tom.”
“And there’s my ‘Man in Chair,’” Tom said, nodding toward the fireplace.
“Ah,” Murchison said on a different note. He went nearer, and Tom saw his tall, sturdy figure grow tense with concentration. “And how old is this?”
“About four years old,” Tom said truthfully.
“What did you pay, to ask a rude question?”
“Four thousand quid. Before devaluation. About eleven thousand two hundred dollars,” Tom said, calculating the pound at two eighty.
“I’m delighted to see this,” Murchison said, nodding. “You see, the same purple turns up again. Very little of it here, but look.” He pointed to the bottom edge of the chair. Due to the height of the picture and the width of the fireplace, Murchison’s finger was inches away from the canvas, but Tom knew the streak of purple that he meant. “Plain cobalt violet.” Murchison crossed the room and looked again at “The Red Chairs,” peering at it at a distance of ten inches. “And this is one of the old ones. Plain cobalt violet too.”
“You really think ‘Man in Chair’ is a forgery?”
“Yes, I do. Like my ‘Clock.’ The quality is different. Inferior to ‘The Red Chairs.’ Quality is something one can’t measure with the aid of a microscope. But I can see it here. And—I’m also sure about the plain cobalt violet here.”
“Then,” Tom said in an unperturbed way, “maybe it means Derwatt is using plain cobalt violet and the mixture you mentioned—alternately.”
Murchison, frowning, shook his head. “I don’t see it that way.”
Mme. Annette was pushing the tea in on a cart. One wheel of the cart squeaked slightly. “Voilà le thé, M. Tome.”
Mme. Annette had made flat brown-edged cookies, and they gave off a cozy smell of warm vanilla. Tom poured the tea.
Murchison sat on the sofa. He might not have seen Mme. Annette come and go. He stared at “Man in Chair” as if dazed or fascinated. Then he blinked at Tom, smiled, and his face was genial again. “You don’t believe me, I think. That’s your privilege.”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t see the difference in quality, no. Maybe I’m obtuse. If, as you say, you’ll get an expert to look at yours, I’ll abide by what an expert says. And by the way, ‘Man in Chair’ is the picture you can take back to London with you, if you like.”
“I’d most certainly like. I’ll write you a receipt for it and even insure it for you.” Murchison chuckled.
“It’s insured. Don’t worry.”
Over two cups of tea, Murchison asked Tom about Heloise, and what she was doing. Had they any children? No. Heloise was twenty-five. No, Tom didn’t think Frenchwomen were more difficult than other women, but they had their own idea of the respect with which they should be treated. This subject did not make much progress, because every woman wanted to be treated with a certain respect, and though Tom knew Heloise’s kind, he absolutely could not put it into words.
The telephone rang, and Tom said, “Excuse me, I think I’ll take that up in my room.” He dashed up the stairs. After all, Murchison might suppose it was Heloise, and that he wanted to speak with her alone.
“Hello?” Tom said. “Eduardo! How are you? I’m in luck to get you. . . . Via the grapevine. A mutual friend in Paris rang today and told me you were in Milan. . . . Now can you pay me a visit? After all, you promised.”
The Count, a bon vivant ever willing to be distracted from the swift pursuit of his business (export-import) showed a slight hesitation about changing his Paris plans, then agreed with enthusiasm to come to Tom. “But not tonight. Tomorrow. Is that all right?”
That was quite soon enough for Tom, who wasn’t quite sure what problems Murchison would present. “Yes, even Friday would be—”
“Thursday,” said the Count firmly, not getting the point.
“All right. I’ll pick you up at Orly. At what time?”
“My plane is at—just a minute.” The Count took quite a time looking it up, came back to the telephone and said, “Arriving at five fifteen. Flight three zero six Alitalia.”
Tom wrote this down. “I’ll be there. Delighted you can come, Eduardo!”
Then Tom went back downstairs to Thomas Murchison. By now they called each other Tom, though Murchison said his wife called him Tommy. Murchison said he was an hydraulic engineer with a pipe-laying company whose main office was in New York. Murchison was one of the directors.
They took a walk around Tom’s back garden, which blended into virgin woods. Tom rather liked Murchison. Surely he could persuade him, convert him, Tom thought. What should he do?
During dinner, while Murchison talked about something brand new in his plant—packaged transport by pipe of
anything and everything in soup-tin-sized containers—Tom wondered if he should bother to ask Jeff and Ed to get Mexican letterheads from some shipping company on which to list Derwatt’s paintings? And how quickly could this be done? Ed was the journalist, and couldn’t he handle a clerical job like this, and have Leonard, the gallery manager, and Jeff walk all over them on the floor to make them look five or six years old? The dinner was excellent, and Murchison had praise for Mme. Annette, which he delivered in quite passable French, for her mousse and even the Brie.
“We’ll have coffee in the living room,” Tom said to her. “And can you bring the brandy?”
Mme. Annette had lit the fire. Tom and Murchison settled themselves on the big yellow sofa.
“It’s a funny thing,” Tom began, “I like ‘Man in Chair’ just as much as ‘The Red Chairs.’ If it’s phony. Funny, isn’t it?” Tom was still talking in a midwestern accent. “You can see it’s got the place of honor in the house.”
“Well, you didn’t know it was a forgery!” Murchison laughed a little. “It’d be very interesting—very—to know who’s forging.”
Tom stretched his legs out in front of him and puffed on a cigar. “What a funny thing it would be,” he began, playing his last and best card, “if a forger was doing all the Buckmaster Gallery Derwatts now, all the ones we saw yesterday. Someone as good as Derwatt, in other words.”
Murchison smiled. “Then what’s Derwatt doing? Sitting back and taking it? Don’t be ridiculous. Derwatt was much as I’d thought he would be. Withdrawn and sort of old-fashioned.”
“Have you ever thought of collecting forgeries? I know a man in Italy who collects them. First as a hobby, and now he sells them to other collectors at quite high prices.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that. Yes. But I like to know I’m buying a forgery when I buy one.”
Tom sensed that he was reaching a narrow and unpleasant spot. He tried again. “I like to daydream—about absurd things like that. In a sense, why disturb a forger who’s doing such good work? I intend to hang on to ‘Man in Chair.’”
Murchison might not have heard Tom’s remarks. “And you know,” Murchison said, still gazing at the picture Tom was talking about, “it’s not merely the lavender, it’s the soul of the painting. I wouldn’t put it that way, if I weren’t mellow on your good food and drink.”
Ripley Under Ground Page 6
