Ripley Under Ground

by Patricia Highsmith

Tom made for the departures doorway. Here taxis and private cars, as long as they did not pause too long, could deposit luggage and people or pick them up. Tom stopped, got Murchison’s suitcase out, and set it on the pavement, then set “The Clock” against the suitcase, and laid Murchison’s coat on top. Tom drove off. There were a few other little assemblies of luggage on the pavement, he noticed. He drove out in the Fontainebleau direction, and stopped at a roadside bar-café, one of many medium-sized bar-cafés along the route between Orly and the beginning of the Autoroute du Sud.

  He ordered a beer, and asked for a jeton to make a telephone call. No jeton was necessary, so Tom took the telephone on the bar near the cash register, and dialed the number of his house.

  “Hello, it’s me,” said Tom. “M. Murchison had to hurry at the last moment, so he asked me to tell you good-bye and to thank you.”

  “Oh, I understand.”

  “Alors—there is another guest coming this evening, a Count Bertolozzi, an Italian. I shall find him at Orly, and we’ll be home before six. Now can you buy perhaps some—calves’ liver?”

  “The butcher at the moment has beautiful gigot!”

  Tom was not in the mood for anything with a bone in it, somehow. “If it is not too much trouble, I think I prefer calves’ liver.”

  “And a Margaux? A Meursault?”

  “Leave the wine to me.”

  Tom paid—he said he had telephoned Sens, which was farther than his village—and went out to his car. He drove at a leisurely speed back to Orly, past the arrivals and departures section, and noticed that Murchison’s things were still where he had left them. The coat would be the first to go, Tom thought, nicked by some enterprising young man. And if Murchison’s passport were in the topcoat, the nicker might turn it to some advantage. Tom smiled a little as he drove into P-4, one of the one-hour parking lots.

  Tom walked slowly through the glass doors which opened before him, bought a Neue Züricher Zeitung at the newsstand, then checked on the arrival time of Eduardo’s plane. The flight was on time, and he had a few minutes to spare. Tom went to the crowded bar—it was always crowded—and at last got an elbow in and managed to order a coffee. After the coffee, he bought a ticket and went up to where people met the arrivals.

  The Count was wearing a gray Homburg. He had a long thin black mustache and a bulging abdomen, which was visible even under his unbuttoned topcoat. The Count broke into a smile, a real spontaneous Italian smile, and he waved a greeting. The Count was presenting his passport.

  Then they were shaking hands, giving each other a quick embrace, and Tom helped him with packages and carryalls. The Count had also an attaché case. What was the Count carrying, and where? His suitcase was not even opened, only motioned through by the French official.

  “If you’ll wait here a minute, I’ll fetch my car,” Tom said when they were on the pavement. “It’s just a few yards away.” Tom went off at a trot, and was back in five minutes.

  He had to drive past the departures gate, and he noticed that Murchison’s suitcase and painting were still there, but the coat was gone. One down and two to go.

  On the drive homeward, they discussed, not very profoundly, Italian politics, French politics of the moment, and the Count inquired about Heloise. Tom scarcely knew the Count, and thought this was the second time they had seen each other, but in Milan they had talked about painting, which was a passionate interest of the Count.

  “At the moment, there is an esposizione of Derwatt in London. I look forward to that next week. And what do you think of Derwatt coming to London? I was astound! The first photographs of him in years!”

  Tom had not bothered to buy a London newspaper. “A big surprise. He hasn’t changed much, they say.” Tom was not going to mention that he had been recently in London and had seen the show.

  “I look forward to seeing your picture at home. What is it? The one with the little girls?”

  “‘The Red Chairs,’” Tom said, surprised that the Count remembered. He smiled and gripped the wheel tighter. Despite the corpse in the cellar, despite the ghastly day, the nerve-racking afternoon, Tom was going to be very happy to get back home—to the scene of the crime, as they said. Tom didn’t feel that it was a crime. Or was he due for a delayed reaction tomorrow, even tonight? He hoped not.

  “Italy is producing worse espresso. In the cafés,” the Count announced in a solemn baritone. “I am convince. Probably some Mafia business at the bottom of it.” He mused sourly out the window for a few moments, then continued, “And the hairdressers in Italy, my goodness! I begin to wonder if I know my own country! Now in my old favorite barbershop off the Via Veneto, they have new young men who ask me what kind of shampoo I want. I say, ‘Just wash my hair, please—what’s left of it!’ ‘But is it oily or dry, signor? We have three kinds of shampoo. Have you dandruff?’ ‘No!’ I say. ‘Can’t somebody have normal hair these days, or does ordinary shampoo exist anymore?’”

  Like Murchison, the Count praised the sturdy symmetry of Belle Ombre. The garden, though there was hardly a rose left from summer, showed its handsome rectangular lawn surrounded by thick and formidable pines. It was home, and not exactly humble. Again Mme. Annette met them on the doorstep, and was as helpful and welcoming as yesterday when Thomas Murchison had arrived. Again Tom showed his guest to his room, which Mme. Annette had made ready. It was late for tea, so Tom said he would be downstairs when the Count wished to join him. Dinner was at eight.

  Then Tom unwrapped “Man in Chair” in his room, and took it downstairs and hung it in its usual place. Mme. Annette might well have noticed its absence for a few hours, but if she asked him anything about it, Tom intended to say that Mr. Murchison had taken it to his room, Tom’s, to look at under a different light.

  Tom parted the heavy red curtains of the French windows, and looked at his back garden. The dark-green shadows were becoming black with the fall of night. Tom realized he was standing directly over Murchison in the cellar, and he edged away. He must, even if it had to be late tonight, go down and do what he could about cleaning up the wine and bloodstains. Mme. Annette might have a reason to go to the cellar: she kept a good eye on the fuel supply. And then, how to get the body out of the house? There was a wheelbarrow in the toolshed. Could he wheel Murchison—covered by a tarpaulin which was in the toolshed also—into the woods behind the house and bury him? Primitive, unpleasantly close to the house, but it might be the best solution.

  The Count came down, spry and bouncing in spite of his bulk. He was a rather tall man.

  “A-hah! A-hah!” Like Murchison he was struck by “The Red Chairs,” which hung on the other side of the room. But the Count turned at once, and looked toward the fireplace, and seemed even more impressed by “Man in Chair.” “Lovely! Delicious!” He peered at both pictures. “You did not disappoint me. They are a pleasure. So is your entire house. I mean the drawings in my room.”

  Mme. Annette came in with the ice bucket and some glasses on the bar cart.

  The Count, seeing Punt e Mes, said he would have that.

  “Did the gallery in London ask you to lend your pictures for the esposizione?”

  Murchison had asked that question twenty-four hours ago, but about “Man in Chair” only, and had asked it because he was curious about the gallery’s attitude to paintings they must know to be forgeries. Tom felt a little dizzy in the head, as if he were going to faint. He had been bending over the bar cart, and now he straightened up. “They did. But it’s such trouble, you know, shipping and insuring. I lent ‘The Red Chairs’ for a show two years ago.”

  “I may buy a Derwatt,” said the Count thoughtfully. “That is if I can afford one. It will have to be a small one, at his prices.”

  Tom poured a straight scotch on ice for himself.

  The telephone rang.

  “Excuse me,” Tom said, and answered it.

  Eduardo was walking about, looking at other things on the walls.

  It was Reeves Minot. He asked if t
he Count had arrived, then if Tom were alone.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “It’s in the—”

  “I can’t quite hear.”

  “Toothpaste,” Reeves said.

  “O-oh.” It was almost a groan from Tom, of fatigue, contempt, boredom even. Was this a child’s game? Or something in a lousy film? “Very good. And the address? Same as last time?” Tom had an address in Paris, three or four actually, where he had sent Reeves’s items on other occasions.

  “That’ll do. The last one. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, I think so, thank you,” Tom said pleasantly. He might have suggested Reeves have a word with the Count, just to be friendly, but it was probably better the Count didn’t know that Reeves had rung. Tom felt quite off his form, off on the wrong foot. “Thanks for ringing.”

  “No need to ring me if everything’s okay,” said Reeves and hung up.

  “Would you excuse me a second, Eduardo,” Tom said, and ran upstairs.

  He went into the Count’s room. One of his suitcases was open on the antique wood-box where guests and Mme. Annette usually put suitcases, but Tom looked first in the bathroom. The Count had not put out his toilet articles. Tom went to the suitcase and found an opaque plastic bag with a zipper. He tried this and ran into tobacco. There was another plastic bag in which were shaving gear, toothbrush and toothpaste, and he took the toothpaste. The end of the tube was a little rough, but sealed. Reeves’s man probably had some kind of clamp with which to seal the metal again. Tom squeezed the tube cautiously and felt a hard lump near the end of it. He shook his head in disgust, pocketed the toothpaste, replaced the plastic kit. He went to his own room and put the toothpaste at the back of his top left drawer, which contained a stud box and a lot of starched collars.

  Tom rejoined the Count downstairs.

  During dinner they talked about Derwatt’s surprising return, and his interview which the Count had read in the press.

  “He’s living in Mexico, isn’t he?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. And he won’t say where. Like B. Traven, you know. Ha! Ha!”

  The Count praised the dinner and ate heartily. He had the European faculty of being able to talk with his mouth full, which no American could manage without looking or feeling extremely messy.

  After dinner, the Count, seeing Tom’s gramophone, expressed a desire for some music, and chose Pelléas et Mélisande. The Count wanted the third act—the duet, somewhat hectic, between soprano and deep male voice. While listening, even singing along, the Count managed to talk.

  Tom tried to pay attention to the Count and to exclude the music, but Tom always found it hard to exclude music. He was in no mood for Pelléas et Mélisande. What he needed was the music from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the fabulous overture, and now as the other thing played on with a heavy drama, Mendelssohn’s overture danced in Tom’s inner ear—nervous, comic, full of invention. He desperately needed to be full of invention.

  They were dipping into the brandy. Tom suggested that tomorrow morning they might take a drive and lunch at Moret-sur-Loing. Eduardo had said he wanted to take an afternoon train to Paris. But first he wanted to make sure he had seen all Tom’s art treasures, so Tom took him on a tour of the house. Even in Heloise’s room, there was a Marie Laurencin.

  Then they said good night, and Eduardo retired with a couple of Tom’s art books.

  In his room, Tom got the tube of Vademecum toothpaste from his drawer, tried to open the bottom with a thumbnail, and failed. He went into the room where he painted, and got some pliers from his worktable. Back in his room, he cut the tube open, and out came a black cylinder. A microfilm, of course. Tom wondered if it could survive rinsing, decided against it, and merely wiped the thing with a Kleenex. It smelled of peppermint. He addressed an envelope to:

  M. Jean-Marc Cahannier

  16 Rue de Tison

  Paris IX

  then put the cylinder into a couple of sheets of writing paper and stuck it all into the envelope. Tom swore to himself to pull out of this silly business, because it was degrading. He could tell Reeves without offending him. Reeves had a strange idea that the more an item changed hands, the safer it was. Reeves was fence-minded. But surely he lost money paying everybody, even paying them a little bit. Or did some people take it out in favors asked from Reeves?

  Tom got into pajamas and dressing gown, looked into the hall, and was gratified to see that there was no light showing under Eduardo’s door. He went quietly down to the kitchen. There were two doors between the kitchen and Mme. Annette’s bedroom, because there was a little hall with servants’ entrance beyond the kitchen, so she was not likely to hear him or see the kitchen light. Tom got a sturdy gray cleaning rag and a container of Ajax, took a lightbulb from a cabinet and put it in a pocket. He went down to the cellar. He shivered. Now he realized he had to have a flashlight and a chair to stand on, so he went back to the kitchen and took one of the wooden stools that belonged to the kitchen table, and picked up a flashlight from the hall table drawer.

  He held the flashlight under his arm, and removed the shattered bulb and put in the new one. The cellar lit up. Murchison’s shoes still showed. Then Tom realized to his horror that the legs had straightened with rigor mortis. Or he wasn’t possibly still alive? Tom forced himself to make sure, or he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Tom put the back of his fingers against Murchison’s hand. That was enough. Murchison’s hand was cold and also stiff. Tom pulled the gray rag over Murchison’s shoes.

  There was a sink with cold water in a corner. Tom wet his cleaning rag and got to work. Some color came off on the rag, which he washed out, but he could not see much improvement in the color of the floor, though the dark of it might be due to its wetness now. Well, he could say to Mme. Annette that he dropped a bottle of wine, in case she asked anything. Tom got up the last fragments of broken lightbulb and wine bottle, rinsed the rag out in the sink cautiously, recovered the pieces of glass from the sink’s drain, and put them into his dressing-gown pocket. He again worked on the floor with the rag. Then he went back upstairs, and in the better light of the kitchen made sure that the reddish tint in the rag was gone or almost gone. He laid the rag over the drainpipe under the sink.

  But the blasted body. Tom sighed, and thought of locking the cellar until he returned tomorrow after seeing Eduardo off, but wouldn’t this look pretty strange if Mme. Annette wanted to go in? And she had her own key, and one to the outside door as well, which had a different lock. Tom took the precaution of bringing up a bottle of rosé and two of Margaux, and put them on the kitchen table. There were times when having a servant was annoying.

  When Tom went to bed, more tired than the night before, he thought of putting Murchison into a barrel. But it would take a cooper to get the damned hoops back on it properly, he supposed. And Murchison would have to be in liquid of some sort or he would bump around in an empty barrel. And how could he manage Murchison’s weight in a barrel by himself? Impossible.

  Tom thought of Murchison’s suitcase and “The Clock” at Orly. Surely someone had removed them by now. Murchison would perhaps have an address book, some old envelope in his suitcase. By tomorrow, Murchison might be declared “missing.” Or the day after tomorrow. The Tate Gallery man was expecting Murchison tomorrow morning. Tom wondered if Murchison had told anyone that he was going to stay with Tom Ripley? Tom hoped not.

  7

  Friday was sunny and cool, though not cool enough to be called crisp. Tom and Eduardo breakfasted in the living room near the French windows through which the sun came. The Count was in pajamas and dressing gown, which he would not be wearing, he said, if there were a lady in the house, but he hoped Tom did not mind.

  A little after 10 a.m., the Count went up to dress, and came downstairs with his suitcases, ready to take off for a drive before lunch. “I wonder if I can borrow some toothpaste,” said Eduardo. “I think I forgot mine in my hotel in Milano. Very stupid of me.”

  T
om had been expecting the Count to ask this, and was rather glad that he had, at last. Tom went to speak with Mme. Annette who was in the kitchen. Since the Count’s toilet kit was in his suitcase downstairs, Tom supposed, Tom thought it best to show him the spare loo with the basin. Mme. Annette brought some toothpaste to him.

  The post arrived, and Tom excused himself to glance at it. A postcard from Heloise, saying nothing really. And another letter from Christopher Greenleaf. Tom tore this open. It said:

  Oct. 15, 19——

  Dear Mr. Ripley,

  I just found out I can get a charter flight to Paris so I am coming earlier than I thought. I hope you are home just now. I am flying with a friend, Gerald Hayman, also my age, but I assure you I will not bring him to meet you because that might be a drag although he’s a nice fellow. I am arriving in Paris Sat. 19th Oct. and will try to call you. Of course I will spend Saturday night in a Paris hotel somewhere, as the plane gets in 7 p.m. French time.

  Meanwhile, greetings and yours sincerely,

  Chris Greenleaf

  Saturday was tomorrow. At least Chris wasn’t going to arrive here tomorrow. Good God, Tom thought, all he needed now was for Bernard to turn up. Tom thought of asking Mme. Annette not to answer the telephone for the next two days, but that would seem strange, and would furthermore annoy Mme. Annette, who received at least one telephone call a day from one of her friends, usually Mme. Yvonne, another housekeeper in the village.

  “Bad news?” asked Eduardo.

  “Oh, no, not in the least,” Tom replied. He had to get Murchison’s body out. Preferably tonight. And of course he could put Chris off, tell him he was busy at least until Tuesday. Tom had a vision of French police walking in tomorrow, looking for Murchison, and finding him within seconds in the most logical place, the cellar.

  Tom went into the kitchen to say good-bye to Mme. Annette. She was polishing a big silver tureen and a lot of soup spoons, all adorned with Heloise’s family’s initials, P.F.P. “I’m off for a little tour. M. the Count is leaving. Shall I bring anything back for the house?”