His own car was the only one that Tom could see. That was reassuring. People in this neighborhood had garages, and no cars were parked at the curbs. Tom only hoped that the two men had not taken notice of his license plates, because if they had, they might trace his name and address via the police on some made-up grounds of misdemeanor or affront. Tom walked back for Frank, who was still behind the gates. The boy came out when Tom beckoned.
“I don’t know what to do with this key,” Frank said.
“Drop it behind the gate,” Tom whispered. Frank had locked the gate again. “We’ll tell her in the note tomorrow.”
They walked, Frank carrying his suitcase and Tom a small carry- all, round the corner, and got into the car, which seemed a haven to Tom as soon as they had closed its doors. Tom concentrated on getting out of the town, and by a different route. As far as he could see, he was not being followed. In the main part of town, across the old bridge with its four towers, very few streetlights were on, one bar was closing, only two or three cars moved, paying no attention to him. Tom took the big N 5, and made a right turn toward the tiny town of Obelique on a road that would take them finally to Villeperce.
“Don’t be worried,” Tom said. “I know where I’m going and I don’t think anyone’s following us.”
Frank seemed sunk in his own thoughts.
The little world of Mme. Boutin was shattered, Tom thought, and the boy didn’t know where he was now. “I’ll have to tell Heloise you’re staying the night,” Tom said. “But you’ll still be Billy Rollins to her. I’ll tell her you want to do some gardening for us, and—” Tom looked into his car mirror again, but nothing was behind them. “I’ll say you’re looking for a part-time job. Don’t worry.” Tom glanced at Frank. The boy was staring through the windshield and biting his underlip.
They were home. Tom saw the gentle glow of Belle Ombre’s front court light, which Heloise had left on for him, and he drove through the open gates into the garage at the right of the house. Tom saw that Heloise had parked the red Mercedes-Benz in the right-hand garage space. Tom got out, asked Frank to wait a moment, then he got the big key from under the rhododendrons and locked the front gates.
By then Frank was standing with suitcase and carryall beside the car. One living room light was on. Tom put on another light which lit the stairs, turned off the living room light, then went out and beckoned for Frank to follow him. They turned left at the top of the stairs, and Tom put on the light in the guest room. Heloise’s door was closed.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Tom said to Frank. “Closet’s here—” He opened a cream-colored door. “Drawers there—and use my bathroom tonight, because the one here is Heloise’s. I won’t be asleep for another hour probably.”
“Thank you.” Frank had put his suitcase on the short oak bench at the foot of one of the twin beds.
Tom went into his room, put on the light and also the light in the bathroom. Then he couldn’t resist going to his front window, whose curtains had been drawn by Mme. Annette, and peering out to see if any car was cruising past or parked. He saw nothing but darkness, except for the area of light under a street lamp to the left. Of course a lightless car could be parked out there, but Tom preferred to think none was.
Frank knocked on the partly open door, and came in in pajamas, toothbrush in hand, barefoot. Tom gestured toward the bathroom.
“All yours,” Tom said, “and take your time.” Tom smiled, watching the tired boy—shadows under his eyes now—walk into the bathroom and close the door. Tom got into pajamas. He would be interested to see what the IHT might have to say in the next days about the disappearance of Frank Pierson. Surely the search would be heating up. Tom went down the hall to Heloise’s room, looked through the keyhole through which he could always see some light, if any light was on, though the key remained in the lock inside. No light.
Tom went back to his own room, and was in bed browsing in a French grammar when Frank came out of the bathroom, smiling, with dampish hair.
“A hot shower! Wow!”
“Go and get some sleep. Sleep as late as you like.”
Then Tom went to wash. He was thinking about the car in front of Mme. Boutin’s. Whoever the two men had been, they had not wanted to risk a noisy fight, or even a meeting with Frank and another person. Still it boded no good. On the other hand, it might be petty curiosity: someone in Moret might have mentioned seeing a new boy, an American, who might be Frank Pierson, and the same person might have a Paris friend. The men hadn’t asked for Frank, it seemed, just for Mme. Boutin’s “gardener.” Tom thought he would deliver Frank’s note to Mme. Boutin tomorrow without the boy, and as quickly as possible.
4
A solitary bird—not a lark—awakened Tom with a six-note song. What bird was it? Its voice sounded questioning, almost timid, yet curious too, and full of vigor. This bird or one of its family often woke Tom in summer. Now with barely opened eyes he looked at his gray walls, darker gray shadows—which looked like a wash drawing. Tom liked it, the lump of brass-cornered chest, the darker lump of desk. He sighed, and snuggled deeper into his pillow for a final snooze.
Frank!
Tom suddenly remembered the boy was in the house, and came full awake. Seven thirty-five now by his watch. Tell Heloise that Frank was here—rather, Billy Rollins. Tom put on slippers and dressing gown, and went downstairs. It would be comforting to speak with Mme. Annette first, and he was ahead of her as to time for his coffee at eight. Guests never bothered Mme. Annette, and she never asked how long they were staying, except in regard to the next several meals.
The kettle had just begun to hum as Tom walked into the kitchen. “Bonjour, madame!” he called cheerily.
“Monsieur Tome! Vous avez bien dormi?”
“Excellently, thank you. We have a guest this morning, the young American you met last night—Billy Rollins. He is in the guest room and may be here for a few days. He likes to do gardening.”
“Oh, yes? A nice young man!” Mme. Annette said with an air of approval. “And what time would he like his breakfast?— Your coffee, Monsieur Tome.”
Tom’s coffee had dripped, the kettle was for Heloise’s tea. He watched Mme. Annette pour black coffee into a white cup. “Don’t trouble yourself. I told him to sleep as late as he wished. He may come down. I can see about that.” Heloise’s tray was ready, and Mme. Annette picked it up. “I’ll go up with you,” said Tom, and followed her with his cup of coffee.
Tom waited until Mme. Annette had knocked and entered Heloise’s room with the tray of tea, grapefruit, and toast, then went to the open door.
Heloise was awakening. “Ah, Tome, come in! I was so tired last night—”
“But at least you weren’t late. I was home by midnight, I think. Listen, my dear, I asked the American boy to stay the night. He’s going to do some gardening for us. He’s in the guest room. Billy Rollins. You met him.”
“Oh,” said Heloise, and spooned some grapefruit into her mouth. She was not much surprised, but she asked, “Hasn’t he a place to live? He has no money?”
Tom answered carefully. They were talking in English. “I’m sure he has some money, enough to put himself up somewhere, but he said last night he was not too happy with the place where he’s staying, so I said come to our house for the night, and we fetched his things. He’s a well brought up boy.” Tom added, “Eighteen, likes gardening and seems to know quite a bit. If he wants to work for us for a while—there’re cheap lodgings at the Jacobs’.” The Jacobs were a couple in Villeperce who ran a bar-restaurant, with a three-room “hotel” on the floor above.
Munching into toast now, Heloise was more alert and said, “You are so impulsive, Tome. An American boy in our house—just like that! And suppose he is a thief? You ask him to stay the night—and how do you know he is there now?”
Tom lowered his head for a moment. “You are right. But this boy isn’t one of the—hitchhiker types. You’ve—” At that moment, Tom heard a gentle buzz like t
hat of his own travel clock’s alarm. Heloise seemed not to have heard it, as she was not so near the hall. “I think he’s set his alarm. See you in a while.”
Tom went out, still carrying his coffee, closed Heloise’s door, and rapped on Frank’s door.
“Yes? Come in.”
Tom found Frank sitting up on one elbow. On his night table was a travel clock much like Tom’s own. “Morning.”
“Good morning, sir.” Frank pushed his hair back, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Tom was amused. “Want to sleep some more?”
“No, I thought eight was a good time to get up.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. I can come down.”
Tom said he preferred to bring him coffee, and went down to the kitchen. Mme. Annette had already prepared a tray of orange juice, toast, and the usual, and Tom started to pick it up, but Mme. Annette told him she had not poured the coffee as yet.
She poured coffee into the preheated silver pot on the tray. “Do you really want to take it up, Monsieur Tome? If the young man wishes an egg—”
“I think this will be perfect, Madame Annette.” Tom went up.
Frank tried the coffee and said, “Um-m!”
Tom replenished his own cup from the new pot, and sat down on a chair. He had put the tray on the writing table. “You must write that note to Madame Boutin this morning. Sooner the better, and I’ll deliver it.”
“Right.” Frank was savoring his coffee, waking up. The hair on top of his head now stood straight up, as if in a wind.
“And where the gate key is. Just behind the gates.”
The boy nodded.
Tom let him bite into some toast and marmalade. “Do you remember the date you left home?”
“July twenty-seventh.”
It was now Saturday the nineteenth of August. “You were in London a few days and then—where did you stay in Paris?”
“Hôtel d’Angleterre, Rue Jacob.”
Tom knew the hotel, but he had never stayed there. It was in the St-Germain-des-Près area. “Can I see the passport you’ve got now? Your brother’s?”
Frank went at once to his suitcase, got the passport from the suitcase’s top pocket, and handed it to Tom.
Tom opened it and turned it sideways to see a picture of a more blond young man, hair parted on the right, with thinner face, yet with some resemblance to Frank in eyes, brows, and mouth. How had he made it, however, Tom wondered. Luck, so far. This boy would be almost nineteen, five feet eleven, therefore a bit taller than Frank was at present. In French hotels it was no longer necessary to present a passport or card of identity. But the immigration bureaus of England and France must have been informed by now that Frank Pierson was missing, might have been sent a photograph of Frank. And wouldn’t his brother have missed his passport by now?
“You may as well give up, you know,” Tom said, trying a new tack. How are you going to go on in Europe like this? They’ll stop you at any border. Maybe especially the French border.”
The boy looked stunned, also affronted.
“I don’t understand why you want to hide.”
The boy’s eyes shifted, but not with dishonesty. Frank seemed to be asking himself what he wanted to do. “I’d like to be quiet—just for a few more days.”
Tom noticed a tremble in the boy’s hand as he started to put the napkin back on the tray, then absently half folded it and dropped it. “Your mother must know by now that you took Johnny’s passport, that yours is at home. They could easily trace you to France. It’s going to be more unpleasant to be picked up by the police here than if you simply tell them now.” Tom set his cup on Frank’s tray. “I’ll leave you so you can write that note to Madame Boutin. I told Heloise you’re here. Got some paper you can write on?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom had been about to offer him some typewriter paper and a cheap envelope, because the notepaper in the guest room drawer had Belle Ombre’s address on it. Tom went into his room, shaved with his battery razor, and put on old green corduroy trousers that he often wore when gardening. It was a lovely day, coolish and sunny. He did some watering in his greenhouse, thought about what he and Frank might do that morning, and put out his secateurs and fork. He was interested in the morning post, due in a few minutes. When Tom heard the familiar creak of the post van’s handbrake, he walked toward his front gates.
He wanted to see if the IHT had an item anywhere in it about Frank Pierson, and he looked for this first, even though he saw a letter from Jeff Constant of London. Oddly, Jeff, a freelance photographer, was a better correspondent than Edmund Banbury, who hardly did anything else but manage the Buckmaster Gallery and spend most of his time there. Nothing in the news pages or in the People column about Frank Pierson. Tom suddenly thought of France-Dimanche, the old gossip rag of the weekend. Today was Saturday, and there would be a fresh edition. France-Dimanche was almost exclusively concerned with people’s sexual activities, but money came next in their interest. He opened Jeff’s letter in the living room.
Jeff didn’t mention Derwatt’s name, Tom saw from a glance at the typewritten page. Jeff said he agreed with Tom that a stop should be put, and had so informed the right people, after discussing it with Ed. Tom knew he meant by the right people a young painter in London called Steuerman, who had been attempting Derwatt forgeries for them—maybe five by now—but whose work could not hold a candle to that of the dedicated Bernard Tufts. Though Derwatt was presumed deceased by now, in his little Mexican village whose name he had never disclosed, Jeff and Ed had been keen for years now on “finding” old efforts of Derwatt’s, and trying to market them. Jeff went on: “This will cut our intake considerably, but as you know, we’ve always listened to your advice, Tom . . .” He ended by asking Tom to tear up his letter. Tom felt a bit relieved, and began to tear up Jeff’s letter, slowly, into little bits.
Frank came down with an envelope in his hand. He wore blue jeans. “It’s done. Could you take a look? I think it’s all right.”
He made Tom think of a schoolboy handing a paper to a teacher. Tom noticed two small mistakes in the French, which he thought normal. Frank had written that he had telephoned home, and had to return at once because of an illness in the family. He thanked Mme. Boutin for her kindness, and said that the gate key was just inside the garden gates where he had dropped it.
“Quite okay, I think,” Tom said. “I’ll run over with it now. You can look at the paper or go out in the garden. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“The paper,” said Frank softly, with a wince that showed his teeth.
“Nothing in that. I looked.” Tom indicated the IHT on the sofa.
“I’ll go out in the garden.”
“But not in front of the house, all right?”
Frank understood.
Tom went out and took the Mercedes, whose keys he had picked up from the hall table. The car was low on gasoline, and he would buy some on the way back. Tom drove as fast as the speed limit permitted. A pity the letter was in Frank’s handwriting, but it would have been odd if he had written on a typewriter. Not unless the police knocked on Mme. Boutin’s door would anyone be interested in Frank’s handwriting, Tom hoped.
In Moret, Tom parked a hundred yards from the Boutin house, and went on foot. Unfortunately a woman was standing outside the front door gate, talking with Mme. Boutin, Tom supposed, though he couldn’t see the latter. They might be talking about Billy’s disappearance. Tom turned and walked the other way, slowly, for a couple of minutes. When he looked again, the woman who had been standing on the pavement was now walking toward him. Tom walked in the direction of the Boutin house, and did not glance at the woman as he passed her. Tom dropped the envelope into the slit marked LETTRES in the closed front gate, circled the block, and arrived back at his car. Then he headed for the center of town, toward the bridge over the Loing River, where he knew there was a newspaper shop.
Tom stopped and bought a France-
Dimanche. It had red headlines as usual, but these were about Prince Charles’s girlfriend, and the second headline about the catastrophic marriage of a Greek heiress. Tom crossed the bridge and bought gas, and opened the paper while the tank was filling. A full-face picture of Frank—left-side hair part, right cheek showing the little mole—made Tom start. It was a square, two-column item. AMERICAN MILLIONAIRE’S SON HIDES IN FRANCE, said the caption, and below the photograph: Frank Pierson. Have you seen him?
The item read:
Hardly a week after the death of multi-millionaire John J. Pierson, American food magnate, his younger son Frank, only 16, quit his luxurious home in Maine, USA, having taken his older brother John’s passport. The sophisticated Frank is known for his independence, and was also extremely troubled by his father’s death, said his beautiful mother Lily. The young Frank left a note saying he was going to New Orleans, Louisiana, for a few days. But the family and police found no evidence that he ever went there. The search has since led to London and now to France, according to authorities.
The fabulously wealthy family is desperate, and the older brother John may come to Europe with a private detective in an attempt to find Frank. “I can spot him better, because I know him,” said John Pierson, Jr.
John Pierson, Sr., a wheelchair invalid since an attempt on his life eleven years ago, died on July 22 last, when he fell from a cliff on his Maine estate. Was he a suicide or was it an accident? The American authorities attributed his death to “accidental causes.”
But—what is the mystery behind the boy’s flight from home?
Tom paid the station attendant, and gave him a tip. He should tell Frank at once, show him the newspaper, Tom thought. It would surely jog the boy into making a move of some kind. Then he should get rid of the newspaper in case Heloise or Mme. Annette (more likely) looked at it.
The Boy Who Followed Ripley Page 5
