The Boy Who Followed Ripley

by Patricia Highsmith

  How often did the buses run? Tom paused by the bus stop, and looked back. A car appeared, full lights on, and passed Tom.

  “Äpfel, Äpfel!” That was from a small boy who came running and fell against the elderly man, who nearly embraced him.

  Tom watched. Where had the little boy come from? Why was he crying “Apples!” when he had none in his hands? The elderly man took the boy’s hand, and they walked on, away from Berlin.

  Here came the yellowish lights of what looked like a bus. Tom saw 20 TEGEL on its lighted front. When Tom paid for his ticket, he noticed that a couple of knuckles of his left hand were dark red with blood. How had that happened? Tom took a seat in the nearly empty bus, suitcase between his feet, stuck his left hand in his jacket pocket, and avoided looking at the other passengers. Tom gazed out the window on his left, at the encouragingly increasing houses, cars, people. It was now light enough to see the colors of cars. What had happened to Peter? Tom hoped he had fled at the sound of the gunshots.

  How soon would the body be found? In an hour, by some curious dog, the dog maybe in the company of a farmer? The body would not be visible from the road. Tom felt reasonably sure it was a body, not an unconscious man. Tom sighed, almost gasped, shook his head, and stared at the brown pigskin suitcase between his knees which contained two million dollars in paper. He leaned back and relaxed. Tegel must be the terminal stop, he thought, and he could almost afford to sleep. But he didn’t sleep, only rested his head against the window.

  The bus arrived at Tegel, which seemed a U-Bahn station rather than the air terminus. Tom was interested in a taxi, and after a few seconds, he found the taxi rank. He asked a driver if he could go to Niebuhrstrasse. Tom did not give the number, and told the driver he would know the house once he got to the street. Tom settled back and lit a cigarette. His knuckles were scraped, nothing serious there, and it was his own blood at least. Wouldn’t the kidnappers try again, ring up Paris and make another date? Or would they be so scared or rattled now, they would turn Frank loose? The last idea seemed amateurish to Tom, but how professional were these kidnappers?

  Tom got out somewhere in Niebuhrstrasse, paid and tipped the driver, and walked in the direction of Eric’s apartment house. He had the two keys on a ring which Eric had given him, and he opened the front door with one, and took the lift. At Eric’s door Tom knocked, and gave the bell one short push. It was now nearly half past six.

  Tom heard footsteps, then Eric’s voice asked in German:

  “Who is there?”

  “Tom.”

  “A-ah!” A chain rattled, a couple of bolts slid.

  “Back again!” Tom whispered cheerfully, and set the suitcase down in Eric’s hall, near where it became the living room.

  “Tom, why did you make Peter leave? Peter is so worried, he telephoned twice!— And you brought the suitcase back!” Eric smiled and shook his head, as if at a silly economy.

  Tom took off his jacket. The August sunlight was starting to blaze beyond Eric’s window.

  “Two shots, Peter told me. Now what happened?— Sit down, Tom! Would you like a coffee? Or a drink?”

  “A drink first, I think. Could you manage a gin and tonic?”

  Eric could, and while he was making it, Tom went to the bathroom and washed his hands with warm water and soap.

  “How did you get back? Peter said you took his gun.”

  “I still have his gun.” Now Tom was standing with a Gauloise in one hand and his drink in the other. “I took a bus and a taxi. The money’s still there.” Tom nodded toward the suitcase. “That’s why I brought your suitcase back.”

  “Still there?” Peter’s pink lips parted. “Who fired the shots?”

  “I did. But only in the air.” Tom’s voice had gone hoarse. He sat down. “I hit one with your suitcase. The Italian type, I think. I think he’s dead.”

  Eric nodded. “Peter saw him.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. I must put on something, Tom, I feel silly.” Eric, in pajamas, hurried into his bedroom, and came back tying the belt of his black silk dressing gown. “Peter waited, he said, maybe ten minutes, and then he went back to look, thinking you might be dead or wounded. He saw a man lying behind the shed.”

  “True,” Tom said.

  “So you just— Why didn’t you go back to Peter who was waiting at the church?”

  Waiting at the church! Tom laughed, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I don’t know. Maybe I was scared. I didn’t think. I didn’t even look toward the church.” Tom sipped more of his glass, and said, “Coffee, yes, please, Eric, and then a little sleep.”

  On his last words, the telephone rang.

  “That certainly is Peter again.” Eric went to his telephone. “Just come back!” Eric said. “No, he is all right, not hurt.— He took a bus and a taxi!” Then Eric laughed at something Peter was saying. “I shall tell Tom, yes. Very funny.— Yes, at least we are all safe.— Here! Can you believe it?” Eric put the telephone against his chest, still smiling broadly. “Peter cannot believe the money is back here! Peter wants to talk to you.”

  Tom got up. “Hello, Peter . . . Yes, I am okay. My infinite thanks to you, Peter, you did well.” Tom said that in German. “No, I did not shoot the man.”

  “I could not see well in the dark—with no light,” Peter said. “I only saw he was not you. So I went away.”

  He was brave to go back, Tom thought. “I’ve still got your gun and your torch.”

  Peter chuckled. “Let us both get some sleep.”

  Eric made coffee for Tom—Tom knew it was not going to disturb his sleep in the least—and then together they opened the horsehair sofa and spread the sheets and blanket.

  Tom carried the brown suitcase to the window, and looked at it for signs of blood. He saw none, but he took, with Eric’s permission, a floor rag from the kitchen, moistened it at the sink, and went over the exterior of the suitcase with it, then rinsed the rag out and hung it on a rod to dry.

  “You know,” Eric said to Tom, “a man approached Peter as he was walking away from that little road, and said, ‘Did you hear the shots?’ and Peter said yes, that was why he had walked onto the road. Then the man asked what Peter was doing there, since Peter was a stranger and Peter said, “Oh, I am only with my girlfriend by the church!’ ”

  Tom was not in a mood to laugh. He washed in a perfunctory way in the bathroom, and pulled on his pajamas. He was thinking that if the kidnappers released Frank, they would not necessarily inform Thurlow. Frank might know and probably did know that his brother and Thurlow were at the Hôtel Lutetia in Paris, and Frank might make his way there on his own, if he were freed. Or—the kidnappers might simply kill the boy with an overdose and leave his body in some Berlin apartment which they would abandon.

  “What are you thinking about, Tom? Let us both go back to bed for a little while. A long while. Sleep as late as you like! My housekeeper does not come tomorrow. And I have locked and chained the door.”

  “I’m thinking I have to ring Thurlow in Paris, because I said I would.”

  Eric nodded. “Yes—what is going to happen now? Go ahead and do it, Tom.”

  Tom went in his pajamas and loafers to the telephone, and dialed.

  “How many were there?” Eric asked. “Could you see?”

  “Not really. In the car? Three maybe.” Two now, Tom thought. He turned off the lamp by Eric’s telephone. There was light enough from the window.

  “Hello!” Thurlow said. “What happened there?”

  Thurlow had heard from them, Tom could tell. “Can’t say on the telephone. Are they willing to make another date?”

  “Ye-es, I’m pretty sure, but they’re sounding scared—nervous, I mean, and a little threatening. They said if there were any police—”

  “No police. There won’t be any police. Tell them we’re willing to make another date, would you?” Tom suddenly had an idea as to a meeting place. “I think they still want the money. Make them pr
ove the boy’s still alive, would you? Then I’ll call you back later today when I’ve had a little sleep.”

  “Where is the money now?”

  “Safe with me.” Tom put the telephone down.

  Eric stood with Tom’s empty coffee cup, listening.

  Tom lit a final cigarette. “Asking about the money,” he said to Eric, smiling. “I’m betting they still want the money. Much nicer than killing the boy and having a corpse on their hands.”

  “Ja, sure it is.— I took the suitcase back into my bedroom. Did you notice?”

  Tom hadn’t.

  “Good night, Tom. Sleep long!”

  Tom glanced at the chain on the door, then said, “Good night, Eric.”

  15

  “Eric, I’d like to borrow some drag—for tonight probably. Do you think your friend Max would be kind enough to lend me some?”

  “Drag?” Eric gave a mystified smile. “Drag for what? A party?”

  Now Tom laughed. They were breakfasting, or Tom was, at a quarter past one in the afternoon. Tom sat in pajamas and dressing gown on Eric’s smaller sofa. “Not a party, but I have an idea. Might work, and anyway it would be fun. I thought I’d try to make a date with the kidnappers at the Hump tonight. And maybe Max can even come with me.” Der Hump was the name of the gay bar with the glass stairway.

  “You will deliver the money at the Hump in drag?”

  “No, no money. Just drag. Can you reach Max now?”

  Eric stood up. “Max may be working. Rollo is more likely. He sleeps till noon usually. They live together. I shall try—yes.” Eric dialed a number which he had not needed to look up. After a few seconds, he said, “Hello, Rollo! How are you? . . . Is Max there? . . . So. Listen,” he went on in German, “my friend Tom would like—Well, Max has met him. Tom is staying with me. Tom would like some drag for tonight . . . Ja! A long dress—” Eric glanced at Tom and nodded. “Ja, a wig certainly, makeup—shoes.” Eric looked at Tom’s loafers and said, “Max’s maybe, yours are too big, ha-ha! . . . At the Hump maybe! . . . Ha-ha! Oh, I am sure you can come if you want to.”

  “Some kind of handbag,” Tom whispered.

  “Oh, and a handbag,” said Eric. “I don’t know. Fun, I suppose.” Eric chuckled. “You think so? Good, I’ll tell Tom. Wiedersehen, Rollo.” Eric hung up and said, “Rollo thinks Max can arrive tonight around ten—here, I mean. Max is working in a beauty parlor till nine, and Rollo goes out at six to do a window-dressing job until ten, but he says he will leave a note for Max to find.”

  “Thank you, Eric.” Tom felt cheered, even though nothing was as yet arranged.

  “Again I have a date at three this afternoon,” Eric said. “Not Kreuzberg. Want to come?”

  This time Tom didn’t. “No, thanks, Eric. I think I might take a little walk—buy a present for Heloise, maybe. And I must ring Paris again. I shall owe you a thousand dollars for your phone bill.”

  “Ha-ha!— To leave money for phone bills! No. We are all friends, Tom.” Eric went off to his bedroom.

  His words lingered in Tom’s ears as he lit a Roth-Händle. They were friends, and so was Reeves a friend of theirs. They used one another’s telephones, houses, lives sometimes, and somehow it all evened out. Tom could, however, send Eric an American slang dictionary, at least.

  Once more, Tom dialed the Lutetia.

  “Hel-lo, I am glad to hear from you,” said Thurlow, sounding as if he were chewing something. “Yes,” he said in answer to Tom’s question, “they phoned around noon today, this time with what sounded like fire engines in the background. Anyway they would like another definite—place and time and they’ve set it up. It’s a restaurant—I’ll give you the address—and you’re simply to leave a package to be picked—”

  “I have a place to suggest,” Tom interrupted. “A bar called the Hump. That’s H-u-m-p, just the way it sounds. In— Just a minute.” Tom put his hand over the telephone and called, “Eric!— Sorry to bother you. What is the street of Der Hump?”

  “Winterfeldtstrasse!” said Eric promptly.

  “Winterfeldtstrasse,” Tom said to Thurlow. “Oh, never mind the number, let them find it . . . Oh, yes, just an ordinary bar, but a pretty big one. I’m sure the taxi drivers will know it . . . Around midnight. Between eleven and midnight, let’s say. They are to ask for Joey, and Joey will have what they want.”

  “That will be you?” Thurlow asked in an interested tone.

  “Well—not sure. But Joey will be there. I assume you’ve heard that the boy is still all right?”

  “Only their word. We didn’t speak with him. With fire engines in the background, they must’ve been calling from the street.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thurlow. I expect success tonight,” Tom said in a firm tone, firmer than he felt. Tom plunged on. “Once they’ve got the money, I trust they’ll acknowledge it and tell you where the boy’s to be released. Can you ask them to do that? I suppose they’ll ring you again before tonight to confirm a date?”

  “I hope so. They gave me orders to tell you. About that restaurant, I mean— So you’ll call me back when, Mr. Ripley?”

  “I can’t say an exact time just now. But I’ll call back, yes.” Tom hung up, vaguely dissatisfied, wishing he could be sure the people who had Frank would ring Thurlow again today.

  Eric walked in from the hall with a purposeful air, licking an envelope. “Success? What is the news there?”

  Eric’s lack of anxiety gave Tom a bit of cool. They were both going to quit the apartment in a few minutes and leave two million dollars in it, unguarded. “I made a date for between eleven and twelve tonight at the Hump. The kidnappers are supposed to ask for Joey.”

  “And you are not taking the money?”

  “No.”

  “And then what?”

  “I shall plan things as I go along. Has Max got a car?”

  “No—they haven’t.” Eric adjusted his dark blue jacket on his shoulders, and looked at Tom, smiling. “I shall see you to a taxi in your drag tonight.”

  “Want to come?”

  “Not sure.” Eric wagged his head. “Tom, make yourself at home. But double-lock the door if you go out—please.”

  “Definitely. I shall.”

  “Would you like to see where the suitcase is—in my closet?”

  Tom smiled. “No.”

  “Bye-bye, dear Tom. Back by six, I think I am.”

  A few minutes later, Tom also went out, double-locking the door as Eric had requested.

  Niebuhrstrasse looked peaceful and ordinary to Tom, no figure anywhere that appeared to be loitering or paying attention to him. Tom walked left into Leibnizstrasse, and left again when he reached the Kurfürstendamm. Here were the shops, the book-and-record stores, the four-wheeled snack wagons on the pavement, life, people—a small boy running with a big cardboard box, a girl trying to scrape chewing gum from the heel of her boot without having to touch it. Tom smiled. He bought a Morgenpost, and took a brief look at it, not expecting and not finding anything that had to do with a kidnapping.

  Tom stopped in front of a shop window full of good attaché cases, handbags, and wallets. He went in and bought a dark-blue suede handbag with a shoulder strap. Heloise would like it, he thought. Two hundred and thirty-five DM. And maybe he had bought it as a guarantee that he would get back home and be able to present it to her. That was a bit illogical. He bought a couple of packets of Roth-Händle at a Schnell-Imbiss wagon. Convenient, Tom thought, that they sold cigarettes and matches as well as food and beer. Did he want a beer? No. He strolled back toward Eric’s.

  Tom held Eric’s front door open for a woman coming out with an empty shopping trolley. She thanked him, but barely glanced at him.

  He did not like going into Eric’s silent apartment, wondered for an instant if someone might be hiding in Eric’s bedroom. Absurd. But he went into the bedroom—which was quiet and neat with the bed made—and looked into the closet. The brown suitcase stood at the back, behind a larger suitcase, and in
front of the larger suitcase was a row of shoes. Tom lifted the brown suitcase, and felt its familiar weight.

  In the living room, Tom found himself staring at one of Eric’s woodland paintings—hating it—of an antlered stag with terrified and bloodshot eyes under dark-blue storm clouds. Were dogs pursuing the stag? If so, Tom didn’t see any. He looked in vain for a rifle barrel poking from anywhere in the picture. Maybe the stag had hated the painter.

  The telephone rang, and Tom jumped almost off his feet. It had sounded unusually loud. Could the kidnappers have got Eric’s number? Of course not. Should he answer it? Put on a different voice? Tom picked up the telephone and spoke in his usual voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Tom. This is Peter,” Peter said calmly.

  Tom smiled. “Hello, Peter. Eric’s not here, back around six, he said.”

  “Not important. You are okay? Slept?”

  “Yes, thank you.— Are you free tonight, Peter? Say from ten-thirty or eleven for a little bit?”

  “Ja-a. I have only to see a cousin for dinner. What is happening tonight?”

  “I am visiting Der Hump, maybe with Max. Again I am requesting your taxi service, but tonight should be safer. Well,” Tom added hastily, “I hope it will be safer, but that would be my problem, not yours.”

  Peter said he could come to Eric’s between ten-thirty and eleven.

  MAX LAID OUT his drag offerings in Eric’s living room like a salesman displaying something which would probably interest the customer, though this was the only outfit Max had brought. “This is my best one,” Max said in German, clumping around the living room in his boots and black leather gear, spreading the long gown to best advantage against himself.

  Tom was relieved to see that it had long sleeves. The gown was pink and white and transparent, with a triple row of ruffles at the hem. “Terrific,” said Tom. “Very pretty,” he added.

  “And this, of course.” From his red canvas carryall, Max pulled a white slip or petticoat that looked as long as the dress. “Put the dress on first, it will inspire me for the makeup,” Max said with a smile.