The Boy Who Followed Ripley

by Patricia Highsmith

  Had Susie knocked on Frank’s door? More likely than that Frank had knocked on hers! Tom laughed, and lay back on his bed. He heard a door close, gently nearby, and that would be Frank’s door. Tom stood up, put his cigarette out, and stepped into his loafers, which were serving again as house-slippers as they had in Berlin. He went into the hall, and saw a light under Frank’s closed door. Tom rapped with his fingertips.

  “Tom,” he said, when he heard a soft, quick tread coming toward the door.

  Frank opened the door, hollow-eyed with fatigue, but smiling. “Come in!” he whispered.

  Tom did. “That was Susie?”

  Frank nodded. “Got a smoke for me? Mine are downstairs.”

  Tom had his in the pocket of his pajamas. “Well, what’s she on about?” He lit the boy’s cigarette.

  Frank said, “Fwoop!” and blew out smoke, nearly laughing. “She still says she saw me on the cliff.”

  Tom shook his head. “She’s going to have another heart attack. Want me to talk with her tomorrow?— I’m curious to meet her.” He looked behind him at the closed door, because Frank had looked at it. “Does she wander around at night? I thought she was ill.”

  “Strength of an ox, maybe.” Frank was weaving with tiredness, and fell back on his bed with his bare feet in the air for an instant.

  Tom glanced around the room, saw an antique brown table on which stood a radio, a typewriter, books, a tablet of writing paper. On the floor near half-open closet doors he saw ski boots and a pair of riding boots. Pop singer posters were tacked to a vast green pinup board above the brown table, the Ramones slouching in blue jeans, and below all this were cartoons, a couple of photographs, maybe of Teresa, but since Tom did not want to bring that subject up, he did not look closely. “Damn her ass,” Tom said, meaning Susie, “she didn’t see you. You don’t expect another visit from her tonight, do you?”

  “Old witch,” Frank said, with his eyes half closed.

  Tom waved a hand, and went out and back into his room. He noticed that his own room door had a key in the lock on the inside. Tom did not lock it.

  The next morning, after the breakfast ritual, Tom asked Mrs. Pierson’s permission to cut a few flowers from the garden to bring to Susie. Lily Pierson said of course he could. As Tom had supposed, Frank knew more about the garden than his mother, and assured Tom that his mother wouldn’t care what they cut. They amassed a bouquet of white roses. Tom preferred to make his visit to Susie without preparation, as it were, but Tom asked Evangelina—appropriate name—to herald his advent. The black maid did so, then asked him to wait, please, for two minutes in the hall.

  “Susie likes to comb her hay,” said Evangelina with a happy smile.

  After a couple of minutes, Tom was summoned by a guttural or sleepy “Come in,” and he knocked first, then entered.

  Susie was propped against pillows in a whitish room now made whiter by sunlight. Susie’s hair looked yellowish and grayish also, her face round and seamed, eyes tired and wise. She reminded Tom of some German postage stamps of famous women whom, usually, Tom had never heard of. Her left arm, in a long white nightdress sleeve, lay outide the covers.

  “Good morning. Tom Ripley,” Tom said. Friend of Frank’s, he thought of saying, but stopped himself. Maybe she had heard of him already, via Lily. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Reasonably well, thank you.”

  A television set was facing her bed, reminding Tom of some hospital rooms he had visited, but the rest of the room was personal enough, with old family pictures, crocheted doilies, a bookcase full of knickknacks, souvenirs, even an old top-hatted minstrel doll that might have been a relic of Johnny’s childhood. “I’m glad to hear that. Mrs. Pierson told me that you had a heart attack.— I’m sure that’s frightening.”

  “Yes, when it is the first,” she replied in a grumbling voice. She was keeping a sharp, pale blue eye on Tom.

  “I was just—Frank was with me for several days in Europe. Maybe Mrs. Pierson told you.” Tom got no response to this, and looked for a vase to put the flowers in, and didn’t see one. “I brought these to brighten your room a little.” Tom advanced with a smile, with his bouquet.

  “Thank you very much,” said Susie, taking the bouquet with one hand—Frank had put a napkin around it—and pressing a bell at her bedside with the other.

  In no time, there was a knock, Evangelina entered, and was handed the bouquet and requested by Susie to find a vase, please.

  Tom was not offered a chair, but he took a straight chair anyway. “I suppose you know—” Tom wished he had ascertained Susie’s last name. “—that Frank was very upset by his father’s death. Frank looked me up in France, where I live. That’s how I met him.”

  She looked at him, still sharply, and said, “Frank is not a good boy.”

  Tom stifled a sigh, and tried to look pleasant and polite. “He seems quite a nice boy to me—stayed in my house several days.”

  “Why did he run away?”

  “I think he was upset. Well, all he did—” Did Susie know about Frank taking his brother’s passport? “Lots of young people run away. And then come back.”

  “I think Frank killed his father,” said Susie tremulously, wagging the forefinger of the hand that lay outside the covers. “And that is a terrible thing.”

  Tom inhaled slowly. “Why do you think that?”

  “You are not surprised? Has he confessed it to you?”

  “He certainly has not. No. I’m asking you why you think he did.” Tom frowned with seriousness, and he was affecting some surprise too.

  “Because I saw him—almost.”

  Tom paused. “You mean on the cliff there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw him— You were out on the lawn?”

  “No, I was upstairs. But I saw Frank go out with his father. He never went out with his father. They had just finished a game of croquet. Mrs. Pierson—”

  “Mr. Pierson played croquet?”

  “Yes, sure! He could move his chair just where he wanted it. Mrs. Pierson always wanted him to play a little—to take his mind off—you know, business worries.”

  “Frank was playing that day too?”

  “Yes, and Johnny too. I remember Johnny had a date—went off. But they all played.”

  Tom crossed his legs, wanted a cigarette and thought it best not to light one. “You told Mrs. Pierson,” Tom began with an earnest frown, “that you thought Frank pushed his father over?”

  “Yes,” said Susie firmly.

  “Mrs. Pierson doesn’t seem to think that.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Yes,” said Tom with equal firmness. “She thinks it was either an accident or a suicide.”

  Susie sniffed, and looked toward her TV, as if she wished it were on.

  “Did you say the same thing to the police—about Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Ah, they said I couldn’t have seen it, because I was upstairs. But there are some things a human being knows. You know, Mr.—”

  “Ripley. Tom. I am sorry I don’t know your last name.”

  “Schuhmacher,” she replied, just as Evangelina entered with the roses in a pink vase. “Thank you, Evangelina.”

  Evangelina set the vase on the night table between Tom and Susie, and left the room.

  “Unless you did see Frank do it—which must be impossible if the police said so—you should not say it. It has troubled Frank very much.”

  “Frank was with his father.” Again the plump but slightly wrinkled hand lifted and fell on the bedcover. “If it was an accident, even a suicide, Frank could have stopped him, no?”

  Tom at first thought Susie was right, then he thought of the speed the chair controls must have been capable of. But he didn’t want to go into this with Susie. “Couldn’t Mr. Pierson have sent his chair over by himself, before Frank knew what was happening? That’s what I thought.”

 
She shook her head. “Frank came back running, they said. I didn’t see him till I went downstairs. Everyone was talking then. Frank said his father drove his chair over, I know.” The pale blue eyes were fixed on Tom.

  “That’s what Frank told me too.” The moment of lying must have been like a second crime for Frank. If the boy had only come back calmly, let half an hour pass, as if he had left his father on the cliff! That, Tom realized, was what he would have done—nervous though he might have been, he would have done a little bit of planning. “What you think or believe—can certainly never be proven,” Tom said.

  “Frank denies it, I know.”

  “Do you want the boy to have a breakdown because of your—accusation?” At least Susie seemed to pause at this, and Tom pushed his advantage, if he had any, and he wanted to imagine that he had for the moment. “Unless there’s a witness or some real evidence, an act such as you describe can never be proven—or even believed in this case.” And when was the old lady going to die, Tom wondered, and let Frank off the hook? Susie Schuhmacher looked capable of another few years, and Frank could hardly separate himself from her, because she was installed in the Kennebunkport house, where the family evidently stayed quite often, and she probably went to their New York apartment also, when the family was there.

  “Why should I care what Frank makes of his life? He—”

  “You don’t like Frank?” Tom asked, as if amazed.

  “He is—not friendly. He is rebellious—unhappy. You never know what he is thinking. He gets ideas and hangs on to them. Attitudes.”

  Tom frowned. “But would you call him dishonest?”

  “No,” Susie replied, “he is too polite. It goes beyond dishonesty, what I mean. More important even—” She seemed to be getting tired. “But what should I care what he does with his life? He has everything. He does not appreciate what he has, never did. He gave his mother worries, running off the way he did. He doesn’t even care about that. He is not a good boy.”

  It was not a time, Tom thought, to launch into Frank’s fear or dislike of his father’s business empire, or even to ask what she might know of the influence of Teresa. Now Tom heard a telephone ringing remotely from somewhere. “But Mr. Pierson liked Frank very much, I think.”

  “Maybe too much. Did the boy deserve it? Look!”

  Tom uncrossed his legs and squirmed. “I think I’ve taken enough of your time, Mrs. Schuhmacher—”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, maybe even this afternoon, so I’ll say good-bye now and give you my good wishes for your health. In fact, I think you look very well,” he added, meaning it. He had stood up.

  “You live in France.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I remember Mr. Pierson mentioning your name. You know the art people in London.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Tom replied.

  She lifted her left hand again, and let it fall, and looked toward the window.

  “Bye-bye, Susie.” Tom made a bow, but Susie didn’t see it. Tom left the room.

  In the hall, Tom ran into Johnny, lanky and smiling.

  “I was just coming to rescue you! Would you like to see my dark room?”

  “Sure,” Tom said.

  Johnny turned and led Tom to a room on the left side of the hall. Johnny switched on red lights, which gave the effect of a black cavern with pink air in it, something like a stage set. The walls looked black, even the lump of a sofa black, and in a far corner Tom barely detected the paleness of what looked like a long sink. Johnny switched off the red and put on ordinary light. A couple of cameras stood on tripods. The black sheets now seemed minimal. It was not a big room. Tom was not knowledgeable about cameras. He didn’t know what to say when Johnny pointed to a camera that he had just acquired, except, “Really impressive.”

  “I could show you some of my work. Nearly all of it’s in portfolios here, except one downstairs in the dining room which I call ‘White Sunday,’ but it’s not snow. But—I think just now Mom wants to talk with you.”

  “Now? Does she?”

  “Yes, because Ralph’s leaving, and Mom said she wanted to see you after he left.— How was Susie?” There was amusement, or anticipation of it, in the boy’s smile.

  “Pleasant enough. Looking pretty strong, I thought. Of course I don’t know how she usually looks.”

  “She’s a bit cracked. Don’t pay too much attention to anything she says.” Johnny stood straight, still smiling a little, but his words sounded like a warning.

  Johnny was protecting his brother, Tom felt. Johnny knew what Susie was saying, and Frank had told Tom that Johnny didn’t believe it. Tom went downstairs with Johnny, and found Mrs. Pierson and Ralph Thurlow with his raincoat over his arm. Thurlow must have slept late today, because Tom had not seen him until now.

  “Tom—” Ralph Thurlow extended a hand. “If you ever need a job—along the same lines—” He fished for something in his billfold, and extended a card. “Ring my office, would you? My home address is there too.”

  Tom smiled. “I’ll remember.”

  “I really mean, let’s have an evening in New York sometime. I’m off to New York now. Bye-bye, Tom.”

  “Bon voyage,” Tom said.

  Tom had thought that Thurlow was going to depart in the black car in the driveway, but Mrs. Pierson and Thurlow went out onto the porch and walked to the left. Tom saw that a helicopter had landed or been rolled out onto the cement circle on the back lawn. The property was so vast, Tom supposed that the Piersons might have their own hangar somewhere at the end of the cement runway, which disappeared among trees. This helicopter looked smaller than the one they had taken from New York, but perhaps he was simply getting used to the scale on which the Piersons lived. Tom looked at the black Daimler-Benz whose exhaust pipe gave out faintly visible fumes, and saw that Frank was at the wheel, alone. The car moved forward two yards or so, then reversed, smoothly.

  “What’re you doing?” Tom asked.

  Frank smiled. He was in shirtsleeves—the same yellowish Viyella shirt—and sat very straight as if he were a chauffeur in livery. “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got a driving license?”

  “Not yet, but I know how to drive. Do you like this car? I like it. Conservative.”

  It was similar to the car Eugene had driven in New York, but the upholstery of this one had brown leather instead of beige.

  “Don’t take off anywhere without a license,” Tom said. The boy looked in a mood to take off, though he was working the gears very slowly and meticulously. “See you later. I’m supposed to speak with your mother.”

  “Oh?” Frank switched off the ignition and looked at Tom through the open window. “And what did you think of Susie?”

  “She was—the same as always, I suppose.” Susie was giving the same old story, Tom meant. Frank looked both amused and thoughtful, and at that moment he looked very handsome, perhaps a few years older than he was. It crossed Tom’s mind that Frank might have had a telephone call from Teresa that morning, but Tom was afraid to ask. Tom went back to the house.

  Lily Pierson, wearing pale blue slacks this morning, was giving Evangelina instructions about lunch. Part of Tom’s mind was on his own departure. Should he try to get to New York this evening? Stay a night in New York? He should give Heloise a ring today.

  Lily turned to him, smiling. “Sit down, Tom. Oh no, let’s go in here—more cheerful.” She led him toward a sunny room off the living room.

  It was a library, full of economics books in bright new jackets, Tom saw at a glance, with a big square desk on which sat a pipe rack with five or six pipes in it. The dark-green leather swivel chair behind the desk looked both old and unused, and it occurred to Tom that John Pierson might not have found it worth the trouble to move himself from wheelchair to the leather chair, when he was in this room.

  “And what did you think of Susie?” Lily asked in the same tone as her sons, smiling with her lips pressed together, as
were her hands. She looked eager to be amused.

  Tom nodded with an air of thought. “Just what Frank told me. A bit stubborn—perhaps.”

  “And she still thinks Frank pushed his father over the cliff?” Lily asked in a tone that implied that the idea was absurd.

  “So she thinks, yes,” Tom said.

  “No one believes her. There’s nothing to believe. She didn’t see anything. I really can’t keep on worrying about Susie. She could make anyone as eccentric as she is.— I wanted to say to you, Tom, that I realize you’ve had a lot of expenses due to Frank, and so without any more words about it, would you please accept this check from me, from the family.” She had pulled a folded check from the pocket of her blouse.

  Tom looked at it. Twenty thousand dollars. “My expenses were nothing like this. Anyway, it was a pleasure to meet your son.” Tom laughed.

  “It would give me pleasure.”

  “My expenses weren’t half this.” But in an instant, in the way she brushed her hair back from her forehead unnecessarily, Tom knew that it would please her if he accepted the check. “All right, then.” Tom put the check into his trousers pocket, and kept his hand there. “With my thanks also.”

  “Ralph told me about Berlin. You risked your life.”

  Tom was not interested in that now. “Did Frank possibly get a telephone call from Teresa this morning, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I thought he looked more cheerful just now. But I don’t know.” Tom really didn’t know. He knew only that Frank was in a different mood, one that he had not seen before.

  “You can never tell about Frank,” said Lily. “From the way he acts, I mean.”

  Meaning that Frank could act the opposite from the way he felt? Lily was so relieved to have Frank back home, that factors like Teresa just didn’t count for much, Tom supposed.

  “My friend Tal Stevens is coming this afternoon, and I’d like you to meet him,” Lily said as they walked out of the library. “One of John’s best lawyers, though he never was employed by the company, he was just a freelance counsel.”