Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

  Obviously there would be more on the subject, with photographs probably, in later editions, Tom thought. That was a nice Gallic touch of detection, the four minutes, like a problem in arithmetic for children also, Tom thought. If a train is going at one hundred kilometers per hour, and one Mafioso is tossed out, and a second Mafioso is found tossed out six and two-thirds of a kilometer distant from the first Mafioso, how much time has elapsed between the tossing out of each Mafioso? Answer: four minutes. There was no mention of the second bodyguard who was evidently keeping his mouth shut and lodging no complaints about the service on the Mozart Express.

  But the bodyguard Turoli wasn’t dead. And Tom realized that Turoli had perhaps had a look at him before Tom hit him in the jaw, had some idea of him. He might be able to describe him or identify him, if he ever saw Tom again. But Turoli had probably not taken in Jonathan at all, since Jonathan had hit him from behind.

  Around 3.30 p.m., when Heloise had gone off to visit Agn£s Grais on the other side of Villeperce, Tom looked up Trevanny’s shop number in Fontainebleau, and found that he had it correct in his memory.

  Trevanny answered.

  ‘Hello. This is Tom Ripley. Um-m – about my picture – Are you alone just now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to see you. I think it’s important. Can you meet me, say – after you close today? Around seven? I can —’

  ‘Yes.’ Trevanny sounded as tense as a cat.

  ‘Suppose I hold my car around the Salamandre bar? You know the bar I mean on the Rue Grande?’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘Then we’ll drive somewhere and have a talk. Quarter to seven?’

  ‘Right,’ said Trevanny as if through his teeth.

  Trevanny was going to be pleasantly surprised, Tom thought as he hung up.

  A little later that afternoon, when Tom was in his atelier, Heloise telephoned.

  ‘Hello, Tome! I am not coming home, because Agnes and I are going to cook something wonderful and we want you to come. Antoine is here, you know. It’s Saturday! So come around seven-thirty, all right?’

  ‘How is eight, darling? I’m working a little.’

  ‘Tu travailles?’

  Tom smiled. ‘I’m sketching. I’ll be there at eight.’

  Antoine Grais was an architect with a wife and two small children. Tom looked forward to a pleasant, relaxing evening with his neighbours. He drove off for Fontainebleau early so that he could buy a plant – he chose a camellia – as a present for the Grais, and give this as an excuse for being a little late, in case he was,

  In Fontainebleau Tom also bought a France-Soir for the latest news about Turoli. There was nothing about any change in his condition, but the paper did say that the two Italians were believed to be members of the Genotti family of Mafia, and might have been victims of a rival gang, That at least would please Reeves, Tom thought, as that was Reeves’ objective. Tom found a vacant spot at the kerb a few yards from the Salamandre. He looked through his back window and saw Trevanny walking towards him, in his rather slow stride, then Trevanny caught sight of Tom’s car. Trevanny was wearing a mac of impressive decrepitude.

  ‘Hello!’ Tom said, opening the door. ‘Get in and we’ll go to Avon – or somewhere.’

  Trevanny got in, barely mumbling a hello.

  Avon was a twin town with Fontainebleau, though smaller. Tom drove down the slope towards the Fontainebleau-Avon railway station and bore to the right on the curve that led into Avon.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Tom asked pleasantly.

  ‘Yes,’ Trevanny said.

  ‘You’ve seen the papers, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That bodyguard isn’t dead.’

  ‘I know.’ Jonathan had imagined, since 8 a.m. that morning when he had seen the papers in Strassburg, that Turoli was going to come out of his coma at any moment and give a description of him and of Tom Ripley, the two men on the platform.

  ‘You got back to Paris last night?’

  ‘No, I – I stayed in Strassburg and got a plane this morning.’

  ‘No trouble in Strassburg? No sign of that second bodyguard?’

  ‘No,’ Jonathan said.

  Tom was driving slowly, looking for a quiet spot. He slid up to a kerb in a little street of two-storey houses, stopped, and switched off his lights. ‘I think,’ Tom said, pulling out his cigarettes, ‘considering the papers haven’t reported clues – not the right ones anyway – we did a rather good job. That comatose bodyguard is the only rub.’ Tom offered Jonathan a cigarette, but Jonathan took his own. ‘Have you heard from Reeves?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes. This afternoon. Before you rang.’ Reeves had rung this morning, and Simone had answered. Someone in Hamburg. An American, Simone had said. That was also making Jonathan nervous, simply the fact that Simone had spoken with Reeves, although Reeves hadn’t given his name.

  ‘I hope he’s not being sticky about the money,’ Tom said. ‘I prodded him, you know. He ought to come up with all of it right away.’

  And how much would you like, Jonathan wanted to ask, but decided to let Ripley get to it himself.

  Tom smiled and slumped behind the wheel. ‘You’re probably thinking that I want some of the – forty thousand quid, isn’t it? But I don’t.’

  ‘Oh. – Frankly I was thinking you wanted some. Yes.’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today. One of the reasons. The other reason is to ask if you’re worried —’ Jonathan’s tension was making Tom feel awkward, almost tongue-tied. He gave a laugh. ‘Of course you’re worried! But there’re worries and worries. I might be able to help – that is if you talk to me.’

  What did he want, Jonathan wondered. He surely wanted something. ‘I don’t quite understand, I suppose, why you were on die train.’

  ‘Because it was a pleasure! A pleasure for me to eliminate, or help to eliminate such people as those two yesterday. Simple as that! Also a pleasure for me to help you put a little money in your pocket. – However, I meant worried about what we did – in any way. It’s hard for me to put into words. Maybe because I’m not at all worried. Not yet anyway.’

  Jonathan felt off balance. Tom Ripley was being evasive – somehow – or joking. Jonathan still felt a hostility towards Ripley, a wariness of him. And now it was too late. Yesterday on the train, seeing Ripley about to take over the job, Jonathan might have said, ‘All right, it’s all yours,’ and walked off, back to his seat. That would not have erased the Hamburg affair which Ripley knew about, but—Yesterday the money hadn’t been the motivation. Jonathan had simply been in a panic, even before Ripley had arrived. Now Jonathan felt he couldn’t find the right weapon for his defence. ‘I gather it was you,’ Jonathan said, ‘who put out the story that I was on my last legs. You gave my name to Reeves.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said a little contritely but firmly. ‘But it was a choice, wasn’t it? You could’ve said no to Reeves’ idea.’ Tom waited, but Jonathan didn’t answer. ‘However, the situation is considerably better now, I trust. Isn’t it? I hope you’re not anywhere near dying, and you’ve got quite a bit of dough – lolly, you’d call it.’

  Jonathan saw Tom’s face light up with his innocent-looking American smile. No one, seeing Tom Ripley’s face how, would imagine that he could loll anyone, garrotte someone, and yet he’d done just that about twenty-four hours ago. ‘You have a habit of playing practical jokes?’ Jonathan asked with a smile.

  ‘No. No, certainly not. This might be the first time.’

  ‘And you want – nothing at all.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything I want from you. Not even friendship, because that’d be dangerous.’

  Jonathan squirmed. He made himself stop drumming his fingers on a matchbox.

  Tom could imagine what he was thinking, that he was under Tom Ripley’s thumb, in a way, whether Ripley wanted anything or not. Tom said, ‘You’re no more in my grip than I am in yours. I did the garrotting, didn’t I? You could a
s well say something against me as I against you. Think of it that way.’

  ‘True,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘If there’s one thing I’d like to do it’s protect you.’

  Now Jonathan laughed and Ripley didn’t.

  cOf course it may not be necessary. Let’s hope not. The trouble is always other people. Ha!’ Tom stared through the windshield for an instant. For instance, your wife. What’ve you told her about the money coming in?’

  That was a problem, real, tangible and unsolved. ‘I said I was being paid something by the German doctors. That they’re making tests – using me.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Tom said musingly, ‘but maybe we can think of something better. Because obviously you can’t account for the whole sum like that, and you both may as well enjoy it. – How about somebody dying in your family? In England? A recluse cousin, for instance.’

  Jonathan smiled and glanced at Tom. ‘I’ve thought of that, but frankly there isn’t anybody.’

  Tom could see that Jonathan wasn’t in the habit of inventing. Tom could have invented something for Heloise, for example, if he’d suddenly come into a great deal of money. He would create an eccentric recluse tucked away in Santa Fe or Sausalito all these years, a third cousin of his mother’s, something like that, and embroider the personage with details remembered from a brief meeting in Boston when Tom had been a small boy, orphaned as Tom really had been. Little had he known that this cousin had a heart of gold. ‘Still it ought to be easy with your family so far away in England. We’ll think about it,’ Tom added, when he saw that Jonathan was about to say something in the negative. Tom looked at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’m due for dinner, and I suppose you are too. Ah, one more thing, the gun. A small matter, but did you get rid of it?’

  The gun was in the pocket of the raincoat Jonathan was wearing. ‘I’ve got it now. I’d very much like to get rid of it.’

  Tom extended his hand. ‘Let’s have it. One thing out of the way.’ Trevanny handed it to him, and Tom stuck it into the glove compartment. ‘Never used, so it’s not too dangerous, but 1’11 get rid of it because it’s Italian.’ Tom paused for thought. There must be something else, and now was the time to think of it, because he did not intend to see Jonathan again. Then it came to him. ‘By the way, I will assume that you tell Reeves you did this job alone. Reeves doesn’t know I was on the train. It’s much better that way.’

  Jonathan had rather assumed the opposite, and took a moment to digest this. ‘I thought you were a rather good friend of Reeves.’

  ‘Oh, we’re friendly. Not too. We keep a distance.’ In a way Tom was thinking out loud, and also trying to say the right thing in order not to scare Trevanny, in order to make Trevanny feel more sure of himself. It was difficult. ‘No one knows I was on that train but you. I bought my ticket under another name. In fact I was using a false passport. I realized you were having trouble with the garrotte idea. I spoke with Reeves on the telephone.’ Tom started his motor and put on the lights. ‘Reeves is a bit cracked.’

  ‘How so?’

  A motorcycle with a strong headlight came roaring round the corner and passed them, drowning out the car’s hum for a moment.

  ‘He plays games,’ Tom said. ‘He’s mainly a fence, as you may know, receives goods, passes them on. It’s as silly as spy games, but at least Reeves hasn’t been caught yet – caught and released and all that. I understand he’s doing quite well in Hamburg, but I haven’t seen his place there. – He shouldn’t be dabbling in this sort of thing. Not his dish.’

  Jonathan had been imagining Tom Ripley a frequent visitor at Reeves Minot’s place in Hamburg. He remembered Fritz turning up with a small package at Reeves’ that night. Jewellery? Dope? Jonathan watched the familiar viaduct, then the dark green trees near the railway station come into view, their tops bright under the street lights. Only Tom Ripley next to him was unfamiliar.

  Jonathan’s fear rose afresh. If I may ask – how did you come to pick on me?’

  Tom was just then making the difficult turn left at the top of the hill into the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, and had to pause for oncoming traffic. Tor a petty reason, I’m sorry to say. That night in February at your party – you said something I didn’t like.’ Now Tom was clear of traffic. ‘You said, “Yes, I’ve heard of you,” in a rather nasty way.’

  Jonathan remembered. He also remembered he’d been feeling particularly tired and consequently bloody-minded that evening. So for a slight rudeness, Ripley had got him into the mess he was in now. Rather, he’d got himself into it, Jonathan reminded himself.

  ‘You won’t have to see me again,’ Tom said. ‘The job has been a success. I think, if we don’t hear anything from that bodyguard.’ Should he say ‘I’m sorry’ to Jonathan? To hell with it, Tom thought. ‘And from a moral point of view, I trust you don’t reproach yourself. Those men were murderers also. They often murder innocent people. So we took the law into our own hands. The Mafia would be the first to agree that people should take the law into their own hands. That’s their cornerstone.’ Tom turned right into the Rue de France. ‘I won’t take you all the way to your door.’

  ‘Any place here. Thanks very much.’

  ‘I’ll try to send a friend to pick up my picture.’ Tom stopped his car.

  Jonathan got out. ‘As you like.’

  ‘Do ring me if you’re in straits,’ Tom said with a smile.

  At least Jonathan smiled back, as if he were amused.

  Jonathan walked towards the Rue St Merry, and in the next seconds began to feel better – relieved. Much of his relief was due to the fact that Ripley didn’t seem to be worried – not by the bodyguard still alive, not by the fact they’d both stood for what seemed an unlikely length of time on that platform in the train. And the money situation – that was as incredible as the rest of it.

  Jonathan slowed his steps as he approached the Sherlock Holmes house, though he knew he was later than usual. The signature cards from the Swiss bank had come to his shop yesterday, Simone had not opened the letter, and Jonathan had signed the cards and put them into the post at once that afternoon. He had a four-figure number for his account which he had thought he would remember, but which he had already forgotten. Simone had accepted his second visit to Germany to see a specialist, but there wouldn’t be any more visits, and Jonathan would have to account for the money – not all of it but a good deal of extra money, for instance – by stories of injections, pills, and perhaps he’d have to make another trip or two to Germany just to substantiate his story that the doctors were continuing their tests. It was difficult, not at all Jonathan’s style. He was hoping that some better explanation might occur to him, but he knew it wouldn’t unless he racked his brains to think of one.

  ‘You’re late,’ Simone said as he came in. She was in the living-room with Georges, picture books spread all over the sofa.

  ‘Customers,’ Jonathan said, and flung his mac on a hook. The absence of the gun’s weight was a relief. He smiled at his son. ‘And how are you, Pebble Boy? What’re you up to?’ Jonathan spoke in English.

  Georges grinned like a little blond pumpkin. One front tooth had vanished while Jonathan had been on the Munich trip. ‘I am weeding,’ Georges said.

  ‘Reading. You weed in the garden. Unless of course you have a speech defect.’

  ‘Wot’s a peach defect?’

  Worms, for example. But it could go on for ever. What’s worms? A town in Germany. ‘Speech defect – like when you st-stutter. B-b-bégayer – that’s a —’

  ‘Oh Jon, look at this,’ Simone said, reaching for a newspaper. ‘I didn’t notice it at lunch. Look. Two men – no, one man was killed on the train from Germany to Paris yesterday. Murdered and pushed off the train! Do you think that was the train you were on?’

  Jonathan looked at the photograph of the dead man on the slope of ground, looked at the account of it as if he had not seen it before … garrotted … an arm of the second victim may require amputation… ‘Yes �
� the Mozart Express. I didn’t notice anything on the train. But then there were about thirty carriages.’ Jonathan had told Simone he had come in too late last night to make the last train to Fontainebleau, and that he had stayed at a small hotel in Paris.

  ‘The Mafia.’ Simone said, shaking her head. ‘They must’ve had a compartment with the blinds drawn to do that garrotting. Ugh!’ She got up to go to the kitchen.

  Jonathan glanced at Georges, who was bent over an Astérix picture book at that instant. Jonathan would not have wanted to explain what garrotting meant.

  That evening, though he felt a bit tense, Tom was in the best of spirits at the Grais’s. Antoine and Agnès Grais lived in a round stone house with a turret, surrounded by climbing roses. Antoine was in his late thirties, neat and rather severe, master in his own house and tremendously ambitious. He worked in a modest studio in Paris all week, and came to the country at week-ends to join his family, and knocked himself out further with gardening. Tom knew that Antoine considered him lazy, because if Tom’s garden was equally neat, what miracle was it, since Tom had nothing else to do all day? The spectacular dish that Agnès and Heloise had created was a lobster casserole with a great variety of sea-food in the rice, and a choice of two sauces to go with it.

  ‘I’ve thought of a wonderful way to start a forest fire.’ Tom said musingly when they were having coffee. ‘Especially good down in South of France, where there’re so many dry trees in summer. You fix a hand lens in a pine tree, you could do it even in winter, and then when the summer comes, the sun shines through it and the magnifying glass starts a little blaze in the pine needles. You place it near the house of somebody you dislike, of course and – snap, crackle and pop! – the whole thing goes up in blazes! The police or the insurance people wouldn’t very likely find the hand lens in all the charred wood and even if they did – Perfect, isn’t it?’