Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

  ‘Then I will go with you. I will go with my husband!’

  ‘That you cannot, madame.’ Tom was firm.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but we have to get rid of these – this carrion !’ Tom gestured. ‘Charogne!’ he repeated.

  ‘Simone, you have got to take a taxi back to Fontainebleau,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Non!’

  Jonathan grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand took the glass, so it wouldn’t spill. ‘You must do as I say. It’s your life, it’s my life. We cannot stay and argue!’

  Tom leapt up the stairs. He found, after nearly a minute’s searching, Heloise’s little bottle of quarter-grain phenobarbitols, which she so seldom took that they were at the back of everything in her medicine cabinet. He went down with two in his fingers, and dropped them casually into Simone’s glass – which he had taken from Jonathan – as he topped the glass up with a splash of soda.

  Simone drank this. She was sitting on the yellow sofa now. She seemed calmer, though it was too soon for the pills to have taken effect. And Jonathan was on the telephone now, Tom presumed phoning for a taxi. The slender Seine-et-Marne directory was open on the telephone-table. Tom felt a little dazed, the way Simone looked. But Simone looked also stunned with shock.

  ‘Just Belle Ombre, Villeperce,’ said Tom when Jonathan glanced at him.

  20

  WHILE Jonathan and Simone waited for the taxi, both standing in terrible silence near the front door, Tom went out to the garden via the french windows, and from the toolhouse got the jerry can of spare petrol. To Tom’s regret it was not full, but it felt three-quarters full. Tom had his torch with him. When he came round the front corner of the house, he heard a car approaching slowly, the taxi, he hoped. Tom, instead of putting the jerry can in the Renault, set it in the laurels, out of sight. He knocked on the front door and was admitted by Jonathan.

  ‘I think the taxi’s here,’ Tom said.

  Tom said good night to Simone, and let Jonathan escort her to the taxi which was waiting beyond the gates. The taxi drove off, and Jonathan came back.

  Tom was refastening the french windows. ‘Good Christ,’ Tom said, not knowing what else to say, and being immensely relieved to find himself alone with Jonathan again. ‘I hope Simone isn’t too livid. But I can hardly blame her.’

  Jonathan shrugged in a dazed way. He tried to speak and couldn’t.

  Tom realized his state and said, like a captain giving orders to a shaken crew, Jonathan, she’ll come round.’ And she wouldn’t ring the police either, because if she did, her husband would be implicated. Tom’s fortitude, his sense of purpose was returning. He patted Jonathan’s arm as he walked past him. ‘Back in a minute.’

  Tom got the jerry can from the bushes and put it in the back of his Renault. Then he opened the Italians’ Citroen, the interior light came on, and he saw that the fuel gauge registered slightly over half foil. That might do: he wanted to drive for more than two hours. The Renault, he knew, had only slightly more than half a tankful, and the bodies were going to be in there. He and Jonathan hadn’t had any dinner. That wasn’t wise. Tom went back into the house and said:

  ‘We ought to eat something before this trip.’

  Jonathan followed Tom into the kitchen, glad to escape for a few moments from the corpses in the living-room. He washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink. Tom smiled at him. Food, that was the answer – for the moment. He got the steak from the fridge and stuck it under the glowing bars. Then he found a plate, a couple of steak knives and two forks. They sat down finally, eating from the same plate, dipping morsels of steak into a saucer of salt and another of HP. It was excellent steak. Tom had even found a half-foil bottle of claret on the kitchen counter. There’d been many a time when he’d dined worse.

  That will do you good.’ Tom said, and tossed his knife and fork on to the plate.

  The clock in the living-room gave a ping, and Tom knew it was 11.30 p.m.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Tom. There’s Nescafé’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Neither Jonathan nor Tom had spoken while they had bolted the steak. Now Jonathan said, ‘How are we going to do it?’

  ‘Burn them somewhere. In their car,’ Tom said. ‘It isn’t necessary to bum them, but it’s rather Mafia-like.’

  Jonathan watched Tom rinsing a thermos at the sink, careless now of the fact he stood before an open window. Tom was running the hot water. He tipped some of the jar of Nescafé into the thermos and filled it with steaming water.

  ‘Like sugar?’ Tom asked. ‘I think we’ll need it.’

  Then Jonathan was helping Tom carry out the blond man, Who was now stiffening. Tom was saying something, making a joke. Then Tom said he had changed his mind: both bodies were going into the Citroen.

  ‘…even though the Renault.’ Tom said between gasps, ‘is bigger.’

  It was dark in front of the house now, the distant street lamp not even shedding a glow this far. They tumbled the second body on to the first on the back seat of the Citroen convertible, and Tom smiled because Lippo’s face seemed to be buried in Angy’s neck, but he refrained from comment. He found a couple of newspapers on the floor of the car and spread them over the dead men, tucking them in as best he could. Tom made sure that Jonathan knew how the Renault worked, showed him the turn signals, the headlights and the bright lights.

  ‘Okay, start it. I’ll close the house.’ Tom went into the house, left one light on in the living-room, came out and closed the front door and double-locked it.

  Tom had explained to Jonathan that their first objective was Sens, then Troyes. From Troyes they would go farther eastward. Tom had a map in his car. They would rendezvous first at Sens at the railway station. Tom put the thermos in Jonathan’s car.

  ‘You’re feeling all right?’ Tom asked. ‘Don’t hesitate to stop and drink some coffee if you feel like it.’ Tom waved him a cheerful good-bye. ‘Go ahead out first. I want to close the gates. I’ll pass you.’

  So Jonathan drove out first, Tom closed his gates and padlocked them, then soon passed Jonathan on the way to Sens, which was only thirty minutes away. Jonathan seemed to be doing all right in the Renault. Tom spoke briefly to him at Sens. At Troyes, they were again to go to the railway station. Tom didn’t know the town, and on the road it was dangerous for one car to try to follow another, but the way to ‘La Gare’ was pretty well marked in every town.

  It was about 1 a.m. when Tom got to Troyes. He hadn’t seen Jonathan behind him for more than half an hour. He went into the station café for a coffee, a second coffee, and kept a look-out through the glass door for the Renault winch might pull into the parking area in front of the station. Finally Tom paid and went out, and as he walked towards his own car, his Renault came down the slope into the parking area. Tom gave a wave, and Jonathan saw him.

  ‘You’re all right?’ Tom asked. Jonathan looked all right to Tom. ‘If you want some coffee here, or to use the loo, best go in alone.’

  Jonathan didn’t want either. Tom persuaded him to drink some coffee out of the thermos. No one was giving them a glance, Tom saw. A train had just come in and ten or fifteen people were heading for their parked cars or to the cars of people who had come to meet them.

  ‘From here we take the National Nineteen,’ Tom said. ‘We’ll aim for Bar – Bar-sur-Aube – and meet again at the railway station. All right?’

  Tom started off. The highway became clearer, with very little traffic except two or three elephantine trucks, their rectangular rears outlined in white or red lights, moving forms which might have been blind, Tom felt, blind at least to the two corpses in the back of the Citroen under newspaper, such a tiny cargo compared to theirs. Tom was not going fast now, not more than ninety kilometres or around fifty-five miles per hour. At the Bar railway station he and Jonathan leaned out of their windows to speak with one another.

  ‘Petrol’s getting low,’ Tom said. ‘I want to go beyond Chaumont, so I’m going
to pull in at the next petrol station, okay? And you do the same.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jonathan.

  It was now 2.15 a.m. ‘Keep on the old N nineteen. See you at the railway station in Chaumont.’

  Tom pulled in at a Total station as he was leaving Bar. He was paying the man, when Jonathan drove in behind him. Tom lit a cigarette and didn’t glance at Jonathan. Tom was walking about, stretching his legs. Then he pulled his car a little aside and went to the toilet. It was only forty-two kilometres to Chaumont.

  And there Tom arrived at 2.’5 a.m. Not even a taxi stood at the railway station, only a few parked and empty cars. There were no more trains tonight. The station bar-café was closed. When Jonathan arrived, Tom approached the Renault on foot, and said:

  ‘Follow me. I’m going to look for a quiet spot.’

  Jonathan was tired, but his fatigue had switched into another gear: he could have gone on driving for hours more, he felt. The Renault handled tightly and quickly, with the minimum of effort on his part. Jonathan was totally unfamiliar with the country here. That didn’t matter. And now it was easy, he merely kept the red tail-lights of the Citroen in view. Tom was going more slowly, and twice paused tentatively at side roads, then went on. The night was black, the stars not visible, at least not with the glow of the dashboard before him. A couple of cars passed, going in the opposite direction, and one lorry over- ‘ took Jonathan. Then Jonathan saw Tom’s right indicator pulse, and Tom’s car disappeared to the right. Jonathan followed, and barely saw the black gorge that was the road, or lane, when he came to it. It was a dirt road that led at once into forest. The road was narrow, not wide enough for two cars to pass, the kind of road often found in the French countryside, used by farmers or men gathering wood. Bushes scraped delicately at the front fenders, and there were potholes.

  Tom’s car stopped. They had gone perhaps two hundred yards from the main road in a great curve. Tom had cut his lights, but the interior of the car lit when he opened the door. Tom left the door open, and walked towards Jonathan, waving his arms cheerfully. Jonathan was at that instant cutting his own motor and his lights. The image of Tom’s figure in the baggy trousers, green suede jacket, stayed in Jonathan’s eyes for a moment as if Tom had been composed of light. Jonathan blinked.

  Then Tom was beside Jonathan’s window. ‘It’ll be over in a couple of minutes. Back your car about fifteen feet. You know how to reverse?’

  Jonathan started the car. The car had backing lights. When he stopped, Tom opened the second door of the Renault and pulled out the jerry can. Tom had his torch.

  Tom poured petrol on to the newspapers over the two corpses, then on their clothing. Tom splashed some on the roof, then the upholstery – unfortunately plastic, not cloth – of the front seat also. Tom looked up, straight up where the branches of the trees almost closed together above the road – young leaves, not yet in their fullness of summer. A few would get singed, but it was for a worthy cause. Tom shook the last drops from the jerry can on to the floor of the car where there was rubbish, the remains of a sandwich, an old road map.

  Jonathan was walking slowly towards him.

  ‘Here we go.’ Tom said softly, and struck a match. He had left the front door of the car open. He flung the match into the back of the car, where the newspapers flared up yellow at once.

  Tom stepped back, and grabbed Jonathan’s hand as his foot slipped in a depression at the side of the road. In the car!’ Tom whispered, and trotted towards the Renault. He got into the driver’s seat, smiling. The Citroen was taking nicely. The roof had started to burn in one central, thin yellow flame, like a candle.

  Jonathan got in on the other side.

  Tom started his motor. He was breathing a little hard, but it soon became laughter. ‘I think that’s all right. Don’t you? I think that’s just great!’

  The Renault’s lights burst forward, diminishing the growing holocaust in front of them for an instant. Tom backed, fairly fast, his body twisted so he could see through the back window.

  Jonathan stared at the burning car, which completely disappeared as they backed along the curve in the road.

  Then Tom straightened out. They were on the main road.

  ‘Can you see it from here?’ Tom asked, shooting the car forward.

  Jonathan saw a light like that of a glowworm through the trees, then it vanished. Or had he imagined it? ‘Not a thing now. No.’ For an instant, Jonathan felt frightened by this fact – as if they had failed somehow, as if the fire had died out. But he knew it hadn’t. The woods had simply swallowed the fire up, hidden it utterly. And yet, someone would find it. When? How much of it?

  Tom laughed. It’s burning. They’ll burn! We’re in the clear!’

  Jonathan saw Tom glance at his speedometer, which was climbing to a hundred and thirty. Then Tom eased back to a hundred.

  Tom was whistling a Neapolitan tune. He felt well, not tired at all, not even in need of a cigarette. Life afforded few pleasures tantamount to disposing of Mafiosi. And yet —

  ‘And yet —’ Tom said cheerfully.

  ‘And yet?’

  ‘Disposing of two does so little. Like stepping on two cockroaches when the whole house is full of them. I believe, however, in making the effort, and above all it’s nice to let the Mafia know now and then that people can diminish them. Unfortunately in this case they’re going to think another family got Lippo and Angy. At least I hope they’ll think that.’

  Jonathan was now feeling sleepy. He fought against it, forcing himself to sit up, pressing his nails into his palm. My God, he thought, it was going to be hours before they got home – back to Tom’s or to his own house. Tom seemed fresh as a daisy, singing now in Italian a tune he’d been whistling before.

  ‘… papa ne meno

  Como faremo fare l’amor…’

  Tom was chatting on, about his wife now, who was going to stay with some friends in a chalet in Switzerland. Then Jonathan awakened a little as Tom said:

  ‘Put your head back, Jonathan. No need to stay awake. – You’re feeling all right, I hope?’

  Jonathan didn’t know how he was feeling. He felt a bit weak, but he often felt weak. Jonathan was afraid to think about what had just happened, about what was happening, flesh and bone being burnt, smouldering on hours from now. Sadness came over Jonathan suddenly, like an eclipse. He wished he could erase the last few hours, cut them out of his memory. Yet he had been there, he had acted, he had helped. Jonathan put his head back and fell half asleep. Tom was talking cheerfully, casually, as if he were having a conversation with someone who now and then replied to him. Jonathan had in fact never known Tom in such good spirits. Jonathan was wondering what he was going to say to Simone? Merely to be aware of that problem exhausted him.

  ‘Masses sung in English, you know,’ Tom was saying, ‘I find simply embarrassing. Somehow one gives the English-speaking people credit for believing what they’re saying, so a mass in English you feel either the choir has lost its mind or they’re a pack of liars. Don’t you agree? Sir John Stainer…’

  Jonathan woke up when the car stopped. Tom had pulled on to the edge of the road. Smiling, Tom was sipping coffee from the thermos cup. He offered some to Jonathan. Jonathan drank a little. Then they drove on.

  Dawn came over a village that Jonathan had never seen before. The light had awakened Jonathan.

  ‘We’re only twenty minutes from home!’ Tom said brightly.

  Jonathan murmured something, and half shut his eyes again. Now Tom was talking about the harpsichord, his harpsichord.

  ‘The thing about Bach is that he’s instantly civilizing. Just a phrase…’

  21

  JONATHAN opened his eyes, thinking he had heard harpsichord music. Yes. It wasn’t a dream. He hadn’t really been asleep. The music came from downstairs. It faltered, recommenced. A sarabande, perhaps. Jonathan lifted his arm wearily and looked at his wrist-watch: 8.38 a.m. What was Simone doing now? What was she thinking?

  E
xhaustion sucked at Jonathan’s will. He sank deeper into the pillow, retreating. He’d taken a warm shower, put on pyjamas at Tom’s insistence. Tom had given him a new toothbrush and said, ‘Get a couple of hours’ sleep, anyway. It’s terribly early.’ That had been around 7 a.m. He had to get up. He had to do something about Simone, had to speak to her. But Jonathan lay limp, listening to the single notes of the harpsichord.

  Now Tom was fingering the bass of something, and it sounded correct, the deepest notes a harpsichord could pluck. As Tom had said, instantly civilizing. Jonathan forced himself up, out of the pale blue sheets and the darker blue woollen blanket. He staggered, and with an effort stood straight as he walked towards the door. Jonathan went down the stairs barefoot.

  Tom was reading the notes from a music book propped in front of him. Now the treble entered, and sunlight came through the slightly parted curtains at the french windows on to Tom’s left shoulder, picking out the gold pattern in his black dressing-gown.

  ‘Tom?’

  Tom turned at once and got up. ‘Yes?’

  Jonathan felt worse, seeing Tom’s alarmed face. The next thing Jonathan knew, he was on the yellow sofa, and Tom was wiping his face with a wet cloth, a dishtowel.

  ‘Tea? Or a brandy? … Have you got any pills you take?’

  Jonathan felt awful, he knew the feeling, and the only thing that helped was a transfusion. It hadn’t been so long since he’d had one. The trouble now was that he felt worse than he usually did. Was it only from losing a night’s sleep?