Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

  Tom did not think Simone was going to change towards Jonathan either, but he said nothing. Maybe he could talk at home, and yet what else could he say? Words of comfort, words of hope, of reconciliation, when he didn’t really believe there’d be one? And yet who knew about women? Sometimes they appeared to have stronger moral attitudes than men, and at other times – especially as to political skulduggery and the political swine they could sometimes marry – it seemed to Tom that women were more flexible, more capable of double-think than men. Unfortunately, Simone presented a picture of inflexible rectitude. Hadn’t Jonathan said she was a church-goer too? But Tom’s thoughts were equally on Reeves Minot now. Reeves was nervous, for no very strong reason that Tom could see. Suddenly Tom was at the turn-off at Villeperce, guiding the car slowly through the familiar, quiet streets.

  And there was Belle Ombre behind the tall poplars, a light glowing above the doorway – all intact.

  Tom had just made coffee, and Jonathan said he would join him in a cup. Tom heated the coffee a bit, and brought it with the brandy bottle to the coffee-table.

  ‘Speaking of problems,’ Tom said, ‘Reeves wants to come to France. I phoned him today from Sens. He’s in Ascona staying at a hotel called The Three Bears.’

  ‘I remember,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘He imagines he’s being spied on – by people in the street. I tried to tell him – our enemies don’t waste time with that sort of thing. He should know. I tried to discourage him from coming even to Paris. Certainly not to my place, here. I wouldn’t call Belle Ombre the safest spot in the world, would you? Naturally, I couldn’t even hint at Saturday night, which might’ve reassured Reeves. I mean, we at least got rid of the two people who saw us on the train. I’m not sure how long the peace and quiet will last.’ Tom hitched forward, elbows on his knees, and glanced at the silent windows. ‘Reeves doesn’t know anything about Saturday night, or didn’t say anything, anyway. Might not even connect it, if he reads the papers. I suppose you saw the papers today?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘No clues. Nothing on the radio tonight either, but the TV boys gave it a spot. No clues.’ Tom smiled, and reached for one of his small cigars. He extended the box to Jonathan, but Jonathan shook his head. ‘What’s equally good news, not a question from the townsfolk here. I bought bread and went to the butcher’s today – on foot, taking my time – just to see. And around seven-thirty p.m. Howard Glegg arrived, one of my neighbours, bringing me a big plastic sack of horse manure from one of his farmer friends where he buys a rabbit now and then.’ Tom puffed on his cigar and relaxed with a laugh. ‘It was Howard who stopped his car outside Saturday night, remember? He thought we had guests, Heloise and I, and that it mightn’t be die time to deliver horse manure.’ Tom rambled on, trying to fill in the time, while Jonathan, he hoped, lost a little of his tension. ‘I told him Heloise was away for a few days, and I said I’d been entertaining some friends from Paris, hence the Paris car outside. I think that went down very well.’

  The clock on the mantel struck nine, with pure little pings.

  ‘However, back to Reeves,’ Tom said. ‘I thought of writing him, saying I had some grounds for thinking the situation had improved, but two things stopped me. Reeves might leave Ascona at any hour now, and second, things haven’t improved for him, if the wogs still want to get him. He’s using the name Ralph Piatt now, but they know his real name and what he looks like. There’s nothing for Reeves but Brazil, if the Mafia still wants to get him. And even Brazil —’ Tom smiled, but not happily now.

  ‘But isn’t he rather used to it?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Like this? No. – Very few people, I suppose, get used to the Mafia and live to talk about it. They may live, but not very comfortably.’

  But Reeves had brought it on himself, Jonathan was thinking. And Reeves had drawn him into it. No, he’d walked into it of his own free will, let himself be persuaded – for money. And it was Tom Ripley who had – at least tried to help him collect that money, even if it had been Tom’s idea from the start, this deadly game. Jonathan’s mind spun back to those minutes on the train between Munich and Strassburg.

  ‘I am sorry about Simone,’ Tom said. Jonathan’s long, cramped figure, hunched over his coffee cup, seemed to illustrate failure, like a statue. ‘What does she want to do?’

  ‘Oh —’Jonathan shrugged. ‘She talks about a separation. Taking Georges, of course. She has a brother, Gerard, in Nemours. I don’t know what she’ll say to him – or to her family there. She’s absolutely shocked, you see. And ashamed.’

  ‘I do understand.’ So is Heloise ashamed, Tom thought, but Heloise was more capable of double-think. Heloise knew he dabbled in murder, crime – yet was it crime? At least recently, with the Derwatt thing, and now the accursed Mafia? Tom brushed the moral question aside for the moment, and at the same time found himself flicking a bit of ash off his knee. What was Jonathan going to do with himself? Without Simone, he’d have no morale at all. Tom wondered if he should try talking to Simone again? But his memory of yesterday’s interview discouraged him. Tom didn’t fancy trying again with Simone.

  ‘I am finished,’ Jonathan said.

  Tom started to speak, and Jonathan interrupted:

  ‘You know I’m finished with Simone – or she is with me.

  Then there’s the old business of how long will I live anyway? Why drag it on? So Tom —’ Jonathan stood up. ‘If I can be of service, even suicidal, I’m at your disposal.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘Yes, a little. Thanks.’

  Tom poured it. ‘I’ve spent the last few minutes trying to explain why I think – I think we’re over the hump. That is with the wogs. Of course we’re not out of the woods if they catch Reeves – and torture him. He might talk about both of us.’

  Jonathan had thought of that. It simply didn’t matter much to him, but of course it mattered to Tom. Tom wanted to stay alive. ‘Can I be of any service? As a decoy, perhaps? A sacrifice?’ Jonathan laughed.

  ‘I don’t want any decoys,’ Tom said.

  ‘Didn’t you say once the Mafia might want a certain amount of blood, as revenge?’

  Tom had certainly thought it, but he wasn’t sure if he had said it. ‘If we do nothing – they may get Reeves and finish him,’ Tom said. ‘This is called letting nature take its course. I didn’t put this idea – assassinating Mafiosi – into Reeves’ head, and neither did you.’

  Tom’s cool attitude took the wind out of Jonathan’s sails a little. He sat down. ‘And what about Fritz? Any news? I remember Fritz well.’ Jonathan smiled, as if recollecting halcyon days, Fritz arriving at Reeves’ flat in Hamburg, cap in hand, with a friendly smile and the efficient little pistol.

  Tom had to think for a moment who Fritz was: the factotum, the taxi-driver-messenger in Hamburg. ‘No. Let’s hope Fritz has returned to his folks in the country, as Reeves said. I hope he’s staying there. Maybe they’re finished with Fritz.’ Tom stood up. ‘Jonathan, you’ve got to go home tonight and face the music’

  ‘I know.’ Tom had, however, made him feel better. Tom was realistic, even about Simone. ‘Funny, the problem isn’t the Mafia any more, it’s Simone – for me.’

  Tom knew. ‘I’ll go with you, if you like. Try to talk with her again.’

  Jonathan shrugged again. He was on his feet now, restless. He glanced at the painting that Tom had said was called Man in Chair, by Derwatt, over the fireplace. He was reminded of Reeves’ flat, with another Derwatt over the fireplace, maybe destroyed now. ‘I think I’ll be sleeping on the Chesterfield tonight – whatever happens,’ Jonathan said.

  Tom thought of turning on the news. It wasn’t the right time to get anything, though, not even to get Italy. ‘What do you think? Simone can always forbid me the door. Unless you think it’ll make it worse for you if I’m with you.’

  ‘Things could not be worse. – All right. I’d like you to come, yes. But what’ll we say?’


  Tom pushed his hands into the pockets of his old grey flannels. In his right pocket was the small Italian gun which Jonathan had carried on the train. Tom had slept with it under his pillow since Saturday night. Yes, what to say? Tom usually relied on inspiration of the moment, but hadn’t he already shot his bolt with Simone? What other brilliant facet of the problem could he come up with, to dazzle her eyes, her brain, and make her see things their way? ‘The only thing to do,’ Tom said thoughtfully, ‘is try and convince her of die safety of everything – now. I admit that’s hard to do. That’s hurdling the corpses all right. But much of her trouble is anxiety, you know.’

  ‘Well – are things safe?’ Jonathan asked. ‘We can’t be sure, can we? – It’s Reeves, I suppose.’

  23

  THEY were in Fontainebleau at 10 p.m. Jonathan led the way up the front steps, knocked, then put his key into the lock. But the door was bolted inside.

  ‘Who is it?’ Simone called.

  ‘Jon.’

  She slid the bolt. ‘Oh, Jon – I was worried!’

  That sounded hopeful, Tom thought.

  In the next second, Simone saw Tom, and her expression changed.

  ‘Yes – Tom’s with me. Can’t we come in?’

  She looked on the brink of saying no, then she stepped back a little, stiffly. Jonathan and Tom went in.

  ‘Good evening, madame,’ Tom said.

  In the living-room the television was on, some sewing – what looked like a repair on a coat lining – lay on the black leather sofa, and Georges was playing with a toy truck on the floor. The picture of domestic calm, Tom thought. He said hello to Georges.

  ‘Do sit down, Tom,’ said Jonathan.

  But Tom didn’t, because Simone showed no sign of sitting.

  ‘And what is the reason for this visit?’ she asked Tom.

  ‘Madame, I —’ Tom stammered on, ‘I’ve come to take all the blame on myself, and to try to persuade you to – to be a little kinder to your husband.’

  ‘You are telling me that my husband —’ She was suddenly aware of Georges, and with an air of nervous exasperation took him by the hand. ‘Georges, you must go upstairs. Do you hear me? Please, darling.’

  Georges went to the doorway, looked back, then entered the hall and mounted the stairs, reluctantly.

  ‘Dépêche-toi!’ Simone yelled at him, then closed the living-room door. ‘You are telling me.’ she resumed, ‘that my husband knows nothing about these – events, until he just walked in on them. That this sordid money comes from a bet between doctors!’

  Tom took a breath. ‘The blame is mine. Perhaps – Jon made a mistake in helping me. But can’t that be forgiven? He is your husband —’

  ‘He has become a criminal. Perhaps this is your charming influence, but it is a fact. Is it not?’

  Jonathan sat down in the armchair.

  Tom decided to take one end of the sofa – until Simone ordered him out of the house. Bravely, Tom started again. ‘Jon came to see me tonight to discuss this, madame. He is most upset. Marriage – is a sacred thing, you know that well. His life, his courage would be quite destroyed if he lost your affections. You surely realize that. And you should think also of your son, who needs his father.’

  Simone was a little affected by Tom’s words, but she replied, ‘Yes, a father. A real father to respect. I agree!’

  Tom heard footsteps on the stone steps, and looked quickly at Jonathan.

  ‘Expecting someone?’ Jonathan asked Simone. She had probably telephoned Gerard, he thought.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  Tom and Jonathan jumped up.

  ‘Bolt the door again.’ Tom whispered in English to Jonathan. ‘Ask who it is.’

  A neighbour, Jonathan thought as he went to the door. He slid the bolt quietly shut. ‘Qui est-ce, s’il vous plait?’

  ‘M. Trevanny?’

  Jonathan didn’t recognize the man’s voice, and looked over his shoulder at Tom in the hall.

  There’d be more than one, Tom thought.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Simone.

  Tom put his finger to his lips. Then, not caring what Simone’s reaction might be, Tom went down the hall towards the kitchen, which had a light on. Simone was following him. Tom looked around for something heavy. He still had one garrotte in his hip pocket, and of course it wouldn’t be necessary if the caller was a neighbour.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Simone asked.

  Tom was opening a narrow yellow door in a corner of the kitchen. It was a broom closet, and here he saw what he might need, a hammer, and besides that a chisel, plus several innocuous mops and brooms. ‘I might be more useful here.’ Tom said, picking up the hammer. He was expecting a shot through the door, the sound of the front door being assaulted by shoulders from outside, perhaps. Then he heard the faint click of the bolt being slid – open. Was Jonathan mad?

  Simone at once started off boldly into the hall, and Tom heard her gasp. There was a scuffling sound in the hall, then the door slammed shut.

  ‘Mme Trevanny?’ said a man’s voice.

  Simone’s cry was shut off before it became a real cry. The sounds came up the hall now towards the kitchen.

  Simone appeared, sliding on the heels of her shoes, manhandled by a thick fellow in a dark suit, who had his hand over her mouth. Tom, to the left of the man as he entered the kitchen, stepped out and hit him with the hammer just below his hat-brim in the back of the neck. The man was by no means unconscious, but he released Simone, and straightened up a little, so that Tom had an opportunity to bash him on the nose, and this Tom followed – the man’s hat having fallen off – by a blow on the forehead, straightforward and true, as if he had been an ox in a slaughterhouse. The man’s legs sank under him.

  Simone got to her feet, and Tom drew her towards the broom closet corner, which was concealed from the hall. As far as Tom knew, there was only one other man in the house, and the silence made Tom think of the garrotte.

  With his hammer, Tom went up the hall towards the front door. Quiet as he tried to be, he was still heard by the Italian in the living-room, who had Jonathan on the floor. It was indeed the old garrotte again. Tom sprang at him with the hammer raised. The Italian – in a grey suit, grey hat – released the garrotte and was pulling his gun from a shoulder-holster when Tom hit him in the cheek-bone. More accurate than a tennis racket, the hammer! The man, who had not quite stood up, lurched forward, and Tom removed his hat quickly with his left hand and with his right came down again with the hammer.

  Crack! Little Leviathan’s dark eyes closed, his pink lips relaxed, and he thudded to the floor.

  Tom knelt beside Jonathan. The nylon cord was already well into Jonathan’s flesh. Tom turned Jonathan’s head this way and that, trying to get at the cord to loosen it. Jonathan’s teeth were bared, and he was trying with his own fingers, but feebly.

  Simone was suddenly beside them, holding something that looked like a letter-opener. She pried with the point of it into the side of Jonathan’s neck. The string loosened.

  Tom lost his balance on his heels, sat down on the floor, and sprang up again. He yanked the curtains of the front window shut. There had been a gap of six inches between them. Tom thought that a minute and a half had passed since the Italians had come in. He picked up the hammer from the floor, went to the front door and bolted it again. There was no sound from outside, except for the normal-sounding steps of someone walking past on the pavement, and the hum of a passing car.

  ‘Jon,’ said Simone.

  Jonathan coughed and rubbed his neck. He was trying to sit up.

  The porcine man in grey lay motionless, with his head propped by accident against a leg of the armchair. Tom tightened his grip on the hammer, and started to give the man one more blow, but hesitated, because there was already some blood on the carpet. But Tom thought the man was still alive.

  ‘Pig,’ Tom murmured, and pulled the man up a little by his shirt front and flamboyant tie, and smashed the hammer
head into his left temple.

  Georges stood wide-eyed in the doorway.

  Simone had brought Jonathan a glass of water. She was kneeling beside him. ‘Go away, Georges!’ she said. ‘Papa is all right! Go in the — Go upstairs, Georges!’

  But Georges didn’t. He stood there, fascinated by a scene that was perhaps unsurpassed on die television. By the same token, he wasn’t taking it too seriously. His eyes were wide, absorbing it all, but he was not terrified.

  Jonathan got to the sofa, helped by Tom and Simone. He was sitting up, and Simone had a wet towel for his face. ‘I’m really all right,’ Jonathan mumbled.

  Tom was still listening for footsteps, front or back. Of all times, Tom thought, when he’d meant to create a peaceable impression on Simone! ‘Madame, is the garden passageway locked?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simone.

  And Tom remembered ornamental spikes along the top of the iron door. He said in English to Jonathan, ‘There’s probably at least one more of them in a car outside.’ Tom supposed Simone understood this, but he couldn’t tell from her face. She was looking at Jonathan, who seemed to be quite out of danger, and then she went to Georges who was still in the doorway.

  ‘Georges! Will you —!’ She shooed him upstairs again, carried him half-way up the stairway, and spanked his bottom once. ‘Go into your room and close the door!’

  Simone was being splendid, Tom thought. It would be a matter of seconds until another man, just as at Belle Ombre, came to the door, Tom supposed. Tom tried to imagine what the man in the car would be thinking: from the absence of noise, of screams, of gunshots, the waiting man or men probably supposed that everything had gone as planned. They must be expecting their two chums to come out the door at any moment, mission accomplished, the Trevannys garrotted or beaten to death. Reeves must have talked,. Tom thought, must have told them Jonathan’s name and address. Tom had a wild idea of Jonathan and himself putting on the Italians5 hats, making a dash out the door to the Italians’ car (if any), and taking them by surprise with – the one small gun. But he couldn’t ask Jonathan to do that.