Ripley Under Water (21 page)

“Which ought to be the same thing but isn’t,” said Jeff with a glance at Ed, and gave a mocking laugh.

“True,” Ed conceded. “Did you talk with Cynthia about this?” he asked, looking a bit worried.

“Not profoundly,” Tom said. “More a rhetorical question or two. I was trying to take the steam out of her attack, if she had any, but in fact she hadn’t. She told me that I’d ruined Bernard’s life and almost ruined hers. True, I suppose.” Now Tom rubbed his forehead and stood up. “Mind if I go wash my hands?”

Tom went to the bathroom between his library-bedroom and Ed’s bedroom. He was thinking of Heloise, wondering what she was doing now, wondering if Pritchard had followed her and Noelle to Casablanca.

“What other threats, Tom—from Cynthia?” Ed asked in a soft voice, when Tom came back. “Or hints of threats?”

Ed had almost grimaced as he spoke: he had never been able to handle Cynthia, Tom knew. Cynthia made people uncomfortable sometimes, because she had an air, always, of being undisturbed by and somehow above anything and everything anyone else might think or do. Toward Tom and his Buckmaster Gallery associates, of course, she had shown frank contempt. But the fact remained, Cynthia had not been able to persuade Bernard to stop his forging, and she had presumably tried.

“None, I think, that she stated,” Tom said finally. “She enjoys knowing that Pritchard is annoying me. She’s going to help him do that, if she can.”

“She talks with him?” asked Jeff.

“On the telephone? I dunno,” Tom said. “Maybe. Since Cynthia’s in the book, it’s easy for Pritchard to telephone—if he wants to.” Tom was thinking, what else, what of import could Cynthia give Pritchard, if she wasn’t going to betray the forgeries? “Perhaps Cynthia wants to annoy us—all of us—just because she could spill the beans any time she wishes.”

“But you said she didn’t give a hint of that,” said Jeff.

“No, but then Cynthia wouldn’t,” Tom replied.

“No,” Ed echoed. “Think of the publicity,” he added softly, as if musing, and his tone was earnest.

Was Ed thinking about unfavorable publicity for Cynthia, or for Bernard Tufts and the gallery, or all three? At any rate, horrid it would be, Tom thought, not least because it would be provable not by analysis of canvases but by absence of provenance records, and the already only half-explained disappearances of Derwatt, Murchison and Bernard Tufts would add weight.

Jeff’s sizable chin lifted, and he smiled his wide and easygoing smile that Tom hadn’t seen for a long time. “Unless we could prove that we knew nothing about the forgeries.” He said it with laughter, as if of course it was impossible.

“Yes, if we were not chummy with Bernard Tufts, and he never came to the Buckmaster Gallery,” said Ed. “In fact, he never did come to the gallery.”

“We dump the blame entirely on Bernard,” said Jeff, more soberly now but still smiling.

“Won’t hold water,” Tom said, pondering what he had heard. He drained his glass. “My second thought is, Cynthia would tear our throats out with her fingernails, if we dumped the blame on Bernard. I shudder to contemplate it!” Tom laughed loudly.

“Ho-ow true!” said Ed Banbury, smiling at the black humor of it. “But then—how could she prove we were lying? If Bernard had been sending his stuff from his London atelier—and not from Mexico—“

“Or would he take the trouble to get it sent from Mexico so we’d believe the postal labels?” asked Jeff, his face alight with the joy of fantasy.

“At the prices of those paintings,” Tom put in, “Bernard might have taken the trouble to post them from China! Especially with the aid of a pal.”

“A pal!” Jeff said, raising a forefinger. “We’ve got it! The pal’s the culprit, we can’t find the pal, neither can Cynthia! Ha-ha!”

They guffawed again. It was a relief.

“Nonsense,” Tom said, and stretched his legs out. Were his friends possibly tossing him “a thought” to play with, by which playing all three of them and the gallery might free themselves of Cynthia’s veiled threats and all past sins? If so, the pal idea was not viable. Tom was really thinking of Heloise again, and of trying Mrs. Murchison while in London. What could he ask Mrs. Murchison? Logically, plausibly? As Tom Ripley, or as the French police, as he’d successfully done with Cynthia? Would Cynthia already have rung Mrs. Murchison to say that the French police had wanted her address? Tom doubted that. Though Mrs. Murchison would be easier to fool than Cynthia, it was wise to be careful. Pride goeth before a fall. Tom wanted to know if busybody Preechard had spoken recently or ever with Mrs. Murchison by telephone. Well, Tom wanted to know that mainly, but he could ring on the pretense of checking her address and telephone number, in regard to the quest for her husband. No, he’d have to pose a question of some kind: did she know where M’sieur Preechard was at this minute, because ze police had lost him in North Africa, and M’sieur Preechard was aiding them in regard to her husband.

“Tom?” Jeff took a step toward Tom, extending a bowl of pistachios.

“Thank you. May I have several? I love them,” Tom said.

“As many as you want, Tom,” said Ed. “Here’s the wastepaper basket for the shells.”

“I’ve just thought of something obvious,” Tom said, “re Cynthia.”

“And what’s that?” asked Jeff.

“Cynthia can’t have it both ways. She can’t tease us or Pritchard by asking ‘Where’s Murchison?’ without admitting there was a reason to get rid of him, namely to shut him up about the forging. If Cynthia keeps on, she’ll—expose the fact that Bernard was doing the forging, and I think she doesn’t want to expose Bernard to anything. Not even to having been exploited.”

The others were silent for a few seconds.

“Cynthia knows Bernard was an odd one. We exploited him, his talents, I grant you.” Tom added musingly, “Would she ever have married him?”

“Yes,” said Ed, nodding. “I think so. She’s the motherly type, underneath it all.”

“Motherly!” Sitting on the couch, Jeff laughed, and his feet left the floor. “Cynthia!”

“All women are, don’t you think?” said Ed, earnestly. “I think they’d have married. That’s one reason why Cynthia is so sore.”

“Is anyone interested in food?” Jeff asked.

“Oh—yes,” Ed replied. “I know a place—no, that’s Islington.

There’s another good place near here, different from last night, Tom.”

“I want to try Madame Murcheeson,” Tom said, getting up from his chair. “New York, you know. Might be a good time, if she’s in for lunch.”

“Go ahead,” said Ed. “Want to use the phone in the living room? Or here?”

Tom knew he looked as if he wanted to be alone, frowning and a bit nervous. “Living room, fine.”

Ed gestured, and Tom pulled his little notebook out.

“Make yourself at home,” Ed said, and set a chair near the telephone.

Tom stayed on his feet. He dialed the Manhattan number, and rehearsed himself silently for the French police officer’s introduction of himself, Edouard Bilsault, Commissaire, Paris—and thank God he had noted the unlikely name under Mrs. Murchison’s address and telephone number, or he might not have remembered it. This time, he might make his accent not so pronounced, but rather like Maurice Chevalier’s.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Murchison was not at home but was due back at any minute, said a female voice, of a type Tom thought could belong to a servant or cleaning woman, though he was not sure of this, and so kept up his French accent with care.

“Weel you say, please, zat I—Commissaire Bilsault—non-non, no need to write—weel ring again—tonight—or tomorrow … Zank you, madame.”

No need to say that the telephone call had been in regard to Thomas Murchison, because Mrs. Murchison would guess that. Tom supposed he should try later tonight, as the lady was expected back so soon.

Tom was not sure what he should ask her, if he got her on the telephone: had she heard from David Pritchard, of course, with whom for the moment the French police had lost touch. Tom fully expected a “No, I haven’t” when he posed this question, but still he ought to pose something, or state something, because Mrs. Murchison and Cynthia just might be in touch, at least now and then. He had no sooner entered Ed’s workroom, when the desk telephone rang.

Ed answered. “Oh—yes! Oui! Just a moment! Tom! It’s Heloise!”

“Oh!” said Tom, and took the instrument. “Hello, my dear!”

”Allo, Tome!”

“Where are you?”

“We are in Casablanca. Ver-ry breezy—nice! And—what do you know? This Mister Preechard has turned up? We arrived at one in the afternoon—and he must have come very soon later. He must have found out our hotel, because—”

“Is he in the same hotel? The Miramare?” asked Tom, impotent and livid, squeezing the telephone.

“Non! But he—looked in here. He saw us, Noelle and me. But he did not see you, we could see him looking around. Now Tome—”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“This was seex hours ago! Now—Noelle and I looked around. We telephoned a hotel, two hotels, he is not in them. We think he has departed because you are not with us.”

Tom was still frowning. “I’m not so sure. How can you be sure?”

There was a conclusive click, as if they had been cut off by some malicious hand. Tom took a deep breath, and refrained from uttering a four-letter word.

Then Heloise ‘s voice came back, speaking more calmly, through oceanic noises: “… is now the evening and we don’t see him anywhere. Of course it is disgusting that he follows us. Le salaud!”

Tom was thinking that Pritchard might have returned to Villeperce by now, believing that he, Tom, had also returned. “You should still be careful,” Tom said. “This Pritchard is full of tricks. Don’t trust even any stranger who may say, ‘Come with me—somewhere. Even into a shop, for example. You understand?”

“Oui, mon cher. But now—we go around just in daytime, look and buy little things of leather, brass. Don’t worry, Tome. Just the opposite! It is fun here. Hey! Noelle wants to say a word.”

Tom was often startled by Heloise’s “Hey!” but it sounded comforting tonight, and made him smile. “Hello, Noelle. It seems you are having a good time in Casablanca?”

“Ah, Tome, wonderful! It has been three years since I was in Casablanca, I think, but I remember the port so well—a better port than Tangier, you know? Much bigger here …”

Sealike noises swelled, drowned her voice. “Noelle?”

“… not to have seen this monster for several hours is a pleasure,” Noelle continued in French, apparently unaware of the interruption.

“Preechard, you mean,” Tom said.

“Preechard, oui! C’est atroce! Cette histoire de kidnapping!”

“Oui, il est atroce!” Tom said, as if echoing the French words could confirm David Pritchard as insane, a figure to be hated by all mankind, and put behind bars. Alas, Pritchard wasn’t behind bars. “You know, Noelle, I may go to Villeperce very soon, tomorrow, because Pritchard may be there—causing some kind of trouble. May I try to check with you tomorrow?”

“But of course. Say, midday? We can be here,” Noelle replied.

“Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me, because daytime phoning is difficult.” Tom verified the Miramare number with Noelle, who in her efficient way had it handy. “You know Heloise—she sometimes isn’t worried enough, when situations are dangerous. I do not wish her to walk out in the street alone, Noelle, even in daylight to buy a newspaper.”

“I understand, Tome,” said Noelle in English, “and here it is so easy to hire somebody to do anyzing!”

Horrid thought, but Tom said gratefully, “Yes! Even if Preechard has gone back to France.” Tom added in coarse French, “Wish to hell he’d drag his”—Tom had to leave it unsaid—“out of our village.”

Noelle laughed. “Till tomorrow, Tome!”

Tom again pulled out his notebook with the Murchison number in it. He realized that he was seething with anger against Pritchard. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

Mrs. Murchison answered, or so Tom thought.

Tom introduced himself once more: Commissaire Edouard Bilsault in Paris. Was this Madame Murcheeson? Yes. Tom was prepared to give precinct and arrondissement, made up on the spot, if need be. Tom was also curious to know—if he could gracefully learn it—if Cynthia had already tried to ring Mrs. Murchison this evening.

Tom cleared his throat, and pitched his voice higher. “Madame, this concerns your ‘usband who ees missing. We are at the moment not able to find David Preechard. We are recently in touch with ‘eem—but M’sieur Preechard went to Tanger—did you know zat?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Murchison said calmly, in her civilized voice that Tom now recalled. “He said he might go, because Mr. Ripley was going there—with his wife, I believe.”

“Oui. Exact, madame. You ‘ave not ‘eard from Meester Preechard since he was in Tanger?”

“No.”

“Or from Madame Cynthia Gradnor? I believe she ees also in touch weet you?”

“Yes, lately—she writes or telephones me. But not in regard to anybody in Tangier. I can’t help you there.”

“I see. Zank you, madame.”

“I don’t—um-m—know what Mr. Pritchard is doing in Tangier. Did you suggest that he go? Is it the idea of the French police, I mean?”

It was the idea of a loony, Tom thought, loony Pritchard to follow Ripley, not even to assassinate but to heckle. “No, madame, eet is M’sieur Preechard who wanted to follow M’sieur Reepley to—Afrique du Nord, not our idee. But usually ‘e ees in better touch with us.”

“But—what is the news about my husband? Are there any new facts?”

Tom sighed, and heard a couple of New York cars honk outside an open window near Mrs. Murchison. “None, ma-dame, I am sorry to report. But we try. Ees a delicate situation, madame, because M’sieur Reepley ees a respected man where ‘e leeves and we ‘ave nozzing against M’sieur Reepley. Ees M’sieur Preechard who ‘as his own idees—wheech of course we note, but—you understand, Madame Murcheeson?” Tom continued in a polite tone, but slowly drew the telephone away, so that his voice would fade. He made a sucking noise, a gurgle, and hung up, as if they’d been cut off.

Whew! It had not been as bad as Tom had feared, not dangerous at all, he thought. But Cynthia definitely in touch! He hoped it would be the last time he had to ring Mrs. Murchison.