Ripley Under Ground (23 page)

21

F
rance now, and as the plane descended, the tops of trees began to look like dark green and brown knots embroidered in a tapestry, or like the ornate frogs on Tom’s dressing gown at home. Tom sat in his ugly new raincoat. At Orly, the passport control glanced at him and at the picture in his Mackay passport, but did not stamp anything—nor had they when he had left Orly for London before. Only London inspectors stamped, it seemed. Tom went through the “nothing to declare” aisle, and hopped into a taxi for home.

He was at Belle Ombre just before 3 p.m. In the taxi, he had put the parting in his hair back in its usual place, and he carried the raincoat over his arm.

Heloise was home. The heat was working. The furniture and floors gleamed with wax. Mme. Annette took his bag upstairs. Then Tom and Heloise kissed.

“What did you do in Greece?” she asked a bit anxiously. “And then in London?”

“I looked around,” Tom said, smiling.

“For that
fou
. Did you see him? How is your head?” She turned him around by the shoulders.

It was barely hurting. Tom was much relieved that Bernard hadn’t turned up to alarm Heloise. “Did the American woman telephone?”

“Ah, yes. Mme. Murchison. She speaks some French, but very fon-ny. She telephoned this morning from London. She arrives at Orly this afternoon at three, and she wants to see you. Ah,
merde
, who
are
these people?”

Tom looked at his wristwatch. Mrs. Murchison’s plane should be touching down in ten minutes.

“Darling, do you want a cup of tea?” Heloise led him toward the yellow sofa. “Did you see this Bernard anywhere?”

“No. I want to wash my hands. Just a minute.” Tom went into the downstairs loo and washed his hands and face. He hoped Mrs. Murchison would not want to come to Belle Ombre, that she would be satisfied with seeing him in Paris, although Tom hated the idea of going to Paris today.

Mme. Annette was coming downstairs as Tom went into the living room. “Madame, how goes the famous tooth? Better, I hope?”

“Yes, M. Tome. I went to the dentist in Fontainebleau this morning and he took out the nerve. He
really
took it out. I must go again on Monday.”

“Would we could all have our nerves taken out! All of them! No more pain now, you can count on that!” Tom was hardly aware of what he was saying. Should he have rung Webster? It had seemed to Tom a better idea
not
to ring him before leaving, because ringing might have looked too much as if he were trying to obey police orders. An innocent man wouldn’t have rung, had been Tom’s reasoning.

Tom and Heloise had tea.

“Noëlle wants to know if we can come to a party Tuesday night,” Heloise said. “Tuesday is her birthday.”

Noëlle Hassler, Heloise’s best friend in Paris, gave delightful parties. But Tom had been thinking about Salzburg, about going there at once, because he had decided that Bernard might have chosen Salzburg to go to. The home of Mozart, another artist who had died young. “Darling, you must go. I am not sure I’ll be here.”

“Why?”

“Because—now I may have to go to Salzburg.”

“In
Austria
? Not to look for this
fou
again! Soon it will be China!”

Tom glanced nervously at the telephone. Mrs. Murchison was going to ring. When? “You gave Mrs. Murchison a telephone number in Paris where she could ring me?”

“Yes,” Heloise said. “An invented number.” She was still speaking French, and becoming a bit annoyed with him.

Tom wondered how much he could dare explain to Heloise? “And you told her I would be home—when?”

“I said I did not know.”

The telephone rang. If it was Mrs. Murchison, she was ringing from Orly.

Tom stood up. “The important thing,” he said quickly in English, because Mme. Annette was coming in, “is that I was not in London. Very important, darling. I was only in Paris. Don’t mention London, if we have to see Mrs. Murchison.”

“Is she coming
here
?”

“I hope not.” Tom picked the telephone up. “Hello. . . . Yes . . . How do you do, Mrs. Murchison?” She wanted to come to see him. “That would be quite all right, of course, but wouldn’t it be easier for you if I came to Paris? . . . Yes, it is
some
distance, farther than from Orly to Paris . . .” He was having no luck. He might have discouraged her with difficult directions, but he didn’t want to inconvenience the unfortunate woman any further. “Then the easiest is to take a taxi.” Tom gave her the directions to the house.

Tom tried to explain to Heloise. Mrs. Murchison would arrive in an hour, and would want to talk to him about her husband. Mme. Annette had left the room, so Tom was able to speak in French to Heloise, though Mme. Annette could have listened for all he cared. It had crossed Tom’s mind, before Mrs. Murchison rang, to tell Heloise why he had gone to London, to explain to her that he had twice impersonated Derwatt the painter, who was now dead. But this moment was not the time to spring all that on her. If they got through Mrs. Murchison’s visit successfully, that was all Tom could demand of Heloise.

“But what happened to her husband?” Heloise asked.

“I don’t know, darling. But she has come to France and naturally she wants to speak to—” Tom didn’t want to say to the last person who had seen her husband. “She wants to see the house, because her husband was last here. I took him to Orly from here.”

Heloise stood up with a twist of impatience in her body. But she was not stupid enough to make a scene. She was not going to be uncontrollable, unreasonable. That might come later.

“I know what you’re going to say. You don’t want her here for the evening. All right. She will not be invited for dinner. We can say we have an engagement. But I must offer her tea or a drink or both. I would estimate—she will be here not more than an hour, and I’ll handle everything politely. And correctly.”

Heloise subsided.

Tom went upstairs to his room. Mme. Annette had emptied his suitcase and put it away, but there were some things not quite in their usual place, so Tom put them back as they were when he stayed at Belle Ombre for weeks on end. Tom had a shower, then put on gray flannels, a shirt and sweater, and he took a tweed jacket from his closet, in case Mrs. Murchison might want to take a stroll on the lawn.

Mrs. Murchison arrived.

Tom went to the front door to meet her, and to make sure the taxi was settled correctly. Mrs. Murchison had French currency and overtipped the driver, but Tom let it go.

“My wife, Heloise,” Tom said. “Mrs. Murchison—from America.”

“How do you do?”

“How do you do?” said Heloise.

Mrs. Murchison agreed to a cup of tea. “I hope you’ll excuse me for inviting myself so abruptly,” she said to Tom and Heloise, “but it’s a matter of importance—and I wanted to see you as soon as possible.”

They were all seated now, Mrs. Murchison on the yellow sofa, Tom on a straight chair, like Heloise. Heloise had a marvelous air of not being much interested in the situation, but of being polite enough to be present. But she was quite interested, Tom knew.

“My husband—”

“Tom, he told me to call him,” Tom said, smiling. He stood up. “He looked at these pictures. Here on my right, ‘Man in Chair.’ Behind you, ‘The Red Chairs.’ It’s an earlier one.” Tom spoke boldly. Carry it off or not, and to hell with propriety, ethics, kindness, truth, the law, or even fate—meaning the future. Either he brought it off now, or he did not. If Mrs. Murchison wanted a tour of the house, it could even include the cellar as far as Tom was concerned. Tom waited for Mrs. Murchison to ask a question, perhaps, about what her husband had thought about the validity of the paintings.

“You bought these from the Buckmaster?” Mrs. Murchison asked.

“Yes, both of them.” Tom glanced at Heloise, who was smoking an unaccustomed Gitane
maïs
. “My wife understands English,” Tom said.

“Were you here when my husband visited?”

“No, I was in Greece,” Heloise replied. “I did not meet your husband.”

Mrs. Murchison stood up and looked at the paintings, and Tom turned on two lamps in addition to the other light, so she could see them better.

“I’m fondest of ‘Man in Chair,’” Tom said. “That’s why it’s over the fireplace.”

Mrs. Murchison seemed to like it, too.

Tom was expecting her to say something with regard to her husband’s theory about Derwatt being forged. She did not. She did not make a comment on the lavenders or the purples in either of the paintings. Mrs. Murchison asked the same questions that Inspector Webster had, whether her husband had been feeling well when he left, whether he had an appointment with anyone.

“He seemed in very good spirits,” Tom said, “and he didn’t mention any appointment, as I said to Inspector Webster. What is strange is that your husband’s painting was stolen. He had it with him at Orly, very well wrapped.”

“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Murchison was smoking one of her Chesterfields. “The painting hasn’t been found. But neither has my husband or his passport.” She smiled. She had a comfortable, kindly face, a little plump, which precluded any creases of age as yet.

Tom poured another cup of tea for her. Mrs. Murchison was looking at Heloise. An assessing glance? Wondering what Heloise thought of all this? Wondering how much Heloise knew? Wondering if there was anything to know in the first place? Or which side Heloise would be on if her husband were guilty of anything?

“Inspector Webster told me that you were a friend of Dickie Greenleaf, who was killed in Italy,” Mrs. Murchison said.

“Yes,” Tom said. “He wasn’t killed, he was a suicide. I’d known him about five months—maybe six.”

“If he was not a suicide—I think Inspector Webster seems doubtful about it—then who might have killed him? And why?” asked Mrs. Murchison. “Or have you any ideas on the subject?”

Tom was standing up, and he planted his feet firmly on the floor, and sipped his tea. “I have no ideas on the subject. Dickie killed himself. I don’t think he could find his way—as a painter, and certainly not in his father’s business. Shipbuilding or boatbuilding. Dickie had lots of friends, but not sinister friends.” Tom paused, and so did everyone else. “Dickie had no reason to have enemies,” Tom added.

“Nor did my husband—except possibly if there is some forging of Derwatts going on.”

“Well—that I wouldn’t know about, living here.”

“There may be a ring of some kind.” She looked at Heloise. “I hope you understand what we’re saying, Mme. Ripley.”

Tom said to Heloise in French, “Mme. Murchison wonders if there might be a gang of dishonest people—in regard to Derwatt’s paintings.”

“I understand,” Heloise said.

Heloise was dubious about the Dickie affair, Tom knew. But Tom knew he could count on her. Heloise was that curious bit of a crook herself. At any rate, before a stranger, Heloise would not appear doubtful of what Tom said.

“Would you like to see the upstairs of the house?” Tom asked Mrs. Murchison. “Or the grounds before it gets dark?”

Mrs. Murchison said she would.

She and Tom went upstairs. Mrs. Murchison wore a light-gray woolen dress. She was well-built—perhaps she rode horseback or golfed—though no one could have called her fat. People never did call these sturdy sportswomen fat, though what else were they? Heloise had declined to come with them. Tom showed Mrs. Murchison his guest room, opening the door widely and putting on the light. Then in a free and easy manner, he showed her the rest of his upstairs rooms, including Heloise’s, whose door he opened, without turning the light on, because Mrs. Murchison did not seem much interested in seeing it.

“I thank you,” said Mrs. Murchison, and they went downstairs.

Tom felt sorry for her. He felt sorry that he had killed her husband. But, he reminded himself, he could not afford to reproach himself for that now: if he did, he would be exactly like Bernard, who wanted to tell all at the expense of several other people. “Did you see Derwatt in London?”

“I saw him, yes,” said Mrs. Murchison, seating herself on the sofa again, but rather on the edge of it.

“What’s he like? I came within an inch of meeting him the day of the opening.”

“Oh, he has a beard— Pleasant enough but not talkative,” she finished, not interested in Derwatt. “He did say he didn’t think there was any forgery of his work going on—and that he’d said that to Tommy.”

“Yes, I think your husband told me that, too. And you believe Derwatt?”

“I think so. Derwatt seems sincere. What else can one say?” She leaned back on the sofa.

Tom stepped forward. “Some tea? How about a scotch?”

“I think I’d like a scotch, thank you.”

Tom went to the kitchen for ice. Heloise joined him and helped him.

“What is this about Dickie?” Heloise asked.

“Nothing,” Tom said. “I would tell you if it were something. She knows I was a friend of Dickie’s. Would you like some white wine?”

“Yes.”

They carried the ice and glasses in. Mrs. Murchison wanted a taxi. To Melun. She excused herself for asking for it just then, but she did not know how long it would take.

“I can drive you to Melun,” Tom said, “if you want a train to Paris.”

“No, I wanted to go to Melun to speak with the police there. I called them from Orly.”

“Then I’ll take you,” Tom said. “How’s your French? Mine’s not perfect, but—”

“Oh, I think I can get along. Thank you very much.” She smiled a little.

She wanted to speak with the police without him, Tom supposed.

“Was there anyone else at the house when my husband was here?” Mrs. Murchison asked.

“Only our housekeeper, Mme. Annette. Where is Mme. Annette, Heloise?”

She was perhaps in her room, perhaps out for some last minute shopping, Heloise thought, and Tom went to Mme. Annette’s room and knocked. Mme. Annette was sewing something. Tom asked if she could come in for a moment and meet Mme. Murchison.

In a moment or two, Mme. Annette came in, and her face showed interest because Mme. Murchison was the wife of the man who was missing. “The last time I saw him,” said Mme. Annette, “m’sieur had lunch and then he left with M. Tome.”