Ripley Under Water (23 page)

And when would he next see Heloise ?

Tom bought a tabloid, a newspaper he would not get on the airplane. Tom had a short snooze after a lobster lunch with white wine, and awakened only when the stewardess asked for seatbelts to be fastened. The neat pale green and darker green-and-brown patchwork of French fields had spread itself below. The plane tilted. Tom felt much fortified, ready for anything—almost. It had occurred to him in London that morning to make a trip to the newspaper archives, wherever that was, to look up David Pritchard, as he had probably done in the States in regard to Tom Ripley. But what would be on record about David Pritchard, if that was his real name? Misdemeanors of a spoilt adolescence? Tickets for speeding? A drug offense at eighteen? Hardly worthy of being on record, even in America, and of no interest in England or France. Still, curious to think that Pritchard might be on the books for torturing a dog to death at the age of fifteen; some horrid little nugget like that just might have turned up in London, if the computers ground exceeding small and copied it. Tom braced himself as the plane landed, smoothly, and began to brake. His own record—well, a list of interesting suspicions might sum it up. No convictions, however.

After passport control, Tom went to the next available telephone booth, and rang home.

Mme Annette answered on the eighth ring. “Ah, M’sieur Tome! Ou etes-vous?”

“De Gaulle airport. I can be home in two hours with luck. Is all well?”

Tom ascertained that all was well and as usual.

Then a taxi homewards. He was too eager to get home to worry about the driver being interested in his address. The day was warm and sunny, and Tom opened the taxi windows a slit on both sides, hoping the driver would not complain of a courant d’air, which the French were apt to do at the mildest of breezes. Tom mused about London, the young man Nick, the readiness of Jeff and Ed to help, in case of need. And what was Janice Pritchard doing? How much did she assist her husband, cover for him, and how much did she tease him about just such matters? Stand him up and let him down when he needed her? Janice was the loose cannon, Tom thought, an absurd term for someone as frail as she.

Mme Annette’s ears were good enough for her to hear the taxi’s wheels on the gravel, because she had opened the front door and was on the stone porch before the taxi came to a halt. Tom paid the driver, tipped him, and carried his case to the door.

“Non, non, I shall carry it!” Tom said. “This tiny weight?”

Mme Annette’s old habits never died, habits such as still wanting to carry the heaviest of cases, because a housekeeper should.

“Did Madame Heloise telephone?”

“Non, m’sieur.”

That was good news, Tom thought. He entered the front hall and inhaled its smell of old rose petals, or something similar, but without the lavender wax smell just now, which reminded him that he did have the wax in his suitcase.

“A tea, M’sieur Tome? Or a cafe? A drink with ice?” She was hanging up his raincoat.

Tom hesitated, walked into the living room and glanced out of the French windows on to the garden lawn. “Well, yes, a cafe. And no doubt a drink too.” It was just past seven.

“Oui, m’sieur. Ah! Madame Berthelin has telephoned. Last evening. I told her that you and madame were away.”

“Thank you,” said Tom. The Berthelins, Jacqueline and Vincent, were neighbors who lived a few kilometers away in another town. “Thank you, I’ll telephone her,” said Tom, walking toward the stairs. “No other phone calls?”

“N-non, je croix que non.”

“I’ll be down in ten minutes. Oh, first—” Tom set his suitcase flat on the floor, opened it and extracted the tins of wax in their plastic bag. “A present for the house, madame.”

“Ah, cirage de lavande! Toujours le bienvenu! Merci!”

Tom was down again in ten minutes, in a change of clothing and in sneakers. He elected to drink a small Calvados with his coffee, just for a change. Mme Annette hovered, ascertaining if what she had prepared for dinner would be satisfactory, though it always was. Her description went in one of Tom’s ears and out the other, because he was thinking of ringing Janice Pritchard, the loose cannon.

“That sounds most tempting,” Tom said politely. “I only wish Madame Heloise were here to join me.”

“And when is Madame Heloise returning?”

“Not sure,” Tom replied. “But she is enjoying herself—with a good friend, you know.”

Then he was alone. Janice Pritchard. Tom got up from the yellow sofa and walked with deliberate slowness into the kitchen. He said to Mme Annette, “And Monsieur Preechard? I think he is back today?” Tom tried to sound as casual as he might in inquiring about any other neighbor, who was not yet a friend. In fact, he went to the fridge to get a wedge of cheese, or whatever might be visible at a glance, to munch on, as if he had come in for that purpose.

Mme Annette helped him, with a small plate and a knife. “He was not back this morning,” she replied. “Perhaps by now.”

“But his wife’s still here?”

“Oh, yes. She is sometimes in the grocery.”

Tom returned to the living room, small plate in hand, and set it down by his drink. On the hall table was the notepad, which Mme Annette never touched, and soon Tom had found the number of the Pritchard house, not yet in the official telephone book.

Before Tom reached for the telephone, he saw Mme Annette approaching.

“M’sieur Tome, before I forget, I learned this morning that les Preechards have bought their house in Villeperce.”

“Really?” said Tom. “Interesting.” But he said it as if it did not interest him. Mme Annette turned away. Tom stared at the telephone.

If Pritchard himself answered, Tom thought, he’d hang up without a word. If Janice answered, he’d take a chance. He might ask how David’s jaw was, assuming Pritchard had told Janice about their set-to in Tangier. Would Janice know that Pritchard had told Mme Annette, in French with an American accent, that Heloise had been kidnapped? Tom would not bring that up, he decided. Where did politeness end and insanity begin, or vice versa? Tom stood straight, reminding himself that courtesy and politeness were seldom a mistake, and dialed.

Janice Pritchard answered with a singing American “Hel-lo-o-o?”

“Hello—Janice. Tom Ripley,” Tom said with a smile on his face.

“Oh, Mr. Ripley! I thought you were in North Africa!”

“Was but I returned. Saw your husband there, as you may know.” Beat him unconscious, Tom thought, and smiled politely again, as if Janice could see him over the telephone.

“Ye-es. So I understand—” Janice paused. Her tone was dulcet, soft anyway. “Yes, there was a fight—”

“Oh, not much of one,” said Tom modestly. He had the feeling David Pritchard was not at home yet. “I hope David is feeling all right?”

“Of course he’s all right. I know he asks for these things,” Janice said earnestly. “If you dish it out, you’ve got to take it, too, isn’t that so? Why did he go to Tangier?”

A chill went through Tom. Those words were more profound than perhaps Janice knew. “You’re expecting David back soon?”

“Yes, tonight. I’m going to pick him up at Fontainebleau, after he calls me,” Janice replied in her steady, earnest way. “He told me he’d be a little late, because he’s buying some sports goods today in Paris.”

“Oh. Golf?” Tom asked.

“No-o. Fishing, I think. Not sure. You know the way David talks, all around the subject.”

Tom didn’t know. “And how are you faring all by yourself? Not lonely or bored?”

“Oh, no, never am. I listen to my French grammar records, try to improve.” Here a little laugh. “The people are nice around here.”

Really. Tom thought at once of the Grais, two houses away, but did not want to ask if she’d made acquaintance with them.

“Well—David. Next week it could be tennis rackets,” Janice said.

“As long as he’s happy,” Tom replied with a chuckle. “Perhaps it will take his mind off my household.” He spoke in a tolerant and amused tone, as if of a child with a temporary obsession.

“Oh, I doubt it. He’s bought the house here. He finds you fascinating.”

Tom again recalled Janice, smiling and plainly in good humor, driving her husband away from Belle Ombre, after Pritchard had been prowling about with his camera, snapping. “You seem to disapprove of some of his doings,” Tom went on. “Has it ever occurred to you to discourage him? Even leave him?” Tom ventured.

Nervous laugh. “Women don’t abandon their husbands, do they? Then he’d come after me!” Her last word was shrill, said through laughter.

Tom was not laughing, not even smiling. “I understand,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “You’re a loyal wife! Well, my best to you both, Janice. Maybe we’ll see you soon.”

“Oh, maybe, yes. Thank you for calling, Mr. Ripley.”

“Bye-bye.” He hung up.

What a madhouse! See them soon! He’d said “we” just now, as if Heloise were back home. Why not? It might lure Pritchard to further adventure, derring-do. Tom realized that he had a desire to murder Pritchard. It was similar to his desire to hit at the Mafia, but that had been impersonal: he hated the Mafia per se, considered them brutal and well-organized blackmailers. Whichever Mafia member he killed, and he had killed two, didn’t matter, it was two fewer. But Pritchard was a personal matter, Pritchard had stuck his neck out and was asking for it. Could Janice help? Don’t count on Janice, Tom reminded himself; she would let him down at the last minute, and save her husband so she could enjoy more mental and physical discomfort, presumably, at his hands. Why hadn’t he finished off Pritchard in La Haffa, with the aid of his new knife right there in his pocket?

He might have to get rid of both Pritchards to have any peace, Tom thought, lighting a cigarette. Unless they both decided to quit the neighborhood.

The Calvados and the coffee. Tom finished the last drops, and returned the cup and saucer to the kitchen. Mme Annette would not be ready to serve for a good five, minutes, he saw at a glance, so Tom informed her that he wanted to make one more telephone call.

He then rang the Grais, whose number he knew by heart.

Agnes answered, and from the background clatter Tom thought he had interrupted in the middle of dinner.

“Yes, back from London today,” Tom said. “I’m interrupting you, I think.”

“No! Sylvie and I are just tidying up. Is Heloise with you?” Agnes asked.

“She’s in North Africa still. I just wanted to announce my return. Can’t tell when Heloise will decide to come home. And did you know that your neighbors the Pritchards have bought that house?”

“Oui!” Agnes said at once, and informed Tom that she had learned this from Marie in the bar-tabac. “And the noise, Tome,” she continued, with a certain amusement in her voice. “I believe madame is alone now, but she plays loud rock music till all hours! Ha-ha! Does she dance by herself, I wonder?”

Or watch kinky videocassettes? Tom blinked. “No idea,” replied Tom, smiling. “You can hear it where you are?”

“If the wind is right! Not every night, to be sure, but Antoine was furious last Sunday night. But not furious enough to go to their house and tell them to shut up. And he could not find their telephone number.” Agnes laughed again.

They hung up, pleasantly and cordially like good neighbors. Then Tom sat down to a solitary dinner with a magazine propped up in front of him. As he ate his excellent braised beef, he chewed mentally on the two Pritchard nuisances. Back even this minute was David, perhaps, with fishing gear? Fishing for Murchison? Why hadn’t that occurred to Tom at once? Murchison’s corpse?

Tom’s eyes left the page he had been reading, and he sat back, touched his lips with his napkin. Fishing gear? It would take a grappling iron, a strong rope, and more than a rowing boat. It would take more than standing on a river or canal bank with a delicate pole and line, as some locals did, catching, if they were lucky, small white-colored fish, presumably edible. Since Pritchard’s money was in good supply, according to Janice, was he going to buy a fancy motorboat? Even hire a helper?

But then, he might be quite on the wrong track, Tom thought. Maybe David Pritchard really liked fishing.

The last thing Tom did that evening was address an envelope to his National Westminster Bank branch, because he needed to shift money from deposit to current to cover the PS 2000 check. The sight of the envelope by his typewriter would remind him tomorrow morning.

Chapter 15

After his first coffee the next morning, Tom walked out on the terrace and into the garden. It had rained during the night, and the dahlias looked good; they could use a deadheading, and it would be nice to cut a few for the living room. Mme Annette seldom did that, knowing Tom liked to choose the colors for the day himself.

David Pritchard is back now, Tom reminded himself, back last night presumably, getting down to his fishing today, perhaps. Was he?

Tom did some bill-paying, spent an hour in the garden pottering, and then had lunch. Mme Annette said nothing about news of the Pritchards in the bakery this morning. He took a look at the two cars in the garage, and the one that stood outside, at the moment the station wagon. All three started properly. Tom washed the windows of them all.

Then he took the red Mercedes, which he seldom drove and which he considered Heloise’s car, and headed in a westerly direction.

The roads through the flat landscape were fairly familiar, but they were not the roads he took to go to Moret, for instance, or Fontainebleau, the shopping places. Tom could not even have said exactly what road he had taken that night with Bernard to dispose of Murchison’s body. Tom had been in quest only of a canal, any fairly distant stream into which he could dump the tied-up corpse with fair ease. Tom had put a few large stones in the canvas sheet that shrouded Murchison,he remembered, to make the body sink and stay sunk. Well, it had, as far as Tom had ever learned. At a glance, Tom saw that there was a folded roadmap in the glove compartment, perhaps of the vicinity, but for the moment he preferred to trust his instinct. The main rivers in the area, the Loing, the Yonne and the Seine, had canals and tributaries, numerous and some nameless, and Tom knew that into one of these he had dropped Murchison, and from over the parapet of a bridge which he might recognize if he came to it.