Authors: Patricia Highsmith

Ripley Under Water (37 page)

BOOK: Ripley Under Water

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The second newspaper said essentially the same, more briefly, and gave an entire sentence to the suggestion that the Pritchards had been an unusually quiet couple during the mere three months they had lived in the house, keeping to themselves, apparently finding their sole amusement in playing records loudly late at night in their isolated two-story house, finally taking up the hobby of dragging canal and river bottoms. The police had managed to get in touch with the respective families of David and Janice Pritchard. The house lights had been on, door open, and there were unfinished drinks in the living room, when the two corpses had been discovered.

Nothing new, Tom thought, but still a bit shocking to him, whenever he read it.

“What are the police now looking for—really, madame?” Tom asked, hoping to learn something, as well as please Mme Annette, who loved to impart knowledge. “Surely not the head,” Tom whispered earnestly. “Clues, maybe—whether it was suicide or accident.”

Mme Annette, at the sink, her hands wet, leaned toward Tom. “M’sieur—I heard this morning they have found a whip. Someone else—Madame Hubert, you know, the wife of the electrician, she said a chain was found. Perhaps not a big chain, but a chain.”

Ed came downstairs, and Tom greeted him and handed him the two newspapers in the living room.

“Tea or coffee?” asked Tom.

“Coffee with some warm milk. May I?”

“You may. Sit down at the table, more comfortable.”

Ed wanted a croissant with marmalade.

Just suppose they did find the head in the Pritchard house, Tom was thinking, as he went to convey Ed’s order. Or the wedding ring hidden in an incredible place, for instance hammered into an interstice between two floorboards? A wedding ring with initials? And the head somewhere else—and maybe this had been the last straw for Teddy?

“Can I come along to the airport?” Ed asked when Tom returned. “I’d enjoy that.”

“Of course! And I’d like your company. We’ll take the station wagon.”

Ed read on in the newspapers. “Nothing new here, is there, Tom?”

“Not to me.”

“You know, Tom—well—” Ed broke off, smiling.

“Come on! Something cheerful!”

“That it is—and now I’ve ruined it, the surprise. I think Jeff’s going to bring your pigeon sketch in his suitcase. I mentioned it to him before I left.”

“Won’t that be nice!” Tom said, and took a glance at his living-room walls. “What an inspiration that will be!”

Mme Annette arrived with a tray.

Hardly an hour later, when Tom and Heloise too had checked on the appearance of Tom’s room, now assigned to Jeff, and had set a red rose in a flutelike glass vase on the dressing table, Tom and Ed departed. They would be back for lunch, Tom said to Mme Annette, just after one, with luck.

Tom had taken Murchison’s ring from the black woolen sock in his sock drawer, and it was in his left-hand trouser pocket now. “Let’s go by Moret. The bridge is so pretty, and it’s hardly at all out of the way.”

“Okay,” said Ed. “Lovely.”

The day was lovely too. It had rained early that morning, around six from the look of things, which was just what had been needed to freshen the garden and the lawn, and of course save Tom from watering today.

The towers of the bridge at Moret, a single stocky tower on either side of the river, came into view—pinkish tan, venerable and protective.

“Let’s try to get near the water—somehow,” Tom said. “It’s two-way on the bridge, but it’s narrow through the towers, so sometimes we have to wait and take turns.”

Each tower had an arched passageway, wide enough for only one car. Tom had to pause only a few seconds for a couple of oncoming cars, then they crossed the Loing, where Tom so much wanted to throw the ring, but it was impossible to stop. Once through the second tower, he took a street to his left, and despite a yellow line drew up at the curb.

“Let’s walk to the bridge and take a quick look at least,” Tom said.

They did reach the bridge road, Tom with hands in pockets, left hand gripping the ring. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and held the ring in his fist.

“Sixteenth-century architecture, a lot of this,” Tom said. “And Napoleon spent a night here on his return from Elba. The house where he did has a plaque, I believe.” Tom pressed his palms together and transferred the ring to his right hand.

Ed said nothing, and seemed to be trying to absorb everything. Tom stood nearer the rail along the bridge, as two cars passed behind him. A few meters below, the Loing looked comfortably deep to Tom.

“M’sieur—”

Tom turned in surprise, and saw a police officer in dark blue trousers, short-sleeved pale blue shirt and sunglasses.

“Oui,” said Tom.

“You have the white station wagon in—”

“Oui,” Tom said.

“It is forbidden to park there—where you are.”

“Ah, oui! Excusez-moi! We shall be moving off at once! Thank you, officer.”

The officer saluted and moved off, white-holstered gun on hip.

“Did he know you?” asked Ed.

“Not sure. Maybe. Nice of him not to slap me with a fine.” Tom smiled. “I don’t think he will. Let’s go.” Tom swung his arm back and hurled the ring, aiming for the middle of the river, which was not in full flood at the moment. It plunked near enough to the middle to satisfy Tom. He smiled slightly at Ed, and they walked back in the direction of the station wagon.

For all Ed knew, he might have thrown a stone, Tom supposed, and that was just as well.

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