Ripley Under Water (4 page)

At any rate, who was quite clean?

Did Jacques Plissot mistrust him because he didn’t know all about him, Tom wondered. One thing nice about Plissot, he didn’t seem to be nudging Heloise, nor did Heloise’s mother, Arlene, to produce a child so that they could be grandparents. Tom had of course brought up this delicate subject with Heloise and in private: Heloise wasn’t keen on having a child. She wasn’t firmly set against it, it seemed, just didn’t crave one. And now years had gone by. Tom did not mind. He had no parents to make ecstatic by the announcement of the blessed event: his parents had drowned in Boston Harbor, Massachusetts, when Tom had been a small boy, and then he had been adopted by Aunt Dottie, the old skinflint also of Boston. Anyway, Tom felt that Heloise was happy with him, at least content, or she’d have lodged complaints before now—or, indeed, departed. Heloise was willful. And old bald-headed Jacques must surely realize that his daughter was happy, that they maintained a highly respectable house in Villeperce. Maybe once a year the Plissots came for dinner. Arlene Plissot’s visits by herself were slightly more frequent and definitely more pleasant.

Tom had not thought of the Odd Pair, except fleetingly, for several days, when in the 9:30 a.m. post one Saturday came a square envelope addressed in a hand he didn’t know and at once disliked: puffy capitals, a circle instead of a dot over an i. Conceited and stupid, Tom thought. Since it was addressed to Mme et M., Tom opened the envelope, and opened it before anything else. Heloise was at that moment upstairs having her bath.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ripley,

We would be most pleased if you would come and have a drink with us Saturday (tomorrow). Can you come around 6? I realize this is short notice, and if not convenient for both of you, we can propose another date.

So looking forward to making acquaintance with you both!

Janice and David Pritchard 

Other side: map to show where we are. Tel: 424-6434

Tom turned the paper over and glanced at the simply drawn plan of Villeperce’s main street and the street at a right angle to it, on which the Pritchards’ house and the Grais’ house were indicated, plus the smaller vacant house in between.

Tum-tee-tum, Tom thought, and flipped the letter against his fingers. The invitation was for today. He was curious enough to go, that was certain—the more one knew about a possible enemy, the better—but he didn’t want to take Heloise along. He would have to invent something to tell Heloise. Meanwhile, he should confirm, but not at 9:40 a.m., Tom thought.

He opened the rest of the post, except for one envelope addressed to Heloise in what Tom thought was Noelle Hassler’s hand. She was a good friend of Heloise ‘s who lived in Paris. There was nothing interesting, a bank statement from Manny Hanny in New York, where Tom kept a current account, junk mail from Fortune 500, which for some reason thought him sufficiently moneyed to be interested in a magazine about investments and stocks. Tom left that task (where to invest) to his tax accountant Pierre Solway, who was also employed by Jacques Plissot, through whom Tom had made his acquaintance. Sometimes Solway had good ideas. This kind of work, if it could be called that, bored Tom, but it did not bore Heloise (perhaps handling money or at least being interested in it was bred in her bones), and she was always willing to check something out with her father before she and Tom made a move.

Henri the Giant was due at eleven that morning, and vague though he was about the difference between Thursday and Saturday, sometimes, Henri did turn up at two minutes past eleven. Henri as usual wore his faded blue overalls with their old-fashioned shoulder straps, and his broad-brimmed straw hat which could be described as tattered. He also had a reddish brown beard, which he apparently whacked now and then with scissors, an easy way out of shaving. Van Gogh would have loved him as a sitter, Tom often thought. Curious to think that a pastel portrait of him by van Gogh could and would sell today for something like thirty million dollars. Of which van Gogh would get not a penny, of course.

Tom pulled himself together and began to explain to Henri what he would need during his two or three weeks’ absence. The compost. Could Henri please turn it? Tom had a circular wire compost bin now, high as his own chest, a bit less than a meter in diameter, with a door that could open if one extracted a metal pin.

But as Tom went on, following Henri toward the greenhouse and talking about the new rose spray (was Henri listening?), Henri took a fork from just inside the greenhouse and began to attack the compost. He was so tall, so strong, Tom was loath to stop him. Henri did know how to handle compost, because he understood what it was for.

“Oui, m’sieur,” Henri murmured now and then, in a gentle voice.

“And—well—I mentioned the roses. No spots at the moment. Now—just to make things look nice—the laurel row—with the clippers.” Henri did not need the ladder as Tom did, barely, if he tackled the sides near the top. Tom let the top grow any old way, straight up, as to flatten it by trimming would give the look of a formal hedge.

With envy, Tom watched Henri push the wire basket with his left hand, and with his right use the fork to rake out excellent-looking dark compost from the bottom. “Oh, great! Tres bien!” When Tom tried to push that wire basket, it seemed to have taken root.

“C’est vraiment bon,” Henri confirmed.

Then the seedlings in the greenhouse, and some geraniums there. They would need watering. Henri clumped about on the wooden slatted floor, nodding his understanding. Henri knew where the key to the greenhouse was, under a round rock behind the greenhouse. Tom locked it only when he and Heloise were not in residence in the main house. Even Henri’s scuffed brown brogues looked of van Gogh’s time, with soles nearly an inch thick and uppers that came above the ankle. Heirlooms? Tom wondered. Henri was a walking anachronism.

“We’ll be gone at least two weeks,” Tom said. “But Madame Annette will be here the whole time.”

A few more details, and Tom considered Henri sufficiently briefed. A little money would not be amiss, so Tom pulled his wallet from a back pocket and gave Henri two hundred-franc bills.

“Here’s to start with, Henri. And you keep track,” he added. Tom was ready to return to the house, but Henri showed no sign of departing. Henri was always that way, drifting around the edges, picking up a fallen twig or tossing a stone to one side before he finally sloped off without a word. “Au revoir, Henri!” Tom turned and walked toward his house. When he looked back, Henri was apparently going to give the compost another whack of some kind with the fork.

Tom went upstairs, washed his hands in his bathroom, and relaxed in his armchair with a couple of brochures on Morocco. The ten or twelve photographs showed a blue mosaic interior of a mosque, five cannons lined up at a cliffs edge, a market with brightly colored striped blankets hanging, a blond tourist in the scantiest of bikinis spreading a pink towel on yellow sand. The map of Tangier on the other side of the brochure was schematic and clear in blue and dark blue, the beach in yellow and the port a pair of curves extending protectively into the Mediterranean or the Strait. Tom looked for the Rue de la Liberte, where the Hotel El Minzah was, and it seemed to be within walking distance of the Grand Socco, or big market.

The telephone rang. Tom had a phone by his bed. “I’ll get it!” Tom shouted down the stairs to Heloise, who had been practicing her Schubert on the harpsichord. “Hello?”

“Hi, Tom. Reeves here,” said Reeves Minot on a clear connection.

“You in Hamburg?”

“Sure am. I think—well, Heloise probably told you I called before.”

“Yes, she did. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes,” said Reeves in a calm and reassuring voice. “Just that—I’d like to mail something to you, small as a cassette. In fact—”

It is a cassette, Tom was thinking.

“And it’s not explosive,” Reeves went on. “If you could hold it for about five days, and then mail it to an address which will be enclosed in the envelope it’s coming in—“

Tom hesitated, a bit annoyed, yet knowing he would oblige, because Reeves did him favors when he needed favors—a new passport for someone, shelter for the night in Reeves’s big apartment. Reeves did favors quickly and for no charge. “I’d say yes, old pal, but Heloise and I are going to Tangier in a few days and traveling on from there.”

“Tangier! Fine! There’s time, if I express it. It’ll come to your house maybe tomorrow. No problem. I’ll get it off today. Then you send it on—from wherever you’re going to be in four or five days from now.”

They’d still be in Tangier, Tom supposed. “Okay, Reeves. In principle.” Tom had unconsciously lowered his voice, as if someone might be trying to eavesdrop, but Heloise was still at the keyboard. “It’ll be Tangier. Do you trust the post from there? I’ve been warned—about slowness.”

Reeves gave his dry laugh, which Tom knew well. “There’s nothing like The Satanic Verses on this one—in this one. Please, Tom.”

“All right—what is it, exactly?”

“Not saying. Not now. Weighs hardly an ounce.”

They hung up within seconds after that. Tom wondered if the addressee was to post it to another intermediary. Reeves had always cherished the theory, maybe self-created, that the more hands something passed through, the safer it was. Reeves was a fence, essentially, and loved his work. Fencing—what a word. Rather, to act as a fence had a make-believe charm for Reeves, as hide-and-seek games had for children. Tom had to admit that Reeves Minot up to now had been successful. He worked alone—at least, he was always alone in his Altona apartment, and had survived a bombing there, aimed at his apartment, too, and survived whatever it was that had given him a five-inch-long scar down his right cheek.

Back to the brochures, and Casablanca next. There were some ten folders on his bed. Tom thought of the express arriving. He was sure he would not have to sign for it; Reeves was shy about registering anything, so anyone at the house could receive it.

Then, this evening, drinks with the Pritchards at 6 p.m. Past 11 a.m. now, and he ought to confirm. What to say to Heloise ?

He didn’t want her to know he was going to visit the Pritchards, first because he didn’t want to take her there, and to complicate things didn’t want to state, plainly, to Heloise that he felt protective of her and didn’t want her near those oddballs.

Tom went downstairs, intending to take a turn around the lawn, and perhaps beg a coffee of Mme Annette, if she were in the kitchen.

Heloise stood up from the beige harpsichord and stretched. “Cheri, Noelle telephoned while you were talking with Henri. She would like to come for dinner tonight, maybe stay the night. Is that all right?”

“But of course, my sweet. Certainly.” It had happened before, Tom thought, Noelle Hassler ringing up and inviting herself. She was pleasant, and Tom had nothing against her. “I hope you said yes.”

“I did. La pauvre—” Heloise started to laugh. “A certain man—Noelle should never have thought he was serious! He was not nice to her.”

Walked out, Tom supposed. “So she’s depressed?”

“Oh, not much, not for long. She is not driving, so I pick her up at Fontainebleau. The station.”

“What time?”

“Around seven. I shall check the timetable.”

Tom was relieved, or slightly relieved. He decided to come out with the truth. “This morning, believe it or not, an invitation came from the Pritchards—you know, the American pair. For us to come for a drink around six tonight. Do you mind if I go—alone—just to learn a little more about them?”

“No-o,” said Heloise, sounding and looking like a teenager instead of someone in her thirties. “Why should I? And you are back for dinner?”

Tom smiled. “You can be sure of that.”

Chapter 4

Tom decided after all to cut three dahlias and take them to the Pritchards. He had confirmed his acceptance of their invitation at noon, and Janice Pritchard had sounded pleased. Tom had said he would come alone, as his wife had to fetch a friend from the station around six.

So at a few minutes past six, Tom rolled up the Pritchard driveway in the brown Renault. The sun had not set and it was still warm. Tom wore a summer jacket and trousers, a shirt with no tie.

“Oh, Mr. Ripley, welcome!” said Janice Pritchard, who was standing on her porch.

“Evening,” said Tom, smiling. He presented her with the red dahlias. “Just cut. From my place.”

“Oh, how lovely! I’ll get a vase. Please come in. David!”

Tom went into a short foyer that led to a square white living room which he remembered. The almost ugly fireplace was unchanged, its wood painted white with an unfortunate dubonnet trim. Tom had an impression of false rusticity in all the furniture except for the sofa and armchair, and then David Pritchard came in, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was in shirtsleeves.

“Good evening, Mr. Ripley! Welcome. I am slaving over canapes.”

Janice laughed dutifully. She was thinner than Tom had thought, and wore pale blue cotton slacks and a black and red blouse with long sleeves and ruffles at her neck and wrists.

Her light brown hair was rather a pleasant apricot color, cut short and combed so that it fluffed around her head.

“Now—what would you like to drink?” asked David, peering politely at Tom through his black-rimmed glasses.

“There’s everything—probably,” said Janice.

“Um-m—gin and tonic?” asked Tom.

“No sooner said than done. Maybe you’d like to show Mr. Ripley around the house, hon,” David said.

“Of course. If he’d like.” Janice tilted her narrow head in a pixie like way that Tom had noticed before. It gave her eyes a skewed look that was vaguely disturbing.

They looked into the dining room behind the living room (kitchen to the left), where Tom’s impression of horrid made-yesterday antique was confirmed by the heavy dining-table and the high-backed chairs around it, with seats that looked as uncomfortable as church pews. The stairs up were on one side of the gaudy fireplace, and he climbed them with Janice, who was talking all the while.