Ripley's Game (31 page)

Jonathan started the car. The car had backing lights. When he stopped, Tom opened the second door of the Renault and pulled out the jerry can. Tom had his torch.

Tom poured petrol on to the newspapers over the two corpses, then on their clothing. Tom splashed some on the roof, then the upholstery – unfortunately plastic, not cloth – of the front seat also. Tom looked up, straight up where the branches of the trees almost closed together above the road – young leaves, not yet in their fullness of summer. A few would get singed, but it was for a worthy cause. Tom shook the last drops from the jerry can on to the floor of the car where there was rubbish, the remains of a sandwich, an old road map.

Jonathan was walking slowly towards him.

‘Here we go.’ Tom said softly, and struck a match. He had left the front door of the car open. He flung the match into the back of the car, where the newspapers flared up yellow at once.

Tom stepped back, and grabbed Jonathan’s hand as his foot slipped in a depression at the side of the road. In the car!’ Tom whispered, and trotted towards the Renault. He got into the driver’s seat, smiling. The Citroen was taking nicely. The roof had started to burn in one central, thin yellow flame, like a candle.

Jonathan got in on the other side.

Tom started his motor. He was breathing a little hard, but it soon became laughter. ‘I think that’s all
right.
Don’t you? I think that’s just great!’

The Renault’s lights burst forward, diminishing the growing holocaust in front of them for an instant. Tom backed, fairly fast, his body twisted so he could see through the back window.

Jonathan stared at the burning car, which completely disappeared as they backed along the curve in the road.

Then Tom straightened out. They were on the main road.

‘Can you see it from here?’ Tom asked, shooting the car forward.

Jonathan saw a light like that of a glowworm through the trees, then it vanished. Or had he imagined it? ‘Not a thing now. No.’ For an instant, Jonathan felt frightened by this fact – as if they had failed somehow, as if the fire had died out. But he knew it hadn’t. The woods had simply swallowed the fire up, hidden it utterly. And yet, someone would find it. When? How much of it?

Tom laughed. It’s burning. They’ll burn! We’re in the clear!’

Jonathan saw Tom glance at his speedometer, which was climbing to a hundred and thirty. Then Tom eased back to a hundred.

Tom was whistling a Neapolitan tune. He felt well, not tired at all, not even in need of a cigarette. Life afforded few pleasures tantamount to disposing of Mafiosi. And yet —

‘And yet —’ Tom said cheerfully.

‘And yet?’

‘Disposing of two does so little. Like stepping on two cockroaches when the whole house is full of them. I believe, however, in making the effort, and above all it’s nice to let the Mafia know now and then that people can diminish them. Unfortunately in this case they’re going to think another family got Lippo and Angy. At least I hope they’ll think that.’

Jonathan was now feeling sleepy. He fought against it, forcing himself to sit up, pressing his nails into his palm. My God, he thought, it was going to be hours before they got home – back to Tom’s or to his own house. Tom seemed fresh as a daisy, singing now in Italian a tune he’d been whistling before.

‘…
papa ne meno

Como faremo fare l’amor
…’

Tom was chatting on, about his wife now, who was going to stay with some friends in a chalet in Switzerland. Then Jonathan awakened a little as Tom said:

‘Put your head back, Jonathan. No need to stay awake. – You’re feeling all right, I hope?’

Jonathan didn’t know how he was feeling. He felt a bit weak, but he often felt weak. Jonathan was afraid to think about what had just happened, about what was happening, flesh and bone being burnt, smouldering on hours from now. Sadness came over Jonathan suddenly, like an eclipse. He wished he could erase the last few hours, cut them out of his memory. Yet he had been there, he had acted, he had helped. Jonathan put his head back and fell half asleep. Tom was talking cheerfully, casually, as if he were having a conversation with someone who now and then replied to him. Jonathan had in fact never known Tom in such good spirits. Jonathan was wondering what he was going to say to Simone? Merely to be aware of that problem exhausted him.

‘Masses sung in English, you know,’ Tom was saying, ‘I find simply embarrassing. Somehow one gives the English-speaking people credit for believing what they’re saying, so a mass in English you feel either the choir has lost its mind or they’re a pack of liars. Don’t you agree? Sir John Stainer…’

Jonathan woke up when the car stopped. Tom had pulled on to the edge of the road. Smiling, Tom was sipping coffee from the thermos cup. He offered some to Jonathan. Jonathan drank a little. Then they drove on.

Dawn came over a village that Jonathan had never seen before. The light had awakened Jonathan.

‘We’re only twenty minutes from home!’ Tom said brightly.

Jonathan murmured something, and half shut his eyes again. Now Tom was talking about the harpsichord, his harpsichord.

‘The thing about Bach is that he’s instantly civilizing. Just a phrase…’

21

J
ONATHAN
opened his eyes, thinking he had heard harpsichord music. Yes. It wasn’t a dream. He hadn’t really been asleep. The music came from downstairs. It faltered, recommenced. A sarabande, perhaps. Jonathan lifted his arm wearily and looked at his wrist-watch: 8.38 a.m. What was Simone doing now? What was she
thinking?

Exhaustion sucked at Jonathan’s will. He sank deeper into the pillow, retreating. He’d taken a warm shower, put on pyjamas at Tom’s insistence. Tom had given him a new toothbrush and said, ‘Get a couple of hours’ sleep, anyway. It’s terribly early.’ That had been around 7 a.m. He had to get up. He had to do something about Simone, had to speak to her. But Jonathan lay limp, listening to the single notes of the harpsichord.

Now Tom was fingering the bass of something, and it sounded correct, the deepest notes a harpsichord could pluck. As Tom had said,
instantly civilizing.
Jonathan forced himself up, out of the pale blue sheets and the darker blue woollen blanket. He staggered, and with an effort stood straight as he walked towards the door. Jonathan went down the stairs barefoot.

Tom was reading the notes from a music book propped in front of him. Now the treble entered, and sunlight came through the slightly parted curtains at the french windows on to Tom’s left shoulder, picking out the gold pattern in his black dressing-gown.

‘Tom?’

Tom turned at once and got up. ‘Yes?’

Jonathan felt worse, seeing Tom’s alarmed face. The
next thing Jonathan knew, he was on the yellow sofa, and Tom was wiping his face with a wet cloth, a dishtowel.

‘Tea? Or a brandy? … Have you got any pills you take?’

Jonathan felt awful, he knew the feeling, and the only thing that helped was a transfusion. It hadn’t been so long since he’d had one. The trouble now was that he felt worse than he usually did. Was it only from losing a night’s sleep?

‘What?’ Tom said.

‘I’m afraid I’d better get to the hospital.’

‘We’ll go,’ said Tom. He went away and came back with a stemmed glass. ‘This is brandy and water, if you feel like it. Stay there. I’ll just be a minute.’

Jonathan closed his eyes. He had the wet towel over his forehead, down one cheek, and felt chilly and too tired to move. It seemed only a minute until Tom was back, dressed. Tom had brought Jonathan’s clothing.

‘Matter of fact, if you put on your shoes and my topcoat, you won’t have to dress,’ Tom said.

Jonathan followed this advice. They were in the Renault again, heading for Fontainebleau, and Jonathan’s clothes were folded neatly between them. Tom was asking him if he knew exactly where they should go when they got to the hospital, if he could get a transfusion right away.

‘I’ve got to speak with Simone,’ Jonathan said.

‘We’ll do that – or you will. Don’t worry about that now.’

‘Could you bring her?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Yes,’ said Tom firmly. He hadn’t been worried about Jonathan until that instant. Simone would hate the sight of him, but she would come to see her husband, either with Tom or on her own. ‘You still have no phone at your house?’

‘No.’

Tom spoke to a receptionist in the hospital. She greeted Jonathan as if she knew him. Tom held Jonathan’s arm. When Tom had seen Jonathan into the charge of the proper
doctor, Tom said, ‘I’ll have Simone come, Jonathan. Don’t worry.’ To the receptionist, who was in nurse’s uniform, Tom said, ‘Do you think a transfusion will do it?’

She nodded pleasantly, and Tom left it at that, not knowing whether she knew what she was talking about or not. He wished he’d asked the doctor. Tom got into his car and drove to the Rue St Merry. He was able to park a few yards from the house, and he got out and walked towards the stone steps with the black handrails. He’d had no sleep, was in slight need of a shave, but at least he had a message that might be of interest to Mme Trevanny. He rang the bell.

There was no answer. Tom rang again, and looked on the pavement for Simone. It was Sunday. No market in Fontainebleau, but she might well be out buying something at 9.50 a.m., or might be at church with Georges.

Tom went down the steps slowly, and as he reached the pavement, he saw Simone walking towards him, Georges beside her. Simone had a shopping basket over her forearm.

‘Bonjour,
madame,’ Tom said politely, in the face of her bristling hostility. He continued, ‘I only wanted to bring you news of your husband. –
Bonjour,
Georges.’

‘I want nothing from you,’ Simone said, ‘except to know where my husband is.’

Georges stared at Tom alertly and neutrally. He had eyes and brows like his father. ‘He is all right, I think, madame, but he is —’ Tom hated saying it on the street. ‘He is in the hospital for the moment. A transfusion, I think.’

Simone looked both exasperated and furious – as if Tom were to blame for it.

‘May I please speak with you inside your house, madame. It is so much easier.’

After an instant’s hesitation, Simone agreed to this, out of curiosity, Tom felt. She unlocked the door with a key which she produced from her coat pocket. It wasn’t a new coat, Tom noticed. ‘What has happened to him?’ she asked when they were in the little hall.

Tom took a breath and spoke calmly. ‘We had to drive nearly all night. I think he is merely tired. But – of course I thought you would want to know. I’ve just brought him to the hospital now. He’s able to walk. I do think he’s not in danger.’

‘Papa! I want to see papa!’ Georges said rather petulantly, as if he had asked for papa last evening too.

Simone had set her basket down.
‘What
have you done to my husband? He is not the same man I knew – since he met
you
, m’sieur! If you see him again, I – I will —’

It seemed only the presence of her son that kept her from saying that she would kill him, Tom thought.

She said with bitter control of herself,
‘Why
is he in your power?’

‘He is not in my power and never was. And I think now the job is finished,’ Tom said. ‘It’s quite impossible to explain now.’

‘What job?’ Simone asked. And before Tom could open his mouth, she continued, ‘M’sieur, you are a crook, and you corrupt other people! What sort of blackmail have you subjected him to? And why?’

Blackmail – the French word
chantage –
was so off the beam, Tom stammered as he began to reply. ‘Madame, no one is taking money from Jonathan. Or anything from him. Quite the contrary. And he has done nothing to give people power over him.’ Tom spoke with genuine conviction, and he certainly had to, because Simone looked the picture of wifely virtue, probity, her fine eyes flashing, and her brows concentrated against him, powerful as the Winged Victory of Samothrace. ‘We have spent the night cleaning things up.’ Tom felt shabby saying that. His more eloquent French had suddenly deserted him. His words were no match for the virtuous helpmeet who stood before him.

‘Cleaning what up?’ She stooped to pick up her basket. ‘M’sieur, I will be grateful if you leave this house. I thank you for informing me where my husband is.’

Tom nodded. ‘I would also be happy to take you and Georges to the hospital, if you like. My car is just outside.’

‘Merci, non.’
She was standing midway in the hall, looking back, waiting for him to leave. ‘Come, Georges.’

Tom let himself out. He got into his car, thought of going to the hospital to ask how Jonathan was, because it would be at least ten minutes before Simone could get there either by taxi or on foot. But Tom decided to telephone from his house. He drove home. And once home, he decided not to telephone. By now Simone might be there’ Hadn’t Jonathan said the transfusion took several hours? Tom hoped it wasn’t a crisis, that it wasn’t the beginning of the end.