Ripley's Game (7 page)

by not telephoning him he had successfully resisted some kind of temptation.

Gerard Foussadier, an electrician, was a neat, serious man a little older than Simone, with fairer hair than hers, and a carefully clipped brown moustache. His hobby was, naval history, and he made model nineteenth-century and eighteenth-century frigates in which he installed miniature electric lights that he could put completely or partially on by a switch in his living-room. Gerard himself laughed at the anachronism of electric lights in his frigates, but the effect was beautiful when all the other lights in the house were turned out, and eight or ten ships seemed to be sailing on a dark sea around the living-room.

‘Simone said you were a little worried – as to your health, Jon,’ Gerard said earnestly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Not particularly. Just another check-up.’ Jonathan said. ‘The report’s about the same.’ Jonathan was used to these clichés, which were like saying, ‘Very well, thank you,’ when someone asked you how you felt. What Jonathan said seemed to satisfy Gerard, so evidently Simone had not said much.

Yvonne and Simone were talking about linoleum. The kitchen linoleum was wearing out in front of the stove and the sink. It hadn’t been new when they bought the house.

‘You’re really feeling all right, darling?’ Simone asked Jonathan, when the Foussadiers had left.

‘Better than all right. I even attacked the boiler-room. The soot.’ Jonathan smiled.

‘You are mad. – Tonight you’ll have a decent dinner at least. Mama insisted that I bring home three
paupiettes
from lunch and they’re delicious!’

Then close to 11 p.m., as they were about to go to bed, Jonathan felt a sudden depression, as if his legs, his whole body had sunk into something viscous – as if he were walking hip-deep in mud. Was he simply tired? But it seemed more mental than physical. He was glad when the light was turned out, when he could relax with his arms around Simone, her arms around him, as they always lay when they fell asleep. He thought of Stephen Wister (or was that his real name?) maybe flying eastward now, his thin figure stretched out in an aeroplane seat. Jonathan imagined Wister’s face with the pinkish scar, puzzled, tense, but Wister would no longer be thinking of Jonathan Trevanny. He’d be thinking of someone else. He must have two or three more prospects, Jonathan thought.

The morning was chill and foggy. Just after 8 a.m., Simone went off with Georges to the Ecole Maternelle, and Jonathan stood in the kitchen, warming his fingers on a second bowl of
cafi au kit.
The heating system wasn’t adequate. They’d got rather uncomfortably through another winter, and even now in spring the house was chilly in the mornings. The furnace had been in the house when they bought it, adequate for the five radiators downstairs. but not for the other five upstairs which they had installed hopefully. They’d been warned, Jonathan remembered, but a bigger furnace would have cost three thousand new francs, and they hadn’t had the money.

Three letters had fallen through the slot in the front door. One was an electricity bill. Jonathan turned a square white envelope over and saw Hôtel de 1’Aigle Noir on its back. He opened the envelope. A business card fell out and dropped. Jonathan picked it up and read ‘Stephen Wister. chez’, which had been written above:

Reeves Minot

159 Agnesstrasse

Winterhude (Alster)

Hamburg 56

629-6757

There was a letter also.

1 Apr. 19—

Dear Mr Trevanny,

I was sorry not to hear from you this morning or so far this afternoon. But in case you change your mind, I enclose a card with my address in Hamburg. If you have second thoughts about my proposition, please telephone me collect at any hour. Or come to talk to me in Hamburg. Your round-trip transportation can be wired to you at once when I hear from you.

In fact, wouldn’t it be a good idea to see a Hamburg specialist about your blood condition and get another opinion? This might make you feel more comfortable.

I am returning to Hamburg Sunday night.

Yours sincerely,
Stephen Wister

Jonathan was surprised, amused, annoyed all at once.
More comfortable.
That was a bit funny, since Wister was sure he was going to die soon. If a Hamburg specialist said,
‘Ach, ja,
you have just one or two more months.’ would that make him feel more comfortable? Jonathan pushed the letter and the card into a back pocket of his trousers. A return trip to Hamburg gratis. Wister was thinking of every enticement. Interesting that he’d sent the letter Saturday afternoon, so he would receive it early Monday, though Jonathan might have rung him at any time Sunday. But there was no collection from post boxes in town on Sunday.

It was 8.’2 a.m. Jonathan thought of what he had to do. He needed more mat paper from a firm in Melun. There were at least two clients he should write a postcard to, because their pictures had been ready for more than a week. Jonathan usually went to his shop on Mondays, and spent his time doing odds and ends, though the shop was not open, as it was against French law to be open six days a week.

Jonathan got to his shop at 9.15 a.m., drew the green shade of his door, and locked the door again, leaving the
FERME
sign in it. He pottered about, thinking still about Hamburg. The opinion of a German specialist might be a good thing. Two years ago Jonathan had consulted a specialist in London. His report had been the same as the French, which had satisfied Jonathan that the diagnoses were true. Mightn’t the Germans be a little more thorough or up to date? Suppose he accepted Wister’s offer of a round trip? (Jonathan was copying an address on to a postcard.) But then he’d be beholden to Wister. Jonathan realized he was toying with the idea of killing someone for Wister – not for Wister, but for the money. A Mafia member. They were all criminals themselves, weren’t they? Of course, Jonathan reminded himself, he could always pay Wister back, if he accepted his round-trip fare. The point was, Jonathan couldn’t pull the money out of the bank funds just now, there wasn’t enough. If he really wanted to make sure of his condition, Germany (or Switzerland for that matter) could tell him. They still had the best doctors in the world, hadn’t they? Jonathan was now putting the card of the paper supplier of Melun beside his telephone to remind him to ring tomorrow, because the paper place wasn’t open today either. And who knew, mightn’t Stephen Wister’s proposal be feasible? For an instant, Jonathan saw himself blown to bits by the crossfire of German police officers: they’d caught him just after he fired on the Italian. But even if he were dead, Simone and Georges would get the forty thousand quid. Jonathan came back to reality. He wasn’t going to kill anybody, no. But Hamburg, going to Hamburg seemed a lark, a break, even if he learned some awful news there. He’d learn
facts,
anyway. And if Wister paid now, Jonathan could pay him back in a matter of three months, if he scrimped, didn’t buy any clothes, not even a beer in a café. Jonathan rather dreaded telling Simone, though she’d agree, of course, since it had to do with seeing another doctor, presumably an excellent doctor. The scrimping would come out of Jonathan’s own pocket.

Around 11 a.m., Jonathan put in a call to Wister’s number in Hamburg, direct, not collect. Three or four minutes later, his telephone rang, and Jonathan had a clear connection, much better than Paris usually sounded.

‘… Yes, this is Wister,’ Wister said in his light, tense voice.

‘I had your letter this morning,’ Jonathan began. The idea of going to Hamburg —’

‘Yes, why not?’ said Wister casually.

‘But I mean the idea of seeing a specialist —’

‘I’ll cable you the money right away. You can pick it up at the Fontainebleau post office. It should be there in a couple of hours.’

That’s – that’s kind of you. Once I’m there, I can —’

‘Can you come today? This evening? There’s room here for you to stay.’

‘I don’t know about today.’ And yet, why not?

‘Call me again when you’ve got your ticket. Tell me what time you’re coming in. I’ll be in all day.’

Jonathan’s heart was beating a little fast when he hung up.

At home during lunch-time, Jonathan went upstairs to the bedroom to see if his suitcase was handy. It was, on top of the wardrobe where it had been since their last holiday, nearly a year ago, in Aries.

He said to Simone, ‘Darling, something important. I’ve decided to go to Hamburg and see a specialist.’

‘Oh, yes? – Perrier suggested it?’

‘Well – in fact, no. My idea. I wouldn’t mind having a German doctor’s opinion. I know it’s an expense.’

‘Oh, Jon! Expense! – Did you have any news this morning? But the laboratory report comes tomorrow, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. What they say is always the same, darling. I want a a fresh opinion.’

‘When do you want to go?’

‘Soon. This week.’

Just before 5 p.m. Jonathan called at the Fontainebleau post office. The money had arrived. Jonathan presented his
carte d’identité
and received six hundred francs. He went from the post office to the Syndicat d’Initiatives in the Place Franklin Roosevelt, just a couple of streets away, and bought a round-trip ticket to Hamburg on a plane that left Orly airport at 9.25 p.m. that evening. He would have to hurry, he realized, and he liked that, because it precluded thinking, hesitating. He went to his shop and telephoned Hamburg, this time collect.

Wister again answered. ‘Oh, that’s fine. At eleven fifty-five, right. Take the airport bus to the city terminus, would you? I’ll meet you there.’

Then Jonathan made one telephone call to a client who had an important picture to pick up, to say that he would be closed Tuesday and Wednesday for ‘reasons of family’, a common excuse. He’d have to leave a sign to that effect in his door for a couple of days. Not a very important matter, Jonathan thought, since shopkeepers in town frequently closed for a few days for one reason or another. Jonathan had once seen a sign saying ‘closed due to hangover’.

Jonathan shut up shop and went home to pack. It would be a two-day stay at most, he thought, unless the Hamburg hospital or whatever insisted that he stay longer for tests. He had checked the trains to Paris, and there was one around 7 p.m. that would do nicely. He had to get to Paris, then to Les Invalides for a bus to Orly. When Simone came home with Georges, Jonathan had his suitcase downstairs.

‘Tonight?’ Simone said.

‘The sooner the better, darling. I had an impulse. I’ll be back Wednesday, maybe even tomorrow night.’

‘But – where can I reach you? You arranged for a hotel?’

‘No. I’ll have to telegraph you, darling. Don’t worry.’

‘You’ve got everything arranged with the doctor? Who is the doctor?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only heard of the hospital.’ Jonathan dropped his passport, trying to stick it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘I never saw you like this,’ said Simone.

Jonathan smiled at her. ‘At least – obviously I’m not collapsing!’

Simone wanted to go with him to the Fontainebleau-Avon station, and take the bus back, but Jonathan begged her not to.

‘I’ll telegraph right away.’ Jonathan said.

‘Where is Hamburg?’ Georges demanded for the second time.

‘Allemagne! –
Germany!’ Jonathan said.

Jonathan found a taxi in the Rue de France, luckily. The train was pulling into the Fontainebleau-Avon station as he arrived, and he barely had time to buy his ticket and hop on. Then it was a taxi from the Gare de Lyon to Les Invalides. Jonathan had some money left over from the six hundred francs. For a while, he was not going to worry about money.

On the plane, he half slept, with a magazine in his lap. He was imagining being another person. The rush of the plane seemed to be rushing this new person away from the man left behind in the dark grey house in the Rue St Merry. He imagined another Jonathan helping Simone with the dishes at this moment, chatting about boring things such as the price of linoleum for the kitchen floor.

The plane touched down. The air was sharp and much colder. There was a long lighted motorway, then the city’s streets, massive buildings looming up into the night sky, street lights of different colour and shape from those of France.

And there was Wister smiling, walking towards him with his right hand extended. ‘Welcome, Mr Trevanny! Had a good trip? … My car is just outside. Hope you didn’t mind coming to the terminus. My driver – not my driver but one I use sometimes – he was tied up till just a few minutes ago.’

They were walking out to the kerb. Wister droned on in his American accent. Except for his scar, nothing about Wister suggested violence. He was, Jonathan decided, too calm, which from a psychiatric point of view might be ominous. Or was he merely nursing an ulcer? Wister stopped beside a well-polished black Mercedes-Benz. An older man, wearing no cap, took care of Jonathan’s medium-sized suitcase, and held the door for him and Wister.

‘This is Karl,’ Wister said.

‘Evening,’ Jonathan said.

Karl smiled, and murmured something in German.

It was quite a long drive. Wister pointed out the Rathaus, ‘the oldest ia all Europe, and the bombs didn’t get it’, and a great church or cathedral whose name Jonathan didn’t get. He and Wister were sitting together in the back. They entered a part of the town with a more countrylike atmosphere, went over still another bridge, and on to a darker road.

‘Here we are.’ Wister said. ‘My place.’

The car had turned into a climbing driveway and stopped beside a large house with a few lighted windows and a lighted, well-kept entrance.

‘It’s an old house with four flats, and I have one.’ Wister explained. ‘Lots of such houses in Hamburg. Converted. Here I have a nice view of the Alster. It’s the Aussen Alster, the big one. You’ll see more tomorrow.’

They rode up in a modern lift, Karl taking Jonathan’s suitcase. Karl pressed a bell, and a middle-aged woman in a black dress and white apron opened the door, smiling.