Ripley Under Water Read online

  “And why not?” said Heloise.

  “Excuse me.” Tom turned and went up the stairs to his own room, washed his hands quickly in his bathroom as was his wont after a disagreeable episode such as the one he’d just been through. His bathroom would be shared by Heloise tonight, he realized, as she gave hers to any guest they might have. Tom ascertained that the second door to the bathroom, giving on to Heloise’s bedroom, was unlocked. Damned unpleasant, that moment when the beefy Pritchard had said, “And suppose we kept you for a while?” and Janice had stared on, fixated. Would Janice have aided her husband? Tom thought she would have. Maybe like an automaton. Why?

  Tom flipped the hand towel back onto its rod, and went to his telephone. His brown leather address book was there, and he needed it, as he didn’t know Jeff Constant’s or Ed Banbury’s telephone numbers by heart.

  Jeff first. He was still living in NW8, where he had his photographic studio, as far as Tom knew. Tom’s watch said 7:22. He dialed.

  An answering machine came on after the third ring, and Tom seized a ballpoint, and wrote down another number: “… until nine p.m.,” Jeff’s voice said.

  That meant ten, Tom’s time. He dialed the number he’d been given. A male voice answered, and the background noise sounded as if a party were in progress.

  “Jeff Constant,” Tom repeated. “Is he there? He’s a photographer.”

  “Oh, the photographer! Just a moment, please. And your name?”

  Tom hated it. “Just say Tom, would you?”

  A fairly long wait before Jeff came on, sounding a bit out of breath. The party racket continued. “Oh, Tom! I was thinking of another Tom…Oh, it’s a wedding…after-the-ceremony reception. What’s new?”

  Tom was glad of the background noise now. Jeff had to shout and strain to hear. “Do you know of somebody called David Pritchard? American about thirty-five? Dark hair. Wife called Janice, blondish?”

  “No-o.”

  “Could you ask Ed Banbury the same thing? Ed’s reachable?”

  “Yes, but he moved not long ago. I’ll ask him. I don’t know his address by heart.”

  “Well, look—these Americans have rented a house in my village, and they claim to have met Cynthia Gradnor recently—in London. They’re making very snide remarks, the Pritchards. Nothing about—Bernard, however.” Tom gulped at the name. He could hear Jeff’s brain ticking, almost. “How could he have met Cynthia? Does she ever come to the gallery?” Tom meant the Buckmaster Gallery in Old Bond Street.

  “No.” Jeff was firm on that.

  “I’m not even sure he has met Cynthia. But even that he’s heard of her—“

  “In connection with the Derwatts?”

  “I don’t know. You don’t suppose Cynthia would play the bitch, do you, drop—” Tom stopped, horribly aware that Pritchard or the Pritchards had been boning up on him, and as far back as Dickie Greenleaf.

  “Cynthia’s not a bitch,” Jeff said, deep and earnest, as the maniacal din in the background continued. “Look, I’ll sound out Ed and—”

  “Tonight, if you can. Ring me back, doesn’t matter—well, up to midnight your time. Then I’m home tomorrow, too.”

  “What’s this Pritchard up to, do you think?”

  “Good question. It’s some kind of malice, don’t ask me just what kind. Can’t tell yet.”

  “You mean he might know more than he’s saying?”

  “Yes. And—I don’t have to tell you Cynthia hates me.” Tom spoke as softly as he could and still be heard.

  “She doesn’t like any of us! You’ll hear from me or Ed, Tom.”

  They hung up.

  Then dinner, served by Mme Annette, a most delicious clear soup which tasted as if it had fifty ingredients, followed by ecrevisses with mayonnaise and lemon, accompanied by a cool white wine. The evening was still warm, and the French windows stood open. The women talked of North Africa, as Noelle Hassler had been there at least once, it seemed.

  “… no meters on the taxis, you just have to pay what the driver says … And a lovely climate!” Noelle lifted her hands in near ecstasy, then picked up her white napkin and wiped her fingertips. “The breeze! It is not hot, because of the wonderful steady breeze all day … Oh, yes! French! Who can speak Arabic?” She laughed. “You will do fine with French—everywhere.”

  Then some tips. Drink the mineral water, the kind called Sidi something, in plastic bottles. And in case of intestinal difficulties, pills called Imodium.

  “Buy some antibiotics to take home. No prescription,” said Noelle cheerfully. “Rubitracine, for example. Cheap! And it has a shelf life of five years! I know, because …”

  Heloise was drinking it all in. She did love new places. Amazing that her family had never taken her to the former French protectorate, Tom thought, but the Plissots had always preferred Europe, it seemed, for holidays.

  “And the Prickerts, Tom! How were they?” Heloise asked.

  “The Pritchards, dear. David and—Janice. Well—” Tom glanced at Noelle, who was listening with only polite interest. “Very American,” Tom went on. “He is studying marketing at the Fontainebleau insead . I don’t know what she does to pass the time. Awful furniture.”

  Noelle laughed. “How so?”

  “Style rustique. From the supermarket. Truly heavy.” Tom winced. “And I don’t much care for the Pritchards either,” he finished gently, and smiled.

  “Any children?” asked Heloise .

  “No. Not the kind of people we like, I think, my dear Heloise . So I’m glad I went and you didn’t have to endure it.” Now Tom laughed, and reached for the wine bottle to add a bit of cheer to their glasses.

  After dinner, they played Scrabble in French. It was just what Tom needed to relax. He was becoming obsessed with the mediocre David Pritchard, with wondering what he was up to, as Jeff had put it.

  By midnight, Tom was upstairs in his room, ready to go to bed with Le Monde and the Trib whose edition today combined Saturday and Sunday.

  Some time later, Tom’s telephone rang in the darkness and woke him up. Tom at once recalled that he’d asked Heloise to disconnect the telephone in her room, in case he had a late call, and he was glad of that. Heloise and Noelle had sat up late enough talking.

  “Hello?” Tom said.

  “Hi, Tom! Ed Banbury. Sorry to ring so late, but I had a message from Jeff when I got in a couple of minutes ago, and I gather it’s rather important.” Ed’s light and precise diction sounded more precise than ever. “Someone called Pritchard?”

  “Yes. And wife. They—they’ve rented a house in my village. And they claim to have met Cynthia Gradnor. Do you know anything about that?”

  “N-no,” said Ed, “but I heard about this guy. Nick—Nick Hall is our new manager at the gallery, and he mentioned an American coming in, asking about—about Murchison.”

  “Murchison!” Tom echoed, softly.

  “Yes, it was a surprise. Nick—he’s been with us barely a year, and didn’t know anything about a Murchison who disappeared.”

  Ed Banbury said it as if Murchison had done just that, disappeared, whereas Tom had killed him. “If I may ask, Ed, did Pritchard say or ask anything about me?”

  “Not that I know of. I questioned Nick, not wanting to rouse his suspicions by doing so, of course!” Here Ed gave a whoop of laughter that sounded like his old self.

  “Did Nick say anything about Cynthia—Pritchard talking to her, for instance?”

  “No. Jeff told me about that. Nick wouldn’t know Cynthia.”

  Ed had been fairly well acquainted with Cynthia, Tom knew. “I’m trying to figure how Pritchard met Cynthia—or if he really did.”

  “But what’s this Pritchard on about?” asked Ed.

  “He’s delving into my past, damn his eyes,” Tom replied. “I hope he drowns in murk—in anything.”

  A short laugh from Ed. “Did he mention Bernard?”

  “No, thank God. And he didn’t mention Murchison—to me. I’ve had a drink
with Pritchard, that’s all. Pritchard’s a tease. He’s a prick.”

  They both enjoyed a brief laugh.

  “Hey,” Tom said. “May I ask, does this Nick know anything about Bernard et cetera?”

  “I don’t think so. He might, but if so he chooses to keep his suspicions to himself.”

  “Suspicions? We’re open to blackmail, Ed. Either Nick Hall doesn’t suspect—or he’s with us. Got to be.”

  Ed sighed. “I have no reason to think he suspects, Tom—we have friends in common. Nick’s a failed composer, still trying. He needs a job and he has one with us. Doesn’t know or care much about paintings, that’s certain, just keeps some basic facts about prices on hand in the gallery, so he can ring up Jeff or me in case of a serious interest in anything.”

  “How old is Nick?”

  “About thirty. He’s from Brighton. Family’s there.”

  “I don’t want you to ask Nick anything about—Cynthia,” Tom said, as if thinking aloud. “But it worries me, what she might have said. She knows everything, Ed,” Tom said very softly. “One word from her, a couple of words—“

  “She’s not the type. I swear, I think she’d feel she was hurting Bernard somehow if she spilled the beans. She has a respect for his memory—a certain respect.”

  “You see her sometimes?”

  “Nah. She never comes to the gallery.”

  “You don’t know if she’s married now, for instance?”

  “No,” said Ed. “I could take a look in the phone book, see if she’s still listed under Gradnor.”

  “Um-m, yes, why not? I seem to remember she had a Bayswater number. I never had her address. And if it occurs to you how Pritchard might have met her, if he did, tell me, Ed. Might be important.”

  Ed Banbury promised he would.

  “Oh, and what’s your number, Ed?” Tom wrote it down, plus Ed’s new address which was in the Covent Garden area.

  They wished each other well, and signed off.

  Tom went back to bed, after listening for a moment in the hall, looking for a streak of light under a door (he saw none) to see if the telephone call had disturbed anyone.

  Murchison, good God! Murchison had last been heard of when staying overnight at Tom’s in Villeperce. His luggage had been found at Orly, and that was that. Presumably—no, definitely—Murchison had not boarded the airplane that he was supposed to. Murchison, what was left of him was sunk in a river called the Loing, or a canal off it, not far from Villeperce. The Buckmaster Gallery boys, Ed and Jeff, had asked the minimum of questions. Murchison, who suspected forgeries of Derwatts, had been erased from the scene. They were all saved, therefore. Of course Tom’s name had been in the newspapers, but briefly, as he had told a convincing story of driving Murchison to Orly airport.

  That had been another murder he had regretfully, reluctantly, perpetrated, not like the couple of Mafia garrote jobs, which had been a pleasure and a satisfaction to Tom. Bernard Tufts had helped him dig Murchison’s corpse out of the shallow grave behind Belle Ombre, where Tom by himself had tried to bury him several days earlier. The grave hadn’t been deep or safe enough. He and Bernard in the dead of night had taken the corpse, in a tarpaulin or canvas of some kind, Tom remembered, in the station wagon to a certain bridge over the Loing waters, where it had not been too difficult for the two of them to heave Murchison—weighted with stones—over the parapet. Bernard had obeyed Tom’s orders like a soldier at that time, being then on some solitary plane of his own where different standards of honor prevailed, concerning different matters: Bernard’s conscience had not been able to bear the weight of his guilt in creating sixty or seventy paintings and countless drawings over the years, deliberately in the style of Bernard’s idol Derwatt.

  Had the London or American newspapers (Murchison had been American) ever mentioned Cynthia Gradnor during the days of inquiry about Murchison? Tom didn’t think so. Bernard Tufts’s name had definitely not been mentioned in relation to Murchison’s disappearance. Murchison had had an appointment with a man at the Tate to discuss his forgery theory, Tom remembered. He had first gone to the Buckmaster Gallery, to speak with its owners, Ed Banbury and Jeff Constant, who had very soon alerted Tom. Tom had gone over to London to try to save the day, and had succeeded, disguising himself as Derwatt and verifying a few paintings. Then Murchison had visited Tom at Belle Ombre, in order to see Tom’s two Derwatts. Tom had been the last person Murchison was known to have seen, according to Murchison’s wife in America, with whom Murchison must have spoken by telephone in London before coming to Paris and then Villeperce to see Tom.

  Tom thought he might be visited that night by unpleasant dreams of Murchison slumping to the cellar floor in a cloud of blood and wine, or of Bernard Tufts trudging in his worn-out desert boots to the edge of a cliff near Salzburg, and disappearing. But no. Such was the whimsicality, the illogic of dreams and the subconscious, that Tom’s sleep was untroubled, and he awoke the next morning feeling particularly refreshed and cheerful.

  Chapter 5

  Tom took a shower, shaved and dressed, and went downstairs just after eight-thirty. The morning was sunny, not yet warm, and a lovely breeze made the birch leaves flicker. Mme Annette was of course up and in the kitchen, with her little portable radio, which lived by the breadbox, on for the news and the chatter-and-pop programs in which the French radio abounded.

  “Bonjour, Madame Annette!” Tom said. “I am thinking—since Madame Hassler probably departs this morning, we might have a substantial breakfast. Coddled eggs?” He said the last two words in English. Coddle was in his dictionary, but not in regard to eggs. “Oeufs dorlotes? Remember the trouble I had translating? In the little porcelain cups. I know where they are.” Tom fetched them from a cupboard. There was a set of six.

  “Ah, oui, M’sieur Tome! Je me souviens. Quatre minutes.”

  “At least. But first I shall ask if the ladies want them. Yes, my coffee. Most welcome!” Tom waited the few seconds while Mme Annette poured from her ever-ready kettle of hot water into his filter coffee maker. Then he carried it on a tray into the living room.

  Tom liked to stand and drink a cup while gazing out across the back lawn. His thoughts wandered, and he could also think about what the garden needed.

  A few minutes later, Tom was out in his herb section, cutting some parsley, in case the coddled eggs idea met with approval. One dropped some cut parsley, plus butter and salt and pepper, into the cups with the raw egg in each, before screwing the lids on and immersing the jars in hot water.

  “Allo, Tome! Working already? Good morning!” It was Noelle, dressed in black cotton slacks, sandals, and a purple shirt. Her English was not bad, Tom knew, but she nearly always spoke French to him.

  “Morning. Very hard work.” Tom extended his parsley bouquet. “Would you like a taste?”

  Noelle took a sprig and began nibbling. She had already applied her pale blue eyeshadow and her pale lipstick. “Ah, delicieux! You know,” she continued in French, “Heloise and I were talking last evening after dinner. I may join you in Tangier, if I can arrange a couple of matters in Paris. You two go next Friday. Maybe I can take off by Saturday. That is, if it doesn’t bother you. Maybe for five days—“

  “But what a nice surprise!” Tom replied. “And you know the country. I think it’s a splendid idea.” Tom meant it.

  The ladies did opt for coddled eggs, one egg each, and the cheerful breakfast required more toast and tea and coffee. They were just finished when Mme Annette came in from the direction of the kitchen with an announcement.

  “M’sieur Tome, I believe I should tell you, there is a man across the road taking pictures of Belle Ombre.” She pronounced Belle Ombre with a certain reverence.

  Tom was on his feet. “Excuse me,” he said to Heloise and Noelle. Tom had a suspicion who it was. “Thank you, Madame Annette.”

  He went to the kitchen window to have a look. Yes, the sturdy David Pritchard was at work, stepping out of the shadow of the great le
aning tree which Tom loved, opposite the house, into the sunlight, camera lifted to his eye.

  “Perhaps he thinks it a pretty house,” Tom said to Mme Annette in a tone calmer than he felt. He could have shot David Pritchard gladly, if he’d had a rifle in the house, and of course if he could have got away with it. Tom gave a shrug.

  “If you notice him on our grass,” Tom added with a smile, “that’s a different matter, and tell me.”

  “M’sieur Tome—he may be a tourist but I believe he lives in Villeperce. I think he is the American who rented a house down there with his wife.” Mme Annette gestured, and in the right direction.

  How news traveled in a small town, Tom thought, and most of the femmes de menage had no cars of their own, only windows and telephones. “Really,” said Tom, and felt at once guilty, as Mme Annette might know, or soon know, that he had been in this same American’s house yesterday evening at the aperitif hour. “Probably not important,” Tom said as he moved toward the living room.

  He found Heloise and their guest looking out of a living-room front window, Noelle holding a long curtain back a little, smiling as she said something to Heloise . Tom was now sufficiently far from the kitchen not to be overheard by Mme Annette, but he still glanced behind him before he spoke. “That’s the American, by the way,” he said in French in a soft voice. “David Pritchard.”

  “Where you were, cheri?” Heloise had whirled around to face him. “Why is he photographing us?”

  Indeed, Pritchard hadn’t stopped, had moved across the road to where the famous lane began, no-man’s land. There were trees and bushes near. Pritchard would not be able to get a clear picture of the house from the lane.

  “I don’t know, dear, but he’s the type who loves to irritate others. He’d love for me to go out and show some annoyance, which is why I prefer to say nothing.” He gave Noelle an amused glance, and walked back to the dining area where his cigarettes lay on the table.

  “I think he saw us—looking out,” said Heloise in English.

  “Good,” Tom replied, relishing his first cigarette of the day. “Really, he’d like nothing better than for me to go out and ask him why he’s taking photographs!”