Ripley Under Ground (3 page)

“That’s okay, he’s a recluse,” Ed said.

The telephone rang. Ed answered, and Tom heard him assuring someone, no doubt Jeff, that Tom had arrived and was ready to go.

Tom did not feel quite ready to go. He felt sweaty from nerves. He said to Bernard, trying to sound cheerful, “How’s Cynthia? Do you ever see her?”

“I don’t see her anymore. Not very often, anyway.” Bernard glanced at Tom, then looked back at the floor.

“What’s she going to say when she finds out Derwatt’s come back to London for a few days?” Tom asked.

“I don’t think she’ll say anything,” Bernard replied dully. “She’s not—going to spoil things, I’m sure.”

Ed finished his telephone conversation. “Cynthia won’t say anything, Tom. She’s like that. You remember her, don’t you, Tom?”

“Yes. Slightly,” Tom said.

“If she hasn’t said anything by now, she’s not going to,” Ed said. The way he said it made it sound like. “She’s not a bad sport or a blabbermouth.”

“She
is
quite wonderful,” Bernard said dreamily, to nobody. He suddenly got up and darted for the bathroom, perhaps because he had to go there, but it might have been to throw up.

“Don’t worry about Cynthia, Tom,” Ed said softly. “We live with her, you see. I mean, here in London. She’s been quiet for three years or so. Well, you know—since she broke up with Bernard. Or he broke up with her.”

“Is she happy? Found somebody else?”

“Oh, she has a boyfriend, I think.”

Bernard was coming back.

Tom had a scotch. Bernard took a Pernod, and Ed drank nothing. He was afraid to, he said, because he’d had a sedative. By five o’clock, Tom had been briefed or refreshed on several things: the town in Greece where Derwatt had officially last been seen nearly six years ago. Tom, in case he was queried, was to say he had left Greece under another name on a Greek tanker bound for Vera Cruz, working as oiler and ship’s painter.

They borrowed Bernard’s topcoat, which was older looking than Tom’s or any of Jeff’s in his closet. Then Tom and Ed set off, leaving Bernard in Jeff’s studio, where they all were to meet later.

“My God, he’s down in the mouth,” Tom said on the pavement. He was walking with a slump. “How long can he go on like this?”

“Don’t judge by today. He’ll go on. He’s always like this when there’s a show.”

Bernard was the old workhorse, Tom supposed. Ed and Jeff were burgeoning on extra money, good food, good living. Bernard merely produced the pictures that made it possible.

Tom drew back sharply from a taxi, not having expected it to be bowling along on the left side of the road.

Ed smiled. “That’s great. Keep it up.”

They came to a taxi rank and got into a cab.

“And this—caretaker or manager at the gallery,” Tom said. “What’s his name?”

“Leonard Hayward,” Ed said. “He’s about twenty-six. Queer as Dick’s hatband, belongs in a King’s Road boutique, but he’s okay. Jeff and I let him into the circle. Had to. It’s really safer, because he can’t spring any blackmail, if he signed a written agreement with us to caretake the place, which he did. We pay him well enough and he’s amused. He also sends us some good buyers.” Ed looked at Tom and smiled. “Don’t forget a bit of woikin’ class accent. You can do it quite well as I remember.”

3

E
d Banbury rang a bell at a dark-red door flush with the back of a building. Tom heard a key being turned, then the door opened and Jeff stood there, beaming at them.

“Tom! It’s
super
!” Jeff whispered.

They went down a short corridor, then into a cozy office with a desk and typewriter, books, cream-colored wall-to-wall carpeting. Canvases and portfolios of drawings leaned against the wall.

“I can’t tell you how right you look—Derwatt!” Jeff slapped Tom’s shoulder. “I hope that won’t make your beard fall off.”

“Even a high wind wouldn’t,” Ed put in.

Jeff Constant had gained weight, and his face was flushed—or perhaps he had been using a suntan lamp. His shirt cuffs were adorned with square gold links, and his blue-and-black striped suit looked brand new. Tom noticed that a toupee—what they called a hairpiece—covered the bald spot on the top of Jeff’s head, which Tom knew must be quite barren by now. Through the closed door that led to the gallery came a hubbub of voices, lots of voices, out of which a woman’s laugh leapt like a porpoise over the surface of a troubled sea, Tom thought, though he was not in the mood for poetry now.

“Six o’clock,” Jeff announced, flashing more cuff to see his watch. “I shall now quietly tell a few of the press that Derwatt is here. This being England, there will not be a—”

“Ha-ha! Not be a what?” Ed interrupted.

“—not be a
stampede
,” Jeff said firmly. “I’ll see to that.”

“You’ll sit back here. Or stand, as you like,” Ed said, indicating the desk which was set at an angle and had a chair behind it.

“This Murchison chap is here?” Tom asked in Derwatt tones.

Jeff’s fixed smile widened, but a little uneasily. “Oh, yes. You ought to see him, of course. But after the press.” Jeff was jumpy, eager to be off, though he looked as if he might have said more, and he went out. The key turned in the lock.

“Any water anywhere?” Tom asked.

Ed showed him a small bathroom, which had been concealed by a section of bookshelf that swung out. Tom took a hasty gulp, and as he stepped out of the bathroom, two gentlemen of the press were coming in with Jeff, their faces blank with surprise and curiosity. One was fifty-odd, the other in his twenties, but their expressions were much alike.

“May I present Mr. Gardiner of the
Telegraph
,” Jeff said. “Derwatt. And Mr.—”

“Perkins,” said the younger man. “
Sunday
. . .”

Another knock on the door before they could exchange greetings. Tom walked with a stoop, almost rheumatically, toward the desk. The single lamp in the room was near the door to the gallery, a good ten feet away from him. But Tom had noticed that Mr. Perkins carried a flash camera.

Four more men and one woman were admitted. Tom feared a woman’s eyes, under the circumstances, more than anything. She was introduced to him as a Miss Eleanor Somebody of the
Manchester
Something or other.

Then the questions began to fly, although Jeff suggested that each reporter should ask his questions in turn. This was a useless proposal, as each reporter was too eager to get his own questions answered.

“Do you intend to live in Mexico indefinitely, Mr. Derwatt?”

“Mr. Derwatt, we’re so surprised to see you here. What made you decide to come to London?”

“Don’t call me
Mister
Derwatt,” Tom said grumpily. “Just Derwatt.”

“Do you like the latest—group of canvases you’ve done? Do you think they’re your best?”

“Derwatt—are you living alone in Mexico?” asked Eleanor Somebody.

“Yes.”

“Could you tell us the name of your village?”

Three more men came in, and Tom was aware of Jeff urging one of them to wait outside.

“One thing I will not tell you is the name of my village,” Tom said slowly. “It wouldn’t be fair to the inhabitants.”

“Derwatt, uh—”

“Derwatt, certain critics have said—”

Someone was banging with fists on the door.

Jeff banged back and yelled, “No more just now, please!”

“Certain critics have said—”

Now the door gave a sound of splitting, and Jeff set his shoulder against it. The door was not giving, Tom saw, and turned his calm eyes from it to regard his questioner.

“—have said that your work resembles a period of Picasso’s related to his cubist period, when he began to split faces and forms.”

“I have no periods,” Tom said. “Picasso has periods. That’s why you can’t put your finger on Picasso—if anybody wants to. It’s impossible to say ‘I like Picasso,’ because no one period comes to mind. Picasso plays. That’s all right. But by doing this he destroys what might be a genuine—a genuine and integrated personality. What is Picasso’s personality?”

The reporters scribbled diligently.

“What is your favorite painting in this show? Which do you think you like best?”

“I have no— No, I can’t say that I have a favorite painting in this show. Thank you.” Did Derwatt smoke? What the hell. Tom reached for Jeff’s Craven A’s and lit one with a table lighter before two reporters could spring to his cigarette. Tom drew back to protect his beard from their fire. “My favorites perhaps are the old ones—‘The Red Chairs,’ ‘Falling Woman,’ maybe. Sold, alas.” Out of nowhere, Tom had recalled the last title. It did exist.

“Where is that? I don’t know that, but I know the name,” someone said.

Shyly, recluse-like, Tom kept his eyes on the leatherbound blotter on Jeff’s desk. “I’ve forgot. ‘Falling Woman.’ Sold to an American, I think.”

The reporters plunged in again: “Are you pleased with your sales, Derwatt?”

(Who wouldn’t be?)

“Does Mexico inspire you? I notice there are no canvases in the show with a Mexican setting.”

(A slight hurdle, but Tom got over it. He had always painted from imagination.)

“Can you at least describe the house where you live in Mexico, Derwatt?” asked Eleanor.

(This Tom could do. A one-story house with four rooms. A banana tree out front. A girl came to clean every morning at ten, and did a little shopping for him at noon, bringing back freshly baked tortillas, which he ate with red beans—frijoles—for lunch. Yes, meat was scarce, but there was some goat. The girl’s name? Juana.)

“Do they call you Derwatt in the village?”

“They used to, and they had a very different way of pronouncing it, I can tell you. Now it’s Filipo. There’s no need of another name but Don Filipo.”

“They have no idea that you’re
Derwatt
?”

Tom laughed a little again. “I don’t think they’re much interested in
The Times
or
Arts Review
or whatever.”

“Have you missed London? How does it look to you?”

“Was it just a whim that made you come back now?” young Perkins asked.

“Yes. Just whim.” Tom smiled the worn, philosophic smile of a man who had gazed upon Mexican mountains, alone, for years.

“Do you ever go to Europe—incognito? We know you like seclusion—”

“Derwatt, I’d be most grateful if you could find ten minutes tomorrow. May I ask where you’re—”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t yet decided where I’m staying,” Tom said.

Jeff gently urged the reporters to take leave, and the cameras began to flash. Tom looked downward, then upward for one or two photographs on request. Jeff admitted a waiter in a white jacket with a tray of drinks. The tray was emptied in a trice.

Tom lifted a hand in a gesture of shy, gracious farewell. “Thank you all.”

“No more, please,” Jeff said at the door.

“But I—”

“Ah, Mr. Murchison. Come in, please,” Jeff said. He turned to Tom. “Derwatt, this is Mr. Murchison. From America.”

Mr. Murchison was large, with a pleasant face. “How do you do, Mr. Derwatt?” he said, smiling. “What an unexpected treat to meet you here in London!”

They shook hands.

“How do you do?” Tom said.

“And this is Edmund Banbury,” Jeff said. “Mr. Murchison.”

Ed and Mr. Murchison exchanged greetings.

“I’ve got one of your paintings—‘The Clock.’ In fact, I brought it with me.” Mr. Murchison was smiling widely now, staring with fascination and respect at Tom, and Tom hoped his gaze was dazzled by the surprise of actually seeing him.

“Oh, yes,” Tom said.

Jeff again quietly locked the door. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Murchison?”

“Yes, thank you.” Murchison sat, on a straight chair.

Jeff quietly began gathering empty glasses from the edges of bookshelves and the desk.

“Well, to come to the point, Mr. Derwatt, I—I’m interested in a certain change of technique that you show in ‘The Clock.’ You know, of course, the picture I mean?” Murchison asked.

Was that a casual or a pointed question, Tom wondered? “Of course,” Tom said.

“Can you describe it?”

Tom was still standing up. A slight chill went over him. Tom smiled. “I can never describe my pictures. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were no clock in it. Did you know, Mr. Murchison, I don’t always make up my own titles? And how anyone got ‘Sunday Noon’ out of the particular canvas is beyond me.” (Tom had glanced at the gallery program of twenty-eight Derwatts now on exhibit, a program which Jeff or someone had thoughtfully opened and placed on the blotter of the desk.) “Is that your effort, Jeff?”

Jeff laughed. “No, I think it’s Ed’s. Would you like a drink, Mr. Murchison? I’ll get you one from the bar.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Then Mr. Murchison addressed Tom. “It’s a bluish-black clock held by— Do you remember?” He smiled as if he were asking an innocent riddle.

“I think a little girl—who’s facing the beholder, shall we say?”

“Hm-m. Right,” said Murchison. “But then you don’t do little boys, do you?”

Tom chuckled, relieved that he’d guessed right. “I suppose I prefer little girls.”

Murchison lit a Chesterfield. He had brown eyes, light-brown wavy hair, and a strong jaw covered with just a little too much flesh, like the rest of him. “I’d like you to see my picture. I have a reason. Excuse me a minute. I left it with the coats.”

Jeff let him out the door, then locked the door again.

Jeff and Tom looked at each other. Ed was standing against a wall of books, silent. Tom said in a whisper:

“Really, boys, if the damned canvas has been in the coatroom all this time, couldn’t one of you’ve whisked it out and burnt it?”

“Ha-ha!” Ed laughed, nervously.

Jeff’s plump smile was a twitch, though he kept his poise, as if Murchison were still in the room.

“Well, let us hear him out,” Tom said in a slow and confident Derwatt tone. He tried to shoot his cuffs, but they didn’t shoot.

Murchison came back carrying a brown-paper-wrapped picture under one arm. It was a medium-sized Derwatt, perhaps two feet by three. “I paid ten thousand dollars for this,” he said, smiling. “You may think it careless of me to leave it in the cloakroom, but I’m inclined to trust people.” He was undoing the wrapping with the aid of a penknife. “Do you know this picture?” he asked Tom.

Tom smiled at the picture. “Of course I do.”

“You remember painting it?”

“It’s my picture,” Tom said.

“It’s the purples in this that interest me. The purple. This is straight cobalt violet—as you can probably see better than I.” Mr. Murchison smiled almost apologetically for a moment. “The picture is at least three years old, because I bought it three years ago. But if I’m not mistaken, you abandoned cobalt violet for a mixture of cad red and ultramarine five or six years ago. I can’t exactly fix the date.”

Tom was silent. In the picture Murchison had, the clock was black and purple. The brushstrokes and the color resembled those of “Man in Chair” (painted by Bernard) at home. Tom didn’t know quite what, in the purple department, Murchison was hammering at. A little girl in a pink-and-apple-green dress was holding the clock, or rather resting her hand on it, as the clock was large and stood on a table. “To tell you the truth, I’ve forgot,” Tom said. “Perhaps I did use straight cobalt violet there.”

“And also in the painting called ‘The Tub’ outside,” Murchison said, with a nod toward the gallery. “But in none of the others. I find it curious. A painter doesn’t usually go back to a color he’s discarded. The cad red and ultramarine combination is far more interesting—in my opinion. Your newer choice.”

Tom was unworried. Ought he to be more worried? He shrugged slightly.

Jeff had gone into the little bathroom and was fussing about with glasses and ashtrays.

“How many years ago did you paint ‘The Clock’?” Murchison asked.

“That I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Tom said in a frank manner. He had grasped Murchison’s point, at least in regard to time, and he added, “It could have been four or five years ago. It’s an old picture.”

“It wasn’t sold to me as an old one. And ‘The Tub.’ That’s dated only last year, and it has the same straight cobalt violet in it.”

The cobalt for the purpose of shadow, one might say, was not dominant in ‘The Clock.’ Murchison had an eagle eye. Tom thought ‘The Red Chairs’—the earlier and genuine Derwatt—had the same straight cobalt, and he wondered if it had a fixed date? If he could say ‘The Red Chairs’ was only three years old, prove it somehow, Murchison could simply go to hell. Check with Jeff and Ed later on that, Tom thought.

“You definitely remember painting ‘The Clock’?” Murchison asked.

“I know it’s my picture,” Tom said. “I might have been in Greece or even Ireland when I painted it, because I don’t remember dates, and the dates the gallery might have are not always the dates when I painted something.”

“I don’t think ‘The Clock’ is your work,” Murchison said with good-natured American conviction.

“Good heavens, why not?” Tom’s good nature matched Murchison’s.

“I have a nerve sticking my neck out like this, I know. But I’ve seen some of your earlier work in a museum in Philadelphia. If I may say so, Mr. Derwatt, you’re—”

“Just call me Derwatt. I like it better.”

“Derwatt. You’re so prolific, I think you might forget—I should say not remember a painting. Granted ‘The Clock’ is in your style and the theme is typical of your—”