Ripley Under Water (17 page)

“And what are you asking for this?”

“The Sisters—close to three hundred thousand, I believe, sir. I could check it. Then—if a sale is near, I am to notify one or two other people. That’s a popular one.” Nick smiled again.

Tom wouldn’t have wanted it in his house, but he had asked the price out of curiosity. “And the Cat?”

“A little more. That’s popular. We’ll get it.”

Tom exchanged glances with Ed.

“You’re remembering prices these days, Nick!” said Ed in a genial manner. “Very good.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“Have you many inquiries for Derwatts?” Tom asked.

“Mm-m—not too many because they cost so much. He’s the feather in our cap, I suppose.”

“Or the major jewel in our carcanet,” Ed added. “The Tate people, Sotheby’s, do come in to see what’s turned up, Tom, what may have been given back to us for resale here. The auction people—we don’t need them.”

The Buckmaster had its own auction method by notifying possible purchasers, Tom supposed. He was pleased that Ed Banbury talked freely before Nick Hall, as if Tom and Ed were old friends, client and art dealer. Art dealer: it sounded odd, but Ed and Jeff did do the choosing of what paintings they took in to sell, and what young artists, and also older artists, to represent. Their decisions were often based on the market, on fads, Tom knew, but Ed and Jeff had chosen well enough to pay the high Old Bond Street rent and also to make a profit.

“I presume,” Tom said to Nick, “there are no more new Derwatts being found in attics and such?”

“Attics! Not b—not likely, sir! Sketches—not even sketches for the last year or so.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully. “I like the Cat. Whether I can afford it or not—I’ll think about it.”

“You have—” Nick seemed to try to recollect.

“Two,” Tom said. “Man in Chair—my favorite—and The Red Chairs.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure that’s on record.” Nick gave no sign of remembering or reminding himself that Man in Chair was a forgery and the other wasn’t.

“We should be moving on, I think,” Tom said to Ed, as if they had a date. Then to Nick Hall, “Have you a visitors’ book?”

“Oh, yes, sir. On the desk here.” Nick walked toward the desk in the front room, and opened a large book to the current pages. “And here’s a pen.”

Tom bent and looked, took up the pen. Scrawled signatures, Shawcross or something like it, Forster, Hunter, some with addresses, most without. A glance at the preceding page told Tom that Pritchard had not signed during the last year, at any rate. Tom signed, but gave no address; merely Thomas P. Ripley and the date.

Soon they were out on the pavement, where it was drizzling.

“Really, I’m glad to see that that Steuerman fellow is apparently not represented,” Tom said, grinning.

“Right. Don’t you remember—you let out a scream of complaint from France.”

“And why not?” Now both of them were watching for a taxi. Ed or Jeff—Tom didn’t want to point the finger at either individually—had a few years ago discovered a painter called Steuerman, who they thought could turn out passable Derwatts. Passable? Tom tensed even now under his raincoat. Steuerman could have blown everything, if the Buckmaster Gallery had been stupid enough to try marketing his productions. Tom had based his anti-Steuerman stance on color slides the gallery had sent to him, as Tom recalled. No matter, he’d seen the slides somewhere, and they were impossible.

Ed was in the street, waving an arm, and it was going to be tough at this hour and in this weather to get a taxi.

“What’s the arrangement with Jeff tonight?” Tom shouted.

“He’s to come to my place around seven. Look!”

A taxi was emptying them, a blessed yellow light glowed at the front of its roof. They got in.

“I loved seeing the Derwatts just now,” Tom said, basking in recollected pleasure. “I should say—the Tufts.” He made the last word soft as cotton. “And I’ve thought of a solution to the Cynthia problem—hitch—what shall I call it?”

“What’s the solution?”

“I’ll simply ring her up and ask her. I’ll ask if she’s in touch with Mrs. Murchison, for instance. And with David Pritchard.

I’ll pretend to be the French police. From your house, if I may?”

“Oh-h—certainly!” said Ed, suddenly understanding. “You’ve got Cynthia’s number? That’s no problem?” “No, it’s in the book. Not Bayswater any more but—Chelsea, I think.”

Chapter 11

At Ed’s flat, Tom accepted a gin and tonic, and composed his thoughts. Ed had written Cynthia Gradnor’s number for him on a slip of paper.

Tom practiced his French commissaire accent on Ed. “Ees nearly seven. Eef Jeff arrive—you let heem in, go on as usual, yes?”

Ed nodded, almost bowed. “Yes. Oui!”

“I am reenging from ze bureau of police in—I’d better make it Paris instead of Melun—now—” Tom was on his feet, walking around Ed’s big workroom, where the telephone sat on a busy, paper-littered desk. “Background noises. Leetle clack on typewriter, please. Zees is a police station. A la Simenon. We all know each ozzer.”

Ed obliged and seated himself, stuck a piece of paper into his machine.

Clackety-clack.

“More thoughtful,” Tom said. “Doesn’t have to be fast.” He dialed, and braced himself to verify that he was speaking to Cynthia Gradnor, to say that David Pritchard had been in touch a few times, and could they ask a few questions in regard to M’sieur Reepley?

The telephone rang and rang.

“She ees not een,” Tom said. “Damn. Et merde!” He looked at his watch. Ten past seven. Tom put the telephone down. “Maybe she’s out to dinner. Maybe she’s out of town.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” Ed said. “Or later tonight.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s Jeff,” said Ed, and went to the front hall.

Jeff came in, with umbrella but still dampish. He was taller, bigger than Ed, and balder on top than when Tom had last seen him. “Hello, Tom! An unexpected and welcome pleasure, as usual!”

The two shook hands warmly, almost embraced.

“Out of the wet raincoat and into a dry—something or other,” said Ed. “Scotch?”

“You guessed it. Thank you, Ed.”

They all sat in Ed’s living room, which had a sofa plus a convenient coffee table. Tom explained to Jeff why he was here: things had hotted up since their last telephone conversation. “My wife’s still in Tangier, with a woman friend, at a hotel called the Rembrandt. So I came over to try and find out what Cynthia’s doing—or maybe trying to do—in regard to Murchison. She might be in touch—”

“Yes, Ed’s told me about that,” Jeff said. ”—in touch with Mrs. Murchison in America, who of course would be interested in how her husband disappeared. I’ve got to sound that out, I think.” Tom turned his gin and tonic on a coaster. “If it comes to looking for Murchison’s corpse in my neck of the woods—they just might find it, the cops. Or a skeleton, anyway.”

“Just a few kilometers from where you live, you once said, didn’t you?” Jeff spoke with a trace of fear or awe. “In a river?”

Tom shrugged. “Yes. Or a canal. I’ve conveniently forgotten exactly where, but I’d recognize the bridge Bernard and I dumped it from—that night. Of course”—Tom straightened up and his expression became more cheerful—“nobody knows why or how Thomas Murchison disappeared. Could’ve been kidnapped at Orly, where I took him—you see.” Tom’s smile widened. He had said “took him,” Murchison, as if he believed it. “He was carrying The Clock and that disappeared at Orly. A genuine Tufts.” Now Tom laughed. “Or Murchison could have decided himself to disappear. Anyway, somebody pinched The Clock and we never saw or heard of it again, remember?”

“Yes.” Jeff’s high forehead wrinkled in thought. He was holding his glass between his knees. “How long are these people, the Pritchards, staying in your neighborhood there?”

“It could be a six-month rental, I suppose. Should’ve asked, but I didn’t.” He would disembarrass himself of Pritchard in less than six months, Tom was thinking. Somehow. Tom felt his wrath mounting, and proceeded to tell Ed and Jeff about the house the Pritchards had rented, by way of letting off steam. Tom described the pseudo-antique furniture, and the pond in the lawn on which the afternoon sun shimmered, making designs on the living-room ceiling. “Trouble is, I’d like to see them both drowned in it,” Tom concluded, and the other two laughed.

“How’s your drink, Tom?” asked Ed.

“No more, thanks, I’m fine.” Tom glanced at his watch: a little past eight. “I want to try Cynthia again before we take off.”

Ed and Jeff cooperated. Background noise of typewriter provided by Ed again, as Tom limbered up by talking with Jeff. “No laughter. Zees ees a police bureau een Paris. I ‘ave ‘eard from Preechard,” Tom said earnestly, on his feet again, “and I must question Madame Gradnor, because she may know somezing about M’sieur Murcheeson or hees wife. Yes?”

“Oui,” said Jeff, with equal seriousness, as if he were swearing something.

Tom had pen and paper ready to jot anything down, plus the paper on which Cynthia’s number was written. He dialed.

On the fifth ring, a female voice answered.

” ‘Ello, good evening, madame. C’est Madame Gradnor?”

“Yes.”

“Commissaire Edouard Bilsault here, een Paris. We are in communication with M’sieur Preechard concerning to a Thomas Murcheeson—whose name you know, I think.”

“Yes. I do.”

So far, so good. Tom was pitching his voice higher than normal, and making it more tense. Cynthia after all might recollect his usual pitch and recognize him. “M’sieur Preechard ees now een l’Afrique du Nord as you may know, madame. We would like to know Madame Murcheeson’s address americaine—een America, eef you have it.”

“For what purpose?” asked Cynthia Gradnor, sounding her old brusque self, which included the stiff upper lip, if circumstances demanded.

“Because we may ‘ave some information—very soon—een regard to ‘er ‘usband. M’sieur Preechard has telephoned once from Tanger. But we cannot reach ‘eem now.” Tom made his voice rise with urgency.

“Hm-m,” in a dubious tone. “Mr. Pritchard has his own way of dealing with—the matter you are talking about, I think. Not my affair. I suggest you wait until his return.”

“But we cannot—should not wait, madame. We ‘ave a question to ask Madame Murcheeson. M’sieur Preechard was not een when we telephoned and telephone in Tanger ees ver-ry bad.” Tom gave a grumpy throat-clearing that hurt him, and signaled for background noises. Cynthia had not seemed surprised that Pritchard was in Tanger, as the French called it.

Ed slammed a book on to a clear spot on his desk, continued pecking at the typewriter, and Jeff at a distance and facing a wall cupped his hands and created an end of a siren wail, exactly like the Parisian wails, Tom thought.

“Madame—” Tom continued, in earnest tone.

“One moment.”

She was getting it. Tom took up his pen, without a glance at his friends.

Cynthia returned and read out an address in the East Seventies in Manhattan.

“Merci, madame,” said Tom politely, but as if it were no more than the police’s due. “And zee telephone?” Tom took this down too. “Merci infiniment, madame. Et bonne soiree.”

“Whee-ee-glug-glug.” This from Jeff, as Tom politely bade his adieus, convincing cross-Channel noises, Tom had to admit, but maybe unheard by Cynthia.

“Success,” Tom said calmly. “But to think that she had Mrs. Murchison’s address.” Tom looked at his friends, who were for the moment silent and looking at him. He pocketed the data on Mrs. Murchison, and again looked at his wristwatch. “One more call, may I, Ed?”

“Go ahead, Tom,” said Ed. “Want to be alone?”

“Not necessarily. This time France.”

The two drifted into Ed’s kitchen, however.

Tom dialed Belle Ombre, where it would be half-past nine.

” ‘Allo, Madame Annette!” said Tom. The sound of Mme Annette’s voice conjured up the front hall, and the equally familiar kitchen counter by the coffee machine, where there was also a telephone.

“Oh, M’sieur Tome! I did not know where to find you! I have bad news. M—”

“Vraiment?” said Tom frowning.

“Madame Heloise ! She was kidnapped!”

Tom gasped. “That can’t be true! Who told you?”

“A man with an American accent! He telephoned—about four o’clock this afternoon. I did not know what to do. He said that, then he hung up. I spoke with Madame Genevieve. She said, ‘What can the police here do?’ She said, ‘Tell it in Tangier, tell it to M’sieur Tome,’ but I did not know how to find you.”

Tom shut his eyes tight, as Mme Annette continued. Tom was thinking: Pritchard had told the lie, had discovered that Tom Ripley was no longer in Tangier, or not with his wife, anyway, and had decided to make more trouble. Tom took a breath and tried to get a coherent statement through to Mme Annette.

“Madame Annette, I think it is a trick. Please don’t worry. Madame Heloise and I changed our hotel, I think I told you that. Madame is now at the Rembrandt Hotel. But don’t you worry about that. I shall telephone my wife there this evening and—I shall wager she is still there!” Tom gave a laugh, a real laugh. “American accent!” Tom said with contempt. “That would not be a North African, madame, or a police officer of Tangier, giving you correct information, now would it?”

Mme Annette had to concede that this was so.

“Now how is the weather? Here it is raining.”

“Will you telephone me, when you find out where Madame Heloise is, M’sieur Tome?”

“Tonight? Y-yes.” He added calmly, “I hope to speak with her tonight. Then I’ll telephone you.”

“At any hour, m’sieur! Here I have locked every door carefully and the big gates.”

“Well done, Madame Annette!”

When he had hung up, Tom said, “Whew!” He shoved his hands into his pockets and drifted toward his friends, who were now in the library or book room with their drinks. “I have news,” Tom said, taking pleasure in being able to share the news now, bad as it was, instead of keeping silent, as he usually had to do with bad news. “My housekeeper says my wife has been kidnapped. In Tangier.”

Jeff frowned. “Kidnapped? Are you joking?”

“A man with an American accent rang my house and informed Madame Annette—then hung up. I feel sure it’s false. It’s typical Pritchard—making all the trouble he can.”