Ripley Under Water (18 page)

“What should you do?” Ed asked. “Ring her hotel, see if she’s there?”

“Exactly.” But meanwhile Tom lit a Gitane, savoring a few seconds of detesting David Pritchard, hating every ounce of his body, even his round-rimmed glasses and his vulgar wristwatch. “Yes, I’ll ring the Rembrandt in Tangier. My wife usually comes back to her room around six or seven to change for the evening. The hotel can at least tell me if she’s been in.”

“Of course. Go ahead, Tom,” said Ed.

Tom went back to the telephone near Ed’s typewriter, and fished his memo book from an inside pocket of his jacket. He had written down the Rembrandt number with the Tangier code. Hadn’t somebody said that 3 a.m. was the best time to ring Tangier? Tom still tried now, dialing carefully.

Silence. Then a buzzing, three short buzzes that gave promise of activity. Then silence.

Tom tried the operator, asked the woman please to put the call through, and gave Ed’s number. The operator told him to hang up. She rang back after a minute and said she was trying the Tangier number. The London operator gave saucy, irritated replies to someone whose voice Tom could barely hear, but she also had no luck.

“Sometimes at this time of the evening, sir—I suggest you try again, much later tonight.”

Tom thanked her. “I have to go out. I’ll try again myself later.”

Then he went into the book room, where Ed and Jeff had almost finished making up his bed. “No luck,” Tom said. “I couldn’t get through. I’ve heard that about the Tangier telephone. Let’s go out and have a bite and forget it for now.”

“Hellish,” Jeff said, straightening up. “I heard you say you’ll try again later.”

“Yes. By the way, my thanks to you fellows for making my bed. That’s going to look welcome tonight.”

A few minutes later, they were out in the drizzle, two umbrellas among them, making their way to Ed’s recommended pub-restaurant. It was close by, full of warm brown rafters and wooden booths. They sat at a table, which Tom preferred because he could see more of the patrons from a table. He ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, for old times’ sake.

Tom asked Jeff Constant about his work, which was freelance. Jeff had to take on some jobs for money, which he didn’t like as much as what he called “artistic interiors with people or no people.” He meant good-looking house interiors, maybe with a cat or plants. The commercial work had to do with industrial design a lot of the time, Jeff said, close-ups of electric irons.

“Or buildings out of town,” Jeff went on, “in a half-finished state. I have to photograph them, sometimes in weather like this.”

“Do you and Ed see each other very often?” Tom asked.

Both Ed and Jeff smiled and glanced at each other. Ed spoke first.

“I wouldn’t say so, would you, Jeff? But if one needs the other—we’re there.”

Tom was thinking of the early days, when Jeff had made the excellent photographs of Derwatt’s genuine paintings, and Ed Banbury had talked them up, had written articles on

Derwatt, carefully dropped a word here and there that would start the publicity ball rolling, they had hoped, and the ball had started rolling. The story was that Derwatt had been living in Mexico, still lived there, but was a recluse, refused interviews, and refused even to give the name of the village where he lived, though it was believed to be near Veracruz, from which port he shipped his paintings to London. The former owners of the Buckmaster Gallery had been handling Derwatt without impressive success, because they hadn’t tried to push him. Jeff and Ed had done that only after Derwatt had gone to Greece and drowned himself. They had all known Derwatt (all except Tom, curiously, though Tom often felt as if he had known him). Before his death, Derwatt had been a good and interesting painter, ever on the edge of poverty in London, an admired acquaintance of Jeff and Ed and Cynthia and Bernard. Derwatt was from some dreary northern industrial town, Tom forgot which. It was the talking up that had done it, Tom realized. Curious. But then van Gogh had suffered from the lack of talking up. Who had talked Vincent up? No one, maybe only Theo.

Ed’s narrow face frowned. “I’ll ask it just this once tonight, Tom. Are you really not at all worried about Heloise ?”

“No. I was thinking about something else just now. I know this Pritchard, Ed. Slightly, but enough.” Tom gave a laugh. “I never met anybody quite like him, but I’ve read about such types. Sadistic. Independent income, so says his wife, but I suspect them both of lying in their teeth.”

“He’s got a wife?” Jeff asked, surprised.

“Didn’t I tell you? American. It looks like a sado-masochistic setup to me. They love and hate each other, you know?” Tom continued to Jeff, “Pritchard told me he was studying marketing at insead—it’s a business school near Fontainebleau—absolutely untrue. His wife has bruises on her arms—and neck. He’s in my neighborhood solely to make my life as rotten as possible. And now Cynthia has fired his imagination by bringing up Murchison.” Tom realized, as he cut into his roast beef, that he did not wish to tell Ed or Jeff that Pritchard (or wife) had attempted to imitate Dickie Greenleaf by telephone and had spoken with both Tom and Heloise . Tom did not like harking back to Dickie Greenleaf.

“And followed you even to Tangier,” Jeff said, pausing with knife and fork in his hands.

“Without wife,” Tom said.

“How does one get rid of a pest like that?” Jeff asked.

“That is the interesting question.” Then Tom laughed.

The other two looked a bit surprised by his laugh, then managed smiles, too.

Jeff said, “I’d like to come back to Ed’s, if you’re going to try for Tangier. I’d like to know what’s happening.”

“Come along, Jeff! How long does Heloise intend to stay, Tom?” Ed asked. “In Tangier? Or Morocco?”

“Maybe another ten days or so. I don’t know. Her friend Noelle has been there before. They want to go on to Casablanca.”

Espresso coffee. Then some shop talk between Jeff and Ed. It was evident to Tom that each could turn a bit of work the other’s way from time to time. Jeff Constant was good at portrait photos, and Ed Banbury often interviewed people for Sunday supplements.

Tom insisted on paying for dinner. “My pleasure,” he said.

The rain had stopped, and Tom proposed a turn around the block when they were near Ed’s. Tom loved the little shops interspersed with entrances to flats, the polished brass slits in the doors for letters, even the cozy late-night deli, well-lit and with fresh fruit, canned goods, shelves of bread and cereals and open at nearly midnight.

“Run by Arabs or Pakis,” Ed said. “Anyway, a blessing, open on Sundays and holidays, too.”

They arrived back at Ed’s doorway.

Tom thought he had a slightly better chance now for a telephone connection with the Hotel Rembrandt, though perhaps not so good as at 3 a.m. Again he dialed carefully, hoping that someone competent and able to speak French would be manning the switchboard.

Jeff and Ed drifted in, Jeff with a cigarette, to hear the news.

Tom made a gesture. “They’re not answering yet.” He dialed the operator and put the matter into her hands. She was to ring back when she made contact with the Rembrandt. “Damn!”

“You think there’s any hope?” asked Ed. “You could send a telegram, Tom.”

“The London operator’s supposed to ring back. Don’t wait up, you two.” Tom looked at his host. “Do you mind, Ed, if I run and get it in here, if Tangier rings back tonight?”

“Of course not. I won’t hear it in my bedroom. No phone there.” Ed patted Tom on the shoulder.

It was the first physical touch Tom could recall from Ed, apart from handshakes. “I’m going to take a shower, which will surely make the call come through when I’m in the middle of it.”

“Go ahead! We’ll give you a shout,” said Ed.

Tom got his pajamas from the bottom of his suitcase, stripped, and fled into the bathroom, which was between his sleeping quarters and Ed’s bedroom. He was drying himself when Ed gave the shout. Tom shouted a reply, composed himself, and put on the pajamas before exiting in mooseskin slippers. Is it Heloise or the desk? Tom wanted to ask Ed, but he said nothing and picked up the telephone. ” ‘Allo?”

“Bon soir, Hotel Rembrandt. Vous etes—”

“M’sieur Ripley.” He continued in French. “I should like to speak with Madame Ripley, room three seventeen?”

“Ah, oui. Vous etes—”

“Son mari,” said Tom.

“Un instant.”

“Son mari” cut some ice, Tom felt. Tom looked at his attentive two friends. Then a sleepy voice said: ” ‘Allo?”

“Heloise! I was so worried!”

Ed and Jeff relaxed, smiling.

“Yes, you know—the dreadful Preechard—he telephoned Madame Annette to say you had been kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped! I did not even see ‘eem today,” said Heloise.

Tom laughed. “I am going to telephone Madame Annette tonight, she’ll be much relieved. Now look.” Tom then tried to ascertain Heloise ‘s plans with Noelle. They had gone to a mosque today, to a market also. Yes, they intended to go to Casablanca tomorrow.

“To what hotel?”

Heloise had to reflect, or look somewhere. “Miramare.”

How original, Tom thought, still in good spirits. “Even if you didn’t see the creep, my dear, he may be prowling around, trying to find out where you—and I maybe—are staying. So I’m pleased that you go to Casablanca tomorrow. And then what?”

“Then?”

“Where do you go from there?”

“I don’t know. I think Marrakesh.”

“Take a pencil,” Tom said firmly. He gave Ed’s telephone number, and made sure she had it right.

“Why are you in London?”

Tom laughed. “Why are you in Tangier? My dear, I may not be here every hour of the day, but you telephone and leave a message—I think Ed has an answering service—” Ed nodded to Tom. “Tell me your next hotel, if you go on from Casablanca … Good. Greetings to Noelle … I love you. Goodbye, dear.”

“That’s a relief!” said Jeff.

“Yes. For me. She said she hasn’t even seen Pritchard around—which of course doesn’t mean much.”

“Preekhard,” said Jeff.

“Hard-preek,” Ed retorted, deadpan, strolling about.

“Enough!” Tom was grinning. “Further phoning tonight—Madame Annette. I must. Meanwhile I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Murchison.”

“Yes?” asked Ed, curious, resting an elbow on a bookcase. “Do you suppose Cynthia’s in touch with Mrs. Murchison? Comparing notes?”

Horrible thought. Tom pondered. “They may know each other’s address, but how much can one tell the other? Also—it may be only since the advent of David Pritchard that they’re in touch.”

Jeff, still on his feet, drifted restlessly. “What were you going to say about Mrs. Murchison?”

“That—” Tom hesitated, not wanting to talk about his half-formed ideas; yet he was among friends. “I’d love to ring her up in America and ask what’s happening in regard to—finding out what happened to her husband. But I think she dislikes me almost as much as Cynthia does. Well, not quite, of course, but I was the last person anyone can reach who saw her husband. And why should I be ringing her?” Tom suddenly broke out, “What the devil can Pritchard do? What does he know that’s new? Damn all! Nothing!”

“Right,” said Ed.

“And if you telephoned Mrs. Murchison—you’re so good at mimicking, Tom—with the voice of that Inspector—Webster, wasn’t it?” Jeff asked.

“Yes.” Tom disliked remembering the English Inspector Webster’s name, even though Webster had not poked through to the truth. “No, I’m not taking a chance, thanks.” Could Webster, who had come to Belle Ombre and gone even to Salzburg, still be on the case, as the phrase went? Webster in touch with Cynthia and Mrs. Murchison? Tom returned to the same conclusion: there was nothing new, so what was there to worry about?

“I’d best be shoving off,” Jeff said. “Got work to do tomorrow. Will you let me know what you’re doing tomorrow, Tom? Ed has my number. You too, I recall.”

Goodnights, and best wishes.

“Ring Madame Annette,” Ed said. “Pleasant task, at least.”

“At least!” said Tom. “I’ll say good night too, Ed, with my thanks for your hospitality. I’m asleep on my feet.”

Then Tom dialed Belle Ombre.

” ‘El-lo-o-o?” Mme Annette’s voice was shrill with anxiety.

“Tome here!” said Tom. He informed her that all was well with Mme Heloise , that the kidnapping story had been a false rumor. Tom did not utter the name of David Pritchard.

“But—do you know who told this evil story?” Mme Annette used the word mechante, with venom.

“No idea, madame. The world is full of people with evil intent. Their pleasure—curiously. All goes well at home?”

Mme Annette assured Tom that all was well. He said he would telephone her when he knew when he would return. About Mme Heloise’s return he was not sure, but she was still with her good friend Mme Noelle, and amusing herself.

Tom fell into bed and slept at once.

Chapter 12

The next morning was as bright and clear as if yesterday’s rain had never been, except that all appeared washed, or so Tom liked to think, when he looked out of the window onto the narrow street below. Sunlight twinkled on the window fronts, and the sky was a clear blue.

Ed had left a key on Tom’s coffee table, and a note beneath saying Tom was to make himself at home, and Ed would not be back before 4 p.m. Ed had shown Tom the kitchen yesterday. Tom shaved, breakfasted and made his bed. He was downstairs by nine-thirty, walking toward Piccadilly, savoring the street scenes, the snatches of conversation, the variety of accents he heard from the people he passed.

In Simpson’s, Tom strolled about, inhaling the current floral aroma, which reminded him that he might pick up some lavender wax for Mme Annette while in London. Tom drifted toward the men’s dressing-gowns, and bought one for Ed Banbury, a lightweight Black Watch wool, and for himself a bright red plaid one, Royal Stewart, Tom thought. Ed took a size smaller than Tom, Tom was sure. Tom carried them both in a big plastic bag, and walked out in the direction of Old Bond Street and the Buckmaster Gallery. It was nearly eleven.

Nick Hall stood talking with a heavyish dark-haired man when Tom arrived, and nodded a greeting when he saw Tom.