Ripley Under Water (19 page)

Tom walked about, into the adjacent room with the sedate Corots or Corot-like canvases, back into the front room, where he overheard Nick saying, ”—under fifteen thousand, I’m sure, sir. I could check, if you’d like.”

“No, no.”

“All prices subject to review by the Buckmaster Gallery owners, prices can go up or down, usually very slightly.” Nick paused. “Depending on the market and not the person who wants to buy it.”

“Very good. Then check for me, please. I’ll be assuming thirteen thousand. I—like it, rather. Picnic.”

“Yes, sir. I have your number and I’ll try to reach you tomorrow.”

Nice, Tom thought, that Nick hadn’t said “get back to you tomorrow.” Nick wore a handsome pair of black shoes today, different from yesterday’s.

“Hello, Nick—if I may,” said Tom when they were alone. “I met you yesterday.”

“Oh, I remember, sir.”

“Have you any drawings of Derwatt that I could see?”

Nick hesitated briefly. “Y-yes, sir. They’re in portfolios in the back room. Mostly not for sale. I think none is for sale—officially.”

Good, Tom thought. Sacred archives, sketches for paintings that had become classics, or would have become. “But—is it possible?”

“Sure. Certainly, sir.” Nick threw a glance at the front door, and then went to it, maybe to check if it were locked, or to slide a bolt. He returned to Tom, and they went through the second room and into the smaller back room, with the still somewhat cluttered desk, the smudged walls, the canvases, frames and portfolios leaning against the once white walls. Had twenty journalists, Leonard the drinks-server, a couple of photographers and himself squeezed themselves in here? Yes, Tom recalled.

Nick squatted and lifted a portfolio. “About half of these are sketches for paintings,” he said, holding the big gray portfolio in both hands.

There was an extra table near the door, and Nick laid the portfolio reverently on it and untied the three strings that closed it.

“More portfolios are in the drawers here, I know,” Nick said, nodding toward the white cabinet against the wall, which held at least six shallow drawers top to bottom; the top surface was hip-high. This fixture was new to Tom.

Each Derwatt drawing was in a transparent plastic envelope. Charcoal, pencil and conte crayon. As Nick lifted one after the other, all in their plastic, Tom realized that he could not tell the Derwatts from the Bernard Tufts, not with total confidence, anyway. The Red Chairs sketches (three), yes, because he knew that was a Derwatt creation. But when Nick came to the Man in Chair preparatory sketches, a Bernard Tufts forgery, Tom’s heart gave a leap, because he owned the painting and loved it and knew it well, and because the devoted Bernard Tufts had done his preparatory sketches with the same loving care as would Derwatt. And in these sketches, made to impress no one, Bernard had been fortifying himself for his real effort, the composition in color on canvas.

“Do you sell these?” Tom asked.

“No. Well—Mr. Banbury and Mr. Constant don’t want to. As far as I know we’ve never sold any. Not many people—” Nick hesitated. “You see, the paper Derwatt used—it wasn’t always of the best quality. It gets yellow, crumbles at the edges.”

“I think they’re marvelous,” Tom said. “Keep on taking care of them. Out of the light and all that.”

Nick gave his ready smile. “And minimum handling.”

There were more. Sleeping Cat which Tom liked, done by Bernard Tufts (Tom thought), on rather cheap good-size sheets, with color indications in pencil: black, brown, yellow, red, even green.

It occurred to Tom that Tufts so blended with Derwatt that it was artistically impossible to separate them, at least in some or most of these drawings. Bernard Tufts had become

Derwatt, in more senses than one. Bernard had died in a state of confusion and shame because of his success, in fact, in becoming Derwatt, in Derwatt’s old lifestyle, in his painting, and in his exploratory drawings. In Bernard’s efforts, at least those here at the Buckmaster Gallery, there was no sign of faintheartedness in Bernard’s pencil or color pencil sketches. Bernard appeared the master of the composition in question, decisive about proportion and color.

“Are you interested, Mr. Ripley?” asked Nick Hall, standing now, sliding a drawer shut. “I can speak with Mr. Banbury.”

Now Tom smiled. “Not sure. It’s tempting. And—” The question confused Tom for an instant. “What would the gallery ask for a preliminary drawing—for one of the paintings?”

Nick looked at the floor, thinking. “I couldn’t say, sir. I really couldn’t. I don’t think I’ve got the drawing prices anywhere here—if they exist.”

Tom swallowed. Many, most of those drawings came from Bernard Tufts’s modest little studio somewhere in London, where he had worked and slept in the last years of his life. Oddly, the sketches were the best guarantee of authenticity of Derwatt’s paintings and sketches, Tom thought, because the sketches betrayed no change in the use of color, which Murchison had been so hung up on.

“Thank you, Nick. We’ll see.” Tom moved toward the door, and said goodbye.

Tom walked through the Burlington Arcade, untempted for the moment by the silk ties, the good-looking scarves and belts in the shop windows. He was thinking, if Derwatt was “exposed” as having been forged for the bulk of his work, what would it matter, since Bernard Tufts’s efforts had been equally good, absolutely similar and logical, had shown the same development that the real Derwatt might have shown if he had died at fifty or fifty-five instead of thirty-eight, or however old he was when he had committed suicide? Tufts, it could be argued, had improved upon Derwatt’s earlier work.

If the sixty percent (Tom estimated) of Derwatt works now extant were to be signed B. Tufts, why would they be less valuable?

The answer, of course, was because they had been marketed dishonestly, their market value, ever climbing and climbing still, based on the value of Derwatt’s name, which in fact had had little value when he died, because Derwatt had not been much known. But Tom had been at this impasse before.

He was glad to be brought to his senses in Fortnum & Mason by asking where he could find household goods. “Little items—furniture wax,” he added to an assistant in morning jacket.

There he was then, opening a tin of lavender wax, sniffing and imagining with eyes shut that he was back in Belle Ombre. “May I have three?” Tom said to the salesgirl.

These he dropped in their plastic bag into the big bag with the dressing-gowns.

No sooner was this small task done than Tom’s thoughts returned to Derwatt, Cynthia, David Pritchard and the problems at hand. Why not try to see Cynthia, talk with her face to face, rather than over the telephone? Of course, it would be difficult making an appointment with her, she might hang up on him if he telephoned her, might snub him if he hung around waiting outside the house where she lived. But what was there to lose? Cynthia might indeed have brought up the Murchison disappearance to Pritchard, just might have emphasized it in Tom’s curriculum vitae, which Pritchard had evidently looked into in newspaper files. In London? Tom might find out if Cynthia was in touch with Pritchard still, telephoning or writing an occasional note. And he might find out her plan, if she had any besides giving him minor annoyance.

Tom lunched in a pub near Piccadilly, then took a taxi to Ed Banbury’s flat. He put Ed’s dressing-gown in the big plastic bag on Ed’s bed, unceremoniously, without a card attached, but the Simpson’s bag looked handsome, Tom thought. He returned to his library-bedroom, laid his dressing-gown on a straight chair and went in search of the telephone books. They were near Ed’s work table, and Tom looked up Gradnor, Cynthia L., and found her.

He looked at his watch—a quarter to two—then began to dial.

A recorded voice, Cynthia’s, answered after the third ring, and Tom seized a pencil. The caller was asked to ring a certain number during business hours, Cynthia’s voice said.

Tom rang the number, got a female voice, announcing something that sounded like Vernon McCullen Agency, and asked if he might speak to Miss Gradnor.

Miss Gradnor came on. “Hello?”

“Hello, Cynthia. This is Tom Ripley,” Tom said, making his voice a bit deep and also serious. “I’m in London for a couple of days—been here a day or so, matter of fact. I was hoping—”

“Why are you ringing me?” she asked, bristling already.

“Because I’d like to see you,” Tom said calmly. “I have a thought, an idea—which I think would be of interest to you and to all of us.”

“All of us?”

“I think you know—” Tom stood straighter. “I’m sure you know. Cynthia, I’d like to see you for ten minutes. Anywhere—in a restaurant, tea room—”

“Tea room!” Her voice did not quite go shrill; that would have been out of control.

Cynthia was never out of control. Tom continued with a determined air. “Yes, Cynthia. Anywhere. If you’d tell me—”

“What’s brought this on?”

Tom smiled. “A thought—which might solve a lot of problems—unpleasantnesses.”

“I do not care to see you, Mr. Ripley.” She hung up.

Tom pondered that rejection for a few seconds, wandered around Ed’s workroom, then lit a cigarette.

He dialed the number he had scribbled, got the agency again, verified the name and got an address for it. “Your office is open until when?”

“Um—five-thirtyish.”

“Thank you,” Tom said.

That afternoon, from about five past five, Tom lay in wait outside a doorway in the King’s Road where the offices of Vernon McCullen were. It was a newish, gray building that housed a dozen companies, Tom saw from the list of firms on a wall in the lobby. He kept on the lookout for a rather tall, slender woman with light brown straight hair, who would not be expecting him to be waiting for her. Or would she? Tom had a long wait. By twenty to six, he was looking at his watch for perhaps the fifteenth time, tired of letting his eyes drift over the mainly exiting figures and faces, male and female, some looking tired, some laughing and exchanging chatter, as if glad one more day was past.

Tom lit a cigarette, his first since his vigil, because a cigarette often, in circumstances in which a cigarette was soon to be forbidden, such as the arrival of a bus one was waiting for, made things happen. Tom went into the foyer.

“Cynthia!”

There were four lifts, and Cynthia Gradnor had just emerged from the back right one. Tom dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, snatched it up, and dropped it into one of the sand containers.

“Cynthia,” Tom said again, as she certainly hadn’t heard him the first time.

She stopped short, and her straight hair swung a little at the sides. Her lips looked thinner, straighter than Tom recalled. “I told you that I don’t care to see you, Tom. Why do you annoy me like this?”

“I don’t mean to annoy you. Just the opposite. But I would like just five minutes—” Tom hesitated. “Can’t we sit down somewhere?” Tom had noticed that there were pubs nearby.

“No. No, thanks. What is it that’s so vital?” Her gray eyes shot him a hostile look, then avoided his face.

“It’s something about Bernard. I should think—well, that it would interest you.”

“What?” she said in almost a whisper. “What about him? You’ve another unpleasant idea, I suppose.”

“No, the opposite,” Tom said, shaking his head. He had thought of David Pritchard: was anything, any idea, more unpleasant than Pritchard? Not to Tom, at the moment. He looked down again at Cynthia’s flat black slippers, at her black stockings, Italian-style. Chic but also grim. “I’m thinking of David Pritchard, who could do Bernard quite a bit of harm.”

“What do you mean? How?” Cynthia was jostled by a passerby behind her.

Tom put his hand out to steady her, and Cynthia recoiled from him. “It’s hellish talking here,” Tom said. “I mean, Pritchard means nobody any good, neither you, nor Bernard, nor—”

“Bernard is dead,” Cynthia said before Tom could utter the pronoun “me.” “The damage is done.” Thanks to you, she might have added.

“It isn’t all done. I have to explain it—in two minutes. Can’t we sit down somewhere? There’s a place just around the corner!” Tom tried his best to be both polite and adamant.

With a sigh, Cynthia yielded, and they walked around the corner. It was not too big a pub, consequently not so noisy, and they even found a small round table. Tom didn’t care when or if anyone came to wait on them, and he was sure Cynthia didn’t.

“What is Pritchard up to?” Tom asked. “Besides being a prowler—a peeping Tom—and I strongly suspect a sadist in regard to his wife?”

“Not, however, a murderer.”

“Oh? I’m glad to hear that. Are you writing to David Pritchard, talking with him on the telephone?”

Cynthia took a deep breath and blinked. “I thought you had something to say about Bernard.”

Cynthia Gradnor was in pretty close touch with Pritchard, Tom thought, though perhaps she was wise enough not to put anything on paper. “I have. Two things. I—but first, may I ask why you associate with such crud as Pritchard? He’s sick in the head!” Tom gave a smile, sure of himself.

Cynthia said slowly, “I don’t care to talk about Pritchard—whom I’ve never seen or met, by the way.”

“Then how do you know his name?” Tom asked in a polite tone.

Again an inhalation; she glanced down at the tabletop, then looked back at Tom. Her face suddenly looked thinner and older. She was forty by now, Tom supposed.

“I don’t care to answer that question,” Cynthia said. “Can you get to the point? Something about Bernard, you said.”

“Yes. His work. I saw Pritchard and wife, you see, because they’re my neighbors now—in France. Perhaps you know that. Pritchard mentioned Murchison—the man who strongly suspected forgeries.”

“And who mysteriously disappeared,” said Cynthia, attentive now.

“Yes. At Orly.”

She smiled a bit cynically. “Just took a different plane? To where? Never got in touch again with his wife?” She paused. “Come on, Tom. I know you did away with Murchison. You may have taken his luggage to Orly—”

Tom remained calm. “Just ask my housekeeper, who saw us leave the house that day—saw Murchison and me. Heading for Orly.”