Ripley Under Water (22 page)

Tom then went back to the workroom, where Ed and Jeff showed signs of readiness to depart for dinner. He had decided not to ring Mme Annette tonight but tomorrow morning after her shopping hour, which he was sure hadn’t changed. Mme Annette would know from her faithful sentinel—Genevieve, wasn’t it?—whether M. Preechard had returned to Villeperce or not.

“Well,” Tom said, smiling. “I spoke with Madame Murcheeson. And—”

“We thought it best not to hover, Tom.” Jeff looked interested.

“Preechard has been in touch enough to let Mrs. Murchison know he went to Tangier. Imagine! I gather one telephone call did that. And she told me Cynthia rings or writes—sometimes. Bad enough, isn’t it?”

“All in touch, you mean,” said Ed. “Yes—rather.”

“Let’s go out and get something to eat,” Tom said.

“Tom—Ed and I’ve been talking,” Jeff began. “One or the other of us or both will come over to France and help you—against this”—Jeff sought a word—“obsessed nut Pritchard.”

“Or to Tangier,” Ed put in promptly. “Wherever you have to go, Tom. Or wherever we’re useful. We’re all in this together, you know.”

Tom let it sink in. It was comforting, indeed. “Thanks. I shall think—or zink—about what I or we must do. Let’s go out, shall we?”

Chapter 14

Tom didn’t think too hard about his current problems while having dinner with Jeff and Ed. They had finally taken a taxi to a place Jeff knew of in the Little Venice area, quiet and small. It was indeed so quiet and unpatronized that evening that Tom kept his voice low, even when talking of innocent matters like cooking.

Ed said he had been giving some attention to his neglected cooking talents, if any, and next time he would venture to cook for both of them.

“Tomorrow evening? Tomorrow lunch?” asked Jeff, smiling incredulously.

“I’ve got a little book called The Imaginative Cook,” Ed went on. “It encourages combining things and—“

“Leftovers?” Jeff lifted a piece of asparagus, with butter dripping from it, and put the tip into his mouth.

“Have your fun,” Ed said. “But next time, I swear.”

“But you’re not game for tomorrow,” said Jeff.

“How do I know Tom’s here tomorrow night? Does Tom know?”

“No,” said Tom. He had espied, a couple of empty tables away, a very pretty young woman with fair straight hair, talking to a young man opposite her. She wore a black sleeveless dress, gold earrings, and had that happy self-assurance that Tom seldom saw outside of England and the kind of good looks that made his eyes keep drifting toward her. The young woman had made him think about a present for Heloise .

Gold earrings? Absurd! How many pairs had Heloise already? A bracelet? Heloise liked a surprise, even a small one, when he came back from a trip. And when would Heloise be back home?

Ed glanced to see what fascinated Tom.

“Pretty, is she not?” said Tom.

“Is—she—not,” Ed agreed. “Look, Tom—I could be free at the end of this week. Or even by Thursday—two days from now—to go to France—or anywhere. I have an article to polish up and type. I’ll hurry, if necessary. If you’re in straits.”

Tom didn’t reply at once.

“And no word-processor for Ed,” Jeff put in. “Ed’s the old-fashioned type.”

“I am a word-processor,” said Ed. “How about your old cameras, for that matter? Some of them are old.”

“And they’re excellent,” Jeff said quietly.

Tom saw that Ed stifled a retort to this. Tom was enjoying delicious lamb chops, and a good red wine. “Ed, old pal, I am most grateful,” Tom said in a low voice, glancing to his left, where beyond one empty table, the next table now had three people. “Because you could get hurt. Mind you, I don’t know exactly how, because I haven’t seen Pritchard with a gun, for instance.” Tom lowered his head and said as if to himself, “I may have to tackle the son of a bitch hand to hand. Really finish him, I dunno.”

His words hung in the air.

“I’m pretty strong,” Jeff said in a cheerful tone. “You may need that, Tom.”

Jeff was probably stronger than Ed, Tom thought, because he was taller and heavier. On the other hand, Ed looked as if he could be fast-moving, if necessary. “We must all keep in condition, n’est-ce pas? Now who’s for a nice gooey dessert?”

Jeff wanted to pay the bill. Tom invited them to a Calvados.

“Who knows when we’ll meet again—like this?” Tom said.

The proprietress told them that the Calvados was on the house.

Tom awakened to the sound of rain pattering against the window panes, not hard but determined. He put on his new dressing-gown, price tag still dangling, washed in the bathroom, and went to Ed’s kitchen. It seemed Ed was not yet up. Tom boiled some water, and made a filter coffee for himself, strong. Then a quick shower and a shave, and Tom was tying his tie when Ed surfaced.

“Lovely day! Good morning!” Ed said, smiling. “You see I’m sporting the new dressing-gown.”

“I see.” Tom’s mind was on ringing Mme Annette, and the happy thought that it was an hour later in France, and that in about twenty minutes she might be back from shopping. “I made coffee, if you’d like some. What’ll I do with my bed?”

“Make it for the time being. Then we’ll see.” Ed went on to the kitchen.

Tom was glad that Ed knew him well enough to know that he would either want to make the bed or take the sheets off, and to say make the bed was a welcome to stay another night, if need be. Ed put some croissants into the oven for warming, and there was also orange juice. Tom drank the juice, but was too tense to eat anything.

“I’m supposed to ring Heloise at noon, or try to,” Tom said. “Forgot if I told you.”

“You’re most welcome, as ever, to my telephone.”

Tom was thinking that he might not be here at noon. “Thank you. We’ll see.” Then Tom jumped at the sound of Ed’s telephone ringing.

After a few words from Ed, Tom knew it was a business call, something about a caption.

“Okay, sure, easy,” Ed said. “I’ve got the carbon here … I’ll ring you back before eleven. No problem.”

Tom looked at his watch, and saw that the minute hand had hardly moved since the last time he had glanced at it. He was thinking that he might borrow an umbrella from Ed and spend some of this morning walking about, and perhaps look in at the Buckmaster Gallery to choose a drawing for possible purchase. A drawing by Bernard Tufts.

Ed was back, silent, and he headed for the coffeepot.

“I’ll try my house now,” Tom said, and got up from the kitchen chair.

In the living room, Tom dialed the Belle Ombre number, and let it ring eight times, then twice more before he gave up.

“She’s out shopping. Maybe gossiping,” Tom added to Ed with a smile. But Mme Annette was growing a bit deaf, too, he had noticed.

“Try later, Tom. I’m getting dressed.” Ed went off.

Tom did in a very few minutes, and Mme Annette answered on the fifth ring.

“Ah, M’sieur Tome! Where are you?”

“London still, madame. And I spoke with Madame Heloise yesterday. She is well. In Casablanca.”

“Casablanca! And when is she coming home?”

Tom laughed. “How can I say? I am telephoning to ask how things are at Belle Ombre.” Tom knew Mme Annette would report a prowler, if any, or M. Pritchard and by name, if he had possibly had time to return and snoop.

“All goes well, M’sieur Tome. Henri was not here, but all the same.”

“And do you know by chance if M’sieur Preechard is at home in Villeperce?”

“Not yet, m’sieur, he has been away, but he returns today. I have just learned that from Genevieve this morning in the bakery, and she learned it from the wife of M’sieur Hubert the electrician, who did some work for Madame Preechard only this morning.”

“Really,” Tom said, with respect for Mme Annette’s information service. “Returns today.”

“Oh, yes, that is sure,” said Mme Annette calmly, as if she were talking about the sun rising or setting.

“I shall telephone again before—before—well, before I go anywhere else, Madame Annette. Now, you keep well yourself!” He hung up, then gave a great sigh.

Tom thought he should go back home today, so booking his reservation for the return to Paris was his next job. He went to his bed and began removing the sheets, when he thought of the possibility that he might return before Ed had another guest, so he remade the bed as it was.

“I thought you’d finished that,” said Ed, entering the room.

Tom explained. “Old Preekhard’s coming back to Villeperce today. So I’ll meet him there next. And if need be, I’ll lure him to London, where”—Tom threw a smile at Ed, because he was talking fantasy now—“the streets are numerous and dark at night, and Jack the Ripper did all right, didn’t he? What he’d—” Tom paused.

“What he’d what?”

“What Pritchard would get out of ruining me, I don’t know. Sadistic satisfaction, I suppose. He might not be able to prove anything, you know, Ed? But it would look bad for me. Then if he managed to kill me, he could see Heloise an unhappy widow, going back to Paris to live, perhaps, as I can’t see her living in our house alone—or even marrying another man and living there.”

“Tom, stop your dreaming!”

Tom stretched his arms, trying to relax. “I don’t understand cracked people.” But he had understood Bernard Tufts fairly well, he realized. “Now I’ll see about a plane, if I may, Ed.”

Tom rang up the Air France reservation, and found he could get on a flight leaving Heathrow at 1:40 that afternoon. Tom so informed Ed.

“I shall take my knapsack and drift off,” Tom said.

Ed was about to sit down at his typewriter, and had some work laid out on his desk. “I’ll be hoping to see you soon, Tom. I loved seeing you here. My thoughts will be with you.”

“Are there any Derwatt drawings for sale? I gathered that in principle they’re not for sale.”

Ed Banbury smiled. “We are hanging on—but for you—“

“How many are there? And at what price—about?”

“Fifty or so? Prices maybe from two thousand up to—fifteen, perhaps. Some Bernard Tufts’s, of course. If they’re good drawings, the price goes higher. Doesn’t always depend on size.”

“I’d pay the normal price, of course. Be happy to.”

Ed almost laughed. “If you’re fond of a drawing, Tom, you deserve it as a gift! Who gets the profit after all, finally? All three of us!”

“I may have time to look into the gallery today. Haven’t you anything here?” Tom asked, as if Ed must have.

“One in my bedroom, if you want to have a look.”

They went to the room at the end of the short hall. Ed lifted a framed drawing which had been leaning, face inward, against his chest of drawers. The conte crayon and charcoal drawing showed vertical and slanting lines that might have depicted an easel, and behind it a suggestion of a figure just a bit taller than the easel. Was it a Tufts or a Derwatt?

“Nice.” Tom narrowed his eyes, opened them, advanced “What’s it called?”

“Easel in Studio,” Ed replied. “I love the warm orangey-red. Just these two lines to indicate the size of the room. Typical.” He added, “I don’t hang it all the time—just six months out of the year perhaps—so it’s fresh to me.”

The drawing was nearly thirty inches high, maybe twenty wide, in an appropriately gray and neutral frame.

“Bernard’s?” Tom asked.

“It’s a Derwatt. I bought it years ago—for absurdly little. I think about forty pounds. Forgot where I found it! He did it in London. Look at the hand.” Ed extended his right hand in the same position toward the painting.

In the drawing, the right hand with an indication of a slender brush in the fingers was extended. The painter was approaching the easel, left foot delineated by a stroke of dark gray for the shoe sole.

“Man going to work,” said Ed. “It gives me courage, this picture.”

“I understand.” Tom turned in the doorway. “I’m off to see the drawings—then a taxi to Heathrow. My thanks, Ed, for your kindnesses here.”

Tom collected his raincoat and small suitcase. Under his key on the night table he had left two twenty-pound notes for telephone calls, which Ed might find today or tomorrow.

“Shall I make it definite when I arrive?” Ed asked. “Such as tomorrow? You’ve only to say the word, Tom.”

“Let me see how things look. Maybe I’ll ring you tonight. And don’t worry if I don’t ring. I should be home by seven or eight this evening—if all goes well.”

They shook hands firmly at the door.

Tom walked to what looked like a promising taxi-flagging corner, and when he got one asked the driver to go to Old Bond Street.

This time, Nick was alone when Tom arrived, and got up from a desk where he had been looking at a Sotheby’s catalogue.

“Good morning, Nick,” said Tom pleasantly. “I am back—for another look at the Derwatt drawings. Is that possible?”

Nick drew himself up, and smiled, as if he considered this request something special. “Yes, sir—this way, as you know.”

Tom liked the first Nick pulled out, a sketch of a pigeon on a windowsill, which had a few of Derwatt’s extra outlines that suggested a shifting of the alert bird. The paper, yellowish but originally off-white and of fair quality, was nevertheless deteriorating at the edges, but Tom liked that. The drawing was in charcoal and conte crayon under transparent plastic now.

“And the price of this?”

“Um—Maybe ten thousand, sir. I would have to verify that.”

Tom was looking at another in the portfolio, a busy restaurant interior, which did not appeal to him, then a pair of trees and a bench in what looked like a London park. No, the pigeon. “If I make a down payment—and you speak with Mr. Banbury?”

Tom signed a check for two thousand pounds, and handed it to Nick at the desk. “A pity it’s not signed by Derwatt. Just not signed,” Tom said, interested in what Nick might reply.

“Well—y-yes, sir,” Nick answered pleasantly, almost rocking back on his heels. “That was Derwatt, I’ve heard. Makes a sketch on the spur of the moment, doesn’t think of signing it, forgets to do it later, and then he’s—no longer with us.”

Tom nodded. “True. Bye-bye, Nick. Mr. Banbury has my address.”

“Oh, yes, sir, no problem.”

Then Heathrow, which looked to Tom more crowded every time he saw it. The cleaning women with brooms and bins on wheels apparently could not keep up with the dropped paper napkins and discarded flight-ticket envelopes. Tom had time to buy a box of six kinds of English soap for Heloise , and a bottle of Pernod for Belle Ombre.