Ripley Under Water (26 page)

As these thoughts went through Tom’s head, he turned the page and read about Rennell Rodd’s first book of poetry, a copy of which he, as a friend, had given Oscar. Rodd had written in his own hand an inscription in Italian—oddly, it was stated—which translated as:

At thy martyrdom the greedy and cruel,

Crowd to which thou speakest will assemble,

All will come to see thee on thy cross,

And not one will have pity on thee.

Now that was prophetic, strange, Tom thought. Had he possibly read those lines before somewhere? But Tom didn’t think he had.

Tom, as he read, imagined Oscar’s thrill on learning that he had won the Newdigate Prize for poetry—after having suffered rustication not so long before. Then, despite Tom’s ease in bed against his pillows, and anticipation of the next pages, he thought of Pritchard and his damned boat with the motor. He thought of Pritchard’s assistant.

“God damn,” Tom murmured, and got out of bed. He was curious about the neighborhood, the waterways in the vicinity, and though he had looked at his area on a map once, he felt compelled to do so again.

Tom opened his big Times atlas—the Concise Atlas of the World. As to rivers and canals, the district around Fontainebleau and Moret, south to Montereau and beyond, looked like a Gray’s Anatomy drawing of part of a circulatory system: veins and arteries, thick and thin, intersecting, separating, rivers and canals. Each, however, would probably be big enough for Pritchard’s rowboat-with-motor. Very well, Pritchard would have a task-How he’d love to speak with Janice Pritchard! What did she think of all this? “Any luck, dear? Any fish for dinner? Another old bicycle? Or boot?” And what did Pritchard tell her he was grappling for? Very likely the truth, Tom thought, Murchison. Why not? Did Pritchard keep a map, a record? Probably.

Tom still had the first map he’d looked at, of course, with the circle drawn. His penciled circle went as far as Voisy and a little beyond. In the Times Concise Atlas, the canals and rivers were clearer, and appeared certainly more numerous. Would Pritchard have taken a “wide radius,” with the intention of closing in, or the immediate vicinity, and expanding? Tom thought the latter. A man with a corpse on his hands might not have had the time to go twenty kilometers’ distance, Tom thought, but might have had to settle for ten or less. Tom reckoned Voisy was eight kilometers from Villeperce.

On a quick estimate, Tom judged that there were about fifty-four kilometers of canal and river within a circle with a radius of ten kilometers. What a task! Was Pritchard possibly going to hire another outboard-motor with another pair of helpers?

How soon would a person get tired of such a task? Tom reminded himself that Pritchard was not normal.

How much would he have scoured now in seven days, or was it nine? Cruising once up a canal, in the middle logically, at two kilometers an hour, three hours morning, same in afternoon, would cover twelve kilometers a day, but not with difficulties, such as another boat every half-hour, plus perhaps loading the boat on to the pickup to take it to another canal. On a river, a back-and-forth trip might be necessary to cover the width.

Then in toto, some fifty kilometers to scour, at a rough estimate, made it look as if another three weeks or less might discover Murchison, if he was still there to be discovered, throwing in a bit of luck, too.

That time-span was vague, however, Tom told himself, after having felt a mild inner shudder. And suppose Murchison had even drifted north, out of the area Tom was thinking about?

And also, what if Murchison’s tarpaulin-with-corpse had drifted into a canal in months past, been discovered when the canal had been drained for repair work? Tom had seen many a dry canal, water held back by locks somewhere. Murchison’s remains might have been given to the police, of course, who might not have been able to identify them. Tom had seen no such report in the newspapers—of an unidentified bag of bones—but he had not been looking for any, and would it necessarily have been mentioned in the newspapers? Well, yes, Tom thought, just what the French public or any other public loved to read about: a bag of unidentified bones dredged up by—a Sunday fisherman? Male, probably victim of violence or murder, not a suicide. But somehow Tom just couldn’t believe that the police or anybody else had ever found Murchison.

One afternoon, when Tom had made good progress on his oil of “the back room,” as he thought of it, he felt inspired to ring Janice Pritchard. He might hang up if David Pritchard answered; if it was Janice, then he would pursue it and see what he could learn.

Tom laid a brush with ocher gently down beside his palette, and went downstairs to the hall telephone.

Mme Clusot, the woman for what Tom called “the more serious” cleaning, was now busy in the downstairs bathroom, which had a basin and a door that gave on to the steps to the cellar. As far as Tom knew, she did not understand English. She was now only some four meters away. Tom looked at the number he had jotted down for the Pritchards, and was reaching for the telephone, when it rang. Great if it’s Janice, Tom thought as he picked it up.

No. It was from overseas, two operators murmuring, one emerging the victor and inquiring, “Vous etes M’sieur Tom Reepley?”

“Oui, madame.” Had Heloise been hurt?

“Un instant, s’il vous plait.”

” ‘Ello, Tome!” Heloise sounded fine.

“Hello, my sweet. How are you? Why didn’t you—”

“We are very well … Marrakesh! Yes … I did write a postcard—in an envelope, but you know—”

“All right. Thank you. The main thing is—you’re well? Not sick?”

“No, Tome, cheri. Noelle knows most wonderful medicines! She can buy them, if we need them.”

Well, that was something, of course. Tom had heard stories of strange African diseases. He gulped. “And you’re coming back when?”

“Oh-h—”

Tom heard another week, at least, in that “Oh-h.”

“We want to see—” Loud noises of static, or a near cutoff, then Heloise came back, calmly, “Meknes. We fly there—something is happening. I say goodbye, Tome.”

“What’s happening?”

“… okay. Bye-bye, Tome.”

End.

What in God’s name was happening? Another person wanting the telephone? It sounded as if Heloise had rung from her hotel lobby (other people in background), which Tom thought a logical thing to do. Semi-infuriating, yet at least he knew that at this moment Heloise was all right, and if flying to Meknes, that was north, in the direction of Tangier, where surely she’d catch the airplane for home. Pity there’d been no time to speak with Noelle. Nor did he even know the name of their hotel now.

Cheered, in the main, by Heloise’s call, Tom picked up the telephone again, checked his watch—ten past three—and dialed the Pritchard number. It rang five, six, seven times. Then Janice’s high-pitched, American voice said, “Hel-loo-o?”

“Hello, Janice! Tom here. How are you?”

“Oh-h! How nice to hear from you! We’re fine. And yourself?”

Uncannily friendly and cheerful, Tom thought. “Well, thank you. Enjoying the nice weather? I am.”

“Isn’t it lovely? I was just out doing some weeding round my roses. I barely heard the phone.”

“And I hear David’s fishing,” Tom said, forcing himself to grin.

“Ha-ha! Fishing!”

“Isn’t that so? I think I saw him once—when I was driving along some canal near here. Fishing for carp?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Ripley, he’s fishing for a corpse.” She laughed gaily, apparently amused by the similarity of the words. “It’s ridiculous! What’ll he ever find? Nothing!” Another laugh. “But it gets him out of the house. Exercise.”

“A corpse—whose?”

“Someone called Murchison. David says you knew him—even killed him, David thinks. Can you imagine?”

“No!” Tom said with a laugh. He put on an amused air. “Killed him when?” Tom waited. “Janice?”

“Sorry, I thought for a minute they might be coming back, but it was another car. Years ago, I think. Oh, it’s so absurd, Mr. Ripley!”

“That it is,” said Tom. “But as you say, it provides exercise—sport—”

“Sport!” Her shrillness, plus a laugh, told Tom that she was loving every minute of her husband’s sport. “Dragging a hook—”

“And the man with your husband—an old friend?”

“No! An American music student David picked up in Paris! Lucky for us he’s a nice young man, not a thief—”Janice gave a giggle. “Because he’s sleeping in the house, is why I say that. Name’s Teddy.”

“Teddy,” Tom echoed, hoping for the last name, which did not come. “How long do you think this is going to go on?”

“Oh, till he finds something. David’s determined, I’ll say that for him. Between buying gasoline, dressing cut fingers, cooking for these men—my life’s been pretty busy. Can’t you come around for a coffee or a drink some time?”

Tom was flabbergasted. “I—thank you. Just now—”

“Your wife’s away now, I heard.”

“Yes, and for several weeks more, I think.”

“Where is she?”

“I think she’s heading for Greece next. A little holiday with a friend, you know. And I’m trying to catch up on garden work.” He smiled, as Mme Clusot backed out of the downstairs bathroom with bucket and mop. Tom was not going to add that Janice Pritchard could visit him for coffee or a drink, because Janice might be naive or malicious enough to report that to David, and it would then appear that Tom was curious about David’s activities, therefore worried. David surely knew also that his wife was unpredictable: that would be part of their sadistic fun. “Well, Janice, my best wishes to your husband—neighborly good wishes—” Tom paused, and Janice waited. He knew David had told her about his beating up David in Tangier, but in their world, right and wrong, politeness and impoliteness seemed not to count or even be remembered. It was in fact odder than a game, because in a game there were rules of some kind.

“Goodbye, Mr. Ripley, and thank you for calling,” said Janice, friendly as ever.

Tom stared out on to his garden, and pondered the strangeness of the Pritchards. What had he learned? That David might go on ad infinitum. No, that couldn’t be. Another month from now, and David would have scraped the bottom of an area seventy-five kilometers in diameter! Maniacal! And unless Teddy were absurdly well paid, Teddy would get tired of it too. Of course, Pritchard could hire someone else, as long as he had the money.

Just where were Pritchard and Teddy now? The energy necessary, Tom thought, to lift that boat even twice a day off the pickup and back onto it again! Could the pair of them be scraping the Loing bottom near Voisy this minute? Tom had a desire to go there—maybe in the white station wagon for a change—to satisfy his curiosity now, at half-past three. Then he realized that he was too afraid to do that, to cruise for a second time around the scene of the disposal. Suppose someone had noticed and remembered his face, the day he had driven to Voisy and crossed the bridge? Suppose he ran smack into David and Teddy dragging their hooks just there?

That would disturb Tom’s sleep, even if they missed their goal there. Tom stared at his finished painting, reasonably satisfied, more than that. He had added a vertical stripe of bluish-red to the left side of the composition, a curtain of the house interior. The blues and purples and blacks intensified from the borders to the soft-edged rectangle of the black, backroom doorway, which was not quite in the center. The picture was higher than it was wide.

Another Tuesday came, and Tom thought of M. Lepetit, the music teacher, who usually came on Tuesdays. But Tom and Heloise had temporarily stopped their lessons: they had not known how long they would be in North Africa, and Tom had not rung up M. Lepetit since his return, though he had practiced. The Grais invited Tom for a meal one weekend, but Tom declined, with thanks. Tom did ring Agnes Grais on a weekday, and invited himself at about three one afternoon.

The change of scene was welcome to Tom’s eyes. They sat in the Grais’ functional and orderly kitchen at a marble-topped table big enough for six, and drank espresso with a nip of Calvados on the side. Yes, Tom said, he had heard two or three times from Heloise by telephone—and at least once they had been cut off. Tom laughed. And a postcard written ages ago, three days after his own departure, had arrived yesterday. All was well, as far as Tom knew.

“And your neighbor is still fishing,” Tom said with a smile. “So I hear.”

“Fishing.” Agnes Grais’ brown eyebrows drew together for a moment. “He’s looking for something, won’t say what. He’s dragging with little hooks, you know? His companion also. Not that I’ve seen them, but I heard people talking in the butcher’s.”

People always talked in the bakery and at the butcher’s, and since baker and butcher joined in, service was slow, but the longer one lingered, the more one could learn.

Tom said finally, “I’m sure one could drag up fascinating items from these canals—or rivers. You’d be surprised at the items I’ve found in the decharge publique here—before the authorities closed it, damn them. It was as good as an art exhibition! Antique furniture! Some might have needed a small repair, to be sure, but—the metal pitchers by my fireplace—they hold water, late nineteenth-century. They’re from the decharge publique.” Tom laughed. The decharge publique was a field to one side of a road going out of Villeperce, and here people used to be allowed to throw broken chairs, old refrigerators, old anything, such as books, of which Tom had rescued several. Now that field was closed with metal fence and lock. Modern progress.

“People say he’s not collecting anything,” said Agnes, as if she were not much interested. “He throws back metal junk, someone said. Not very nice of him. He ought to toss it up on the bank where the garbage people could collect it, at least. That would be doing the community a service.” She smiled. “Another little Calvados, Tome?”

“No thanks, Agnes. I should be going home.”

“Now why should you be going home? Work? To an empty house? Oh, I know you can amuse yourself, Tome, with painting and your harpsichord—”

“Our harpsichord,” Tom interrupted. “Heloise ‘s and mine.”

“Correct.” Agnes tossed her hair back and looked at him.