Ripley Under Water (35 page)

“Yes, indeed, I heard about it,” said Tom. “Madame Grais telephoned me this morning. Truly shocking news!”

Henri’s thick-soled boots shifted left to right and back again. His great hands twiddled with a clover stem on the end of which bobbed a round lavender blossom. “And the bones below,” Henri said in an ominous low tone, as if the bones somehow sealed a judgment on the Pritchards. “Bones, m’sieur!” Twiddle, twiddle. “What strange people—just here! Before our noses!”

Tom had never seen Henri disturbed before. “Do you think—” Tom looked off at the lawn, then back at Henri—“they both really decided to commit suicide?”

“Who knows?” asked Henri, with a lift of bushy brows. “Maybe it was a strange game? They both tried something—but what?”

Very vague, Tom thought to himself, but probably Henri’s ideas were a reflection of those of the whole village. “It will be interesting to know what the police say.”

“Bien sur!”

“And whose bones are they? Does anybody know?”

“Non, m’sieur. Bones of a certain age! As if—alors—you know—everyone knows—Preechard had been dragging the canals and rivers around here! For what? For his pleasure? Some people say these bones are what Preechard got out of a canal and he and his wife—they were fighting over them.” Henri looked at Tom as if he had disclosed an unsavory secret in regard to this pair.

“Fighting over them,” Tom echoed, in true country style.

“Strange, m’sieur.” Henri shook his head.

“Oui, ah oui,” said Tom in a reconciled tone and with a sigh, as if each day presented something puzzling, which one simply had to live with. “Maybe this evening’s tele will bring us some news—if they bother with a small village like Villeperce, eh? Well, Henri, I must return to my wife now, as we have a guest from London and we’re expecting another tomorrow. You surely don’t want to start any work at this hour, do you?”

Henri didn’t, but he accepted a glass of wine in the greenhouse. Tom kept a bottle there—changed often enough, so that it wouldn’t become stale—for Henri, plus a couple of glasses. The two glasses were not very clean, but they lifted them anyway and drank.

Henri said in a low tone, “It is good that these two will be removed from the village—those bones too. Those people were bizarre.”

Tom nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Salutations a votre femme, m’sieur,” said Henri, and drifted off across the lawn, heading for the lane at the side.

Tom returned to the living room to drink his tea.

Ed and Heloise were talking about Brighton, of all things.

Tom turned the set on. It was almost time. “Be interesting to know if Villeperce merits a minute on international news,” Tom said, mainly to Heloise . “Or even national.”

“Ah, yes!” Heloise sat up.

Tom had rolled the set more to the center of the room. The first item was about a conference in Geneva, then came a boat race somewhere. Their interest wavered, and Ed and Heloise chatted again, in English.

“There it is. Look,” said Tom, rather calmly.

“The house!” said Heloise .

They all looked. The two-story white house of the Pritchards provided the background for the commentator’s voice. Plainly the photographer had not been able to get closer than the road, and maybe just for the one shot, Tom thought. The announcer’s voice said, “… a bizarre accident discovered this morning in the village of Villeperce near Moret, the bodies of two adults, David and Janice Preechard, Americans, both in their mid-thirties, in a pond of water two meters deep on their own lawn. The deceased pair were clothed and wearing shoes, and their deaths are believed to be an acccident … M’sieur and Madame Preechard had recently bought their house …”

No mention of the bones, Tom thought as the announcer came to an end of the Pritchard story. He looked at Ed, and imagined from Ed’s slightly raised brows that Ed was thinking the same thing.

Then Heloise said, “They didn’t say anything about—about those bones here.” She looked anxiously at Tom. Whenever Heloise had to mention the bones, she seemed pained.

Tom collected his thoughts. “I’d think—they’d be taken somewhere—to find out how old they are, for instance. That’s probably why the police didn’t allow the bones to be mentioned.”

“Interesting,” Ed said, “the way they cordoned the place off, don’t you think? Not even a shot of the pond, just a distant shot of the house. The police are taking precautions.”

Still investigating, Tom supposed Ed meant.

The telephone rang, and Tom got up to get it. He had guessed correctly, it was Agnes, who had just seen the evening news.

“Antoine says, ‘Good riddance,’ ” Agnes told Tom. “He thinks those people were insane, and they happened to dredge up some bones, so they became—overly enthusiastic—and fell in themselves.” Agnes sounded on the brink of a laugh.

“Would you like to speak with Heloise?”

She would.

Heloise went to the telephone, and Tom returned to Ed, but remained standing.

“An accident,” Tom murmured, with thoughtful air. “And so it was, in fact!”

“True,” Ed replied.

Neither of them was listening, or trying to, to Heloise’s lively conversation with Agnes.

“I’m going up to relax for a few minutes, and I’ll see about our charcoal at a quarter to eight,” Tom said. “Out on the terrace.” He smiled. “We’re going to have a nice evening.”

Chapter 24

Tom had just descended the stairs, having put on a fresh shirt and a sweater over it, when the telephone rang. He answered from the hall telephone.

A male voice identified himself as Commissaire de Police Divisionnaire, or something which sounded like that, Etienne Lomard in Nemours, and could he come now to speak with M. Ripley for a moment?

“It will be brief, I believe, m’sieur,” the officer said, “but it is of sufficient importance.”

“But of course,” Tom replied. “Now? … Very good, m’sieur.”

Tom gathered that the police officer knew where his house was. Heloise had told him, after her telephone conversation with Agnes Grais, that the police were still at the Pritchard house, and that a couple of police cars were parked on the road there. Tom had an impulse to go up and warn Ed, but decided against it: Ed knew what Tom’s story would be, and there was no need for Ed to be present when the officer was here. Instead, Tom went to the kitchen, where Mme Annette was washing salad, and told her that a police officer would call, in perhaps five minutes.

“Officier de police,” she repeated with only mild surprise, because it was not her domain. “Very good, m’sieur.”

“I’ll let him in. He won’t be here long.”

Then Tom took a favorite old apron from a hook behind the kitchen door, put it around his neck and tied the waist.

When Tom went into the living room, Ed was coming down the stairs. “A police officer is coming in a minute,” Tom said. “Probably because somebody said we—Heloise and I—knew the Pritchards.” Tom gave a shrug. “And because we speak English. Not many such around here.”

Tom heard the door knocker. There was both knocker and bell, but Tom made no judgment about people who used one or the other.

“Shall I vanish?” asked Ed.

“Make yourself a drink. Do as you like. You’re my house-guest,” said Tom.

Ed did make his way to the bar cart in a far corner.

Tom opened the door, and greeted the police officers, two, whom he thought he had not seen before. They said their names, touched caps and Tom invited them to come in.

They both elected to take the straight chairs rather than the sofa.

Ed came into view, and Tom, still on his feet, introduced him as Edward Banbury, of London, an old friend who was a guest for the weekend. Then Ed took his drink out to the terrace.

The police officers, of about the same age, might have had the same rank. At any rate, they both spoke, and the matter was, a Mrs. Thomas Murchison had telephoned the Pritchard house from New York, and had expected to speak with David Pritchard or his wife, and the police had answered. Mrs. Murchison—was M. Ripley acquainted with her?

“I believe,” Tom said earnestly, “she was here in this house for one hour—some years ago—after the disappearance of her husband.”

“Exactement! Just what she told us, M’sieur Reepley! Alors—” The officer went on in French with gravity and assurance. “Madame Murcheeson informed us that she had heard yesterday, Friday, from—”

“Thursday,” corrected the other officer.

“Possibly—the first telephone call, yes. David Preechard informed her that he had found the—the bones, yes, of her husband. And that he, Preechard, was going to speak with you about them. Show you these bones.”

Tom frowned. “Show me? I don’t understand.”

“Deliver them,” said the other officer to his colleague.

“Ah, yes, deliver them.”

Tom took a breath. “Mr. Pritchard said nothing to me about this, I assure you. Madame Murchison said he telephoned me? That is not true.”

“He was going to deliver them, n’est-ce pas, Philippe?” asked the other officer.

“Yes, but Friday, said Madame Murcheeson. Yesterday morning,” replied his colleague.

They both sat now with their caps on their laps.

Tom shook his head. “Nothing was delivered here.”

“You knew M’sieur Preechard, m’sieur?”

“He introduced himself to me in the bar-tabac here. I went once to his house to take a glass. Weeks ago. They had invited me and my wife. I went alone. They were never in this house.”

The taller, blonder officer cleared his throat, and said to the other officer, “The photographs?”

“Ah, oui. We found in the Preechard house two photographs of your house, M’sieur Reepley—from outside.”

“Really? Of my house?”

“Yes, plainly. These photographs were propped up on the mantel in the Preechard house.”

Tom looked at the two snapshots in the officer’s hand. “Very odd. My house is not for sale.” Tom smiled. “However—yes! I remember once seeing Pritchard in the road outside. A few weeks ago. My housekeeper called it to my attention—someone taking pictures of my house with a small—quite ordinary camera.”

“And you recognized him as M’sieur Preechard?”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t like his taking pictures, but I chose to ignore it. My wife saw him too—also a friend of my wife’s who was visiting us that day.” Tom frowned, recollecting. “I remember seeing Madame Pritchard in a car—she picked up her husband a few minutes later, and they drove away together. Strange.”

At this point Mme Annette came into the room, and Tom gave his attention to her. She wished to know if the gentlemen would like something? Tom knew she wanted to lay the table soon.

“A glass of wine, messieurs?” asked Tom. “Un pastis?”

Both declined politely, being on duty.

“Nor for me just yet, madame,” said Tom. “Ah—Madame Annette—was there a telephone call for me Thursday—or Friday”—Tom asked with a glance at the officers, and one nodded—“from a M’sieur Preechard? About delivering something to the house?” Tom asked this with real interest, as he had suddenly thought that Pritchard might have spoken with Mme Annette about a delivery, and she might have forgotten (though it was unlikely) to inform Tom.

“Non, M’sieur Tome.” She shook her head.

Tom said to the officers, “Naturally, my housekeeper learned of the Pritchard tragedy this morning.”

Murmurs from the officers. Of course, news like that would spread quickly!

“You may ask Madame Annette about anything being delivered here,” said Tom.

One officer did, and Mme Annette replied in the negative, shaking her head once more.

“No packages, m’sieur,” said Mme Annette positively.

“This”—Tom chose his words—“this also concerns M’sieur Murcheeson, Madame Annette. Remember—the gentleman who disappeared at Orly airport? The American who was here overnight a few years ago?”

“Ah, oui. A tall man,” said Mme Annette rather vaguely.

“Yes. We talked about pictures. My two Derwatts—” Tom gestured toward his walls for the benefit of the French officers.

“M’sieur Murchison had also a Derwatt, which was alas stolen at Orly. I drove him to Orly the next day—around noon as I recall. You remember, madame?”

Tom had spoken casually, without emphasis, and Mme Annette rewarded him, luckily, by replying in the same tone.

“Oui, M’sieur Tome. I remember helping with his valises—to the car.”

That was good enough, Tom thought, though he had heard her say that she remembered M. Murchison walking out of the house and getting into the car.

Now Heloise came down the stairs. Tom stood up and so did the officers.

“My wife,” Tom said, “Madame Heloise—”

The two officers again said their names.

“We speak about the Preechard house,” Tom said to Heloise . “Something to drink, dear?”

“No, thank you. I wait.” Heloise looked as if she wanted to drift off, perhaps to the garden.

Mme Annette returned to the kitchen.

“Madame Reepley, did you perhaps see any package—this long—delivered—left anywhere on your property here?” The officer gestured with arms spread to indicate length.

Heloise looked puzzled. “From a florist?”

The officers had to smile.

“Non, madame. Canvas—tied with rope. Late Thursday—or Friday?”

Tom left it to Heloise to state that she had arrived from Paris only today at midday. She had spent Friday night in Paris, and Thursday she had been in Tangier, she said.

That settled that.

The officers consulted, then one said, “May we speak to your friend from London?”

Ed was standing by the roses. Tom gave him a shout and he came trotting.

“Police want to ask you about a package brought here,” Tom said on the terrace steps. “I haven’t seen any, neither has Heloise.” Tom spoke easily, not knowing if a police officer was behind him on the terrace or not.

The officers were still in the living room when Ed went in.

Ed was asked if he had seen any grayish package, more than a meter long, in the driveway, under the hedges—anywhere, even outside the gates. “Non,” Ed replied. “Non.”

“When did you arrive here, m’sieur?”

“Yesterday—Friday—midday. I had lunch here.” Ed’s serious blond brows gave his face a most honest expression. “M. Ripley met me at de Gaulle airport.”