Patricia Highsmith - Ripley Under Water

Patricia Highsmith

Ripley Under Water

Chapter 1

Tom stood in Georges and Maries bar-tabac with a nearly full cup of cafe express in his hand. He had paid, and Heloises two packs of Marlboros bulged his jacket pocket. Tom was watching a slot-machine game that someone else was playing.

The screen showed a cartoon motorcyclist hurtling into the background, the illusion of speed given by a forward-moving picket fence on either side of the road. The player manipulated a half-wheel, making the cyclist swerve to pass a slower car, or leap like a horse to hurdle a fence that had suddenly appeared across the road. If the motorcyclist (game-player) didnt hurdle in time, there was a silent impact, a black and gold star appeared to indicate a crash, the motorcyclist was finished and so was the game.

Tom had watched the game many a time (it was the most popular he had ever known Georges and Marie to acquire), but he had never played it. He somehow didnt want to.

Non-non! From behind the bar Maries voice sang out over the usual din as she contested some customers opinion, probably political. She and her husband were left-wing no matter what. Ecoutez, Mitterrand

It crossed Toms mind that Georges and Marie didnt like the influx of people from North Africa, however.

Eh, Marie! Deux pastis! That was fat Georges with a somewhat soiled white apron over shirt and trousers, serving the few tables, where people drank and occasionally ate potato chips and hard-boiled eggs.

The jukebox played an old cha-cha-cha.

A silent black and gold star! Spectators groaned sympathetically. Dead. All was over. The screen flashed its silent, obsessed message, insert coins insert coins insert coins , and the workman in blue jeans groped obediently in a pocket, inserted more coins, and the game began again, motorcyclist in tip-top shape, zooming into the background, ready for anything, neatly dodging a barrel that appeared in his lane, smoothly jumping the first barrier. The man at the controls was intent, determined to make his man come through.

Tom was thinking now about Heloise, about her trip to Morocco. She wanted to see Tangier, Casablanca, maybe Marrakesh. And Tom had agreed to go with her. After all, it wasnt one of her adventure cruises requiring hospital visits for vaccines before departure, and it behooved him as her husband to accompany her on some of her jaunts. Heloise had two or three inspirations a year, not all of which she acted on. Tom wasnt in the mood for a holiday now. It was early August, Morocco would be at its hottest, and Tom loved his own peonies and dahlias at this time of year, loved cutting a fresh two or three for the living room almost daily. Tom was fond of his garden, and he rather liked Henri, the handyman who helped him with big jobs, a giant when it came to strength, though not the man for some tasks.

Then there was the Odd Pair, as Tom had begun calling them to himself. He wasnt sure they were married, and of course that didnt matter. He felt they were lurking in the area and had their eye on him. Maybe they were harmless, but who knew? Tom had first noticed them a month or so ago in Fontainebleau, when he and Heloise had been shopping one afternoon: a man and woman who looked American and in their mid-thirties, walking toward them, eyeing them with that look Tom knew well, as if they knew who he was, perhaps knew his name, Tom Ripley. Tom had seen the same look a few times at airports, though rarely, and not lately. It could come after ones picture had been in the newspapers, he supposed, but Toms hadnt been in any newspapers for years, he was sure of that. Not since the Murchison business, and that had been about five years agoMurchison, whose blood still stained Toms cellar floor, and which Tom said was a wine stain, if anyone remarked on it.

In truth, it was a mixture of wine and blood, Tom reminded himself, because Murchison had been hit over the head with a wine bottle. A bottle of Margaux wielded by Tom.

Well, the Odd Pair. Crash went the motorcyclist. Tom made himself turn away and took his empty cup over to the bar counter.

The male of the Odd Pair had dark straight hair, black round-rimmed glasses, and the woman light brown hair, a slender face and gray or hazel eyes. It was the man who stared, with a vague and empty smile. Tom felt that he might have seen the man before, at Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle airport, giving him that I-know-your-face look. Nothing hostile, but Tom didnt like it.

And then Tom had seen them once cruising slowly in their car down the main street of Villeperce at midday when he was coming out of the bakery with a flute (must have been Mme Annettes day off or shed been busy with a lunch), and again Tom had seen them looking at him. Villeperce was a tiny town, several kilometers from Fontainebleau. Why should the Odd Pair have come here?

Both Marie with her big red smile and balding Georges happened to be behind the bar just as Tom pushed his cup and saucer away. Merci et bonne nuit, MarieGeorges! Tom called and gave a smile.

Bon soir, Msieur Reepley! cried Georges, one hand waving, the other pouring Calvados.

Merci, msieur, a bientot! Marie threw at him.

Tom was almost at the door when the male of the Odd Pair walked in, round glasses and all, and seemingly alone.

Mr. Ripley? His pinkish lips again wore a smile. Good evening.

Evening, said Tom, still on his way out.

Wevemy wife and Imay I invite you for a drink?

Thanks, Im just leaving.

Another time, maybe. Weve rented a house in Villeperce. This direction. He gestured vaguely north, and his smile widened to reveal squarish teeth. Looks like well be neighbors.

Tom was confronted by two people entering, and had to step back into the bar.

My names Pritchard. David. Im taking courses at the Fontainebleau business school insead . Im sure you know of it. Anyway, my house here is a two-story white one with garden and a little pool. We fell in love with it because of the pool, reflections on the ceilingthe water. He chuckled.

I see, Tom said, trying to sound reasonably pleasant. He was now out of the door.

Ill telephone you. My wifes name is Janice.

Tom managed a nod and forced a smile. Yesfine. Do that. Good night.

Not too many Americans around here! the determined David Pritchard called after him.

Mr. Pritchard would have a hard time finding his number, Tom was thinking, because he and Heloise had managed to keep it out of the telephone book. The outwardly dull David Pritchardnearly as tall as Tom and a bit heavierlooked like trouble, Tom was thinking as he walked homeward. A police officer of some kind? Digging up old records? Private detective forfor whom, really? Tom couldnt think of any active enemies. Phony was the word Tom thought of in regard to David Pritchard: phony smile, phony goodwill, maybe phony story about studying at instead . That educational institution at Fontainebleau could be a cover, in fact such an obvious one that Tom thought it might be true that Pritchard was studying something there. Or maybe they werent man and wife but a CIA pair. What would the USA be after him for, Tom wondered. Not income tax, that was in order. Murchison? No, that was settled. Or case abandoned. Murchison and his corpse had disappeared. Dickie Greenleaf? Hardly. Even Christopher Greenleaf, Dickies cousin, wrote Tom a friendly postcard now and then, from Alice Springs last year, for instance. Christopher was now a civil engineer, married, working in Rochester, New York, as Tom recalled. Tom was even on good terms with Dickies father Herbert. At least, they exchanged Christmas cards.

As Tom approached the big tree opposite Belle Ombre, a tree whose branches leaned a little over the road, his spirits rose. What was there to worry about? Tom pushed open one big gate just enough to slip through, then closed it with as gentle a clang as he could manage and slid the padlock home, then the long bolt.