Patricia Highsmith - The Talented Mr.Ripley

Copyright 1955, 1956 by Patricia Highsmith Copyright renewed 1983 by Patricia Highsmith

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in the USA by Coward-McCann Inc. 1955

First published in Great Britain by The Cresset Press 1956

Published in Great Britain in 1966 by William Heinemann Ltd

Vintage

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Tom glanced behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage, heading his way. Tom walked faster. There was no doubt that the man was after him. Tom had noticed him five minutes ago, eyeing him carefully from a table, as if he werent quite sure, but almost. He had looked sure enough for Tom to down his drink in a hurry, pay and get out.

At the corner Tom leaned forward and trotted across Fifth Avenue. There was Raouls. Should he take a chance and go in for another drink? Tempt fate and all that? Or should he beat it over to Park Avenue and try losing him in a few dark doorways? He went into Raouls.

Automatically, as he strolled to an empty space at the bar, he looked around to see if there was anyone he knew. There was the big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot, sitting at a table with a blonde girl. The red-haired man waved a hand, and Toms hand went up limply in response. He slid one leg over a stool and faced the door challengingly, yet with a flagrant casualness.

Gin and tonic, please, he said to the barman.

Was this the kind of man they would send after him? Was he, wasnt he, was he? He didnt look like a policeman or a detective at all. He looked like a businessman, somebodys father, well-dressed, well-fed, greying at the temples, an air of uncertainty about him. Was that the kind they sent on a job like this, maybe to start chatting with you in a bar, and then bang!the hand on the shoulder, the other hand displaying a policemans badge. Tom Ripley, youre under arrest . Tom watched the door.

Here he came. The man looked around, saw him and immediately looked away. He removed his straw hat, and took a place around the curve of the bar.

My God, what did he want? He certainly wasnt a pervert , Tom thought for the second time, though now his tortured brain groped and produced the actual word, as if the word could protect him, because he would rather the man be a pervert than a policeman. To a pervert, he could simply say, No, thank you, and smile and walk away. Tom slid back on the stool, bracing himself.

Tom saw the man make a gesture of postponement to the barman, and come around the bar towards him. Here it was! Tom stared at him, paralysed. They couldnt give you more than ten years, Tom thought. Maybe fifteen, but with good conductIn the instant the mans lips parted to speak, Tom had a pang of desperate, agonized regret.

Pardon me, are you Tom Ripley?

Yes.

My name is Herbert Greenleaf. Richard Greenleafs father. The expression on his face was more confusing to Tom than if he had focused a gun on him. The face was friendly, smiling and hopeful. Youre a friend of Richards, arent you?

It made a faint connection in his brain. Dickie Greenleaf. A tall blond fellow. He had quite a bit of money, Tom remembered. Oh, Dickie Greenleaf. Yes.

At any rate, you know Charles and Marta Schriever. Theyre the ones who told me about you, that you mightuh Do you think we could sit down at a table?

Yes, Tom said agreeably, and picked up his drink. He followed the man towards an empty table at the back of the little room. Reprieved, he thought. Free! Nobody was going to arrest him. This was about something else. No matter what it was, it wasnt grand larceny or tampering with the mails or whatever they called it. Maybe Richard was in some kind of jam. Maybe Mr Greenleaf wanted help, or advice. Tom knew just what to say to a father like Mr Greenleaf.

I wasnt quite sure you were Tom Ripley, Mr Greenleaf said. Ive seen you only once before, I think. Didnt you come up to the house once with Richard?

I think I did.

The Schrievers gave me a description of you, too. Weve all been trying to reach you, because the Schrievers wanted us to meet at their house. Somebody told them you went to the Green Cage bar now and then. This is the first night Ive tried to find you, so I suppose I should consider myself lucky. He smiled. I wrote you a letter last week, but maybe you didnt get it.

No, I didnt. Marc wasnt forwarding his mail, Tom thought. Damn him. Maybe there was a cheque there from Auntie Dottie. I moved a week or so ago, Tom added.

Oh, I see. I didnt say much in my letter. Only that Id like to see you and have a chat with you. The Schrievers seemed to think you knew Richard quite well.

I remember him, yes.

But youre not writing to him now? He looked disappointed.

No. I dont think Ive seen Dickie for a couple of years.

Hes been in Europe for two years. The Schrievers spoke very highly of you, and thought you might have some influence on Richard if you were to write to him. I want him to come home. He has responsibilities herebut just now he ignores anything that I or his mother try to tell him.

Tom was puzzled. Just what did the Schrievers say?

They saidapparently they exaggerated a littlethat you and Richard were very good friends. I suppose they took it for granted you were writing him all along. You see, I know so few of Richards friends any more He glanced at Toms glass, as if he would have liked to offer him a drink, at least, but Toms glass was nearly full.

Tom remembered going to a cocktail party at the Schrievers with Dickie Greenleaf. Maybe the Greenleafs were more friendly with the Schrievers than he was, and that was how it had all come about, because he hadnt seen the Schrievers more than three or four times in his life. And the last time, Tom thought, was the night he had worked out Charley Schrievers income tax for him. Charley was a TV director, and he had been in a complete muddle with his free-lance accounts. Charley had thought he was a genius for having doped out his tax and made it lower than the one Charley had arrived at, and perfectly legitimately lower. Maybe that was what had prompted Charleys recommendation of him to Mr Greenleaf. Judging him from that night, Charley could have told Mr Greenleaf that he was intelligent, level-headed, scrupulously honest, and very willing to do a favour. It was a slight error.

I dont suppose you know of anybody else close to Richard who might be able to wield a little influence? Mr Greenleaf asked rather pitifully.

There was Buddy Lankenau, Tom thought, but he didnt want to wish a chore like this on Buddy. Im afraid I dont, Tom said, shaking his head. Why wont Richard come home?