Ripley Under Water

by Patricia Highsmith

  “What a strange man!” Noelle said.

  “Indeed,” Tom replied.

  “He didn’t say last evening he wanted to take pictures of your house?” Noelle went on.

  Tom shook his head. “No. Let’s forget him. I asked Madame Annette to tell me if he sets foot on—on our land.”

  They did talk of other things—traveler’s checks versus Visa cards for North African countries. Tom said he preferred a little of both.

  “A little of both?” asked Noelle.

  “You find hotels that won’t take Visa, only American Express, for instance,” Tom said.

  “But—a traveler’s check can always do it.” He was near the French windows at the terrace, and he took the opportunity to scan the lawn from the left, where the lane was, to the right corner where the greenhouse squatted in tranquillity. No sign of a human figure or of movement. Tom saw that Heloise had noticed his concern. Where had Pritchard left his car, Tom wondered. Or had Janice dropped him and was she going to swoop by and pick him up?

  The ladies consulted a timetable for the trains to Paris. Heloise wanted to drive Noelle to Moret, where there was a train direct to the Gare de Lyon. Tom offered to do it, but it seemed that Heloise really wanted to drive her friend. Noelle had the smallest of overnight cases, and was already packed, and she was downstairs in a trice with it.

  “Thank you, Tome!” said Noelle. “So it seems we shall see one another sooner than usual—in just six more days!” She laughed.

  “Let us hope. That’ll be fun.” Tom wanted to carry her case, but Noelle wouldn’t let him.

  Tom walked out with them, and watched the red Mercedes turn left and head toward the village. Then he saw a white car approaching from the left, slowing, and a figure stepped out from the bushes into the road—Pritchard in rumpled tan summer jacket and dark trousers. He got into the white car. Now Tom stepped behind a conveniently tall hedge at one side of the gates of Belle Ombre, a hedge taller than a Pots-darner guard, and waited.

  The self-assured Pritchards cruised by, David grinning at the excitable Janice, who was looking at him rather than at the road. Pritchard glanced at the open gates of Belle Ombre, and Tom almost wished he had dared to order Janice to stop, back up and drive in—Tom felt like taking them both on with his fists—but apparently Pritchard did not give such an order, because the car rolled slowly away. The white Peugeot had a Paris license, Tom noticed.

  What was left of Murchison by now, Tom wondered. The flow of the river over the years, slow and steady, would have done as much or more than predatory fish to diminish Murchison. Tom was not sure there were types of fish in the Loing there that would be interested in flesh, unless of course there were eels. Tom had heard—he checked his sickening thoughts. He did not want to imagine it. Two rings, Tom recalled, which he had decided to leave on the dead man’s fingers. The stones just might have held the corpse in the same spot. Would the head have come loose from the neck bones, and rolled away on its own somewhere, dispelling dental identification? The tarpaulin or canvas would certainly have rotted.

  Stop it! Tom told himself, and lifted his head. Mere seconds had passed since he had seen the creepy Pritchards, and he was only now at his own unlocked door.

  Mme Annette had by now cleared the breakfast table and was probably doing the most minor of chores in the kitchen, such as checking the black and white pepper supplies. Or she might even be in her own room, sewing for herself or a friend (she had an electric sewing machine), or writing a letter to her sister Marie-Odile in Lyons. Sunday was Sunday, and exerted its influence, Tom had noticed, also on him: one simply didn’t try to work as hard on Sunday. Monday was Mme Annette’s official day off.

  Tom stared at the beige harpsichord with its black and beige keys. Their music teacher, Roger Lepetit, was coming Tuesday afternoon to give a lesson to them both. Tom was practicing some old English songs now, ballads, which he didn’t love as much as he loved Scarlatti, but the ballads were more personal, warmer, and of course a change. He liked to listen to, or overhear (Heloise did not like attention paid), Heloise ‘s efforts with Schubert. Her naivete, her goodwill, seemed to Tom to bring out a new dimension in the familiar tunes of the master. Tom was further amused by her Schubert playing, for the reason that M. Lepetit rather resembled the young Schubert—of course Schubert had always been young, Tom realized. M. Lepetit was under forty, somewhat soft and rotund, and wore rimless glasses, as had Schubert. Unmarried, he lived with his mother, as did the giant Henri, the gardener. What a difference in the men!

  Stop dreaming, Tom told himself. What was he logically to expect from Pritchard’s photographic efforts this morning? Would the photographs or negatives be sent to the CIA, that organization which, as Tom recalled, JFK had once said he would like to see hanged, drawn and quartered? Or would David and Janice pore over the photos, some of them, perhaps, enlarged, giggle and chatter about invading the Ripley stronghold, which was apparently unguarded by dog or man? Would the Pritchards’ chatter be dreams or real plans?

  What did they have against him, and why? What did they have to do with Murchison, or Murchison with them? Were they related? Tom couldn’t believe it. Murchison had been reasonably well educated, a cut above the Pritchards. Tom had also met his wife; she had come to Belle Ombre to meet Tom after her husband’s disappearance, and she and Tom had talked for an hour or so. A civilized woman, Tom remembered.

  Creepy collectors, of sorts? The Pritchards had not asked for his autograph. Would they try to do some harm to Belle Ombre in his absence? Tom debated saying something to the police, that he’d seen a man who might be a prowler, and because the Ripleys were going to be away for a while -

  Tom was still debating when Heloise returned.

  Heloise was in good humor. “Cheri, why didn’t you ask this man—photographing—to come in? Prickard—”

  “Pritchard, dear.”

  “Pritchard. You were at his house. What’s the trouble?”

  “He is not really friendly, Heloise.” Tom, who had been standing at the French windows that gave on to the back lawn, had taken a stance with feet slightly apart. He deliberately relaxed. “A boring little snoop,” Tom went on more calmly. “Fouineur—that’s what he is.”

  “Why is he snooping?”

  “I dunno, darling. I know—we must keep a distance—and ignore him. And his wife.”

  The next morning, Monday, Tom chose a moment when Heloise was in her bath and telephoned the institute at Fontainebleau, where Pritchard had said he was taking courses in marketing. Tom took some time over this, saying first that he wished to speak with someone in the department of marketing studies. Tom was prepared to speak in French, but the woman who answered spoke English, and without an accent.

  When Tom got the right person he asked if David Pritchard, an American, was in the building now, or could he leave a message. “In marketing, I think,” Tom said. Tom said he had found a house Mr. Pritchard might be interested in renting, and it was important that he leave a message for Mr. Pritchard. Tom could tell that the man in insead took his words seriously, as people there were always looking for housing. He came back to the telephone and told Tom that there was no David Pritchard on their register, in marketing or any other department.

  “Then I’ve made a mistake somewhere,” Tom said. “I thank you for your trouble.”

  Tom took a turn around the garden. He might have known, of course, that David Pritchard—if that was his real name—made a game of telling lies.

  Now Cynthia. Cynthia Gradnor. That mystery. Tom bent quickly and plucked a buttercup, shiny and delicate, from his lawn. How had Pritchard got her name?

  Tom took a breath, and turned toward the house again. He had decided that the only thing to do was to ask either Ed or Jeff to ring up Cynthia and ask her straight if she knew Pritchard. Tom could have done it, but he strongly suspected that Cynthia would hang up on him, or be deliberately unhelpful, no matter what he wanted. She hated him more than she did the others.
>
  Just as Tom entered the living room, the front doorbell sounded, a buzz, twice. Tom drew himself up, clenched and unclenched his fists. The door had a peephole, and Tom took a look through it. He saw a stranger in a blue cap.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Express, m’sieur. Pour M’sieur Reepley?”

  Tom opened the door. “Yes, thank you.”

  The messenger handed Tom a small sturdy manila envelope, gave a vague salute and departed. He must have come from Fontainebleau or Moret, Tom thought, and inquired the position of Tom’s house perhaps from the bar-tabac. This was the mystery object from Reeves Minot of Hamburg, whose name and address was on the upper-left corner. Tom found inside a small white box, and in this something that looked like a miniature typewriter ribbon in a transparent plastic case. There was also a white envelope on which Reeves had written “Tom.” Tom opened it.

  Hello, Tom,

  Here it is. Please post it about five days from now to George Sardi, 307 Temple St., Peekskill, NY 10569, but not registered, and please label it tape or typewriter ribbon. Airmail, please.

  All the best, as always,

  And what was on this, Tom wondered, as he put the transparent case back into the white box. International secrets of some kind? Financial transactions? A record of drug-money movements? Or some revolting private and personal blackmail material, a pair of voices taped when the owners of the voices thought they were alone? Tom was glad to know nothing about the tape. He was not paid nor did he wish to be paid for work such as this, and he wouldn’t have accepted pay, or even danger money, if Reeves had offered it.

  Tom decided to try Jeff Constant first and ask him, insist even, that he find out how David Pritchard might have learned Cynthia Gradnor’s name. And what was Cynthia doing these days—married, working in London? Easy for Ed and Jeff to take a rather unanxious attitude, Tom thought. He, Tom Ripley, had eliminated Thomas Murchison for them all, and now Tom had a vulture cruising over him and his household in the form of Pritchard.

  Heloise was out of her bath, Tom was sure, and in her own room upstairs, but still Tom preferred to venture this call from his room with the door closed. He nipped up the stairs two at a time. Tom looked up the St. John’s Wood number and dialed, expecting an answering service.

  A strange voice, male, answered, saying that Mr. Constant was busy just now, and could he take a message? Mr. Constant was photographing someone at an appointed sitting.

  “Can you tell Mr. Constant that Tom is on the line and wants to speak just a moment?”

  In less than half a minute, Jeff was on the line. Tom said, “Jeff. Sorry, but this is a bit urgent. Can you and Ed make another effort to find out how this David Pritchard got hold of Cynthia’s name? It’s very important. And—did Cynthia ever meet him? Pritchard’s a sick liar, if I ever saw one. I spoke with Ed the night before last. Did he ring you?”

  “Yes, this morning before nine.”

  “Good. My news—Pritchard was standing on the road outside, photographing my house yesterday morning. How do you like that?”

  “Photographing! Is he a cop?”

  “I’m trying to find out. I’ve got to find out. I’m leaving in a few days for a holiday with my wife. I hope you’ll understand why I’m thinking about the safety of my house. It might be a good idea to invite Cynthia for a drink or lunch, or whatever—to get the information we want.”

  “That won’t—”

  “I know it won’t be easy,” Tom said, “but it’s worth a try. It’s worth as much as a good bit of your income, Jeff, and Ed’s too.” Tom didn’t want to add, on the telephone, that it might also prevent a charge of fraud against Jeff and Ed, and a charge of first-degree murder against himself.

  “I’ll try,” said Jeff.

  “And Pritchard again: American about thirty-five, dark straight hair, about six feet, sturdy build, wears black-rimmed glasses, has a receding hairline that’s going to leave him with a widow’s peak.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “If for some reason Ed might be better at the job—” But between the two, Tom couldn’t have told which might be better. “I know Cynthia’s difficult,” Tom went on, more gently, “but Pritchard’s on to Murchison—or at least mentioning his name.”

  “I know,” said Jeff.

  “Right, Jeff, you and Ed do your best and keep me posted. I’m here till Friday morning early.”

  They hung up.

  Tom seized a half-hour to practice with unusual concentration, he thought, at the harpsichord. He did better with definite short periods of time in view, twenty minutes, one half-hour, made more progress, if he dared use the word. Tom was not aiming at perfection, or even adequacy. Ha! What was that? He didn’t, wouldn’t, ever play for other people, so what did his mediocre level matter to anyone but himself? To Tom his practice, and the weekly visits and sessions with the Schubertly Roger Lepetit, were a form of discipline which he had come to love.

  The half-hour in Tom’s mind and on his wristwatch was two minutes short of being up, when the telephone rang. Tom went to take it in the hall.

  “Hello, Mr. Ripley, please—”

  Tom at once recognized Janice Pritchard’s voice. Heloise had picked up her telephone, and Tom said, “It’s all right, my dear, I think it’s for me.” He heard Heloise hang up.

  “This is Janice Pritchard,” the voice went on, tense and nervous. “I want to apologize for yesterday morning. My husband has such absurd, sometimes rude ideas—such as photographing your house! I’m sure you saw him or your wife did.”

  As she spoke, Tom recalled her face, apparently smiling approval as she gazed at her husband in the car. “I think my wife did,” said Tom. “No serious matter, Janice. But why does he want pictures of my house?”

  “He doesn’t,” she said on a high note. “He just wants to annoy you—and everybody else.”

  Tom gave a laugh, a puzzled laugh, and repressed a statement that he longed to make. “Finds it fun, does he?”

  “Yes. I can’t understand him. I’ve told him—”

  Tom interrupted the phony-sounding defense of husband with, “May I ask you, Janice, where you got my telephone number, or your husband did?”

  “Oh, that was easy. David asked our plumber. He’s the local plumber and he gave it to us right away. The plumber was here because we had a small problem.”

  Victor Jarot, of course, the indefatigable voider of rebellious cisterns, the rammer of clogged pipes. Could such a man have any idea of privacy? “I see,” said Tom, at once livid, but at a loss what to do about Jarot, except to tell him please not to give his number out to anyone, under any circumstances. The same thing could happen with the mazout—the heating-fuel—people, he supposed. Such people thought the world turned around their metiers, and nothing else. “What does your husband really do?” Tom asked, taking a wild chance. “That is—I can hardly believe he’s studying marketing. He probably knows everything about marketing! So I felt he was kidding.” Tom wasn’t going to tell Janice he’d checked at INSEAD.

  “Oh—one minute—yes, I thought I heard the car. David’s back. Got to sign off, Mr. Ripley. Bye!” She hung up.

  Well! Had to ring him on the sly! Tom smiled. And her objective? To apologize! Was apologizing further humiliation for Janice Pritchard? Had David really been coming in the door?

  Tom laughed aloud. Games, games! Secret games and open games. Open-looking games that were really sly and secret. But of course beginning-and-end secret games went on behind closed doors, as a rule. And the people concerned merely players, playing out something not in their control. Oh, sure.

  He turned and stared at the harpsichord, which he was not going back to now, then went out and trotted to his nearest circle of dahlias. He cut with his pocketknife just one of the type he called frizzy orange, his favorite, because its petals reminded him of van Gogh sketches, of fields near Aries, of leaves and petals depicted with loving, wriggling care, be it with crayon or brush.

  Tom wa
lked back to the house. He was thinking of the Scarlatti Opus 38, or Sonate en Re Mineur, as M. Lepetit called it, which Tom was working on and had hopes of improving. He loved the (to him) main theme which sounded like a striving, an attack upon a difficulty—and yet was beautiful. But he did not want to practice it so much that it became stale.

  He was also thinking of the telephone call to come from Jeff or Ed about Cynthia Gradnor. Depressing to know that it probably wouldn’t come for twenty-four hours, even if Jeff was successful in having some kind of conversation with Cynthia.

  When the telephone rang around five that afternoon, Tom had a small hope, very small, that it might be Jeff, but it was not. Agnes Grais’ pleasant voice announced itself, and asked Tom if he and Heloise could come for an aperitif that evening around seven. “Antoine had a prolonged weekend, and he wants to leave so early tomorrow morning, and you both so soon go away.”

  “Thank you, Agnes. Can you wait a moment while I speak with Heloise?”

  Heloise agreed, and Tom came back and so informed Agnes.

  Tom and Heloise left Belle Ombre almost at seven. The newly rented Pritchard house lay on the same road and beyond, Tom was thinking as he drove. What had the Grais noticed about the “renters”? Maybe nothing. The inevitable wild trees—Tom liked them—grew in the fields between houses in this area, sometimes blocking the points of distant house lights.

  As was usual, Tom found himself standing and talking with Antoine, though he had vowed in a mild way not to be so entrapped this time. He had little to talk about to Antoine, the hardworking right-wing architect, whereas Heloise and Agnes had that feminine talent for bursting into conversation on sight, and keeping it up—with pleasant expressions on their faces too—for a whole evening, if need be.

  This time, however, Antoine talked about Morocco instead of the influx of non-French in Paris demanding housing. “Ah oui, my father took me there when I was about six. I never forgot it. Of course I went a few times since then. It has a charm, a magic. To think that once the French had a protectorate over it, the days when the postal service was functioning, the telephone service, the streets …”