“Athens?”
“Any news of Bernard?”
“No, nothing. What’re you—”
“I’m coming over to London. By tonight, I mean. Get the makeup ready. All right?”
18
On impulse on Thursday afternoon, Tom bought a green raincoat in Athens, a raincoat of a style he would never have chosen himself—that was to say, Tom Ripley would never have touched it. It had a lot of flaps and straps, some of which fastened with double rings, some of which had little buckles, as if the raincoat had been meant to be weighted down with dispatches, military water bottles, cartridges, a mess kit, bayonet, and a baton or two. It was in bad taste, and Tom thought it would help him on entering London—just in case one of the immigration inspectors actually remembered what Thomas Ripley looked like. Tom also changed the parting in his hair from left to right, though the parting did not show in the straight-on photograph. Luckily, his suitcase bore no initials. Money was now the problem, as Tom had only traveler’s checks in the name Ripley, which he couldn’t hand out in London the way he had to the Greek skipper, but Tom had enough drachmas (obtained with French francs from Heloise) for a one-way ticket to London, and in London Jeff and Ed could finance him. Tom removed cards and anything identifying from his billfold, and stuck these things into the buttoned back pocket of his trousers. But he really was not expecting a search.
He survived the Heathrow Immigration Control desk. “How long are you here for?” “Not more than four days, I think.” “A business trip?” “Yes.” “Where will you be staying?” “The Londoner Hotel—Welbeck Street.”
Once more, the bus ride to the London Terminus, and Tom went to a booth and rang Jeff’s studio. It was 10:15 p.m.
A woman answered.
“Is Mr. Constant there?” Tom asked. “Or Mr. Banbury?”
“They’re both out just now. Who is that, please?”
“Robert—Robert Mackay.” No reaction, because Tom had not given his new name to Jeff. Tom knew that Jeff and Ed must have left someone, someone who was an ally, in the studio to await Tom Ripley. “Is this Cynthia?”
“Y-yes,” said the rather high voice.
Tom decided to risk it. “This is Tom,” he said. “When is Jeff coming back?”
“Oh, Tom! I wasn’t sure it was you. They’re due back in half an hour. Can you come here?”
Tom caught a taxi to the St. John’s Wood studio.
Cynthia Gradnor opened the door. “Tom—hello.”
Tom had almost forgot how she looked: medium height, brown hair that hung straight to her shoulders, rather large gray eyes. Now she looked thinner than he recalled. And she was nearly thirty. She seemed a trifle jumpy.
“You saw Bernard?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where he went to.” Tom smiled. He assumed Jeff (and Ed) had obeyed him and not told anyone of Bernard’s attempt on his life. “He’s probably in Paris.”
“Do sit down, Tom! Can I get you a drink?”
Tom smiled, and offered the parcel he had acquired at the Athens airport. White Horse scotch. Cynthia was quite friendly—on the surface. Tom was glad.
“Bernard’s always upset during a show,” said Cynthia, fixing the drinks. “So I’m told. I haven’t seen him much lately. As you may know.”
Tom emphatically wasn’t going to mention that Bernard told him Cynthia had rejected him—didn’t want to see him. Maybe Cynthia didn’t really mean that. Tom couldn’t guess. “Well,” Tom said cheerfully, “he says he’s not going to paint any more—Derwatts. That’s one good thing for him, I’m sure. He’s hated it, he says.”
Cynthia handed Tom his drink. “It’s a ghastly business. Ghastly!”
It was, Tom knew. Ghastly. Cynthia’s visible shudder brought it home to Tom. A murder, lies, fraud—yes, it was a ghastly business. “Well—unfortunately it’s gone this far,” Tom said, “but it won’t go farther. This is Derwatt’s final appearance, you might say. Unless Jeff and Ed have decided they—they don’t want me to play him anymore. Even now, I mean.”
Cynthia seemed to pay no attention to this. It was odd. Tom had sat down, but Cynthia walked slowly up and down the floor, and seemed to be listening for the footsteps of Jeff and Ed on the stairs. “What happened to the man called Murchison? His wife is arriving tomorrow, I think. Jeff and Ed think.”
“I don’t know. I can’t help you,” Tom said quite calmly. He could not afford to let Cynthia’s questions upset him. He had work to do. Good God, the wife arriving tomorrow.
“Murchison knows the paintings are being forged. What did he base that on, exactly?”
“His opinion,” Tom said, and shrugged. “Oh, he talked about the spirit of a painting, the personality—I doubt if he could have convinced a London expert. Who knows where the line divides between Derwatt and Bernard now, frankly? Tedious bastards, these self-appointed art critics. Just about as amusing to listen to as art reviews are to read—spatial concepts, plastic values and all that jazz.” Tom laughed, shot his cuffs, and this time they shot. “Murchison saw mine at home, one genuine and one of Bernard’s. Naturally, I tried to discourage him, and if I may say so, I think I did. I don’t think he was going to keep his appointment with—with the man at the Tate Gallery.”
“But where did he disappear to?”
Tom hesitated. “It’s a mystery. Where did Bernard disappear to? I don’t know. Murchison may have had ideas of his own. Personal reasons for disappearing. Or else it’s a mysterious shanghaiing at Orly!” Tom was nervous, and hated the subject.
“It doesn’t simplify things here. It looks as if Murchison was eliminated or something, because he knew about the forging.”
“That is what I’m trying to correct. And then bow out. The forging has not been proven. Ah, yes, Cynthia, it’s a nasty game, but having gone this far, we have to see it through—to a certain extent.”
“Bernard said he wanted to admit it all—to the police. Maybe he’s doing that.”
That was a horrible possibility, and Tom shuddered a little at the thought, as Cynthia had shuddered. He tossed off his drink. Yes, if the British police crashed in tomorrow with amused smiles, while he was in the middle of his second Derwatt performance, that would be rather a catastrophe. “I don’t think Bernard’s doing that,” Tom said, but he wasn’t sure of what he said.
Cynthia looked at him. “Did you try to persuade Bernard, too?”
Tom was suddenly stung by her hostility, a hostility of years’ standing, Tom knew. He had dreamed up this whole mess. “I did,” Tom said, “for two reasons. One—it would finish Bernard’s own career, and second—”
“I think Bernard’s career is finished, if you mean Bernard Tufts as a painter.”
“Second,” Tom said as gently as he could, “Bernard is not the only person involved, unfortunately. It would ruin also Jeff and Ed, the—whoever they are making the art supplies, unless they deny knowing about the fraud, which I doubt they could do successfully. The art school in Italy—”
Cynthia gave a tense sigh. She seemed unable to speak. Perhaps she did not want to say anymore. She walked around the square studio again, and looked at a blown-up photograph of a kangaroo that Jeff had leaned against a wall. “It’s been two years since I was in this room. Jeff gets more posh all the time.”
Tom was silent. To his relief, he heard faint footsteps, a blur of male voices.
Someone knocked. “Cynthia? It’s us!” Ed called.
Cynthia opened the door.
“Well, Tom!” Ed yelled, and rushed to grip his hand.
“Tom! Greetings!” Jeff said, as merry as Ed.
Jeff carried a small black suitcase which contained the makeup, Tom knew.
“Had to call on our Soho friend for the makeup again,” Jeff said. “How are you, Tom? How was Athens?”
“Gloomy,” Tom said. “Have a drink, boys. The colonels, you know. Didn’t hear any bouzoukis. Look, I hope there’s no show tonight.” Jeff was opening the suitcase.
“No.
Just checking to see if everything is here. Did you hear anything from Bernard?”
“What a question,” Tom said. “No.” He glanced uneasily at Cynthia, who was leaning with folded arms against a cabinet across the room. Did she know he had gone to Greece especially to look for Bernard? Was it of any importance to tell her? No.
“Or Murchison?” Ed asked over his shoulder. He was helping himself to a drink.
“No,” Tom said. “I understand Mrs. Murchison is coming tomorrow?”
“She may,” Jeff replied. “Webster rang us up today and said that. You know, Webster the inspector.”
Tom simply could not speak with Cynthia in the room. He didn’t speak. He wanted to say something casual, such as, “Who bought ‘The Tub’?” but he couldn’t even do this. Cynthia was hostile. She might not betray them, but she was anti.
“By the way, Tom,” Ed said, bringing Jeff a drink (Cynthia still had her drink), “you can stay here tonight. We’re hoping you will.”
“With pleasure,” Tom said.
“And tomorrow—morning, Jeff and I thought we’d ring Webster around ten-thirty, and if we can’t get him, we’ll leave a message, that you arrived by train in London this morning—tomorrow, and rang us up. You’ve been staying with friends near Bury St. Edmunds, something like that and you hadn’t—uh—”
“You didn’t consider the search for you serious enough for you to inform the police of your whereabouts,” Jeff put in, as if he were reciting a Mother Goose rhyme. “Matter of fact they weren’t combing the streets for you. They just asked us a couple of times where Derwatt was, and we said you were probably with friends in the country.”
“D’accord,” Tom said.
“I think I’ll push off,” Cynthia said.
“Oh, Cynthia—not the other half of your drink?” Jeff asked.
“No.” She was putting on her coat, and Ed helped her. “I really only wanted to know if there was news of Bernard, you know.”
“Thanks, Cynthia, for holding the fort of us here,” Jeff said.
An unfortunate metaphor, Tom thought. Tom stood up. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything, Cynthia. I’ll be going back to Paris soon—maybe even tomorrow.”
Mumbled good-byes at the door among Cynthia, Jeff, and Ed. Jeff and Ed came back.
“Is she really still in love with him?” Tom asked. “I didn’t think so. Bernard said—”
Both Jeff and Ed had vaguely pained expressions.
“Bernard said what?” Jeff asked.
“Bernard said he rang her from Paris last week and she said she didn’t want to see him. Or maybe Bernard was exaggerating, I don’t know.”
“Neither do we,” Ed said, and shoved his lank blond hair back. He went for another drink.
“I thought Cynthia had a boyfriend,” Tom said.
“Oh, it’s the same one,” Ed said in a bored tone from the kitchen.
“Stephen something,” Jeff said. “He hasn’t set her on fire.”
“He’s not the fireball type!” Ed said, laughing.
“She still has the same job,” Jeff went on. “It pays well and she’s Number One girl for some sort of a big shot.”
“She is settled,” Ed put in, with finality. “Now where is Bernard, and what did you mean by he’s supposed to think you’re dead?”
Tom explained, briefly. Also about the burial, which he managed to make funny so that Jeff and Ed were enthralled, maybe morbidly fascinated, and laughing at the same time. “Just a small tap on the head,” Tom said. He had stolen Heloise’s scissors and cut off the adhesive tape in the loo of the plane going to Athens.
“Let me touch you!” Ed said, seizing Tom’s shoulder. “Here’s a man who’s climbed out of the grave, Jeff!”
“More than we’ll do. More than I’ll do,” said Jeff.
Tom removed his jacket and seated himself more comfortably on Jeff’s rust-colored couch. “I suppose you have guessed,” Tom said, “that Murchison is dead?”
“We did think that,” Jeff said solemnly. “What happened?”
“I killed him. In my cellar—with a wine bottle.” At this odd moment, it occurred to Tom that he might, that he ought to send Cynthia some flowers. She could toss them in the wastebasket or the fireplace, if she wished. Tom reproached himself for having been ungallant with Cynthia.
Jeff and Ed were still speechlessly recovering from what he had said.
“Where’s the body?” asked Jeff.
“At the bottom of some river. Near me. I think the Loing,” Tom said. Should he tell them that Bernard assisted him? No. Why bother? Tom rubbed his forehead. He was tired, and he slumped on one elbow.
“My God,” Ed said. “Then you took his stuff to Orly?”
“His stuff, yes.”
“Haven’t you got a housekeeper?” Jeff asked.
“Yes. I had to do all this secretly. Around her,” Tom said. “Early in the morning and all that.”
“But you spoke about the burial place in the woods—that Bernard used.” This from Ed.
“Yes, I—had Murchison buried in the woods first, then the police came investigating, so before they got to the woods, I thought I should get him—out of the woods, so I—” Tom gestured, a vague dumping motion. No, best not to mention that Bernard had helped him. If Bernard wanted to—what did he want to do, redeem himself?—the less complicity Bernard had, the better.
“Gosh,” Ed said. “My God. Can you face his wife?”
“Sh-h,” said Jeff quickly, with a nervous smile.
“Of course,” Tom said. “I had to do it, because Murchison got on to me—down in the cellar, matter of fact. He realized that I’d been playing Derwatt in London. So it was all up if I didn’t get rid of him. You see?” Tom walked about, trying to feel less sleepy.
They did see, and they were impressed. At the same time, Tom could sense their brains grinding: Tom Ripley had killed before. Dickie Greenleaf, no? And maybe the other fellow named Freddie something. That was a suspicion merely, but wasn’t it true? How seriously was Tom taking this killing, and in fact how much gratitude was he going to expect from Derwatt Ltd.? Gratitude, loyalty, money? Did it all come down to the same thing? Tom was idealistic enough to think not, to hope not. Tom hoped for a higher caliber in Jeff Constant and Ed Banbury. After all, they had been friends of the great Derwatt, even his best friends. How great was Derwatt? Tom dodged this question. How great was Bernard? Well, pretty great as a painter, if the truth be told. Tom stood up straighter, because of Bernard (who had avoided Jeff and Ed for years from the point of view of friendship), and said, “Well, my friends—how about briefing me on tomorrow? Who else is turning up? I admit I’m tired and I wouldn’t mind going to bed soon.”
Ed was standing facing him. “Any clues against you about Murchison, Tom?”
“Not that I know of.” Tom smiled. “Nothing except the facts.”
“Was ‘The Clock’ really stolen?”
“The picture was with Murchison’s suitcase—wrapped separately—at Orly. Somebody swiped it, that’s plain,” Tom said. “I wonder who’s hanging it now? I wonder if they know what they’ve got? In which case it might not be hanging. Let’s get on with the briefing, shall we? Can we have some music?”
To souped-up Radio Luxembourg, Tom submitted to a semi-dress rehearsal. The beard, on gauze, was still in one piece, and they tested it but did not glue it. Bernard had not taken back Derwatt’s old dark-blue suit, and Tom put on the jacket.
“Do you know anything about Mrs. Murchison?” Tom asked.
They didn’t really, though they volunteered fragments of information which showed her, as far as Tom could see, neither aggressive nor timid, intelligent nor stupid. One datum canceled out the other. Jeff had spoken with her by telephone at the Buckmaster Gallery, where she had rung by a cabled prearrangement.
“A miracle she didn’t ring me,” Tom said.
“Oh, we said we didn’t know your telephone number,” said Ed, “and considering it wa
s France, I suppose it gave her pause.”
“Mind if I ring my house tonight?” Tom asked, putting on Derwatt’s voice. “By the way, I’m broke here.”
Jeff and Ed could not have been more obliging. They had plenty of cash on hand. Jeff put in the call at once to Belle Ombre. Ed made Tom a small strong coffee, which Tom asked for. Tom showered and got into pajamas. That was better—in a pair of Jeff’s house slippers as well. Tom was to sleep on the studio couch.
“I hope I’ve made it clear,” Tom said, “Bernard wants to call it quits. Derwatt will go into permanent retirement and—maybe get eaten by ants in Mexico or devoured by fire, and presumably any future paintings along with him.”
Jeff nodded, started to nibble a fingernail, and whipped it out of his mouth. “What have you told your wife?”
“Nothing,” Tom said. “Nothing important, really.”
The telephone rang.
Jeff beckoned Ed to come into his bedroom with him.
“Hello, darling, it’s me!” Tom said. “No, I’m in London. . . . Well, I changed my mind. . . .”
When was he coming home? . . . And Mme. Annette’s tooth was hurting again.
“Give her the dentist’s name in Fontainebleau!” Tom said.
It was surprising how comforting a telephone call could be in the circumstances in which he was now. It almost made Tom love the telephone.
19
“Is Detective-Inspector Webster there, please?” Jeff asked. “Jeffrey Constant of the Buckmaster Gallery. . . . Would you tell the inspector that I had a ring from Derwatt this morning, and we expect to see him this morning at the gallery. . . . I’m not sure of the exact time. Before twelve.”
It was a quarter to ten.
Tom stood in front of the long mirror again, examining his beard and the reinforcement of his eyebrows. Ed was looking at his face under one of Jeff’s strongest lamps, which was glaring in Tom’s eyes. His hair was lighter than the beard, but darker than his own, as before. Ed had been careful with the cut on the back of his head, and happily it was not bleeding. “Jeff, old man,” Tom said in Derwatt’s taut voice. “Can you cut that music and get something else?”
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