The Boy Who Followed Ripley

by Patricia Highsmith

  “I asked him their names!” Peter said to Tom.

  “Tomorrow!” said Eric. “He’ll remember tomorrow.”

  Tom went to see if the chain was on Eric’s door, and it was.

  Peter was smiling at Tom, looking happy. “It’s marvelous!—Where did they go to? They ran out?”

  “I think they took to the roofs,” Tom said.

  “Three of them.” Peter spoke in a tone of awe. “Maybe your drag scared them.”

  Tom smiled, too tired to talk. Or he might have been able to talk about anything else but what he had just been through. Tom laughed suddenly. “You should’ve been at the Hump tonight, Eric!”

  “I must go,” said Peter, hovering, not really wanting to go.

  “Oh, your gun, Peter, and the torch, while I think of it!” Tom got the gun from the handbag, the torch from the closet. “Many, many thanks! Three shots fired, three shots left.’”

  Peter pocketed his gun, smiling. “Good night, sleep well,” he said in a soft voice, and went out.

  Eric said good night to him, and replaced the chain on the door. “Now let’s get this bed open, don’t you think so, Tom?”

  “Yes. Come on, Frank old boy.” Tom smiled at the sight of Frank sitting with an elbow on an arm of the sofa, viewing them with a silly smile and half-open eyes, like a sleepy spectator in a theater. Tom hauled the boy up and sat him in an armchair.

  Then he and Eric got the sofa undone, the sheets on.

  “Frank can sleep with me,” Tom said. “Neither of us is going to know where we are.” Tom started undressing Frank, who gave him some cooperation but not much. Then Tom fetched a big glass of water. He meant to encourage Frank to drink all he could.

  “Tom, should you not telephone Paris?” Eric asked. “To say the boy is all right? Just suppose that gang tries something else with Paris!”

  Eric was right, but the thought of ringing Paris bored him. “I’ll do it.” He got Frank onto his back in bed, and pulled the sheet up to his neck, and also drew a light blanket over him. Then he dialed the Hôtel Lutetia, whose number he had to make an effort to recall, but he got it right.

  Eric lingered.

  And Thurlow answered sleepily.

  “Hello, this is Tom. Everything is all right here . . . Yes, that’s what I mean . . . Quite all right, but sleepy. Tranquilizers . . . I don’t care to go into details tonight . . . No, I’ll explain that later. It’s untouched . . . Yes . . . Not before noon, Mr. Thurlow, we are very tired here.” Tom hung up as Thurlow was saying something else. “Asking also about the money,” Tom said to Eric, and laughed.

  Eric laughed too. “The suitcase is in my bedroom closet!—Good night, Tom.”

  16

  For the second time in Eric’s apartment, Tom awakened to the cozy hum of the coffee grinder. This morning he was happier. Frank lay facedown, asleep, and breathing. Tom had yielded to an impulse to check if he was breathing by looking at his ribs. Tom put on his dressing gown and went in to see Eric.

  “Now tell me more about last night,” Eric said. “One shot—”

  “Yes, Eric. Only one. At the door lock.”

  Eric was putting various kinds of bread, rolls, and jams on a tray—extra festive in Frank’s honor, perhaps. “We’ll let the boy sleep, of course. Isn’t he a nice-looking boy!”

  Tom smiled. “You think so? Yes. Rather handsome and unaware of it. That’s always attractive.”

  They sat on Eric’s smaller sofa in the living room, which had a coffee table in front of it. Tom narrated the evening’s events, even to Max and Rollo standing by him in the Hump, and said that the two who had been looking for Joey finally left, disappointed.

  “They sound amateurish—to let you follow them,” Eric said.

  “Evidently. They looked young, in their twenties.”

  “And the neighbors there in Binger Strasse. Did they recognize the boy, do you think?’

  “Doubt it.” He and Eric were keeping their voices low, though Frank showed no sign of waking. “What can the neighbors do now? They should be more familiar with the kidnappers’ faces, since they were going in and out of the house. One of them said she’d called the police. I think she did. Anyway the police’ll surely look the apartment over, get a lot of fingerprints if they take the trouble. But do the neighbors know what was going on?— The police will find Max’s pumps there. That’ll throw them off!” Tom was feeling much better with Eric’s strong coffee. “I’d like to get the boy out of Berlin as soon as possible—and get myself out too. I’d like to take off for Paris this afternoon, but I don’t think the boy’s up to it.”

  Eric looked at the bed, then back at Tom. “I shall miss you,” he said, sighing. “Berlin can be dull. Maybe you don’t think so.”

  “Really?— There is one chore today, Eric, returning the money to the banks here. Can’t we get messengers for that? Maybe one messenger can do it all? I certainly don’t want to do it.”

  “I’m sure, yes. We shall telephone.” Eric suddenly bubbled with laughter and looked rather Chinese in his shiny black dressing gown. “I am thinking of all that money here, and that boob in Paris is there doing nothing!”

  “No, he is collecting his fee,” said Tom.

  “Imagine,” Eric went on, “the boob in drag! I bet he could not have done it! I wish I had been at the Hump last night. I would have taken Polaroids of you with Max and Rollo!”

  “Please return Max’s drag with my thanks. Oh—and I must get that Italian’s gun out of that suitcase. No need for the bank messenger to see that. May I?” Tom motioned toward Eric’s bedroom.

  “Of course! Back of my closet. You will find it.”

  Tom got the suitcase from the depths of Eric’s closet, carried it into the living room, and unzipped its top. The longish muzzle of the gun pointed right at him, because its handle had fallen between a manila envelope and the side of the suitcase.

  “Something missing?” Eric said.

  “No, no.” Tom took the gun out carefully, and made sure the safety was on. “I’ll make someone a present of this. I doubt if I could fly out of Berlin with it. Would you like it, Eric?”

  “Ach, the gun of yesterday! Most welcome, Tom. Not easy to get here, guns, even flick-knives beyond a certain length. Very strict regulations here.”

  “House present,” Tom said, handing the gun to Eric.

  “I do thank you, Tom.” Eric disappeared with it into his bedroom.

  Now Frank stirred, and lay on his back. “I s-no-no.” He said it in a reasoning tone of voice.

  Tom watched the boy’s frown tighten.

  “To g’up, you said, I dunno so—stop!” The boy arched his back.

  Tom shook his shoulder. “Hello, it’s Tom. You’re okay, Frank.”

  Frank opened his eyes, frowned again, and pushed himself nearly to a sitting position. “Wow!” He shook his head, and smiled fuzzily. “Tom.”

  “Coffee.” Tom poured a cup for him.

  Frank looked all around him, at walls and ceiling. “I— How did we get here?”

  Tom didn’t answer. He brought the coffee and held it while the boy had a sip.

  “Is this a hotel room?”

  “No, Eric Lanz’s house.— Remember the man you had to hide from at my house? A week or so ago?”

  “Yes. . . . Sure.”

  “His apartment. Have some more coffee. Got a headache?”

  “No. . . . Is this Berlin?”

  “Yes. Apartment house. Third floor. . . . I think we ought to leave Berlin today if you feel up to it. Maybe this afternoon. Back to Paris.” Tom brought a plate of bread and butter and jam. “What were they giving you there? Sleeping pills? Injections?’

  “Pills. They put them in cokes—made me drink it. In the car they gave me a needle—in my thigh.” Frank spoke slowly.

  In Grunewald. That sounded a little more professional. The boy was able to take a bite of toast and chew it, Tom was glad to see. “They feed you anything?”

  Frank tried to s
hrug. “I threw up a couple of times. And they—w-would not let me go to the john often enough.— Think I wet my trousers—awful! My clothes—” The boy looked around, frowning, as if these unmentionable items might be in sight. “That I—”

  “No importance, Frank, really.” Eric was coming back, and Tom said, “Eric, meet Frank. He’s a bit more awake now.”

  Frank was covered to the waist by the sheet, but he pulled the sheet higher. His eyelids still sagged. “Good morning, sir.”

  “I am delighted to meet you,” said Eric. “You are feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Frank was now looking at the horsehair edge of his bed, which the sheet did not cover, in apparent wonderment. “Your house—Tom told me. Thank you.”

  Tom went into Eric’s bedroom, where Frank’s brown suitcase was, and took Frank’s pajamas from it. He brought them in to Frank and tossed them on the bed. “So you can walk around,” Tom said. “Your suitcase is here, Frank, so nothing’s lost.— I’d love to take him for a walk in the fresh air, but I don’t think it’s advisable,” Tom said to Eric. “The next thing really is to ring up one of those banks. The ADCA Bank or the Disconto. The Disconto sounds bigger, doesn’t it?”

  “Banks?” asked Frank, pulling pajama pants on under the sheet. “Ransom money?” But his voice was still sleepy, and he sounded unconcerned.

  “Your money,” said Tom. “What do you think you’re worth, Frank? Guess.” Tom was trying to wake the boy up by talking to him. Now he looked in his wallet for the three receipts he had, which would also have the telephone numbers of the banks.

  “Ransom money— Who has it?” Frank asked.

  “I have it. It’s going back to your family. Tell you about that later, not now.”

  “I know there was a date,” Frank said, drawing on his pajama jacket. “One was talking in English on the phone. Then they went out—once—all except one.” Frank’s speech was still slow, but he sounded sure of his statements.

  Eric reached for a black cigarette from a silver bowl on his coffee table.

  “You know—” Frank’s eyes began to swim again. “I was always in the kitchen there—but I think that’s right.”

  Tom poured more coffee for Frank. “Drink that.”

  Eric was now on the telephone, asking to speak with the Herr Direktor. Tom heard him give his own address in regard to money collected yesterday by Thomas Ripley. Eric also mentioned the two other banks. Tom felt relieved. Eric was handling it well.

  “A messenger will come before noon,” Eric said to Tom. “They have got the Swiss account number and they can telex it back.”

  “Excellent. I thank you, Eric.” Tom watched Frank crawl out of bed.

  Frank looked at the open suitcase on the floor with the fat manila envelopes inside. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Tom took some clothes and started for the bathroom to dress. Glancing behind him, he saw Frank edging around the suitcase as if it were a poisonous snake. Under the shower, Tom remembered that he had promised to ring Thurlow around noon. Maybe Frank would also like to talk with his brother.

  When Tom came back to the living room, he told Frank that he had to ring Paris, and that he had rung last night and the detective Thurlow knew he was safe. Frank showed little interest in Paris. “Wouldn’t you like to talk with Johnny?”

  “Well, Johnny—yes.” Frank was still barefoot, and walking around, which Tom thought was good for him.

  Tom dialed the Lutetia number. He got Thurlow, and said, “Yes, the boy’s right here. Would you like to speak with him?”

  Frank frowned and shook his head, but Tom pressed the telephone on him.

  “Give him some proof,” Tom said, smiling. Tom whispered, “Do not mention Eric’s name.”

  “Hello? . . . Yes, I’m fine . . . Yes, sure, Berlin . . . Tom,” Frank said. “Tom got me last night . . . I don’t know, really . . . Yes, it’s here.”

  Eric pointed to the little receiver for Tom’s use, but Tom didn’t want to listen in.

  “I’m sure not,” Frank said. “Why should Tom want any of it, it’s going—” Longish listening now on Frank’s part. “How do you expect me to talk about something like that over the phone?” Frank said with some irritation. “I don’t know, I just don’t know . . . Okay, fine.” Then Frank’s expression softened, and he said, “Hi, Johnny . . . Sure, I’m okay, I just said so . . . Oh, I dunno, I just woke up. But quit worrying. I haven’t got even a broken bone or anything!” Now a long speech from Johnny, and Frank squirmed. “Okay, okay, but— What do you mean?” Now the boy frowned. “Not in a hurry!” he said mockingly. “What you really mean—you really mean she’s not coming and doesn’t—doesn’t care.”

  Tom could hear Johnny’s easy chuckle as he spoke from Paris.

  “Well, at least she telephoned.” Frank’s face looked paler. “All right, all right, I see,” he said impatiently.

  From where he stood, Tom heard Thurlow’s voice come on, and then Tom picked up the little receiver.

  “. . . when you’re coming here. Something holding you there?— You there, Frank?”

  “Why should I go to Paris?” Frank asked.

  “Because your mother wants you home. We want you—safe.”

  “I am safe.”

  “Is—Tom Ripley trying to persuade you to stay on there?”

  “Nobody is persuading me,” said Frank, shaping every word.

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Ripley, if he’s there, Frank.”

  Frank grimly handed the telephone to Tom. “That f——” He didn’t get the second word out. Suddenly Frank had become an ordinary American boy, furious.

  “Tom Ripley,” said Tom. He watched Frank walk into the hall, maybe in quest of the bathroom, which he found on the right.

  “Mr. Ripley, as you can understand, we want the boy safe and back in America, that’s why I’m here. Can you tell us—I’m most grateful for what you’ve done, but I have to tell his mother a few facts, namely when the boy will be coming home. Or should I come to Berlin and get him?”

  “No-o, I’ll consult with Frank. He’s just been held under unpleasant conditions for the last couple of days, you know. He’s been given a lot of tranquilizers.”

  “But he sounds pretty much all right.”

  “He’s not hurt.”

  “And as for the German marks, Frank said—”

  “Those will be returned to the bank or the banks today, Mr. Thurlow.” Tom laughed a little. “Fine subject in case your phone is being tapped.”

  “Why should it be tapped?”

  “Oh, because of your profession,” Tom said, as if his profession might be anything bizarre, even call girl.

  “Mrs. Pierson was glad to hear that the marks are safe. But I can’t just stay here in Paris while you or Frank or both of you make up your minds when Frank comes home.— You can probably understand that, Mr. Ripley.”

  “Well—there are worse cities than Paris,” Tom said in a pleasant tone. “Could I perhaps speak with Johnny?”

  “Yes.— Johnny?”

  Johnny came on. “We’re very glad about Frank! Can’t tell you!” Johnny sounded open and friendly, with an accent like Frank’s but a deeper voice. “Have the police got the gang or whoever it was?”

  “No, no police involved.” Tom heard Thurlow trying to shush Johnny on the subject of police, or so it seemed.

  “You mean, you got Frank all by yourself?”

  “No—with a little help from my friends.”

  “My mother’s so happy! She was—uh—”

  Dubious about him, Tom knew. “Johnny, you said something to Frank about somebody phoning? From America?”

  “Teresa. She was going to come over, but now she’s not. I’m sure she’s not, now that Frank’s okay, but—I know she’s sort of tied up with someone else, so I know she won’t. She didn’t say it to me, but I happen to know the fellow, I introduced them and—he told me before I left America.”

  Now Tom understood. “You to
ld Frank that?”

  “I thought the sooner he knew it the better. I know he’s pretty hung up. I didn’t tell him who the fellow was. I just said I know Teresa’s got another interest.”

  In that Tom saw a world of difference between Johnny and Frank. Easy come, easy go with Johnny, evidently. “I see.” Tom didn’t even feel like saying, what a pity you had to spill it just now. “Well, Johnny, I’ll sign off.” Tom heard faintly Thurlow asking to be put on again, or Tom thought so. “Bye-bye,” Tom said, and hung up. “Asses—both of them!” Tom shouted.

  But no one heard him. Frank was flat out asleep again on the bed, and Eric was somewhere else in the apartment.

  The bank messenger might arrive at any minute.

  When Eric came into the living room, Tom said, “How about lunch at Kempinski? Are you free for lunch, Eric?” Tom had a desire to see Frank eat a steak or a big portion of Wiener schnitzl and get some color back in his face.

  “I am, yes.” Eric was dressed now.

  The doorbell rang. The bank messenger.

  Eric pressed his release button in the kitchen.

  Tom shook Frank’s shoulder. “Frank, old boy—up! Take my dressing gown.” Tom snatched it from his suitcase. “Go into Eric’s bedroom, because we have to see someone here for a couple of minutes.”

  Frank did as Tom told him. Tom spread the blanket over the sheets, so the bed would look a bit neater.

  The bank messenger, a short, bulky man in a business suit, was accompanied by a taller guard of some kind in uniform. The messenger presented his credentials, and said he had a car waiting downstairs with a driver, but he was in no hurry. He carried two big briefcases. Tom didn’t feel like looking at the credentials, so Eric examined them. Tom did watch the first few seconds of the counting. One envelope had been sealed and still was. The paper-banded bundles of DM had not been touched in the other envelopes, but it would have been possible to slip a thousand-mark note from any or several of the bundles. Eric watched.

  “Can I leave this to you, Eric?” Tom asked.

  “Aber sicherlich, Tom! But you must sign something, you know?” Eric and the messenger were standing at the sideboard, envelopes separated, money stacks separated.