Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

  Antoine chuckled grudgingly, while the women gave appreciative shrieks of horror.

  ‘If that happens to my property down South, I will know who did it!’ said Antoine in his deep baritone.

  The Grais owned a small property near Cannes which they let in July and August when rents were highest, and used themselves in the other summer months.

  Mainly, however, Tom was thinking of Jonathan Trevanny. A stiff, repressed kind of fellow, but basically decent. He was going to need some more assistance – Tom hoped merely moral assistance.

  13

  BECAUSE of Vincent Turoli’s uncertain state, Tom drove to Fontainebleau on Sunday to buy the London papers, the Observer and the Sunday Times, which he usually bought from the Villeperce journaux-tabac on Monday morning. The news kiosk in Fontainebleau was in front of the Hôtel de l’Aigle Noir. Tom glanced around for Trevanny, who probably bought the London Sundays habitually too, but he didn’t see him. It was n a.m., and perhaps Trevanny already had the papers. Tom got into his car and looked at the Observer first. It had nothing about the train incident. Tom wasn’t sure the English papers would bother reporting the story, but he looked into the Sunday Times and found an item on page three, one short column which Tom fell upon eagerly. The writer had given it a light touch: ‘… It must have been an exceptionally fast Mafia job … Vincent Turoli of the Genotti family, one arm missing, one eye damaged, regained consciousness early on Saturday, and his condition is improving so rapidly he may soon be flown to a Milan hospital. But if he knows anything, he is not talking.’ That was no news to Tom, that he wasn’t talking, but plainly he was going to live. That was unfortunate. Tom was thinking that Turoli had probably already given a description of him to his chums. Turoli would have been visited in Strassburg by family members. Important Mafiosi in the hospital were protected day and night by guards, and maybe Turoli would get this treatment too, Tom thought, as soon as the idea of eliminating Turoli crossed his mind. Tom recalled the Mafia-guarded hospitalization of Joe Colombo, head of the Profaci family, in New York. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Colombo denied that he was a member of the Mafia or that the Mafia existed. Nurses had had to step over the legs of bodyguards sleeping in the halls when Colombo had been in. Best not to think about getting rid of Turoli. He had probably already talked about a man in his thirties, with brown hair, a little over average height, who had socked him in the jaw and the stomach, and there must have been another man behind him too, because he had got a crack on the back of the head. The question was would Turoli be absolutely sure if he spotted him again, and Tom thought there was a good chance of this. Oddly Turoli, if he had seen him, might recall Jonathan a little more clearly, simply because Jonathan didn’t look like everyone else, was taller and blonder than most people. Turoli of course would compare notes with the second bodyguard who was alive and well.

  ‘Darling,’ Heloise said when Tom walked into the living-room, ‘how would you like to go on a cruise on the Nile.’

  Tom’s thoughts were so far away, he had to think for a moment what the Nile was and where. Heloise was barefoot on the sofa, browsing in travel brochures. Periodically she received a slew of them from an agency in Moret, sent on the agency’s initiative, because Heloise was such a good customer. ‘I don’t know. Egypt —’

  ‘Doesn’t this look séduisant?’ She showed Tom a picture of a little boat called the Isis which rather resembled a Mississippi steamboat, sailing past a reedy shore.

  ‘Yes. It does.’

  ‘Or somewhere eke. If you don’t want to go anywhere, I will see how Noëlle feels,’ she said, returning to the brochures.

  Spring was stirring in Heloise’s blood. Tickling her feet. They had not been anywhere since just after Christmas, when they’d had a rather pleasant time on a yacht, sailing from Marseille to Portofino and back. The owners of the yacht, friends of Noëlle and rather elderly, had had a house in Portofino. Just now Tom didn’t want to go anywhere, but he didn’t say this to Heloise.

  It was a quiet and pleasant Sunday, and Tom made two good preparatory sketches of Mme Annette at her ironing board. She ironed in the kitchen on Sunday afternoons, watching her TV which she wheeled into position against the cupboards. There was nothing more domestic, more French, Tom thought, than Mme Annette’s sturdy little figure bent over her iron on a Sunday afternoon. He wanted to capture the spirit of this on canvas – the very pale orange of the kitchen wall in sunlight, and delicate blue-lavender of a certain dress of Mme Annette’s that set off so well her fine blue eyes.

  Then the telephone rang just after 10 p.m., when Tom and Heloise were lying in front of the fireplace, looking at the Sunday papers. Tom answered.

  It was Reeves, sounding extremely upset. The connection was bad.

  ‘Can you hold on? I’ll try it from upstairs,’ Tom said.

  Reeves said he would, and Tom went running up the stairs, saying to Heloise, ‘Reeves! A lousy connection!’ Not that the telephone was necessarily better upstairs, but Tom wanted to be alone for this.

  Reeves said, ‘I said my flat In Hamburg. It was bombed today.’

  ‘What? My God!’

  ‘I’m ringing you from Amsterdam.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No!’ Reeves shouted, his voice cracking. ‘That’s the miracle. I just happened to be out around 5 p.m. So was Gaby because she doesn’t work Sundays. These guys, they – must’ve tossed a bomb through the window. Quite a feat. The people below heard a car rush up and rush away after a minute, then two minutes later an awful explosion – which knocked all the pictures off their walls, too.’

  ‘Look – how much are they on to?’

  ‘I thought I better get elsewhere for my health. I was out of town in less than an hour.’

  ‘How did they find out?9 Tom yelled into the telephone.

  ‘I dunno. I really dunno. They might’ve got something out of Fritz, because Fritz failed to keep a date with me today. I sure hope old Fritz is okay. But he doesn’t know – you know, our friend’s name. I always called him Paul when he was here. An Englishman, I said, so Fritz thinks he lives in England. I honestly think they’re doing this on suspicion, Tom. I think our plan has essentially worked9

  Good old optimistic Reeves, with his flat bombed, his possessions lost, his plan was a success. ‘Listen, Reeves, what about — What are you doing with your stuff in Hamburg? Your papers, for instance?’

  ‘Strongbox at the bank,’ Reeves said promptly. ‘I can have those sent. Anyway what papers? If you’re worried – 1 just have one little address book and that’s always on me. I’m sure as hell sorry to lose a lot of records and paintings I’ve got there, but the police said they’d protect everything they could. Naturally they questioned me – nicely of course, for a few minutes, but I explained I was in a state of shock, damn near true, and I had to go somewhere for a while. They know where I am.’

  ‘Do the police suspect the Mafia?’

  ‘Didn’t say so if they did. Tom old boy, I’ll ring you again tomorrow maybe. Take my number, will you?’

  Half reluctantly, though he realized he might need it for some reason, Tom took down Reeves’ hotel name, the Zuyder Zee, and its number.

  ‘Our mutual friend sure did one hell of a good job, even if that second bastard is still alive. For a fellow who’s anaemic —’ Reeyes broke off with a laugh that was almost hysterical.

  ‘You’ve paid him in full now?’

  ‘Did that yesterday,’ said Reeves.

  ‘So you don’t need him any more, I suppose.’

  ‘No. We’ve got the police interested here. I mean in Hamburg. That’s what we wanted. I heard more Mafia have arrived. So that’s —’

  Abruptly they were cut off. Tom felt a swift annoyance, a sense of stupidity, as he stood there with the buzzing, dead telephone in his hand. He hung up and stood in his room for a few seconds, wondering if Reeves would ring back, thinking he probably wouldn’t, trying to digest the news. From wh
at Tom knew of the Mafia, he thought they might leave it at that, bombing Reeves’ flat. They might not be out for Reeves’ life. But evidently the Mafia knew that Reeves had had something to do with the killings, so the idea of creating the impression of rival Mafia gang-war had failed. On the other hand, the Hamburg police would make an extra effort to clear the Mafia out of the town, out of private gambling clubs, too. Like everything Reeves did, or dabbled in, this situation was vague, Tom thought. The verdict ought to be: not quite successful.

  The only happy fact was that Trevanny had his money. He should be informed of that by Tuesday or Wednesday. Good news from Switzerland!

  The next days were quiet. No more telephone calls and no letter from Reeves Minot. Nothing in the newspapers about Vincent Turoli in the hospital at Strassburg or Milan, and Tom also bought the Paris Herald-Tribune and the London Daily Telegraph in Fontainebleau. Tom planted his dahlias, a three-hour job one afternoon, because he had them in smaller packages within the burlap bags, labelled for colour, and he tried to plan his colour patches as carefully as if he were imagining a canvas. Heloise spent three nights at Chantilly, where her parents had their home, because her mother was undergoing a minor operation for a tumour somewhere, which luckily turned out to be benign. Mme Annette, thinking Tom was lonely, comforted him with American food which she had learned to prepare to please him: spareribs with barbecue sauce, clam chowder and fried chicken. Tom wondered from time to time about his own safety. In the peaceful atmosphere of Villeperce, this sleepy, rather proper little village, and through the tall iron gates of Belle Ombre which appeared to guard the castle-like house but actually didn’t – anyone might scale them – a murderer might arrive, Tom thought, one of the Mafia boys who would knock on the door or ring the bell, push past Mme Annette, dash up the stairs and plug Tom. It would take the police from Moret a good fifteen minutes to get here, probably, assuming Mme Annette could telephone them at once. A neighbour hearing a shot or two might assume a hunter was trying his luck with owls, and probably wouldn’t attempt to investigate.

  During the time that Heloise was in Chantilly, Tom decided to acquire a harpsichord for Belle Ombre – for himself, too, of course and possibly for Heloise. Once, somewhere, he had heard her playing some simple ditty on a piano. Where? When? He suspected she was a victim of childhood lessons, and knowing her parents Tom assumed they had knocked any joy out of her endeavours. Anyway, a harpsichord might cost a goodly sum (it would be cheaper to buy it in London, of course, but not with the 100 per cent tax the French would demand for bringing it in), but a harpsichord certainly came in the category of cultural acquisitions, so Tom did not reproach himself for the desire. A harpsichord was not a swimming pool. Tom telephoned an antique dealer in Paris whom he knew fairly well, and though the man dealt only in furniture, he was able to give Tom the name of a reliable place in Paris where he might buy a harpsichord.

  Tom went up to Paris and spent a whole day listening to harpsichord lore from the dealer, looking at instruments, trying them out with timid chords, and making his decision. The gem he chose, of beige wood embellished with gold-leaf here and there, cost more than ten thousand francs, and would be delivered on Wednesday, 26 April, along with the tuner who would at once have to get to work, because the instrument would have been disturbed by the move.

  This purchase gave Tom a heady lift, made him feel invincible as he walked back to his Renault, impervious to the eye and maybe even the bullets of the Mafia.

  And Belle Ombre had not been bombed. Villeperce’s tree-bordered, unpavemented streets looked as quiet as ever. No strange characters loitered. Heloise returned in a good mood on Friday, and there was the surprise for her for Tom to look forward to, the arrival of the large and delicately handled crate containing the harpsichord on Wednesday. It was going to be more fun than Christmas.

  Tom did not tell Mme Annette about the harpsichord either. But on Monday he said, ‘Mme Annette, I have a request. On Wednesday we have a special guest coming for lunch, maybe for dinner too. Let’s have something nice.’

  Mme Annette’s blue, eyes lit up. She liked nothing better than extra effort, extra trouble, if it was in the cooking department. ‘Un vrai gourmet?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I would think so,’ Tom replied. ‘Now you reflect. I am not going to tell you what to prepare. Let it be a surprise for Mme Heloise also.’

  Mme Annette smiled mischievously. One would have thought she had been given a present too.

  14

  THE gyroscope Jonathan bought for Georges in Munich turned out to be the most appreciated toy Jonathan had ever given his son. Its magic remained, every time Georges pulled it from its square box where Jonathan insisted that he keep it.

  ‘Careful not to drop it!’ Jonathan said, lying on his stomach on the living-room floor. ‘It’s a delicate instrument.’

  The gyroscope was forcing Georges to learn some new English words, because in his own absorption, Jonathan didn’t bother speaking French. The wonderful wheel spun on the tip of Georges’ finger, or leaned sideways from the top of a plastic castle turret – the latter a resurrected object from Georges’ toy box, pressed into service instead of the Eiffel Tower shown on the pink page of instructions for the gyroscope.

  ‘A larger gyroscope,’ Jonathan said, ‘keeps ships from rolling on the sea.’ Jonathan did a fairly good job of explaining, and thought if he fixed the gyroscope inside a toy boat in a bath-tub of tossing water, he might be able to illustrate what he meant. ‘Big ships have three gyroscopes going at once, for instance.’

  ‘Jon, the sofa.’ Simone was standing in the living-room doorway. ‘You didn’t tell me what you think. Dark green?’

  Jonathan rolled over on the floor, propped on his elbows. In his eyes the beautiful gyroscope still spun and kept its miraculous balance. Simone meant for the re-covering of the sofa. ‘What I think is that we should buy a new sofa,’ Jonathan said, getting up. T saw an advertisement today for a black Chesterfield for five thousand francs. I’ll bet I can get the same thing for three thousand five hundred, if I look around.’

  “Three thousand five hundred new francs?’

  Jonathan had known she would be shocked. ‘Consider it an investment. We can afford it.9 Jonathan did know of an antique dealer some five kilometers out of town who dealt in nothing but large, well-restored pieces of furniture. Up to now he hadn’t been able to think of buying anything from this shop.

  ‘A Chesterfield would be magnificent – but don’t go overboard, Jon. You’re on a spree!’

  Jonathan had talked today about buying a television set, too. ‘I won’t go on a spree,’ he said calmly. ‘I wouldn’t be such a fool.’

  Simone beckoned him into the hall, as if she wanted to be out of Georges’ hearing. Jonathan embraced her. Her hair got mussed against the hanging coats. She whispered in his ear:

  ‘All right. But when is your next trip to Germany?’

  She didn’t like the idea of his trips. He had told her they were trying new pills, that Perrier was giving them to him. that though he might stay in the same condition, there was a chance the condition would improve, and certainly it wouldn’t get worse. Because of the money Jonathan said he was being paid, Simone didn’t believe that he wasn’t taking a risk of some kind. And even so, Jonathan hadn’t told her how much money, the sum now in the Swiss Bank Corporation in Zürich. Simone knew only that there was six thousand francs or so in the Société Générale in Fontainebleau, instead of their usual four to six hundred – which sometimes went down to two hundred, if they paid a mortgage instalment.

  ‘I’d love a new sofa. But are you sure it’s the best thing to buy now? At such a price? Don’t forget the mortgage.’

  ‘Darling, how could I? – Bloody mortgage!’ He laughed. He wanted to pay off the mortgage at a whack. ‘All right, I’ll be careful. I promise.’

  Jonathan knew he had to think of a better story, or elaborate on the story he’d already told. But for the moment he preferred to rel
ax, to enjoy merely the thought of his new fortune – because spending any of it wasn’t easy. And he could still die within a month. The three dozen pills that Dr Schroeder of Munich had given him, pills that Jonathan was now taking at the rate of two a day, were not going to save his life or wreak any great change. A sense of security might be a fantasy of sorts, but wasn’t it as &al as anything eke while it lasted? What else was there? What else was happiness but a mental attitude?

  And there was the other unknown, the fact that the bodyguard called Turoli was still alive.

  On 29 April, a Saturday evening, Jonathan and Simone went to a concert of Schubert and Mozart played by a string quartet at the Fontainebleau Theatre. Jonathan had bought the most expensive tickets, and had wanted to take Georges, who could behave well if he were sufficiently cautioned beforehand, but Simone had been against it. She was more embarrassed than Jonathan, if Georges was not the model child. ‘In another year, yes,’ said Simone.

  During the interval they went into the big foyer where one could smoke. It was full of familiar faces, among them Pierre Gauthier the art dealer, who to Jonathan’s surprise was sporting a wing collar and black tie.

  ‘You are an embellishment of the music this evening, madame!’ he said to Simone, with an admiring look at her Chinese-red dress.

  Simone acknowledged the compliment gracefully. She did look especially well and happy, Jonathan thought. Gauthier was alone. Jonathan suddenly remembered that his wife had died a few years ago, before Jonathan had really become acquainted with him.

  ‘All of Fontainebleau is here tonight!’ said Gauthier, making an effort to speak above the hubbub. His good eye roved over the scores of people in the domed hall, and his bald head shone under the grey-and-black hair he had carefully combed over it. ‘Shall we have a coffee afterwards? In the café across the street?’ Gauthier asked. ‘I shall be pleased to invite you.’