Simone and Jonathan were about to say yes, when Gauthier stiffened a little. Jonathan followed Gauthier’s glance and saw Tom Ripley in a group of four or five, only three yards away. Ripley’s eyes met Jonathan’s and he nodded. Ripley looked as if he might come over to say hello, and at the same time Gauthier sidled to the left, leaving. Simone turned her head to see who both Jonathan and Gauthier had been looking at.
‘Tout à l’heure, peut-être!’ said Gauthier.
Simone looked at Jonathan and her eyebrows went up a little.
Ripley stood out, not so much because he was rather tall as because he looked un-French with his brown hair touched with gold under the chandeliers’ lights. He wore a plum-coloured satin jacket. The striking blonde girl who seemed to be wearing no make-up at all must be his wife.
‘So?’ Simone said. ‘Who is that one?’
Jonathan knew she meant Ripley. Jonathan’s heart was beating faster. ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen him before but I don’t know his name.’
‘He was at our house – that man,’ Simone said. ‘I remember him. Gauthier doesn’t like him?’
A bell rang, the signal for people to return to their seats.
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Because he seemed to want to get away!’ Simone said, as if the fact was obvious.
The pleasure of the music had vanished for Jonathan. Where was Tom Ripley sitting? In one of the boxes? Jonathan did not look up at the boxes. Ripley might have been across the aisle from him, for all Jonathan knew. He realized that it wasn’t Ripley’s presence that had spoilt the evening, but Simone’s reaction. And Simone’s reaction had been caused, Jonathan knew also, by his own uneasiness at seeing Ripley. Jonathan deliberately tried to relax in his seat, propped his chin on his fingers, knowing all the while that his efforts were not deceiving Simone. Like a lot of other people, she had heard stories about Tom Ripley (even though at this moment she might not recall his name), and she was perhaps going to connect Tom Ripley with – with what? At the moment, Jonathan really didn’t know. But he dreaded what would come. He reproached himself for having shown his nervousness so plainly, so naively. Jonathan realized he was in a mess, a very dangerous situation, and that he had to play it calmly, if he possibly could. He had to be an actor. A little different from his effort to succeed on the stage when he’d been younger. This situation was quite real. Or if one liked, quite phoney, Jonathan had never before tried to be phoney with Simone.
‘Let’s try to find Gauthier,’ Jonathan said when they were moving up the aisle. The applause was still pattering around them, gathering itself into the co-ordinated palm-pounding of a French audience which wanted still another encore.
But somehow they didn’t find Gauthier. Jonathan missed Simone’s reply. She did not seem interested in finding Gauthier. They had the baby-sitter – a girl who lived in their street – at home with Georges. It was almost 11 p.m. Jonathan did not look for Tom Ripley and did not see him.
On Sunday, Jonathan and Simone had lunch in Nemours with Simone’s parents and her brother Gerard and his wife. As usual, there was television after lunch, which Jonathan and Gerard did not watch.
‘That’s excellent that the boches are subsidizing you for being one of their guinea pigs!’ Gerard said with one of his rare laughs. That is, if they don’t do you any harm.’ He had come out with this in rapid slang, and it was the first thing he had said that really caught Jonathan’s attention.
They were both smoking cigars. Jonathan had bought a box at a tabac in Nemours. ‘Yes. Lots of pills. Their idea is to attack with eight or ten drugs all at once. Confuse the enemy, you know. It also makes it more difficult for the enemy cells to become immune.’ Jonathan rambled on quite well in this vein, half-convinced he was inventing it as he went along, half recollecting it as a proposed method for combating leukemia that he had read about months ago. ‘Of course there’s no guarantee. There could be side-effects, which is why they’re willing to pay me a bit of money for going through with it.’
‘What kind of side-effects?’
‘Maybe – a decrease in blood-congealing level.’ Jonathan was getting better and better at the meaningless phrases, and his attentive listener inspired him. ‘Nausea – not that I’ve noticed any so far. Then of course they don’t know all the side-effects as yet. They’re running a risk. So am I.’
‘And if it succeeds? If they call it a success?’
‘A couple of more years of life,’ Jonathan said pleasantly.
On Monday morning, Jonathan and Simone drove with a neighbour, Irène Pliesse – the woman who kept Georges every afternoon after school until Simone could fetch him – to the antique dealer on the outskirts of Fontainebleau where Jonathan thought he might find a sofa. Irène Pliesse was easy-going, large-boned, and had always struck Jonathan as rather masculine, though perhaps she wasn’t in the least. She was the mother of two small children and her house in Fontainebleau was more than commonly full of frilly doilies and organdy curtains. At any rate, she was generous with her time and her car, and had often volunteered to drive the Trevannys to Nemours on the Sundays when they went, but Simone with characteristic scrupulousness had never once accepted, because Nemours was a regular family affair. Therefore the pleasure of using Irène Pliesse’s services for the sofa-hunting was an unguilty one, and Irène took as much interest in the purchase as if the sofa was to be in her own home.
There was a choice of two Chesterfields, both with old frames and both recently covered in new black leather. Jonathan and Simone preferred the larger one, and Jonathan managed to knock the price down five hundred to three thousand francs. Jonathan knew it was a bargain, because he had seen the same sized sofa advertised, with a picture of it, for five thousand. Now this vast sum, three thousand, nearly one months’ earnings of himself and Simone combined, seemed positively trifling. It was amazing, Jonathan thought, how quickly one could adjust to having a little money.
Even Irène, whose house looked opulent compared to the Trevannys’, was impressed by the sofa. And Jonathan noticed that Simone didn’t at once know what to say to pass it off smoothly.
Jon had a little windfall from a relative in England. Not much but – we wanted to get something really nice with it.’
Irène nodded.
All was well, Jonathan thought.
The next evening, before dinner, Simone said, ‘I dropped in to say hello to Gauthier today.’
Jonathan felt at once on guard, because of Simone’s tone of voice. He was drinking a scotch and water and looking at the evening paper. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘Jon – wasn’t it this M. Ripley who told Gauthier that – that you hadn’t long to live?’ Simone spoke softly, though Georges was upstairs, probably in his room.
Had Gauthier admitted it, when Simone asked him a direct question? Jonathan didn’t know how Gauthier would behave, being asked a direct question – and Simone could be gently persistent until she got her answer. ‘Gauthier told me,’ Jonathan began, ‘that — Well, as I told you, he wouldn’t say who told him. So I don’t know.’
Simone looked at him. She was sitting on the handsome black Chesterfield sofa, which had since yesterday transformed their living-room. It was due to Ripley, Jonathan was thinking, that Simone wad sitting where she was. It didn’t help Jonathan’s state of mind.
‘Gauthier told you it was Ripley?’ Jonathan asked with an air of surprise. ‘Oh, he wouldn’t say. But I simply asked him – was it M. Ripley. I described Ripley, the man we saw at the concert. Gauthier knew whom I meant. You seem to know too – his name.’ Simone sipped her Cinzano.
Jonathan fancied her hand shook slightly. ‘It could be, of course.’ Jonathan said with a shrug. ‘Don’t forget, Gauthier told me whoever told him —’ Jonathan gave a laugh. ‘All this tale-bearing! Anyway Gauthier said, whoever it was – the man said he could have been mistaken, that things get exaggerated. – Darling, it really is best forgotten. It’s silly to blame strangers. Silly to make too much out of i
t.’
‘Yes, but —’ Simone tilted her head. Her lips twisted somewhat bitterly, in a way Jonathan had seen only once or twice before. ‘The curious thing is, it was Ripley. I know that. Not that Gauthier said it, no. He didn’t. But I could tell… .Jon?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘It’s because – Ripley is very close to being a crook. Maybe he is a crook. Lots of crooks are not caught, you know. That is the reason I ask. I ask you. Are you – All this money, Jon — Are you getting it by any chance, somehow, from this M. Ripley?’
Jonathan made himself look straight at Simone. He felt that he had to protect what he already had, and it wasn’t so connected with Ripley that it would be a lie if he said it wasn’t. ‘How could I? For what, darling?’
‘Just because he is a crook! Who knows for what? What has he got to do with these German doctors? Are they really doctors you are talking about?’ She was beginning to sound hysterical. The colour had risen to her cheeks.
Jonathan frowned. ‘Darling, Perrier has my two reports!’
‘There is something very dangerous about the tests, Jon, or they wouldn’t pay you so much, isn’t that true? — I have the feeling you’re not telling me the whole truth.’
Jonathan laughed a little. ‘What could Tom Ripley, that do-nothing — He’s an American, anyway. What could he have to do with German doctors?’
‘You saw the German doctors because you were afraid you were going to die soon. And it was Ripley – 1 am pretty sure – who started the story you were going to die soon.’
Georges was bumping his way down the stairs, talking to some toy that he was dragging down. Georges in his dreamworld, but he was a presence, just a few yards away, and it rattled Jonathan. He found it incredible that Simone had discovered so much, and his impulse was to deny all of it, at any cost.
Simone was waiting for him to say something.
Jonathan said, 1 don’t know who it was told Gauthier.’
Georges was standing at the door. Now his arrival was a relief for Jonathan. It effectively stopped the conversation. Georges was asking a question about a tree outside his window. Jonathan didn’t listen, and let Simone answer.
During dinner, Jonathan had the feeling Simone did not quite believe him, that she wanted to believe him, but couldn’t. Yet Simone (maybe because of Georges) was almost her usual self. She wasn’t sulking or cool. But the atmosphere for Jonathan was uncomfortable. And it was going to continue, he realized, unless he could come up with some more specific reason for extra money from the German hospitals. Jonathan hated the idea of lying, exaggerating the danger for himself in order to account for the money.
It even crossed Jonathan’s mind that Simone would speak to Tom Ripley himself. Mightn’t she telephone him? Make an appointment to see him? Jonathan dismissed that idea. Simone didn’t like Tom Ripley. She would not want to come anywhere near him.
That same week, Tom Ripley came into Jonathan’s shop. His picture had been ready for several days. Jonathan had a customer in his shop when Ripley arrived, and Ripley proceeded to look over some ready-made frames that leaned against a wall, obviously content to wait till Jonathan should be free. At last the customer left.
‘Morning,’ Tom said pleasantly. It wasn’t so easy after all to get someone to pick up my picture, so I thought I’d come myself.’
‘Yes, fine. It’s ready.’ Jonathan said, and went to the back of his shop to get it. It was wrapped in brown paper, but the paper was not tied, and it was labelled RIPLEY, the label fastened with scotch tape to the paper. Jonathan carried it to his counter. ‘Like to see it?’
Tom was pleased with it. He held it at arm’s length. ‘That’s great. Very nice. What do I owe you?’
‘Ninety francs.’
Tom pulled his billfold out. ‘Is everything all right?’
Jonathan was aware that he took a couple of breaths before he answered. ‘Since you ask —’ He took the hundred-franc note with a polite nod, pulled out his cash drawer and got the change. ‘My wife —’ Jonathan looked at the door, and was glad to see that no one was approaching at the moment. ‘My wife spoke to Gauthier. He didn’t tell her that you started that story about my – demise. But my wife seems to have guessed it. I really don’t know how. Intuition.’
Tom had foreseen this happening. He was aware of his reputation, that many people mistrusted him, avoided him. Tom had often thought that his ego could have been shattered long ago – the ego of the average person would have been shattered – except for the fact that people, once they got to know him, once they came to Belle Ombre and spent an evening, liked him and Heloise well enough, and the Ripleys were invited back. ‘And what did you say to your wife?’
Jonathan tried to speak quickly, because there might not be much time. ‘What I’ve said from the start, that Gauthier always refused to tell me who started the story. That’s true.’
Tom knew. Gauthier had gallantly refused to tell his name. ‘Well, keep cool. If we don’t see each other — Sorry about the other night at the concert,’ Tom added with a smile.
‘Yes. But – it’s unfortunate. The worst is, she associates you – she’s trying to – with the money we’ve got now. Not that I’ve told her how much it is.’
Tom had thought of that too. It was irritating. ‘I won’t bring you any more pictures to frame.’
A man with a large canvas on a stretcher was struggling through the door.
‘Bon, m’sieur!’ Tom said, waving his free hand. ‘Merci. Bonsoir.’
Tom went out. If Trevanny was seriously worried, Tom thought, Trevanny could telephone him. Tom had already said that at least once. It was unfortunate, troublesome for Trevanny, that his wife suspected that he had started the nasty rumour. On the other hand, that wasn’t easily connected with money from hospitals in Hamburg and Munich, still less connected with the murder of two Mafiosi.
On Sunday morning, when Simone was hanging laundry on the garden line, and Jonathan and Georges were making a stone border, the doorbell rang.
It was one of their neighbours, a woman of about sixty whose name Jonathan wasn’t sure of – Delattre? Delambre? She looked distressed.
‘Excuse me, M. Trevanny.’
‘Come in,’ said Jonathan.
‘It is M. Gauthier. Have you heard the news?’
‘No.’
‘He was hit last night by a car. He is dead.’
‘Dead? – Here in Fontainebleau?’
‘He was coming home around midnight from an evening with a friend, someone in the Rue de la Paroisse. You know M. Gauthier lives in the Rue de la République just off the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. It was that crossroads with the little triangle of green where there is a traffic light. Someone saw the people who did it, two boys in a car. They didn’t stop. They went through a red light and hit M. Gauthier and didn’t stop?
‘Good lord! – Won’t you sit down, Mm —’
Simone had come into the hall. ‘Ah bonjour, Mme Delattre!’ she said.
‘Simone, Gauthier is dead,’ Jonathan said. ‘Run over by a hit-and-run driver.’
Two boys.’ said Mme Delattre. They didn’t stop!’
Simone gasped. ‘When?’
‘Last night. He was dead when they got him to the hospital here. Around midnight.’
‘Won’t you come in and sit down, Mme Delattre?’ Simone asked.
‘No, no, thank you. I must be off to see a friend. Mme Mockers. I am not sure if she knows yet. We all knew him so well, you know?’ She was near tears, and set her shopping basket down for a moment to wipe her eyes.
Simone pressed her hand. Thank you for coming to tell us, Mme Delattre. That was kind of you.’
‘The funeral is on Monday,’ Mme Delattre said. ‘At St Louis.’ Then she departed.
The news somehow didn’t register on Jonathan. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Mme Delattre. Her husband’s a plumber,’ Simone said, as if, of course, Jonathan should know.
Delattre wasn’t the
plumber they used. Gauthier dead. What would happen to his shop, Jonathan wondered. He found himself staring at Simone. They were standing in the narrow front hall.
‘Dead,’ Simone said. She put her hand out and gripped Jonathan’s wrist, not looking at him. ‘We should go to the funeral on Monday, you know.’
‘Of course.’ A Catholic funeral. It was all in French now, not Latin. He imagined all the neighbours, faces familiar and unfamiliar, in the cool church foil of candles.
‘Hit-and-run,’ Simone said. She walked stiffly down the hall, and looked back over her shoulder at Jonathan. ‘It’s really shocking.’
Jonathan followed her through the kitchen, out into the garden. It was good to get back into sunlight.
Simone had finished hanging her washing. She straightened some things on the line, then picked up the empty basket. ‘Hit-and-run. – Do you really think so, Jon?’
That’s what she said.’ They were both talking softly. Jonathan still felt a bit dazed, but he knew what Simone was thinking.
She came a step closer, carrying the basket. Then she beckoned him towards the steps that led to the little porch, as if neighbours on the other side of the garden wall might hear them. ‘Do you think he could’ve been killed purposely? By someone hired to kill him?’
‘Why?
‘Because perhaps he knew something. That’s why. Isn’t it possible? – Why should an innocent person be struck down like that – accidentally?’
‘Because – these things happen sometimes,’ Jonathan said.
Simone shook her head. ‘You don’t think possibly that M. Ripley had something to do with it?’
Jonathan saw an irrational anger in her. ‘Absolutely not. I certainly don’t think so.’ Jonathan could have bet his life that Tom Ripley hadn’t had anything to do with it. He started to say that, but it would’ve sounded a bit strong – and if he wanted to look at it in another way, a rather comical bet.
Simone started to pass him and enter the house, but she stopped close to him. ‘It’s true Gauthier didn’t tell me anything definite, Jon, but he might have known something. I think he did. – I have the feeling he was killed on purpose.’
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