Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

  ‘You will telephone me tonight, Tome?’ Heloise asked. She was packing a big suitcase in her room. She was going first to her family.

  ‘Yes, my love. Around seven-thirty?’ He knew Heloise’s parents dined promptly at 8 p.m. ‘I’ll ring and say “All is well”, probably.’

  ‘Is it only tonight you are worried about?’

  It wasn’t, but Tom didn’t want to say so. ‘I think so.’

  When Heloise and Mme Annette were ready to leave around n a.m., Tom managed to enter the garage first, before he even helped them with their luggage, though Mme Annette had the old French school idea that she should carry the luggage of both in instalments, simply because she was a servant. Tom looked under the hood of the Alfa. The motor presented the familiar picture of metal and wires. He started the motor. No explosion. Tom had gone out and padlocked the garage doors last evening before dinner, but Tom believed anything when it came to the Mafia. They’d pick a padlock and snap it shut again.

  ‘We will be in touch, Mme Annette,’ Tom said, kissing her cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself!’

  ‘Bye-bye, Tome! Ring me tonight! And take care!’ Heloise shouted.

  Tom grinned as he waved good-bye. He could tell that Heloise wasn’t very worried. That was all to the good.

  Tom then went into his house to telephone Jonathan.

  18

  THE morning had been a rough one for Jonathan. Simone had said, in a pleasant enough tone, because she was then helping Georges tug himself into a turtle-neck sweater:

  ‘I don’t see how this ambience can go on for ever, Jon. Do you?’

  Simone and Georges had to leave for Georges’ school in a couple of minutes. It was almost 8.15 a.m.

  ‘No, I don’t. And about that Swiss sum —’Jonathan determined to plunge on, now. He spoke quickly, hoping Georges wouldn’t grasp all of it. They’ve made a bet, if you must know. I’m holding the take for both of them. So that—’

  ‘Who?’ Simone looked as puzzled and angry as ever.

  ‘The doctors,’ Jonathan said. ‘They’re trying a new treatment – one is – and somebody’s betting against him. Another doctor. I thought you’d think it rather macabre, so I wasn’t going to tell you about it. But that means there’s really only about two hundred thousand, less now, belonging to us. They’re paying me that, the Hamburg people, for trying out their pills.’

  Jonathan could see that she tried, and couldn’t believe him. ‘It’s absurd!’ she said. ‘All that money, Jon! For a bet?’

  Georges looked up at her.

  Jonathan glanced at his son and wet his lips.

  ‘Do you know what I think, and I don’t care if Georges hears me! I think you are holding – concealing dishonest money for this dishonest type Tom Ripley. And of course he’s paying you a little, letting you have a little of it for doing him the favour!’

  Jonathan realized he was trembling, and set his bowl of café an lait down on the kitchen table. Both he and Simone were standing. ‘Couldn’t Ripley conceal his own money himself in Switzerland?’ Jonathan’s instinct was to go to her and grasp her by the shoulders, tell her that she had to believe him. But he knew quite well she’d push him back. So he simply stood up straighter and said, ‘I can’t help it if you don’t believe me. That’s the way it is.’ Jonathan had had a transfusion last Monday afternoon, the day he had fainted. Simone had gone to the hospital with him, and then he had gone by himself afterward to Dr Perrier, whom he’d had to ring earlier to make the appointment for the transfusion for him. Dr Perrier had wanted to see him as a matter of routine. But Jonathan had told Simone that Dr Perrier had given him more of the medicaments sent by the Hamburg doctor. The Hamburg doctor, Wentzel, hadn’t sent pills, but the pills he recommended were available in France, and Jonathan had a supply at home now. It was the Hamburg doctor Jonathan had decided should be betting ‘for’ and the Munich doctor who should be betting ‘against’, but he hadn’t got that far with Simone as yet.

  ‘But I don’t believe you,’ Simone said, her voice gentle and also sinister. ‘Come along, Georges, we’ve got to go.’

  Jonathan blinked, and watched Simone and Georges go up the hall towards the front door. Georges picked up has satchel of books, and perhaps startled by the heated conversation, forgot to say good-bye to Jonathan, and Jonathan was silent too.

  Since it was Saturday, Jonathan’s shop was busy. The telephone rang several times. Around 11 a.m., the voice on the other end of the telephone was Tom Ripley’s.

  ‘I’d like to see you today. It’s rather important,’ Tom said. ‘Are you able to talk now?’

  ‘Not really.’ There was a man at the counter in front of Jonathan, waiting to pay for his picture which lay wrapped between them.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday. But I’m wondering how soon you could get to my house – and stay the evening?’

  Jonathan was jolted for a second. Close the shop. Inform Simone. Inform her what? ‘Of course I can. Yes.’

  ‘How soon? I’ll pick you up. Say at twelve noon? Or is that too soon?’

  ‘No. I’ll make it.’

  Tick you up at your shop. Or on the street there. One other thing – bring the gun.’ Tom hung up.

  Jonathan attended to the people in his shop, and while there was still someone in his shop, he stuck the FERME sign in his door. He wondered what had happened to Tom Ripley since yesterday? Simone was home that morning, but she was more often out than in on Saturday mornings, because she did marketing and chores like going to the dry cleaners. Jonathan decided to write Simone a note and push it through the letter slot in the front door. Jonathan had the note written by 11-40 a.m., and went off with it, up the Rue de la Paroisse, the quickest way, where there was a fifty-fifty chance of encountering Simone, but he didn’t, He stuck the note through the slot marked LETTRES, and walked back quickly the way he had come. He had written:

  My dear,

  Won’t be home for lunch or dinner and have closed the shop. Chance of a big job some distance away and am being taken there by car.

  J.

  It was inexplicit, not at all like him. And yet, how could things get any worse than they’d been that morning?

  Jonathan went into his shop again, grabbed his old mac, and stuck the Italian gun into its pocket. When he went out on the pavement again, Tom’s green Renault was approaching. Tom opened the door, barely stopping, and Jonathan got in.

  ‘Morning!’ Tom said. ‘How are things?’

  ‘At home?’ Jonathan was, despite himself, glancing about for Simone who might be anywhere on the streets here. ‘Not very good, I’m afraid.’

  Tom could imagine. ‘But you’re feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Tom made the right turn by the Prisunic into the Rue Grande. ‘I had another telephone call,’ Tom said, ‘rather my housekeeper did. Same as before, a wrong number, and she didn’t tell him whose house it was, but it’s made me nervous. By the way I’ve sent my housekeeper and also my wife away. I have a hunch something might happen. So I called on you to hold the fort with me. I have no one else to ask. I’m afraid to ask the police to keep a watch. If they were to find a couple of the Mafia around my house, there’d be unpleasant inquiries as to why they were there, of course.’

  Jonathan knew that.

  ‘We’re not at my house yet,’ Tom went on, passing the Monument now and entering the road that led towards Villeperce, ‘so there’s time for you to change your mind. I’ll drive you back gladly and you needn’t apologize if you don’t want to join me. There may be danger and there may not. But it’s easier for two people to be on the look-out there than for one.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jonathan felt curiously paralysed.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t want to leave my house.’ Tom was driving rather fast. ‘I don’t want it to go up in smoke or be blown up like Reeves’ place. Reeves by the way is now in Ascona. They tracked him to Amsterdam and he had to run.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jonathan experien
ced a few seconds of panic, of nausea. He felt that everything was collapsing. ‘You’ve — Have you seen anything odd around your house?’

  ‘Not really.’ Tom’s voice was cool. His cigarette stuck up at a jaunty angle.

  Jonathan was thinking, he could pull out. Now. Just say to Tom he didn’t feel up to it, that he might well faint if it came to the crunch. He could go home and be safe. Jonathan took a deep breath and lowered the window a bit more. He’d be a bastard if he did that, a coward and a shit. He might at least try. He owed it to Tom Ripley. And why should he be so concerned about his own safety? Why suddenly now? Jonathan smiled a little, feeling better. ‘I told Simone about the bet on my life. It didn’t go down too well.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘The same thing. She doesn’t believe me. What’s worse, she saw me with you yesterday – somewhere. Now she’s thinking I’m holding some money for you – in my name. Dishonest money, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom saw the situation. But it didn’t seem important compared to what might happen to Belle Ombre, to himself and maybe Jonathan too. ‘I’m no hero, you know,’ Tom said out of the blue. ‘If the Mafia got me and tried to beat some facts out of me, I doubt if I’d be as brave as Fritz.’

  Jonathan was silent. He sensed that Tom was feeling as queasy as he himself had a few seconds ago.

  It was a particularly fine day, the air liquid with summer, the sunlight brilliant. It was a shame to have to work on such a day, to have to be indoors as Simone would be this afternoon. She didn’t have to work any more, of course. Jonathan had wanted to say that to her for the past couple of weeks.

  They were entering Villeperce now, a quiet village of the kind that would have perhaps only one butcher’s and one bakery.

  ‘That’s Belle Ombre,’ Tom said, nodding towards a domed tower that showed above some poplars.

  They had driven perhaps half a kilometre from the village. The houses on the road were far apart and large. Belle Ombre looked like a small chateau, its lines classic and sturdy, but softened by four rounded corner towers which came all the way down to the grass. There were iron gates, and Tom had to get out and open them with a huge key he had taken from the glove compartment. Then they rolled on to the gravel in front of the garage.

  ‘What a beautiful place!’ Jonathan said.

  Tom nodded and smiled. ‘A wedding present from my wife’s parents, mainly. And every time I arrive lately, I’m delighted to see that it’s still standing. Please come in!’

  Tom had a key for the front door, too.

  ‘Not used to locking up,’ Tom said. ‘Usually my housekeeper’s here.’

  Jonathan walked into a wide foyer paved with white marble, then into a square living-room – two rugs, a big fireplace, a comfortable-looking yellow satin sofa. And a harpsichord stood beside french windows. The furniture was all good, Jonathan saw, and it was well cared for.

  Take off your mac,’ Tom said. For the moment, he felt relieved – Belle Ombre was quiet, and he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the village. He went to the hall table and took his Luger from the drawer. Jonathan watched him, and Tom smiled.’ Yes, I’m going to carry this thing all day, hence these old trousers. Big pockets. I can see why some people prefer shoulder-holsters.’ Tom pushed the gun into a pocket of his trousers. ‘Do the same with yours, if you don’t mind.’

  Jonathan did.

  Tom was thinking of his rifle upstairs. He was sorry to get down to business so quickly, but he thought it might be for the best. ‘Come up. I want to show you something.’

  They climbed the stairway, and Tom took Jonathan into his room. Jonathan at once noticed the commode de bateau and went over for a closer look.

  ‘A recent present from my wife — Look —’ Tom was holding his rifle. ‘There’s this. For long range. Fairly accurate, but not like an army rifle, of course. I want you to look out this front window.’

  Jonathan did. There was a nineteenth-century three-storey house across the road, set well back and more than half-obscured by trees. Trees bordered the road on either side in a haphazard way. Jonathan was imagining a car pausing on the road outside the house gates, and that was what Tom was talking about: the rifle would be more accurate than a pistol.

  ‘Of course it depends on what they do,’ Tom said. ‘If they intend to throw an incendiary bomb, for instance. Then the rifle will be the thing to use. Of course there are back windows too. And side windows. Come this way.’

  Tom led Jonathan into Heloise’s room, which had a window giving on the back lawn. Here were denser trees beyond the lawn, and poplars bordering the lawn on the right.

  ‘There’s a lane going through those woods. You can faintly see it on the left. And in my atelier —’ Tom went into the hall and opened a door on the left. This room had windows on the back lawn and in the direction in which the village of Villeperce lay, but only cypresses and poplars and the tiles of a small house were visible. ‘We might keep a look-out on both sides of the house, not that we have to stay glued to the windows but — The other important point is, I want the enemy to think I’m alone here. If you —’

  The telephone was ringing. Tom thought for a moment that he wouldn’t answer it, then that he might learn something if he did. He took it in his room.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘M. Ripley?’ said a Frenchwoman’s voice, ‘Ici, Mme Trevanny. Is my husband there by any chance?’

  She sounded very tense.

  ‘Your husband? Mais non, madame!’ Tom said with astonishment in his voice.

  ‘Merci, m’sieur. Excusez-moi.’ She hung up.

  Tom sighed. Jonathan was indeed having troubles.

  Jonathan was standing in the doorway. ‘My wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sorry. I said you weren’t here. You can send a pneu, if you like. Or telephone. Maybe she’s in your shop.’

  ‘No, no, I doubt that.’ But she could be, because she had a key. It was only a quarter past 1 p.m. How else could Simone have obtained his number, Tom thought, if not from Jonathan’s notation in his shop? ‘Or if you like, I’ll drive you back now to Fontainebleau. It’s really up to you, Jonathan.’

  ‘No,’ Jonathan said. Thanks.’ Renunciation, Jonathan thought. Simone had known Tom was lying.

  ‘I apologize for lying just now. You can always blame me. I doubt if I can sink any lower in your wife’s mind anyway.’ Tom at that moment didn’t give a damn, didn’t have the time or the inclination to sympathize with Simone. Jonathan wasn’t saying anything. ‘Let’s go down and see what the kitchen has to offer.’

  Tom drew the curtains in his room almost closed, but open enough so that one could see out without stirring the curtains. He did the same in Heloise’s room, and also downstairs in the living-room. Mme Annette’s quarters he decided to let alone. They had windows on the lane side and the back lawn.

  There was plenty of Mme Annette’s delicious ragoût of last evening. The window over the kitchen sink had no curtains, and Tom made Jonathan sit out of view at the kitchen table, with a scotch and water.

  ‘What a shame we can’t potter in the garden this afternoon,’ Tom said, washing lettuce at the sink. He had a compulsion to glance out the window at every passing car. Only two cars had passed in the last ten minutes.

  Jonathan had noticed that both garage doors were wide open. Tom’s car was parked on the gravel in front of the house. It was so quiet, any footstep would be heard on the gravel, Jonathan thought.

  ‘And I can’t turn on any music, because I might drown out some other noise. What a bore,’ Tom said.

  Though neither ate much, they spent a long time at the table in the dining area off the living-room. Tom made coffee. Since there was nothing substantial for dinner that evening, Tom telephoned the Villeperce butcher and asked for a good steak for two.

  ‘Oh, Mme Annette is taking a short holiday.’ Tom said in response to the butcher’s question. The Ripleys were such good customers, Tom had no hesitation in a
sking the butcher to pick up some lettuce and a nice vegetable of some kind at the grocery next door.

  The very audible crunching of tyres on gravel half an hour later announced the arrival of the butcher’s van. Tom had jumped to his feet. He paid the genial butcher’s boy, who was wearing a blood-spattered apron, and tipped him. Jonathan was now looking at some books on furniture, and seemed quite content, so Tom went upstairs to pass some time by tidying his atelier, a room which Mme Annette never touched.

  A telephone call just before 5 p.m. came like a scream in the silence, a muffled scream to Tom, because he had dared to go out in the garden and was messing about with the secateurs. Tom ran into the house, though he knew Jonathan wouldn’t touch the telephone. Jonathan was still lounging on the sofa, surrounded by books.

  The call was from Heloise. She was very happy because she had rung Noëlle, and a friend of Noëlle’s, Jules Grifaud, an interior decorator, had bought a chalet in Switzerland, and was inviting Noëlle and her to drive there with him and keep him company for a week or so while he arranged his things in the house.

  ‘The country around is so beautiful,’ Heloise said. ‘And we can also help him…’

  It sounded deadly to Tom, but if Heloise was enthusiastic, that was what mattered. He had known she wouldn’t go on that Adriatic cruise, like an ordinary tourist.