Ripley's Game

by Patricia Highsmith

‘Are you all right, darling? … What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh – a little gardening … Yes, everything is very tranquil.’

  19

  AROUND 7.30 p.m., when Tom was standing at the front window of his living-room, he saw the dark-blue Citroen – the same one he’d seen that morning, he thought – cruise past the house, this time at a faster speed, but still not as fast as the usual car which intended to get somewhere. Was it the same? In the dusk, colours were deceiving – the difference between blue and green. But the car had been a convertible with a dirty white upper trim, like the one this morning. Tom looked at the gates of Belle Ombre, which he had left ajar, but which the butcher’s boy had closed. Tom decided to leave them closed, but not locked. They creaked a little.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jonathan asked. He was drinking coffee. He hadn’t wanted tea. Tom’s unease was making him uneasy, and as far as he had been able to find out, Tom had no real reason to be so anxious.

  ‘I think I saw the same car as I saw this morning. A dark-blue Citroen. The one this morning had a Paris plate. I know most of the cars around here, and only two or three people have cars with Paris plates.’

  ‘Could you see the licence now?’ It looked dark to Jonathan, and he had a lamp on beside him.

  ‘No – I’m going to get the rifle.’ Tom went upstairs as if borne on wings, and returned at once with the rifle. He had left no lights on upstairs. He said to Jonathan, ‘I definitely don’t want to use a gun if I can avoid it, because of the noise. It’s not the hunting season, and a gunshot might bring the neighbours – or someone might investigate. Jonathan —’

  Jonathan was on his feet. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You might have to wield this rifle like a club.’ Tom illustrated, so that the weightiest part of it, the butt, could be used to best effect. ‘You can see how it works, in case you have to shoot with it. Safety’s on now.’ Tom showed him.

  But they’re not here, Jonathan was thinking. And at the same time he was feeling odd and unreal, as he had felt in Hamburg and in Munich, when he had known that his targets were real, and that they would materialize.

  Tom was calculating how much time it would take the Citroen to cruise or drive around the circular road that led back to the village. They could of course turn at some convenient place on the road and come straight back. ‘If anyone comes to the door,’ Tom said, ‘I have the feeling I’m going to be plugged when I open the door. That would be the simplest for them, you see. Then the fellow with the gun jumps into the waiting car and off they go.’

  Tom was a bit overwrought, Jonathan thought, but he listened carefully.

  ‘Another possibility is a bomb through that window,’ Tom said, gesturing towards the front window. ‘Same as Reeves had. So if you’re – um – agreeable — Sorry, but I’m not used to discussing my plans. I usually play it by ear. But if you’re willing, would you hide yourself in the shrubbery to the right of the door here – it’s thicker on the right – and clout anyone who walks up and rings the doorbell? They may not ring the doorbell, but I’ll be watching with the Luger for signs of bomb throwing. Clout him fast if he’s at the door, because he’ll be fast. He’ll have a gun in his pocket, and all he wants is a clear view of me.’ Tom went to die fireplace, where he had meant to light a fire and forgot, and took one of the third-of-a-log pieces from the wood basket. This he put on the floor to the right of the front door. It was not as heavy as the amethyst vase on the wooden chest by the door, but much easier to handle.

  ‘How about.’ Jonathan said, ‘if I open the door? If they know what you look like, as you say, they’ll see I’m not you and—’

  ‘No.’ Tom was surprised by Jonathan’s courageous offer. ‘First, they might not wait to see, just fire. And if they did look at you, and you said I don’t live here, or I’m not in, they’d only push in and see or —’ Tom gave it up with a laugh, imagining the Mafia blasting Jonathan in the stomach and pushing him into the house at the same time. ‘I think you should take up the post by the door now, if you’re willing. I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay there, but I can always bring you refreshments.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jonathan took the rifle from Tom and went out. The road in front of the house was quiet. Jonathan stood in the shadow of the house, and practised a swing with the rifle, high up so as to catch a man standing on the steps in the head.

  ‘Good,’ Tom said. ‘Would you care for a scotch now by any chance? You can leave the glass in the bushes. Doesn’t matter if it breaks.’

  Jonathan smiled. ‘No, thanks.’ He crept into the shrubbery – cypress-like bushes four feet high, and laurel also. It was very dark where Jonathan was, and he felt absolutely concealed. Tom had closed the door.

  Jonathan sat on the ground, his knees under his chin, and the rifle alongside near his right hand. He wondered if this could last for an hour? Longer? Or was it even a game Tom was playing. Jonathan couldn’t believe it was entirely a game. Tom wasn’t out of his head, and he believed something might happen tonight, and that small possibility made it wise to take precautions. Then as a car approached, Jonathan felt a start of real fear, an impulse to run straight into the house. The car went by at a fast clip. Jonathan hadn’t even a glimpse of it through the bushes and the house gates. He leaned a shoulder against a slender trunk of something and began to feel sleepy. Five minutes later, he lay at full length on his back, but still quite awake, beginning to feel the chill of the earth penetrating his shoulder-blades. If the telephone rang again, it might well be Simone. He wondered if she would, in some frenzy of temper, come to Tom’s house in a taxi? Or would she ring her brother Gerard in Nemours and ask him to bring her in his car? A bit more likely. Jonathan stopped thinking about that possibility, because it was so awful. Ludicrous. Unthinkable. How would he explain lying outside the house in the shrubbery, even if he concealed the rifle?

  Jonathan heard the house door opening. He had been dozing.

  Take this blanket,’ Tom whispered. The road was empty, and Tom stepped out with a steamer rug and handed it to Jonathan. Tut it under you. That ground must be awful.’ Tom’s own whispering made him realize that the Mafia boys might sneak up on foot. He hadn’t thought of that before. He went back into the house without another word to Jonathan.

  Tom went up the stairs, and in the dark surveyed the situation from the windows, front and back. All looked calm. A street light glowed brightly, but without extending its light very far, on the road about a hundred yards to the left in the direction of the village. None of its light fell in front of Belle Ombre, as Tom knew well. It was extremely silent, but that was normal. Even the footsteps of a man walking on the road might have been heard through the closed windows, Tom thought. He wished he could put on some music. He was about to turn from the window, when he heard the faint crunch-crunch-crunch of someone walking on the dirt road, and then he saw a not very strong flashlight beam, moving from the right towards Belle Ombre. Tom felt sure this wasn’t a person who would turn in at Belle Ombre, and the figure didn’t, but went on and was lost to view before it reached the street light. Male or female, Tom couldn’t tell.

  Jonathan was perhaps hungry. That couldn’t be helped. Tom was hungry, too. But of course it could be helped.

  Tom went down the stairs, still in the dark, his fingertips on the banister, and into the kitchen – the living-room and kitchen were lighted – and made some caviare canapes. The caviare was left over from last night, in its jar in the fridge, so the job was quick. Tom was bringing the plate for Jonathan, when he heard the purr of a car. The car went past Belle Ombre from left to right, and stopped. Then there was the feeble click of a car door, the sound of a car door when it hadn’t quite closed. Tom set the plate down on the wooden chest by the door, and pulled out his gun.

  Steps crunched firmly, at a polite-sounding pace, on the road, then the gravel. This wasn’t a bomb-thrower, Tom thought. The doorbell rang. Tom waited a few seconds, then said in French, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I would
like to ask a direction, please,’ the man’s voice said with a perfect French accent.

  Jonathan had been crouching with the rifle since the approach of footsteps, and now he leapt out of the bushes just as he heard Tom slide the bolt of the door. The man was two steps up from Jonathan, but Jonathan was almost as tall nevertheless, and he swung his rifle butt with all his power at the man’s head – ’ which had turned just slightly towards Jonathan, because the man must have heard him. Jonathan’s blow caught him behind the left ear, just under the hat-brim. The man swayed, bumped the left side of the doorway, and dropped.

  Tom opened the door and dragged him by the feet into the house, Jonathan helping, lifting the man’s shoulders. Then Jonathan recovered the rifle and came in the door, which Tom closed softly. Tom picked up the piece of firewood and walloped the man’s blondish head with it. The man’s hat had fallen off and lay upside down on the marble floor. Tom extended his hand for the rifle, and Jonathan handed it to him. Tom came down with the steel butt of it on the man’s temple.

  Jonathan couldn’t believe his eyes. Blood flowed on to the white marble. This was the husky bodyguard with crinkly blond hair who had been so upset on the train.

  ‘Got that bastard !’ Tom whispered with satisfaction. This is that bodyguard. Look at the gun!’

  A gun had fallen half out of the man’s right side jacket pocket.

  ‘Farther into the living-room.’ Tom said, and they hauled and pushed the man across the floor. ‘Mind the rug with that blood!’ Tom kicked the rug out of the way. ‘Next guy’s due in a minute, no doubt. Bound to be two, maybe three.’

  Tom took a handkerchief – lavender, monogrammed – from the man’s breast pocket and tidied a splotch of blood on the floor near the door. He kicked the man’s hat and sent it flying 6ver the body, and it fell near the hall door to the kitchen. Then Tom bolted the front door, holding his left hand over the bolt so it would not make a noise. ‘Next one might not be so easy,’ he whispered.

  There were footsteps on gravel. The bell rang – nervously twice.

  Tom laughed without making a sound, and pulled his Luger. He motioned for Jonathan to take his gun also. Tom was suddenly convulsed, and doubled over to repress his mirth, then straightened and grinned at Jonathan, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  Jonathan didn’t smile.

  The bell rang again, a long steady peal.

  Jonathan saw Tom’s face change in a split-second. Tom frowned, grimaced, as if he didn’t know what he should do.

  ‘Don’t use the gun,’ Tom whispered, ‘unless you have to.’ His left hand was extended towards the door.

  Tom was going to open the door and fire, Jonathan supposed, or cover the man.

  Then steps crunched again. The man outside was walking towards the window behind Jonathan, a window now quite covered by the curtains. Jonathan edged away from die window.

  ‘Angy? – Angy!’ the man’s voice whispered.

  ‘Ask him at the door what he wants.’ Tom whispered. ‘Talk in English – as if you were the butler. Let him in. I’ll have him covered. – Can you do it?’

  Jonathan didn’t care to think whether he could or not. Now there was a knocking, then another ring of the bell. ‘Who is it, please?’ Jonathan called to the door.

  ‘Je – je voudrais demander mon chemin, s’il vous plaît.’ The accent was not so good.

  Tom smirked.

  ‘Whom did you wish to speak to, sir?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Une direction! – S’il vous plaît!’ the voice yelled. Desperation had entered in.

  Tom and Jonathan exchanged a glance, and Tom gestured for Jonathan to open the door. Tom was immediately to the left of the door to anyone standing outside, but out of sight if the door were opened.

  Jonathan slid the bolt, turned the knob of the automatic lock, and opened the door partway, fully expecting a bullet in his abdomen, but he stood tall and stiffly with his right hand in his jacket pocket on the gun.

  The somewhat shorter Italian, wearing a hat like the other man, also had his hand in bis pocket and was plainly surprised to see a tall man in ordinary clothes in front of him.

  ‘Sir?’ Jonathan noticed that the man’s left jacket sleeve was empty.

  As the man took a step inside the house, Tom poked him in the side with his Luger.

  ‘Give me your gun!’ Tom said in Italian.

  Jonathan’s gun was also pointed at him now. The man heaved his jacket pocket up as if to fire, and Tom pushed him in the face with his left hand. The man didn’t fire. The Italian looked paralysed at finding himself suddenly so close to Tom Ripley.

  ‘Reeply!’ the Italian said, in a tone of mingled terror, surprise, and maybe triumph.

  ‘Oh, never mind that and give us the gun!’ Tom said in English, poking the man again in the ribs and knocking the door shut with his foot.

  The Italian got the idea, at least. He dropped the gun on the floor, when Tom indicated that that was what he wanted. Then the Italian saw his chum on the floor yards away, and started, wide-eyed.

  ‘Bolt the door.’ Tom said to Jonathan. Then Tom said in Italian, ‘Any more of you?9

  The Italian shook his head vigorously, which meant nothing, Tom thought. Tom saw that his arm was in a sling under his jacket. So much for the newspaper reports.

  ‘Cover him while I do this.’ Tom said, beginning to frisk the Italian. ‘Off with your jacket !’ Tom took the man’s hat off and threw it in Angy’s direction.

  The Italian let his jacket slide off and drop. His shoulder-holster was empty. There were no weapons in his pockets.

  ‘Angy —’ said the Italian.

  ‘Angy è morto,’ Tom said. ‘So will you be, if you don’t do what we say. You want to die? What’s your name? — What’s your name?’

  ‘Lippo. Filippo.’

  ‘Lippo. Keep your hands up and don’t move. Your hand. Go stand over there.’ He motioned for Lippo to go stand by the dead man. Lippo lifted his good right arm. ‘Cover him, Jon, I want to have a look at their car.’

  With his Luger ready, Tom went out and turned right on the road, approaching the car cautiously. He could hear the motor. The car was at the side of the road with parking lights on. Tom stopped and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them wide, trying to see if there was any movement at the sides of the car or behind the back window. He advanced slowly and steadily, expecting possibly a shot from the car. Silence. Could they have sent only two men? Tom hadn’t brought a torch in his nervousness. With his gun pointed at someone who might be crouched in the front seat, Tom opened the left-side door. The interior light came on. The car was empty. Tom closed the door enough to shut the light off, stooped, and listened. He didn’t hear anything. Tom trotted back and opened the gates of Belle Ombre, then went back to the car and backed it in on to the gravel. A car passed just then on the road, coming from the village direction. Tom turned off the ignition and the parking lights. He knocked and announced himself to Jonathan.

  ‘It seems this is all of them.’ Tom said.

  Jonathan was standing where Tom had seen him last, pointing his gun at Lippo, who now had his good arm down and hanging a little out from his side.

  Tom smiled at Jonathan, then at Lippo. ‘All alone now, Lippo? Because if you’re lying, it’s finito for you, you get me?’

  Mafia pride seemed to be returning to Lippo, and he merely narrowed his eyes at Tom.

  ‘Risponde, you … !’

  ‘Si’ said Lippo, angry and scared.

  ‘Getting tired, Jonathan? Sit down.’ Tom pulled up a yellow upholstered chair for him. ‘You can sit down, too, if you want to,’ Tom said to Lippo. ‘Sit next to your pal.’ Tom spoke in Italian. His slang was returning.

  But Lippo remained standing. He was a bit over thirty, Tom supposed, about five feet ten, with round but strong shoulders and a paunch already starting, hopelessly dumb, not capo material. He had straight black hair, a pale olive face that was now faintly green.

 
; ‘Remember me from the train? A little bit?’ Tom asked, smiling. He glanced at the blond hulk on the floor. ‘If you behave well, Lippo, you won’t end up like Angy. All right?’ Tom put his hands on his hips, and smiled at Jonathan. ‘Suppose we have a gin and tonic for fortification? You’re all right, Jonathan?’ Jonathan’s colour had returned, Tom saw.

  Jonathan nodded with a tense smile. ‘Yep.’

  Tom went into the kitchen. While he was pulling out the ice tray, the telephone rang. ‘Never mind the phone, Jonathan!’

  ‘Right!’ Jonathan had a feeling it was Simone again. It was now 9.45 p.m.

  Tom was wondering how to force Lippo to get his chums off his trail. The telephone rang eight times and stopped. Tom had unconsciously counted the rings. He went into the living-room with a tray of two glasses, ice, and an open tonic bottle. The gin was on the bar cart near the dining-table.

  Tom handed Jonathan his drink and said, ‘Cheers!’ He turned to Lippo. ‘Where’s your headquarters, Lippo? Milano?’

  Lippo chose to maintain an insolent silence. What a bore. Lippo would have to be beaten up a little. Tom glanced with distaste at the splotch of drying blood under Angy’s head, set his glass down on the wooden chest by the door, and went back to the kitchen. He wet a sturdy floor-cloth – called a torchon by Mme Annette – and mopped up the blood from Mme Annette’s waxed parquet. Tom pushed aside Angy’s head with his foot, and stuck the cloth under it. No more blood was coming, Tom thought. With sudden inspiration, Tom searched Angy’s pockets more thoroughly, trousers, jacket. He found cigarettes, a lighter, small change. A wallet in the breast pocket, which he left. There was a wadded handkerchief in a hip pocket, and when Tom pulled it out, a garrotte came with it. ‘Look!’ Tom said to Jonathan. Just what I was wanting! Ah, these Mafia rosaries!’ Tom held it up and laughed with pleasure. ‘For you, Lippo, if you’re not a good boy,’ Tom said in Italian. ‘After all, we don’t want to make any noise with guns, do we?’

  Jonathan looked at the floor for a few seconds as Tom strolled toward Lippo. Tom was whirling the garrotte around one finger.