Her mouth twitched a little, bitterly. ‘I trust you won’t have need of Jonathan again?’
‘I won’t call on him if I do,’ Tom said pleasantly. ‘How is—’
‘I would think,’ she interrupted, ‘the people to call on are the police. Don’t you agree? Or perhaps you are already in the secret police? Of America, perhaps?’
Her sarcasm had very deep roots, Tom realized. He was never going to succeed with Simone. Tom smiled a little, though he felt slightly wounded. He’d endured worse words in his life, but in this case it was a pity because he had so wanted to convince Simone. ‘No, that I am not. I get into scrapes now and then, as I think you know.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Scrapes, what is scrapes?’ Georges piped up, his blond head turning from Tom to his mother. He was on his feet, very near them.
Tom had used the word pétrins – which he’d had to grope for.
‘Sh-h, Georges,’ said his mother.
‘But in this case, you must admit to take on the Mafia is not a bad thing.’ Whose side are you on, Tom wanted to ask, but that would be rubbing it in.
‘M. Ripley, you are an extremely sinister personage. That is all I know. I would be most grateful if you left both me and my husband alone.’
Tom’s flowers lay on the hall table, waterless.
‘How is Jonathan now?’ Tom asked in the hall. ‘I hope he’s better.’ Tom was even afraid to say he hoped Jonathan would be home tonight, lest Simone think he intended to use him again.
‘I think he is all right – better. Good-bye, M. Ripley.’
‘Good-bye and thank you,’ Tom said. ‘Au revoir, Georges.’ Tom patted the boy’s head, and Georges smiled.
Tom went out to his car. Gauthier! A familiar face, a neighbourhood face, now gone. It piqued Tom that Simone thought he had had something to do with it, had arranged it, even though Jonathan had told him days ago that Simone thought this. My God, the taint! Well, yes, he had the taint, all right. Worse, he had killed people. True. Dickie Greenleaf. That was the taint, the real crime. Hot-headed-ness of youth. Nonsense! It had been greed, jealousy, resentment of Dickie. And of course Dickie’s death – rather his murder – had caused Tom to kill the American slob called Freddie Miles. Long past, all that. But he had done it, yes. The law half-suspected it. But they couldn’t prove it. The story had crept through the public, the public mind, like ink creeping through a blotter. Tom was ashamed. A youthful, dreadful mistake. A fatal mistake, one might think, it was just that he had had amazing luck afterwards. He’d survived it, physically speaking. And surely his – murder since then, Murchison for instance, had most certainly been done to protect others as much as himself.
Simone was shocked – what woman wouldn’t have been – at seeing two corpses on the floor when she walked into Belle Ombre last night. But hadn’t he been protecting her husband as well as himself? If the Mafia had caught him and tortured him, wouldn’t he have come out with the name and address of Jonathan Trevanny?
This made Tom think of Reeves Minot. How was he faring? Tom thought he ought to ring him. Tom found himself staring with a frown at the handle of his car door. His door was not even locked, and his keys, in Tom’s usual style, were hanging in the dashboard.
22
THE evidence of the marrow test, which a doctor took in mid-afternoon Sunday, was not good, and they wanted to keep Jonathan overnight and give him the treatment called Vincainestine, which was a complete change of blood, and which Jonathan had had before.
Simone came to see him just after 7 p.m. They had told Jonathan that she had telephoned earlier. But whoever had spoken to her had not told her that he had to stay overnight, and Simone was surprised.
‘So – tomorrow.’ she said, and seemed not to find any more words.
Jonathan lay with his head a little raised by pillows. Tom’s pyjamas had been changed for a loose garment, and he had a tube in both arms. Jonathan felt a terrible distance between Simone and himself. Or was he imagining it? Tomorrow morning, I suppose. Don’t trouble to come here, my dear, I’ll get a taxi. – How was the afternoon? How’s your family?’
Simone ignored the question. Tour friend M. Ripley paid a visit to me this afternoon.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘He is so – absolutely full of lies, it is hard to know even what smallest part to believe. Maybe none of it.’ Simone glanced behind her, but there was no one. Jonathan’s was one of many beds in the ward, not all of them occupied, but the ones on either side of Jonathan were occupied, and one man had a visitor.
They couldn’t easily talk.
‘Georges will be disappointed that you don’t come back tonight,’ Simone said.
Then she left.
Jonathan went home the next morning, Monday, around 10 a.m. Simone was at home, ironing some of Georges’ clothing.
‘Are you feeling all right? … Did they give you breakfast? … Would you like some coffee? Or tea?’
Jonathan felt much better – one always did just after a Vincainestine, until his disease got to work and ruined the blood again, he thought. He wanted only a bath. He had a bath, then put on different clothes, old beige corduroy trousers, two sweaters because die morning was cool, or perhaps he was feeling the chill more than usually. Simone was ironing in a short-sleeved woollen dress. The morning newspaper, the Figaro, lay folded on the kitchen table with its front page outermost, as usual, but it was obvious from the looseness of the paper that Simone had looked at it.
Jonathan picked up the paper, and since Simone did not look up from her ironing, he walked into the living-room. He found a two-column item in a bottom corner of the second page.
TWO CORPSES INCINERATED IN CAR
The dateline was 14 May, Chaumont. A farmer named René Gault, fifty-five, had found the still-smoking Citroen early on Sunday morning, and had at once alerted the police. The still unburnt papers in the wallets of the dead men identified them as Angelo Lippari, thirty-three, contractor, and Filippo Turoli, thirty-one, salesman, both of Milan. Lippari had died of skull fractures, Turoli of unknown causes, though he was believed to have been unconscious or dead when the car was set alight. There were no clues at the moment, and police were making investigations.
The garrotte had been completely burnt, Jonathan supposed, and evidently Lippo so badly burnt that the signs of garrotting had been destroyed,
Simone came into the doorway with folded clothing in her hands. ‘So? I saw it too. The two Italians.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you helped M. Ripley to do that. That is what you called “cleaning up”.’
Jonathan said nothing. He gave a sigh, sat down on the luxuriously squeaking Chesterfield sofa, but he sat up rather straight, lest Simone think he was retreating on grounds of weakness. ‘Something had to be done with them.’
‘And you simply had to help.’ she said. ‘Jon – now that Georges is not here – 1 think we should talk about this.’ She put the clothes on top of the waist-high bookcase by the door, and sat down on the edge of the armchair. ‘You are not telling me the truth, and neither is M. Ripley. I am wondering what else you are going to be obliged to do for him.’ On the last words, her voice rose with hysteria.
‘Nothing.’ Jonathan did feel sure of that. And if Tom asked him to do anything else, he could quite simply refuse. At that moment, it seemed quite simple to Jonathan. He had to hold on to Simone at any cost. She was worth more than Tom Ripley, more than anything Tom could offer him.
‘It is beyond my understanding. You knew what you were doing – last night. You helped to kill those men, didn’t you?’ Her voice dropped, and it trembled.
‘It was a matter of protecting – what had gone before.’
‘Ah, yes, M. Ripley explained. By accident you were on the same train as he was, coming from Munich, is that right? And you – assisted him in – in killing two people?’
‘Mafia.’ Jonathan said. What had Tom told her?
‘You – an ordinary p
assenger, assist a murderer? You expect me to believe that, Jon?’
Jonathan was silent, trying to think, miserable. The answer was no. Ton don’t seem to realize they were Mafia, Jonathan wanted to repeat. They were attacking Tom Ripley.
Another he, at least in regard to the train. Jonathan pressed his lips together, and sat back on the generous sofa, ‘I don’t expect you to believe it. I have only two things to say, this is the end of it, and the men we killed were criminals and murderers themselves. You must admit that.’
‘Are you a secret police agent in your spare time? – Why are you being paid for this, Jon? You – a killer!’ She stood up with her hands clenched. ‘You are a stranger to me. I have never known you before now.’
‘Oh, Simone,’ Jonathan said, standing up too.
‘I cannot like you and I cannot love you.’
Jonathan blinked. She had said that in English.
She continued in French: ‘You are leaving out something, I know. And I don’t even want to know what it is. Do you understand? It is some horrible connection with M. Ripley, that odious personage – and I wonder what.’ she added with the bitter sarcasm again. ‘Plainly it is something too disgusting for you to tell me, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve no doubt covered up some other crime for him, and for this you’re being paid, for this you’re in his power. Very well, I don’t want —’
‘I am not in his power! You’ll see!’
‘I’ve seen enough!’ She went out, taking the clothes with her, and climbed the stairs.
When it came time for lunch, Simone said she wasn’t hungry. Jonathan made himself a boiled egg. Then he went to his shop, and kept the FERME sign in the door, because he was not officially open on Mondays. Nothing had changed since Saturday noon. He could see that Simone hadn’t been in. Jonathan suddenly thought of the Italian gun, usually in a drawer, now at Tom Ripley’s. Jonathan cut one frame, cut the glass for it, but lost heart when it came to driving the nails in. What was he to do about Simone? What if he told her the whole story, just as it had been? Jonathan knew, however, that he was up against a Catholic attitude about taking human life. Not to mention that Simone would consider the original proposition to him ‘Fantastic! – Disgusting!’ Curious that the Mafia was a hundred per cent Catholic, and they didn’t mind about human life. But he, Simone’s husband, was different. He shouldn’t take human life. And if he told her it was a ‘mistake’ on his part, that he regretted it — Hopeless. First of all, he didn’t particularly believe it had been a mistake, so why tell another lie?
Jonathan went with more determination back to his work-table, and got the glue and nails in the picture frame, and sealed it neatly with brown paper on the back. He clipped the owner’s name to the picture wire. Then he looked over his orders to be filled, and tackled one more picture, which like the other needed no mat. He went on working until 6 p.m. Then he bought bread and wine, and some ham slices from a charcuterie, enough for dinner for the three of them in case Simone hadn’t done any shopping.
Simone said, ‘I am in terror that the police will knock on the door at any moment, wanting to see you.’
Jonathan, setting the table, said nothing for a few seconds. ‘They will not. Why should they?’
‘There is no such thing as no clues. They will find M. Ripley, and he will tell them about you.’
Jonathan was sure she hadn’t eaten all day. He found some left-over potatoes – mashed potatoes – in the fridge, and went about preparing the dinner himself. Georges came down from his room.
‘What did they do to you in the hospital, papa?’
‘I have completely new blood,’ Jonathan replied with a smile, flexing his arms. ‘Think of that. All new blood – oh, at least eight litres of it.’
‘How much is that?’ Georges spread his arms also.
‘Eight times this bottle,’ said Jonathan. ‘That’s what took all night.’
Though Jonathan made an effort, he couldn’t lift the gloom, the silence of Simone. She poked at her food and said nothing. Georges couldn’t understand. Jonathan’s efforts, failing, embarrassed him, and over coffee he too was silent, not able even to chat with Georges.
Jonathan wondered if she had spoken with her brother Gerard. He steered Georges into the living-room to watch the television, the new set which had arrived a few days ago. The programmes – there were only two channels – weren’t interesting for kids at this hour, but Jonathan hoped he would stay with one of them for a while.
‘Did you talk to Gerard by any chance?’ Jonathan asked, not able to repress the question.
‘Of course not. Do you think I could possibly tell him – this?’ She was smoking a cigarette, a rare thing for her. She glanced at the doorway to the hall, to be sure Georges was not coming back. Jon – I think we should make some arrangement to separate.’
On die television, a French politician was speaking about syndicate, trade unions.
Jonathan sat down again in his chair. ‘Darling, I do know – It’s a shock to you. Will you let a few days pass? I know, somehow, I can make you understand. Really.’ Jonathan spoke with utmost conviction, and yet he realized he was not convinced himself, not at all. It was like an instinctive clinging to life, Jonathan thought, his clinging to Simone.
‘Yes, of course you think that. But I know myself. I am not an emotional young girl, you know.’ Her eyes looked straight at him, hardly angry now, only determined, and distant. ‘I am not interested in all your money now, not any of it. I can make my own way – with Georges.’
‘Oh, Georges – my God, Simone, I’ll support Georges!’ Jonathan could hardly believe they were saying these words. He got up, drew Simone up from her chair a little roughly, and some coffee spilled out of her cup into the saucer. Jonathan embraced her, would have kissed her, but she squirmed away.
‘Non!’ She put her cigarette out, and started clearing the table. ‘I am sorry to say also that I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with you.’
‘Oh, yes, I assumed that.’ And you’ll go to church tomorrow and say a prayer for my soul, Jonathan thought.
‘Simone, you must let a little time go by. Don’t say things now that you don’t mean.’
‘I will not change. Ask M. Ripley. I think he knows.’
Georges came back. Television was forgotten, and he looked at them both with puzzlement.
Jonathan touched Georges’ head with his fingertips as he went into the hall. Jonathan had thought to go up to the bedroom – but it wasn’t their bedroom any more, and anyway what would he do up there? The television droned on. Jonathan turned in a circle in the hall, then took his raincoat and a muffler, and went out. He walked to the Rue de France and turned left and at the end of the street went into the bar-café on the corner. He wanted to telephone Tom Ripley. He remembered Tom’s number.
‘Hello?’ Tom said.
Jonathan.’
‘How are you? … I telephoned the hospital, I heard you stayed the night. You’re out now?’
‘Oh, yes, this morning. I —’Jonathan gasped.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Could I see you for a few minutes? If you think it’s safe. I’m – 1 suppose I could get a taxi. Surely.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The corner bar – the new one near the Aigle Noir.’
‘I could pick you up. No?’ Tom suspected Jonathan had had a bad scene with Simone.
‘I’ll walk towards the Monument. I want to Walk a little. I’ll see you there.’
Jonathan felt at once better. It was spurious, no doubt, it was postponing the situation with Simone, but for the moment that didn’t matter. He felt like a tortured man momentarily relieved of the torture, and he was grateful for a few moments of the relief. Jonathan lit a cigarette and walked slowly, because it would take Tom nearly fifteen minutes. Jonathan went into the Bar des Sports, just beyond the Hôtel de 1’Aigle Noir, and ordered a beer. He tried not to think at all. Then one thought rose to the surface on its own: Simone
would come round. As soon as he thought consciously about this, he feared that she wouldn’t. He was alone now. Jonathan knew he was alone, that even Georges was more than half cut off from him now, because surely Simone was going to keep Georges, but Jonathan was aware that he didn’t yet realize it fully. That would take days. Feelings were slower than thoughts. Sometimes.
Tom’s dark Renault in a thin stream of other cars came out of the darkness of the woods into the light around the Obelisque, the Monument. It was a little past 8 p.m. Jonathan was on the corner, on the left side of the road, and Tom’s right. Tom would have to make the complete circle to regain his road homeward – if they went to Tom’s. Jonathan preferred Tom’s house to a bar. Tom stopped and unlatched the door.
‘Evening!’ Tom said.
‘Evening,’ Jonathan replied, pulling the door shut, and at once Tom moved off. ‘Can we go to your place? I don’t feel like a crowded bar.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve had a bad evening. And day, I’m afraid.’
‘So I thought. Simone?’
‘It seems she’s finished. Who can blame her?’ Jonathan felt awkward, started to take a cigarette, and found even that purposeless, so he didn’t.
‘I tried my best,’ Tom said. He was concentrating on driving as fast as possible without bringing down a motor-cycle cop, some of whom lurked in the woods at the edge of the road here.
‘Oh, it’s the money – it’s the corpses, good Christ! As for the money, I said I was holding the stake for the Germans, you know.’ It was suddenly ludicrous to Jonathan, the money, the bet also. The money was so concrete in a way, so tangible, so useful, and yet not nearly so tangible or meaningful as the two dead men that Simone had seen. Tom was driving quite fast. Jonathan felt unconcerned whether they hit a tree or bounced off the road. ‘To put it simply.’ Jonathan went on, ‘it’s the dead men. The fact that I helped – or did it. I don’t think she’s going to change.’ What profiteth it a man – Jonathan could have laughed. He hadn’t gained the whole world, nor had he lost his soul. Anyway, Jonathan didn’t believe in a soul. Self-respect was more like it. He hadn’t lost his self-respect, only Simone. Simone was morale, however, and wasn’t morale self-respect?
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