Ripley Under Water

  “No,” he said, emphatically.

  And he made himself look calm for the rest of the meal, and on the drive home.

  They were to leave for Tangier in about two weeks. A young man called Pascal, a friend of Henri the handyman, would come with them in their car to the airport and drive the car back to Villeperce. Pascal had done it before.

  Tom took a spade to the garden and did some weeding by hand as well. He had changed into Levis and the waterproof leather shoes that he liked. He chucked the weeds into a plastic sack destined for the compost, then began deadheading, and was at this when Mme Annette called to him from the French windows on the back terrace.

  “M’sieur Tome? Telephone, s’il vous plait!”

  “Merci!” He snapped the clippers as he walked, left them on the terrace, and picked up the telephone in the downstairs hall. “Hello?”

  “Hello, I’m—is this Tom?” asked a voice which sounded like that of a young man.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m phoning from Washington, D.C.” Here there was an ooey-ooey interfering sound as if from under water. “I’m …”

  “Who is phoning?” Tom asked, unable to hear anything. “Hang on, would you? I’ll take it on another telephone.”

  Mme Annette was using the vacuum cleaner in the dining area of the living room, sufficiently distant for a normal telephone conversation, but not for this one.

  Tom took the call upstairs in his room. “Hello, back again.”

  “This is Dickie Greenleaf,” said the young man’s voice. “Remember me?” A chuckle.

  Tom had an impulse to hang up, but the impulse did not last long. “Of course. And where are you?”

  “Washington, D.C, as I said.” Now the voice was a bit falsetto.

  The faker was overdoing it, Tom thought. Was it a woman? “Interesting.

  Sightseeing?”

  “Well—after my experience under water, as you remember—maybe—I’m not in good shape physically for sightseeing.” A falsely merry laugh. “I was—was—“

  There was some confusion here, almost a cut-off, a clicking, but the voice resumed.

  “… was found and resuscitated. As you see. Ha-ha. Old times are not forgotten, eh, Tom?”

  “Oh, no, indeed,” Tom replied.

  “Now I’m in a wheelchair,” the voice said. “Irreparable—”

  Here came more noise on the line, a clatter as if of a pair of scissors or something larger falling.

  “Wheelchair collapsed?” asked Tom.

  “Ha-ha!” A pause. “No. I was saying,” the adolescent voice continued calmly, “irreparable damage to the autonomic nervous system.”

  “I see,” said Tom politely. “It’s been nice to hear from you again.”

  “I know where you live,” said the youthful voice, hitting a high note on the last word.

  “I suppose so—since you’ve telephoned,” said Tom. “I do wish you the best of health—recovery.”

  “You should! Goodbye, Tom.” The speaker hung up, hastily, perhaps to cut short an irrepressible giggle.

  Well, well, Tom thought, realizing that his heart was beating faster than usual. Due to anger? Surprise? Not fear, Tom told himself. What had sprung to his mind was that the voice might be that of the female companion of David Pritchard. Who else was it likely to be? No one that he could think of, at the moment.

  What a lousy, gruesome—prank. Mentally sick, Tom thought, the old cliche. But who? And why? Had that been an overseas call or a pretense at one? Tom wasn’t sure. Dickie Greenleaf. The beginning of his troubles, Tom thought. The first man he had killed, and the only one he regretted killing, really, the only crime he was sorry about. Dickie Greenleaf, a well-to-do (for those times) American, living in Mongibello on the Italian west coast, had befriended him, shown him hospitality, and Tom had respected and admired him, in fact, perhaps too much. Dickie had turned against him, and Tom had resented that, and without planning too much Tom had picked up an oar and killed Dickie one afternoon when they had been alone in a small boat. Dead? Of course Dickie had been dead these many years! Tom had weighted Dickie’s body with a rock and pushed it out of that boat, and it had sunk, and—well, in all these years Dickie hadn’t surfaced, and why should he now?

  Frowning, Tom walked slowly about his room, staring at the carpet. He was aware that he felt a bit nauseated, and took a deep breath. No, Dickie Greenleaf was dead (that voice hadn’t been like Dickie’s anyway), and Tom had stepped into Dickie’s shoes and clothing, had used Dickie’s passport for a while, but even that had soon come to a stop. Dickie’s informal will, written by Tom, had passed inspection. Therefore, who was showing the audacity to bring the matter up again? Who knew or cared enough to look up his past association with Dickie Greenleaf?

  Tom had to yield to his nausea. Once Tom thought he might be going to be sick, he couldn’t repress it. It had happened before. Tom bent over the raised seat of the toilet. Fortunately only a little liquid came up, but his stomach ached for a few seconds. He flushed the toilet, then brushed his teeth at the basin.

  Damn the bastards, whoever they are, Tom thought. He had the feeling that two people had been on the line just now, not both talking, but another listening, hence the mirth.

  Tom went downstairs to hang up the telephone and encountered Mme Annette in the living room, carrying a vase of dahlias, whose water she had probably changed. She wiped the bottom of the vase with a dishcloth before she set it back on the sideboard. “I am going out for half an hour, madame,” Tom said in French to her, “in case anyone rings.”

  “Oui, M’sieur Tome,” she replied, then went on with her activities.

  Mme Annette had been with Tom and Heloise for several years. Her bedroom and bath were on the left side of the house as one approached Belle Ombre, and she had her own television set and radio. The kitchen was also her domain, approached from her quarters via a small hall. She was of Normandy stock, with pale blue eyes and lids that drew down at their outer corners. Tom and Heloise loved her, because she loved them, or seemed to. She had two great friends in the town, Mmes Genevieve and Marie-Louise, also housekeepers, and the three seemed to rotate their TV evenings at the house of one or another on their days off.

  Tom got his clippers from the terrace, and put them into a wooden box that lurked in a corner for such items. The box was more convenient than walking all the way to the greenhouse at the back right corner of the garden. He took a cotton jacket from the front closet, and made sure he had his wallet with his driving license in it, even for this short journey. The French were fond of spot-checking, using non-local and therefore merciless policemen. Where was Heloise? Maybe up in her room, choosing clothes for the trip? What a good thing Heloise hadn’t picked up the telephone when the creeps had rung! She surely hadn’t, or she’d have come immediately into his room, puzzled, asking questions. But then, Heloise had never been an eavesdropper, and Tom’s business affairs didn’t interest her. If she realized that a telephone call was for Tom, she hung up right away, not hastily, but as if without thinking about it.

  Heloise knew the Dickie Greenleaf story, had even heard that Tom was suspected (or had been), Tom was sure. But she made no comment, asked no questions. Certainly she and Tom had had to minimize Tom’s questionable activities, his frequent trips for inexplicable causes, in order to placate Jacques Plissot, Heloise’s father. He was a manufacturer of pharmaceuticals, and the Ripley household partly depended upon his generous allowance to Heloise, who was his only offspring. Heloise’s mother, Arlene, was even quieter than Heloise about Tom’s business. A slender and elegant woman, she seemed to make an effort to be tolerant of the younger, and was fond of giving Heloise, or anybody, household tips about furniture care, and, of all things, economy, thrift.

  These details ran through Tom’s head as he drove the brown Renault at moderate speed toward the center of town. It was nearly 5 p.m. This being Friday, Antoine Grais might be home, Tom thought, though maybe not quite, if Antoine had put in a
full day in Paris. He was an architect, and he and his wife had two children in their early teens. The house that David Pritchard said he had rented was beyond the Grais’ house, which was why Tom turned right at a certain road in Villeperce: he could tell himself he was going by the Grais to say hello or some such. Tom had driven through the comforting main street of the town, with its post office, one butcher’s shop, one bakery, and bar-tabac, which was about all Villeperce consisted of.

  There was the Grais’ house, just visible behind a handsome stand of chestnuts. It was a round house, shaped like a military turret, now prettily overgrown, almost, by climbing pink rose-vines. The Grais had a garage, and Tom could see that its door was closed, meaning that Antoine hadn’t arrived as yet for the weekend, and that Agnes and maybe the two children were out shopping.

  Now the white house—not the first in view but the second, Tom saw through some trees, on the left side of the road. Tom shifted to second gear. The macadam road, on which two cars could just comfortably pass, was now deserted. There were few houses on this northern side of Villeperce, and the land was more meadow than farm field.

  If the Pritchards had rung him fifteen minutes ago, they were probably home, thought Tom. He might at least see if they were lounging in the sunshine in deckchairs by the pond, which Tom thought was visible from the road. A green lawn in need of cutting lay between the road and the white house, a flagstone path went from the driveway to a few steps which led up to the porch. There were also some steps on the road side of the porch, on which side the pond lay. Much of the property lay behind the house, as Tom recalled.

  Tom heard laughter, certainly a woman’s laugh, maybe mingled with a man’s. And yes, it had come from the pond area between Tom and the house, an area nearly hidden by a hedge and a couple of trees. Then Tom glimpsed the pond, saw twinkles of sunlight on it, and had an impression of two figures lying on the grass there, but he wasn’t sure. A male figure stood up, tall, in red shorts.

  Tom accelerated. Yes, that had been David himself; Tom was ninety percent sure.

  Did the Pritchards know his car, the brown Renault?

  “Mr. Ripley?” The voice had come faintly but clearly.

  Tom drove on at the same speed, as if he’d heard nothing.

  Damned annoying, Tom thought. He took the next turning left, which brought him into another small road with three or four houses along it, farm fields on one side. This was the way back into the center of town, but Tom turned left in order to take a road at right angles to the Grais’ road and to approach the Grais’ turret house again. He kept the same easy rate of speed.

  Now Tom saw the Grais’ white station wagon in the driveway. He disliked dropping in without telephoning first, but perhaps with the news of new neighbors he could risk a breach of etiquette. Agnes Grais was carrying two great shopping bags from the car when Tom drove up.

  “Hello, Agnes. Give you a hand?”

  “That would be nice! Hello, Tome!”

  Tom took both bags, while Agnes lifted something else out of their station wagon.

  Antoine had carried a case of mineral water into the kitchen, and the two teenagers had opened a large Coca-Cola bottle.

  “Greetings, Antoine!” said Tom. “I happened to be passing by. Nice weather, is it not?”

  “That it is,” said Antoine in his baritone voice which sometimes made his French suggest Russian to Tom. Now he was in shorts, socks, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt of a green Tom especially disliked. Antoine had dark and slightly wavy hair and was always a few kilos overweight. “What is new?”

  “Not much,” said Tom, setting the bags down.

  The Grais’ daughter, Sylvie, had begun unloading in an experienced way.

  Tom declined a glass of Coke or wine. Soon Antoine’s lawnmower, which ran on benzine and not electricity, would start buzzing, Tom supposed. Antoine was nothing if not diligent in his Paris office and here in Villeperce. “How are your Cannes tenants working out this summer?” They were still standing in the big kitchen.

  The Grais had a villa in or near Cannes which Tom had never seen, and which they rented during July and August, the months when they could get the best rent for it.

  “They paid in advance—plus deposit for the telephone,” Antoine replied, then shrugged. “I would think—all is okay.”

  “You’ve got some new neighbors here, did you know?” Tom asked, gesturing in the direction of the white house. “A couple of Americans, I think—or maybe you know about them? I don’t know how long they’ve been here.”

  “No-on-n,” said Antoine thoughtfully. “Not the next house.”

  “No, the one beyond. The big one.”

  “Ah, the one that is for sale!”

  “Or rent. I think they rented it. His name is David Pritchard. With his wife. Or—“

  “American,” said Agnes musingly. She had heard the last part. Hardly pausing, she put a head of lettuce into the bottom compartment of the fridge. “You met them?”

  “No. He—” Tom decided to go ahead. “The man spoke to me in the bar-tabac. Maybe someone told him I was American. I thought I’d let you know.”

  “Children?” asked Antoine, with black brows coming down. Antoine liked quiet.

  “Not that I know of. I’d say not.”

  “And they speak French?” asked Agnes.

  Tom smiled. “Not sure.” If they didn’t, Tom thought, the Grais would not wish to meet them and would look down on them. Antoine Grais wanted France for the French, even if the outsiders were temporary and merely rented a house.

  They talked of other things, Antoine’s new compost box that he was going to set up this weekend. It had come in a kit that was now in the car. Antoine’s architectural work was going well in Paris, and he had acquired an apprentice who would start in September. Of course Antoine was not taking August off, even if he went to an empty office in Paris. Tom thought of telling the Grais that he and Heloise were going to Morocco, and decided not to just now. Why? Tom asked himself. Had he unconsciously decided not to go? Anyway, there was time to ring up the Grais and inform them, in a neighborly way, that he and Heloise would be absent for perhaps two or three weeks.

  When Tom said goodbye, after invitations on both sides to come in for a glass or a cafe, Tom had the feeling that he had told the Grais about the Pritchards mainly for his own protection. Hadn’t the telephone call purporting to be from Dickie Greenleaf been a menace of sorts? Definitely.

  The Grais children, Sylvie and Edouard, were kicking a black-and-white soccer ball back and forth on the front lawn as Tom drove away. The boy waved to him.

  Chapter 3

  Tom arrived back at Belle Ombre to find Heloise standing in the living room. She had a restless air. “Cheri—a telephone call,” she said.

  “From whom?” asked Tom, and felt an unpleasant start of fear.

  “From a man—he said he was Deekie Graneleaf—in Washington—”

  “Washington?” Tom was concerned about Heloise’s unease. “Greenleaf—it’s absurd, my sweet. A rotten joke.”

  She frowned. “But why—this choke?” Heloise’s accent had come back in force. “Do you know?”

  Tom stood taller. He was the defender of his wife, and also of Belle Ombre. “No. But a joke from—somebody. I can’t imagine who. What did he say?”

  “First—he wanted to speak with you. Then he said—something about sitting in a fauteuil roulant—wheelchair?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Because of an accident with you. The water—”

  Tom shook his head. “It’s a sadistic joke, my darling. Somebody pretending to be Dickie when Dickie was a suicide—years ago. Somewhere. Maybe in water. No one ever found his body.”

  “I know. So you told me.”

  “Not only I,” Tom said calmly. “Everyone. The police. The body was never found. And he’d written a will. Just a few weeks before he was missed, as I recall.” Tom believed it utterly as he said it, even though he had written the will himself. ?
??He wasn’t with me, anyway. This was in Italy, years ago—when he went missing.”

  “I know, Tome. But why does this—person annoy us now?”

  Tom pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “A bad joke. Some people want some kind of—kick, a thrill, you know? I’m sorry he has our telephone number. What kind of voice?”

  “He sounded young.” Heloise seemed to choose her words carefully. “Not so deep voice. American. The line was not so clear—the connection.”

  “Really from America?” Tom said, not believing that it was.

  “Mais oui,” said Heloise, matter-of-factly.

  Tom managed a smile. “I think we should forget it. If it happens again, if I’m here, just pass the telephone to me, my sweet. If I’m not here, you must sound calm—and as if you don’t believe a word he’s saying. And hang up. You understand?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Heloise , as if she did understand.

  “Such people want to disturb other people. That’s how they get their pleasure.”

  Heloise sat down at her favorite end of the sofa, the end toward the French windows. “Where were you just now?”

  “Driving around. A tour of the town.” Tom made such a tour perhaps twice a week in one of their three cars, the brown Renault usually, doing something useful on the way, such as filling the tank at a supermarket near Moret, or checking the air in the tires. “I noticed Antoine had arrived for the weekend, so I stopped and said hello. They were just unloading groceries. Told them about their new neighbors—the Pritchards.”

  “Neighbors?”

  “They’re fairly close. Half a kilometer, no?” Tom laughed. “Agnes asked if they spoke French. If not, they’re off Antoine’s list, you know? I told her I didn’t know.”

  “And what did Antoine think of our Afrique du Nord trip?”

  Heloise asked, smiling. “Ex-tra-va-gant?” She laughed. The way she said the word made it sound very expensive.

  “Matter of fact I didn’t tell them about it. If Antoine makes a remark about expense, I’ll remind him that things are pretty cheap there, the hotels, for instance.” Tom walked toward the French windows. He wanted to stroll around his land, look at the herbs, at the triumphant and waving parsley, the sturdy and delicious rucola. Maybe he’d cut a bit of the latter to go into the salad tonight.