Tom felt better after that, and at once went in quest of Mme Annette to inform her that they would likely have a weekend guest, a gentleman from London. Mme Annette’s room door was closed. Silence. Was she napping? She didn’t often.
He looked out of a kitchen window and saw her stooped by a patch of wild violets to the right. The violets were pale purple and impervious to draft, cold or predatory insects, or so they seemed to Tom. He went out. “Madame Annette?”
She stood up. “M’sieur Tome—I am admiring the violets from very near. Are they not mignonnes!”
Tom agreed. They peppered the soil near the laurel and box hedge there. Tom imparted his good news: someone to cook for, to prepare the guest room for.
“A good friend! That will cheer you, m’sieur. Has he been to Belle Ombre before?”
They were walking back toward the side or service entrance which led to the kitchen.
“Not sure. I don’t think so. Curious.” It did seem odd, considering he’d known Ed such a long time. Perhaps unconsciously Ed had stayed away from contact with Tom and household, because of the Derwatt forgeries. And the Bernard Tufts fiasco of a visit, of course.
“And what do you think he might take pleasure in eating?” asked Mme Annette, once she was back in her domain, the kitchen.
Tom laughed, trying to think. “He’ll probably want something French. In this weather—” It was warm, but not hot.
“Lobster—cold? Ratatouille? Of course! Cold. Escalopes de veau avec sauce madere?” Her pale blue eyes brightened.
“Ye-es.” The way Mme Annette pronounced all this did summon the appetite. “Good ideas. It seems to be Friday that he arrives.”
“And his wife?”
“Not married. M’sieur Ed will be by himself.”
Then Tom drove to the bureau de poste to buy stamps and also to see if anything had come from Heloise by the second post, which was not delivered to the house. There was an envelope addressed in Heloise’s hand, which made his heart jump. The postmark was Marrakesh, date quite illegible due to faint ink on the stamp. Inside was a postcard on which she had written:
Cher Tom,
All is well, an actif town here. So beautiful! Purple sands at evening view. We are not sick, eat couscous every noon almost. Meknes comes next. We go par avion. Noelle sends love, I much love.
Nice to receive, Tom supposed, but he had known days ago that they were going from Marrakesh to Meknes.
Tom then worked in the garden with inspiration, driving the spade in to sharpen edges that Henri had missed. Henri had a whimsical idea of what his chores should be. He was to some extent practical, even wise about plants; then he would get sidetracked and do a neat job on something of no great importance. But he was not expensive or dishonest, and Tom told himself he couldn’t complain.
After his labors, Tom had a shower and read in the Oscar Wilde biography. As Mme Annette had predicted, he was cheered by the prospect of a visit. He even looked in Tele 7-Jours to see what might be on TV tonight.
He found nothing that excited his interest, but thought he might try one program at ten, unless he had something more interesting to do. Tom did switch it on at 10 p.m., but in five minutes switched it off, and walked with a flashlight to Marie’s and Georges’s bar-tabac for an espresso.
The card-players were at it again, the game-machines clacked and slammed. But Tom picked up nothing about David Pritchard, the curious fisherman. Tom supposed that Pritchard might well be too tired in the evening to come out to the bar-tabac for a late beer, or whatever he drank. Tom, however, still kept an eye out for him when the front door opened. Tom had paid and was about to leave, when a glance toward the door—which had just opened again—told him that Pritchard’s companion Teddy had entered.
Teddy seemed to be alone, and looked freshly washed in his beige shirt and chino trousers, but he also looked a bit sullen, or perhaps simply tired.
“Encore un express, Georges, s’il vous plait,” said Tom.
“Et bien sur, M’sieur Reepley,” answered Georges without even looking at Tom, and turned his round figure toward the steam machine.
The man called Teddy seemed not to have noticed Tom, if indeed Tom had ever been pointed out to Teddy, and took a place standing near the door end of the bar. Marie brought him a beer, and greeted him as if she had seen him before, Tom thought, though he couldn’t hear what she had said.
Tom decided to chance it and glance at Teddy more often than a stranger would, to see if Teddy showed any recognition. Teddy did not.
Teddy frowned and stared down at his beer. An exchange with a man on his left was a brief one, without a smile.
Was Teddy contemplating pulling out of Pritchard’s employ? Was he missing a girlfriend in Paris? Was he fed up with the atmosphere in the Pritchard house, because of David and Janice’s odd relationship? Could Teddy hear Pritchard hitting his wife in the bedroom, because he hadn’t found his quarry that day? More likely Teddy wanted a breath of fresh air. Teddy was the strong type, judging from his hands.
Not the brainy type. A music student? Tom knew that some American colleges had curricula that read like trade-school curricula, anyway. To be a “music student” need not mean that the student knew or cared anything about music; it was the diploma that mattered. Teddy was over six feet, and the sooner he quit the scene, the happier Tom would be.
Tom paid for his second coffee and headed toward the door. Just as he passed the motorcycle game, the rider hit a barrier, his crash simulated by a flashing star that finally stayed fixed. Game over, insert coins insert coins insert coins . Low moans from the onlookers had given way to laughter.
The man called Teddy had not glanced at him. Tom came to the conclusion that Pritchard had not told Teddy what they were looking for, Murchison’s corpse. Maybe Pritchard had said they were looking for jewelry from a sunken yacht? A suitcase with valuables in it? But as Tom saw it, Pritchard had not said that it had anything to do with a neighbor who lived in the same town.
When Tom looked back from the doorway, Teddy was still hunched over his beer, and not in conversation with anybody.
Since it was warm, and Mme Annette seemed inspired by the prospect of lobster on the menu, Tom offered to drive in to Fontainebleau to aid with the shopping and to look in at its best fish shop. With not too much difficulty—Mme Annette always had to be asked twice for such outings—Tom persuaded her to accompany him.
In spite of the list, assembling shopping bags and baskets and some clothes of Tom’s to go to the cleaners, they had left the house by nine-thirty. Another glorious day of sunlight, and Mme Annette had heard on her radio that fine weather was predicted for Saturday and Sunday. Mme Annette asked what M. Edouard did for a living?
“He’s a journalist,” Tom replied. “I never really tested him out on his French. He’s bound to know some.” Tom laughed, imagining what was coming.
When their bags and baskets were full, with the lobsters tied up in a great white plastic bag that the fishmonger assured Tom was double, Tom fed the parking meter again and invited Mme Annette (twice) to come into a nearby tea room for “a treat,” un petit extra. She yielded, smiling with pleasure.
A great globe or scoop of chocolate ice cream with two ladyfingers perched like rabbit’s ears upon it, a generous daub of whipped cream between the ears, was Mme Annette’s choice. She glanced discreetly around her at the matrons chatting away about nothing at nearby tables. Nothing? Well, one could never be sure, Tom supposed, despite the broad smiles as they plunged into their sweets. Tom had an espresso. Mme Annette loved her treat and said so, which pleased Tom.
Suppose nothing happened this weekend, Tom thought as they walked back to the car. How long could Ed stay? Till Tuesday? Would Tom then feel he had to call upon Jeff? The question was, Tom supposed, how long would Pritchard keep at it?
“You will be happier when Madame Heloise returns, M’sieur Tome,” said Mme Annette, as they were driving back toward Villeperce. “What is madame’s news
?”
“News! I wish I had some! The post—well, the post seems to be worse than the telephone. I would think in less than a week, Madame Heloise will be back home.”
As Tom turned into the main street of Villeperce, he saw Pritchard’s white pickup cross the street from his right. Tom did not quite have to slow down, but he did. The stern of the boat with motor removed projected over the pickup’s floor. Did they take the boat out of the water during the lunch period? Tom supposed so, or it would not be safe, merely tied to the bank, from either thieves or the bumping of a barge. The dark canvas or tarpaulin was now on the floor by the boat. They were going out again after lunch, Tom supposed.
“M’sieur Preechard,” Mme Annette remarked.
“Yes,” Tom said. “The American.”
“He is trying to find something in the canals,” Mme Annette continued. “Everyone talks about it. But he doesn’t say what he wants to find. He spends so much time and money—”
“There are stories—” Now Tom could smile as he spoke. “You know, madame, stories about sunken treasure, gold coins, jewelry boxes—”
“He brings up skeletons of cats and dogs, you know, M’sieur Tome. He leaves them on the bank—just throws them up there or his friend does! It is annoying for the people living nearby, the people walking …”
Tom didn’t want to hear about it, but he listened nonetheless. Now he turned right, into the still open front gates of Belle Ombre.
“He can’t be happy here. He’s not a happy man,” Tom said with a glance at Mme Annette. “I can’t imagine that he’ll be living in this neighborhood very long.” Tom’s voice was soft, but his pulse ran a bit faster. He detested Pritchard, and there was nothing new about that, it was just that in the presence of Mme Annette, he could not curse Pritchard aloud or even under his breath.
In the kitchen, they put away the extra butter, the beautiful broccoli, lettuce, three kinds of cheeses, an especially good coffee, a good section of beef for roasting, and of course the two living lobsters, which later Mme Annette could handle, as Tom did not wish to. To Mme Annette, they might be worthy of hardly more concern than haricots verts dumped into boiling water, Tom knew, but he imagined that he heard them screaming, wailing at least, as they were boiled to death. Equally depressing was something Tom had read about microwave cooking (of lobsters—baked, presumably), which said that one had fifteen seconds after switching it on to run out of the kitchen before having to hear and possibly watch the beating of claws against the glass windows of the oven, before the lobsters died. There were people, Tom supposed, who could go about peeling potatoes while the lobsters got roasted to death—in how many seconds? Tom tried not to believe that Mme Annette was such a type. At any rate, they did not yet possess a microwave oven. Neither Mme Annette nor Heloise had showed any interest in acquiring one, and if either did, Tom had some counter-ammunition: he had read that microwave-baked potatoes came out more like boiled than baked, a point which Heloise, Mme Annette and Tom would take seriously. And in regard to cooking, Mme Annette was never in a hurry.
“M’sieur Tome!”
Tom heard Mme Annette’s cry, from the back terrace steps, when he was in the greenhouse, with its door open just in case of a shout. “Yes?”
“Telephone!”
Tom trotted, hoping it was Ed, thinking it might be Heloise. Two leaps and he was up the terrace steps.
It was Ed. “Tomorrow around midday looks fine, Tom. To be precise—got a pencil?”
“Yes, indeed.” Tom wrote down. 11:25 arrival at de Gaulle, flight 212. “I’ll be there, Ed.”
“That would be nice—if it isn’t a lot of trouble.”
“No-o. A nice drive—it’ll do me good. Anything from—well, Cynthia? Anybody?”
“Not a thing. And at your end?”
“He’s still fishing. You’ll see—oh, one more thing, Ed. What’s the price of The Pigeon drawing?”
“Ten thousand for you. Not fifteen.” Ed chuckled.
They hung up cheerfully.
Tom began to think of a frame for the pigeon drawing: light brown wood, either slender or quite broad, but warm in tone, like the pale yellowish paper of the drawing. He went into the kitchen to tell Mme Annette the good news: their guest would be in time for lunch tomorrow.
Then he went out and wound up his chores in the greenhouse, including giving it a sweep. He also dusted the inside of the slanting windows with a soft broom that he fetched from the house. Tom wanted his house to be looking its best for an old friend like Ed.
That evening, Tom watched a videocassette of Some Like It Hot. Just what he needed, light-minded relaxation, even the insanity of the forced smiles of the male chorus.
Before going to bed, Tom went to his workroom and made some sketches at the table, at which he could comfortably stand. He drew in heavy black lines his recollection of Ed’s face. He might ask Ed if he would be willing to pose for five or ten minutes for preliminary sketches. It would be interesting to do a portrait of Ed’s blondish and very English face, the receding hairline, the thin, straight, light brown hair, the polite but quizzical eyes, the slender lips, ready to smile or shut straight on short notice.
Chapter 19
Tom was up unusually early, as was his wont when he had engagements ahead. By six-thirty, he had shaved and put on Levis and shirt, and was downstairs walking deliberately quietly through the living room toward the kitchen to boil some water. Mme Annette usually got up only at quarter-past or half-past seven. Tom carried his drip pot and cup and saucer on a tray into the living room. The coffee was not yet ready, so he went to the front door, thinking to open it for the fresh morning air, to glance at the garage and decide whether to take the red Mercedes or the Renault to de Gaulle.
A long gray bundle at Tom’s feet made him jump back a little. It lay across the doorstep and Tom knew, with horror, and instantly, what it was.
Tom could see that Pritchard had wrapped it in what could be called a “new” gray canvas sheet, which looked to Tom like the same sheet Pritchard had been using to cover his boat, now tied with rope. Pritchard had also stabbed this canvas with a knife or scissors in several places—why? For fingerholds? Pritchard had had to transport the thing here, and maybe alone. Tom bent and pulled a flap of the new canvas back, out of curiosity, and at once saw the old canvas, threadbare and failing, and some gray-whiteness of bone.
Belle Ombre’s big iron gates were still closed and padlocked from the inside. Pritchard must have driven into the lane beside Tom’s lawn, stopped his car and dragged or carried the bundle across the grass and about ten meters of gravel to arrive at his front door. The gravel would have made a noise, of course, but both Mme Annette and Tom had been sleeping at the back part of the house.
Tom fancied he could smell something unpleasant, but perhaps it was only a stink of moisture, staleness—or imagination.
The station wagon was a good idea for the moment, and thank God Mme Annette was not yet awake. Tom went back into the hall, grabbed his keyring from the hall table, dashed out and opened the back of the car. Then he took a firm grip with both hands under two cords on the bundle, and heaved, expecting a much heavier weight.
The damned thing weighed no more than fifteen kilos, Tom thought, less than forty pounds. And some of that was water. The bundle dripped a little, even as Tom staggered with it toward the white station wagon. Tom felt that he had been paralyzed with surprise for several seconds on the doorstep. Mustn’t let that happen again! Tom could not tell head from feet, he realized, as he heaved the burden into the back of the car. He got into the driver’s seat and gave one cord a tug, so that be could close the back.
No blood. Absurd thought, Tom realized at once. The stones he had put in with Bernard Tufts’s help must also be long gone. The bones had stayed sunken because no flesh was left, Tom supposed.
Tom locked the back of the car, then the side door. This car was outside the two-car garage. What next? Go back to his coffee, say “Bonjour” to Mme An
nette. And meanwhile think. Or scheme.
He returned to the front door, where some drops of water were visible on doorstep and mat, to his annoyance, but the sunlight would soon take care of that, certainly by nine-thirty, Tom thought, when Mme Annette usually went out shopping. In fact, most of the time she departed and returned by the kitchen door. Inside the house, Tom made for the hall bathroom, and washed his hands at the basin. He noticed some sandy wetness on his right thigh and brushed it off into the basin as best he could.
When had Pritchard found his bonanza? Probably late yesterday afternoon, though of course it could have been yesterday morning. He’d have kept his trove hidden in his boat, Tom supposed. Had he told Janice? Probably, why not? Janice seemed to make no judgments of any kind concerning right or wrong, pro or con on anything, and certainly not her husband, or she would not be with him now. Tom corrected himself: Janice was just as cracked as David.
Tom entered the living room with cheerful air, on seeing Mme Annette adding toast, butter and marmalade to his breakfast on the coffee table. “How nice! Thank you,” said Tom. “Bonjour, madame!”
“Bonjour, M’sieur Tome. You are up early.”
“As always when I have a guest coming, isn’t it so?” Tom bit into his toast.
Tom was thinking that he should put a cover over the bundle, newspapers, anything, so that it didn’t look like what it was to anyone glancing through a window of the car.
Had Pritchard dismissed Teddy by now, Tom wondered. Or had Teddy dismissed himself, scared of becoming an accomplice in something he had nothing to do with?
What did Pritchard expect him to do with the bag of bones? Was he going to arrive at any moment with the police and say, “Look! Here’s the missing Murchison!”?
Tom stood up at this thought, with coffee cup in hand, frowning. The corpse could jolly well go straight back into a canal, Tom thought, and Pritchard could go to hell. Of course Teddy could witness that he and Pritchard had found something, some corpse, but what was the proof that it was Murchison’s?