Tom glanced at his wristwatch. Seven minutes to eight. He thought he should leave the house at ten minutes before ten at the latest to fetch Ed. Tom moistened his lips, then lit a cigarette. He was walking slowly about the living room, prepared to stop walking if Mme Annette should reappear. Tom recalled that he had decided to leave Murchison’s two rings on his hands. Teeth, dental records? Had Pritchard gone so far in America as to get photostats of police documents, maybe via Mrs. Murchison? Tom realized that he was torturing himself, because he couldn’t, with Mme Annette in the kitchen, which had a window, go outside now and take a good look at what was in his station wagon. The car stood parallel to the kitchen window, part of the canvas bundle perhaps just visible to Mme Annette, if she peered, but why should she? The postman was also due at nine-thirty.
He’d simply drive the station wagon into the garage and take a look, and right away. Meanwhile Tom finished his cigarette calmly, got his Swiss knife from the hall table and pocketed it, and took a handful of old newspapers, folded, from the basket near the fireplace.
Tom backed the red Mercedes out in readiness for the drive to the airport, and drove the white station wagon into the place where the Mercedes had been. Sometimes Tom used a small vacuum cleaner with the electric outlet in the garage, so at the moment Mme Annette could think what she wished as to his activities. The garage doors were at right angles to the kitchen window. Nevertheless, Tom closed the garage door on the side where the station wagon was, and left the other open, where the brown Renault stood. He switched on the wire-guarded light on the right wall.
He got into the back of the station wagon and forced himself to make sure which was head and which the feet of the wrapped object. This was not easy, and just as Tom was realizing that the corpse was rather short, if it was Murchison, he realized also that it had no head. The head had fallen off, separated. Tom made himself slap the feet, the shoulders.
No head.
That was comforting, as it meant no teeth, no characteristic nosebone or whatever. Tom got out and opened the windows of the car by the driver’s and passenger’s seats. It was a funny, musty smell that emanated from the canvas-wrapped bundle, not like death but like something very wet. Tom realized that he would have to look at the hands in order to see about the rings. No head. Where was the head, then? Rolling down with the current somewhere, Tom supposed, rolling back again, maybe? No, not in a river.
Tom tried to sit on a tool box, which was too low, and ended by leaning against a front fender with his head bent low. He was near fainting. Could he risk waiting till Ed got here, to supply moral support? Tom faced the fact that he couldn’t investigate the corpse further. He would say …
Tom straightened up and forced himself to think. He would say, in case Pritchard turned up with the police, that of course he had had to put the revolting bag of bones—Tom had seen some bones and had certainly felt them—out of his housekeeper’s vision for decency’s sake, and he had been so nauseated that he had not yet contacted the police himself.
It would be highly disagreeable, however, if the police arrived (summoned by Pritchard) when he was away from the house fetching Ed from the airport. Mme Annette would have to deal with them, the police would certainly look for the corpse Pritchard told them about, and it would not take them too long to find it, less than half an hour, Tom estimated. Tom bent and wet his face at an outside standpipe on the lane side of the house.
Now he felt better, though he realized that he was waiting for Ed’s presence to bolster his courage.
Suppose it was somebody else’s corpse, not Murchison’s? Funny, the things that ran through one’s mind. Then Tom reminded himself that the tan tarpaulin was all too familiar as the one he and Bernard had used that night.
Suppose Pritchard kept on fishing for the head, in the vicinity of where he had found the corpse? What were the people of Voisy saying? Had any of them noticed anything? Tom gave it a fifty-fifty chance that someone had. There was often a man or woman taking a walk along a riverbank, over the bridge there, where the view would have been better. Unfortunately the object retrieved looked as though it might be a human body. Obviously the two (three?) ropes that he and Bernard had used had lasted, or the tarpaulin wouldn’t have been there.
Tom thought of working in the garden for half an hour to ease his nerves, and then didn’t feel like it. Mme Annette was ready to depart for morning shopping. There was only half an hour or so before he had to take off for Ed.
Tom went up and took a quick shower, though he’d already had one that morning, and put on different clothing.
Now the house was silent when he went downstairs. If the telephone rang now, Tom decided that he would not answer it, even though it might be Heloise. He hated being away from the house for nearly two hours. His watch said five to ten. Tom strolled to the bar cart, chose the tiniest glass (stemmed) and poured a minuscule Remy Martin, savored it on his tongue and sniffed the glass. Then he washed and dried the glass in the kitchen and brought it back to the bar cart. Wallet, keys, all set.
Tom went out and locked the front door. Mme Annette had thoughtfully opened the iron gates for him. Tom left them wide open when he departed northward. He drove at a medium or normal speed. Loads of time, in fact, though one never knew what the peripherique would present.
Exit at Pont La Chapelle, northward toward the huge and dismal airport, which Tom still didn’t like. Heathrow was so huge, its sprawling entirety was hard to imagine, until of course one had to walk a kilometer or so with luggage. But de Gaulle in its arrogant inconvenience was easily conceived: a circular main building, and a gaggle of roads off, all marked of course, but it was too late to turn around if you hadn’t found the first marking.
Tom parked, being fifteen minutes early at least, in an open-air lot.
Then there was Ed, looking warm with open-necked white shirt and a knapsack of some kind slung over one shoulder. He had an attache case in one hand.
“Ed!” Ed hadn’t seen him. Tom waved.
“Hello, Tom!”
They shook hands firmly.
“My car’s not far away,” Tom said. “Let’s get this shuttle bus! And how’s everything in London?”
Everything was all right, said Ed; his coming over had not been difficult, no one was annoyed. He could stay till Monday with no problems, longer if necessary. “And your end? Any news?”
Straphanging in the little yellow bus, Tom wrinkled his nose and winced. “Well—a little something. Tell you later, not just here.”
Once in Tom’s car, Ed asked how Heloise was faring in Morocco. Had Ed been to his house in Villeperce before, Tom asked, and Ed said he hadn’t.
“Funny!” Tom said. “Almost unbelievable!”
“But it’s worked out pretty well,” Ed replied, with a friendly smile at Tom. “A business relationship, is it not?”
Ed laughed, as if at the absurdity of his statement, because in a sense their relationship was as deep as that of friendship, yet different. A betrayal by either of them could lead to disgrace, a fine, maybe imprisonment. “Yes,” Tom agreed. “Speaking of that, what’s Jeff doing this weekend?”
“Um—I dunno exactly.” Ed looked as if he were enjoying the summer breeze through his window. “I rang him last night, told him I was coming over to see you. I also said you might need him. Saw no harm in it, Tom.”
“No,” Tom agreed. “No harm.”
“Are we going to need him, do you think?”
Tom frowned at the congestion on the peripherique. The weekend departures were of course already beginning, and the drive south would also present more cars. Tom turned and turned again in his mind the question of whether to tell
Ed about the corpse before or after lunch. “I really don’t know as yet.”
“What beautiful fields here!” Ed said as they rolled away from Fontainebleau eastward. “Broader than in England, it seems.”
Tom said nothing, but he was pleased. Some guests made no comment, as if they were blin
d or daydreaming out the window. Ed was equally appreciative of Belle Ombre, much admired the impressive gates, which Tom reminded him with a laugh were not bulletproof, and praised the balance in the design of the house from the front.
“Yes, and now—” Tom had parked the Mercedes not far from the front door, its back to the house. ”—I have to tell you something most unpleasant which I didn’t know till this morning before eight, Ed—I swear.”
“I believe you,” said Ed, frowning. He had his luggage in his hand. “What is it?”
“In the garage there—” Tom lowered his voice and took a step nearer Ed. “Pritchard deposited the corpse on my doorstep this morning. Murchison’s corpse.”
Ed frowned harder. “The—you don’t mean it!”
“It’s a bag of bones,” Tom said in almost a whisper. “My housekeeper doesn’t know about it, and let’s keep it that way. It’s in the back of the station wagon there. Doesn’t even weigh much. But something’s got to be done.”
“Obviously.” Ed spoke softly too. “Take it to some woods and leave it, do you mean?”
“I dunno. Have to think. I thought—better to tell you now.”
“Here on the doorstep?”
“Right there.” Tom indicated with a nod. “He did it in the dark, of course. I didn’t hear a thing, where I sleep. Madame Annette didn’t mention hearing anything. I found it around seven this morning. He came by the side here—maybe with his helper Teddy, but even alone he could’ve dragged it without too much trouble. From the lane. Hard to see the lane now, but you can drive a car into it, stop, and walk onto my land.” As Tom glanced in that direction, he fancied he could see a faint depression in the grass, a path such as a person walking would have made, since the bones weren’t heavy enough to have had to be dragged.
“Teddy,” Ed said musingly, and half-turned toward the house door.
“Yes. I learned that from Pritchard’s wife, I think I told you. I’m wondering if Teddy is still employed or does Pritchard consider the job done? Well—let’s go in, have a drink and try to enjoy a nice lunch.”
Tom used his key on the ring he still held in one hand. Mme Annette, busy in the kitchen, had perhaps seen them but also realized that they wanted to talk for a minute.
“How nice! Really, Tom,” said Ed. “Beautiful living-room.”
“Want to leave your mac down here?”
Mme Annette came in and Tom introduced them. She of course wanted to carry Ed’s case upstairs. Ed remonstrated, smiling.
“This is a ritual,” Tom murmured. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
Tom did. Mme Annette had cut a single peach-colored rose for the dressing table, very effective in its narrow vase. Ed thought the room splendid. Tom showed him the bath adjacent, and asked him to make himself comfortable and come down soon for a pre-lunch drink.
It was then just past 1 p.m.
“Have there been any telephone calls, madame?” Tom asked.
“No, m’sieur, and I have been home since a quarter past ten.”
“Good,” said Tom calmly, thinking that it was very good. Surely Pritchard had told his spouse of his moves? His success? What had her reaction been, Tom wondered, besides silly laughter?
Tom went to his CD collection, hesitated between a Scriabin string composition—beautiful but dreamy—and Brahms’s Opus 39, and chose the latter, a series of sixteen brilliant waltzes played on the piano. That was what he and Ed needed, and he hoped Ed would like it too. He set the volume not too loud.
He made himself a gin and tonic, and by the time he had twisted the lemon peel and dropped it in, Ed was down.
Ed wanted the same.
Tom made the drink, then went to the kitchen to ask Mme Annette to hold lunch for another five minutes or so, please.
Tom and Ed lifted their glasses, and exchanged a look in silence, but for the Brahms. Tom felt the drink at once, but he also felt the Brahms making his blood run faster. One rapid and thrilling musical idea followed another, as if the great composer were deliberately showing off. And with that talent, why not?
Ed strolled toward the French windows on the terrace side. “What a pretty harpsichord! And the view here, Tom! All yours?”
“No, just to where the row of bushes is. Behind’s woods. Anybody’s sort of.”
“And—I like your music.”
Tom smiled. “Good.”
Ed strolled back to the center of the room. He had put on a fresh blue shirt. “How far away does this Pritchard live?” he asked quietly.
“About two kilometers that way.” Tom gestured over his left shoulder. “By the way, my housekeeper doesn’t understand English—or so I fancy,” he added with a smile, “or I prefer to think.”
“I remember—from somewhere. Convenient.”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
They lunched on cold ham, cottage cheese with parsley, Mme Annette’s homemade potato salad, black olives and a nice bottle of Graves, chilled. Then a sorbet. Their mood was outwardly cheerful, but Tom was thinking of their next job, and he knew Ed was too. Neither wanted coffee.
“I’m going to change into Levis,” Tom said. “Are you okay? We have to—may have to kneel in the back of the car.”
Ed was already in blue jeans.
Tom nipped upstairs and changed. When he came down, he again got his Swiss knife from the hall table, and gave Ed a nod. They went out through the front door. Tom deliberately did not glance at the kitchen window, lest he attract Mme Annette’s eye.
They went past the brown Renault, where the garage door was open. There was no wall between the cars in the garage.
“It’s not too bad,” Tom said as cheerily as he could. “The head’s missing. What I’m after now—”
“Missing?”
“It probably rolled off, don’t you think? After three, four years? Cartilage dissolving—”
“Rolled off where?”
“This thing’s been under water, Ed. The Loing river. I don’t suppose the current reverses, as in a canal, but—there is a current. I just want to check on the rings. He had two, I remember, and I—I left them on. Okay, are you game?”
Tom could see that Ed tried to look game as he nodded. Tom opened the side door, and they had a view of most of the dark gray canvas-wrapped form, on which Tom saw two coils of rope, one apparently at waist-, one at about knee-level. What Tom thought were the shoulders were toward the front of the car. “Shoulders this way, I think,” Tom said, gesturing. “Excuse me.” Tom got in first, crept to the other side of the corpse to give Ed room, and pulled out his Swiss knife. “I’m going to look at the hands.” Tom began sawing away at the rope, not a quick job.
Ed put a hand under the end of the sack, the feet end, and tried to lift it. “Quite light!”
“I told you.”
With his knees on the car floor, Tom attacked the rope from below, sawing upward with his knife’s little saw blade now. It was Pritchard’s rope, and new. He got it cut. Tom loosened the rope and braced himself, because he was at the abdominal part of the remains now. There was still only a stale, dampish smell, not the kind to make one ill unless one thought about it. Now Tom could see that some bits of flesh still clung, pale and flabby, to the spinal column. The abdomen was of course rather a hollow. The hands, Tom reminded himself.
Ed was watching closely, and had murmured something, maybe his favorite exclamation.
“Hands,” Tom said. “Well—you can see why it’s light.”
“Never saw anything like it!”
“I hope you never will.” Tom loosened Pritchard’s cloth, then the worn-out beige tarpaulin which seemed ready to fall apart everywhere, like a mummy’s disintegrating tapes.
The hand and wrist bones almost separated from the two bones of the forearm, Tom thought, but at any rate, they didn’t. It was the right hand (Murchison lay on his back), and Tom saw at once the heavy gold ring with purple stone, which he vaguely recalled, and remembered thinking was probably a class ring. Tom took
it carefully from the little finger. It came off easily, but he did not want to tear off the delicate bones of that finger. Tom pushed his thumb into the ring to clean it, then pushed it into a front pocket of his Levis.
“You said two rings?”
“As I recall.” Tom had to back up, as the left arm was not bent but straight down at the side. Tom loosened more tarpaulin, then twisted and lowered the window behind him. “You all right, Ed?”
“Sure.” But Ed looked white in the face.
“This’ll be quick.” Tom got to the hand, and there was no ring on it. He looked under the bones, to see if it had fallen off, even into Pritchard’s oilcloth. “Wedding ring, I think,” Tom said to Ed. “Not here. Maybe it fell off.”
“Certainly logical it could’ve fallen off,” replied Ed, and cleared his throat.
Tom could see that Ed was struggling, that he would have preferred not to watch. Once more, Tom groped under the femur, the pelvic bones. He felt crumbs, soft and not so soft, but nothing like a ring. He sat back. Should he take both wrappings off? Yes. “I’ve got to look for that—here. You know, Ed, if Madame Annette gives us a shout, about a telephone call or some such, you step out and tell her we’re in the garage, and I’ll be there in a minute. I’m not sure if she knows we’re here or not. If she asks—which she won’t—what we’re doing, I’ll say we’re looking at maps.”
Then Tom went at his task with a will, cut the other rope in the same manner (it had a hard knot), wishing he had his pruning saw from the greenhouse. He lifted ankle and shin bones, looked and felt, down to the end. Useless. Tom noticed that the little toe was missing from the left foot. And so was a phalange or two of the fingers. But that class ring proved it was Murchison, Tom thought.
“Can’t find it,” Tom said. “Now—” Tom hesitated about stones. Should he gather some, as he had with Bernard Tufts, to sink the bones? What was he going to do with the thing, anyway? “I think tie it up again. Could look almost like skis, you know?”
“Won’t this Pritchard bastard get the police, Tom? Tell the police to come here?”