Ripley Under Water

  That settled that.

  The officers consulted, then one said, “May we speak to your friend from London?”

  Ed was standing by the roses. Tom gave him a shout and he came trotting.

  “Police want to ask you about a package brought here,” Tom said on the terrace steps. “I haven’t seen any, neither has Heloise.” Tom spoke easily, not knowing if a police officer was behind him on the terrace or not.

  The officers were still in the living room when Ed went in.

  Ed was asked if he had seen any grayish package, more than a meter long, in the driveway, under the hedges—anywhere, even outside the gates. “Non,” Ed replied. “Non.”

  “When did you arrive here, m’sieur?”

  “Yesterday—Friday—midday. I had lunch here.” Ed’s serious blond brows gave his face a most honest expression. “M. Ripley met me at de Gaulle airport.”

  “Thank you, sir. Your profession?”

  “Journalist,” Ed replied. Ed then had to print his name and London address on a notepad one of the officers produced.

  “Please convey my kind regards to Madame Murchison, if you speak with her again,” Tom said. “I remember her pleasantly—if a bit vaguely,” he added, smiling.

  “We shall speak again with her,” said an officer, the one with straight brown hair. “She is—well—she thinks the bones we found—or Preechard found—may be those of her husband.”

  “Her husband,” Tom repeated incredulously. “But—where did Pritchard find them?”

  “We don’t know exactly, but perhaps not far from here. Ten, fifteen kilometers.”

  The Voisy inhabitants had not yet spoken up, Tom thought, assuming they had seen anything. And Pritchard hadn’t mentioned Voisy—or had he?, “Surely you can identify the skeleton,” Tom said.

  “Le squelette est incomplet, m’sieur. II n’y a pas de tete,” said the blond officer, with serious face.

  “C’est horrible!” Heloise murmured.

  “We shall determine first its time in water—”

  “Clothing?” asked Tom.

  “Ha! All rotted away, m’sieur. Not even a button in the original shroud! The fish—the flow of the water—”

  “Le fil de l’eau,” repeated the other officer, gesturing. “The current. This wears away—the clothing, the flesh—”

  “Jean!” The other officer waved a hand quickly, as if to say, Enough! A lady is present!

  There was a silence of a few seconds, then Jean went on.

  “Do you recall, M’sieur Reepley, if you saw M’sieur Murchison go into the departure door at Orly that day so long ago?”

  Tom did remember. “I did not park my car that day—I paused at the curb, helped M’sieur Murchison out with his luggage—and the wrapped picture—and I drove on. It was the pavement in front of the departure door. He could have carried his few things easily. So I did not—as it happened—watch him go through the door.”

  The officers consulted, murmured, and looked at their notes.

  Tom supposed that they were verifying that he had said to the police years ago that he left Murchison with his luggage on the pavement at the departure gate at Orly. Tom wasn’t going to emphasize that his statement to that effect had surely been on record all this time. Nor was he going to mention that it seemed odd to him that anyone would have brought Murchison back to the area here to murder, or that Murchison would have committed suicide in the vicinity. Tom suddenly stood up, and went over to his wife.

  “You are all right, sweet?” he asked in English. “I think the gentlemen are soon finished here. Won’t you sit down?”

  “I am fine,” Heloise replied somewhat coldly, as if to say that Tom’s odd and unknown activities had brought the police here in the first place, and that their presence was not pleasant to endure. She was leaning with folded arms against a credenza cabinet, a good distance from the police.

  Tom returned to the police officers, and sat down, so as not to appear to be urging their departure. “Would you please say to Madame Murchison—if you speak with her—that I am willing to talk with her again? She knows all that I can say, but—” He paused.

  The blond officer called Philippe said, “Yes, m’sieur, we shall tell her. She has your telephone number?”

  “She once had it,” Tom said pleasantly. “It hasn’t changed.”

  The other officer held up a finger to his colleague, demanding audience, and said, “And a woman called Cynthia, m’sieur—in England? Madame Murcheeson mentioned her.”

  “Cynthia—yes,” Tom replied, as if with slow recollection. “I know her slightly. Why?”

  “I believe you saw her recently in London?”

  “Yes, true. We had a drink in a pub anglais.” Tom smiled. “How did you know that?”

  “Madame Murcheeson told us, as she is in touch with Madame Cynthia—”

  “Gradnoor,” the blondish officer supplied, after looking at their notepad.

  Tom began to feel uneasy. He tried to think ahead. What questions were coming next?

  “Did you see her in London—speak with her for any particular reason?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. He turned in his chair so that he could see Ed, who was leaning on the back of a straight chair. “Remember Cynthia, Ed?”

  “Ye-es, vaguely,” Ed replied in English. “Haven’t seen her in years.”

  “My reason,” Tom continued to the police, “was to ask her what M’sieur Pritchard wanted from me. You see, I found M’sieur Pritchard—a little overly friendly, wanting to be invited to my house, for instance—which I knew for a fact my wife did not want!” Here Tom laughed. “The one time I visited les Pritchards for a glass, M’sieur Pritchard mentioned Cynthia—”

  “Gradnoor,” the officer repeated.

  “Yes. M’sieur Pritchard when I had a glass at his house suggested that this Cynthia was unfriendly to me—had something against me. I asked Pritchard what it was, and he did not tell me. This was not pleasant, but was typical Pritchard! So when I was in London, I managed to find Madame Gradnoor’s number, and I asked her: What is the matter with Pritchard?” Tom recalled swiftly that Cynthia Gradnor intended (in Tom’s opinion) to protect Bernard Tufts from acquiring the label of forger.

  “What else? What did you learn?” The brown-haired officer looked interested.

  “Not much, unfortunately. Cynthia told me that she had never met Pritchard—had never even seen him. He had telephoned her out of the blue.” Tom thought suddenly of the go-between, George something, at the big party in London for journalists, at which Pritchard had been, and also Cynthia. The go-between, after listening to Pritchard talk about Ripley, had told Pritchard that there was a woman in the house who detested Ripley. Thus had Pritchard learned her name (and Cynthia, Pritchard’s, it would seem) but they had not crossed the room to meet face to face. Tom was not going to furnish the police with that information.

  “Strange,” mused the fair-haired officer.

  “Pritchard was strange!” Tom stood up, as if sitting for so long had made him stiff. “I believe, since it is nearly eight, I shall make a gin and tonic for myself. And for you, gentlemen? Un petit rouge? A scotch? Whatever you might like.”

  Tom spoke in a tone that took for granted the gentlemen would accept something, and so they did: both chose un petit rouge.

  “I shall tell madame,” said Heloise , and went off to the kitchen.

  The two officers complimented Tom on his Derwatts, the one over the fireplace especially, the creation of Bernard Tufts. And Tom’s Soutine.

  “I am glad you like them,” Tom said. “I am very happy to possess them.”

  Ed had freshened his drink at the bar, Heloise had joined them, and with a glass in everyone’s hand the atmosphere was lighter.

  Tom said in a quiet tone to the brown-haired officer, “Two things, m’sieur. I shall also be happy to speak with Madame Cynthia—if she wants to speak with me. And number two, why do you think—” Tom glanced around, but no one was listening
now.

  The blond officer, Philippe, with cap under arm, seemed enchanted by Heloise, and happy to talk of nothing, probably, instead of bones and rotted flesh. Ed had also joined Heloise.

  Tom continued, “What do you think M’sieur Pritchard intended to do with the bones in his garden pond?”

  The officer Jean appeared to ponder.

  “If he got them from a river—why throw them back into water, and then—maybe deliberately kill themselves?”

  The police officer shrugged. “It may have been an accident—one slipped and fell, then the next, m’sieur. With that garden implement they were trying to pull something out—it seems. Their tele was still on—their cafe—a drink”—a shrug—“unfinished in the living room. Maybe they were hiding the bones temporarily. We may learn something tomorrow or the next day and then maybe not.”

  The officers were standing with their stemmed glasses in hand.

  Tom had another thought: Teddy. He decided to mention Teddy, and moved closer to Heloise’s group. “M’sieur,” he said to Philippe. “M’sieur Pritchard had a friend—or in any case a man with him when he was fishing in the canals. Everyone says that.” Tom used the word pecher, to fish, rather than “to search.” “I heard, somewhere, that his name was Teddy. Have you spoken with him?”

  “Ah—Teddy, Theodore,” said Jean, as both officers exchanged a glance. “Oui, merci, M’sieur Reepley. We heard about him from your friends the Grais—very nice people, they are. Then we found his name and Paris telephone number by the telephone in the Preechard house. This afternoon someone has spoken with him in Paris. He said that when Preechard found the bones in a river, his work for Preechard was finished. And he—” The officer hesitated.

  “That he then departed,” Philippe said. “Pardon, Jean.”

  “Departed, yes,” said Jean with a glance at Tom. “He was surprised, it seems, that the bones—the skeleton—seemed to be the objective of Preechard.” Here Jean looked hard at Tom. “And when this Teddy saw them—he returned to Paris. Teddy is a student. He wanted to earn some money—that’s all.”

  Philippe started to say something, but was silenced by a gesture from Jean.

  Tom ventured, “I think I heard something like that in the bar-tabac here. That this Teddy was surprised—and decided to bid adieu to Pritchard.” Now it was Tom’s turn to give a slight shrug.

  The officers made no comment. They did not wish to stay for dinner, which Tom invited them to do, although Tom had been sure they would not accept. Nor did they wish their glasses refilled.

  “Bon soir, madame, et merci,” they both said cordially to Heloise, with bows.

  They asked how long Ed would be staying.

  “At least three more days, I hope,” said Tom, smiling.

  “Not sure,” said Ed pleasantly.

  “We are here,” Tom said firmly to both officers, “my wife and I, in case we can be of any help.”

  “Thank you, M’sieur Reepley.”

  The officers wished them an agreeable evening, and went out to their car, which they had left in the forecourt.

  Tom, returning from the front door, said, “Quite pleasant fellows! Didn’t you think so, Ed?”

  “Yes—yes, indeed.”

  “Heloise , my sweet, I want you to light the fire. Now. We’re running a bit late—but we’re going to have an excellent meal.”

  “Me? What fire?”

  “The charcoal, dear. On the terrace. Here are the matches. Just come out and strike one!”

  Heloise took the matchbox and stepped onto the terrace, graceful in her long striped skirt. She wore a green cotton blouse, with its sleeves partly rolled up. “But you always do this,” she said, striking a match.

  “Tonight is special. You are the—the—”

  “Goddess,” Ed supplied.

  “Goddess of the house,” Tom said.

  The charcoal took fire. Short and even yellow and blue flames danced over the coals. Mme Annette had wrapped at least a half-dozen potatoes in foil. Tom put his apron back on and got to work.

  Then the telephone rang.

  Tom groaned. “Heloise, you get it, please. It’s either the Grais or Noelle, I’ll bet you.”

  It was the Grais, Tom could tell as he went into the living room. Heloise was of course filling them in on what the police had said and asked. Tom spoke with Mme Annette in the kitchen: her sauce bearnaise was under control, also the asparagus which was the first course.

  The meal was indeed delicious and memorable. So said Ed. The telephone did not ring; nobody mentioned the telephone. Tom said to Mme Annette that tomorrow morning after breakfast she might make up his room for their English guest, M. Constant, who was to arrive at eleven-thirty at de Gaulle airport.

  Mme Annette’s face reflected her pleasure at the prospect. It was as if guests, friends, made the house come alive for her, as flowers or music did for other people.

  Tom did venture to ask Heloise, as they drank coffee in the living room, if Agnes or Antoine Grais had had any news.

  “Non-n—just that the lights are still on in that house. One of the children took a walk with the dog to there. The police are still looking—for something.” Heloise sounded bored with it.

  Ed glanced at Tom and smiled slightly. Tom wondered if Ed had thought that—well, Tom could not put his thoughts into words, even for himself, much less in Heloise’s presence! Considering the Pritchards’ peculiarities, no extreme was too far, when it came to imagining what the police might be looking for, and what they might be finding.

  Chapter 25

  The next morning, after his first coffee, Tom asked Mme Annette please to buy what newspapers she could (it was Sunday) when she went into the village.

  “I could go immediately, M’sieur Tome, unless—”

  He knew she meant Mme Heloise’s breakfast of tea and grapefruit. Tom offered to prepare it, in case Mme Heloise awakened, which he said he doubted. And as to M’sieur Banbury, Tom simply didn’t know, as the two of them had sat up late last evening.

  Mme Annette was off, as much to hear the local gossip in the bakery, Tom knew, as to buy the newspapers. And which would be the more reliable? The bakery would be lively, exaggerated, but one could always pare away a bit and get down to the truth, which might well be several hours ahead of the press.

  By the time Tom had deadheaded some roses and dahlias, and chosen a frizzy orange dahlia plus two yellows, Mme Annette was back. He heard the click of the door latch.

  Tom looked at the papers in the kitchen. Mme Annette was extracting croissants and a flute of bread from her net.

  “The police—they search for the head, M’sieur Tome,” Mme Annette whispered, though no one but Tom could have heard her.

  Tom frowned. “In the house?”

  “Everywhere!” Again it was a whisper.

  Tom read: the headlines said something about “extraordinary household in vicinity of Moret-sur-Loing,” and went on to state that David and Janice Pritchard, Americans in their thirties, had either slipped to their deaths or committed a bizarre suicide in a pond on their own property. They had been in the water about ten hours, said officials, when discovered by two boys about fourteen years of age, who had reported the corpses to a neighbor. From below in the muddy subsoil of the pond, the police had dredged up a sack of human bones, a partial skeleton with its head and one foot missing. The skeleton was of a male of mature age, and up to now had not been identified. Neither of the Pritchards was employed, and David Pritchard derived his income from his family in the United States. A following paragraph stated that the incomplete skeleton had been in water for an undetermined number of years. Neighbors reported that Pritchard had been exploring the bottoms of canals and rivers in the region, apparently for this sort of cache, as his exploring efforts had come to a halt last Thursday with the discovery of the partial skeleton.

  The second newspaper said essentially the same, more briefly, and gave an entire sentence to the suggestion that the Pritchards had bee
n an unusually quiet couple during the mere three months they had lived in the house, keeping to themselves, apparently finding their sole amusement in playing records loudly late at night in their isolated two-story house, finally taking up the hobby of dragging canal and river bottoms. The police had managed to get in touch with the respective families of David and Janice Pritchard. The house lights had been on, door open, and there were unfinished drinks in the living room, when the two corpses had been discovered.

  Nothing new, Tom thought, but still a bit shocking to him, whenever he read it.

  “What are the police now looking for—really, madame?” Tom asked, hoping to learn something, as well as please Mme Annette, who loved to impart knowledge. “Surely not the head,” Tom whispered earnestly. “Clues, maybe—whether it was suicide or accident.”

  Mme Annette, at the sink, her hands wet, leaned toward Tom. “M’sieur—I heard this morning they have found a whip. Someone else—Madame Hubert, you know, the wife of the electrician, she said a chain was found. Perhaps not a big chain, but a chain.”

  Ed came downstairs, and Tom greeted him and handed him the two newspapers in the living room.

  “Tea or coffee?” asked Tom.

  “Coffee with some warm milk. May I?”

  “You may. Sit down at the table, more comfortable.”

  Ed wanted a croissant with marmalade.

  Just suppose they did find the head in the Pritchard house, Tom was thinking, as he went to convey Ed’s order. Or the wedding ring hidden in an incredible place, for instance hammered into an interstice between two floorboards? A wedding ring with initials? And the head somewhere else—and maybe this had been the last straw for Teddy?

  “Can I come along to the airport?” Ed asked when Tom returned. “I’d enjoy that.”

  “Of course! And I’d like your company. We’ll take the station wagon.”

  Ed read on in the newspapers. “Nothing new here, is there, Tom?”

  “Not to me.”

  “You know, Tom—well—” Ed broke off, smiling.