The Boy Who Followed Ripley

  “Hello,” said Tom. “May I speak with Mrs. Pierson, please?”

  “May I ask who’s speaking?”

  “This is in regard to her son Frank.” The formality at the other end gave Tom the cool that he needed.

  “One moment, please.”

  It was more than a moment that Tom had to wait, but at least it seemed that Frank’s mother was home. Tom heard a woman’s voice, a man’s also, as Lily Pierson perhaps approached the telephone accompanied by the butler whose name was Eugene, as Tom recalled.

  “Hel-lo-o,” came the high-pitched voice.

  “Hello.— Mrs. Pierson, can you tell me at what hotel your son Johnny and your private detective are staying? In Paris?”

  “Why are you asking that? You’re an American?”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “May I ask your name?” She sounded cautious and frightened.

  “That’s of no importance. It’s more important that—”

  “Do you know where Frank is? He’s with you?”

  “No, he is not with me. I would simply like to know how to reach your private detective in Paris. I’d like to know what hotel they’re in.”

  “But I don’t know why you want to know that.” Her voice was becoming shriller. “Are you holding my son somewhere?”

  “No, indeed, Mrs. Pierson. I can find out where your detective is, I think, by telephoning the French police. So can’t you tell me now and save me the trouble? It’s no secret, is it, where they’re staying in Paris?”

  Slight hesitation. “They’re at the Hôtel Lutetia. But I’d like to know why you want to know.”

  Tom had what he wanted. What he did not want was the police of Berlin to be alerted by Mrs. Pierson or by her detective. “Because I may have seen him in Paris,” Tom said, “but I’m not sure. Thank you, Mrs. Pierson.”

  “Seen him where in Paris?”

  Tom wanted to hang up. “In the American Drugstore, St. Germain-des-Près. I’ve just come from Paris. Good-bye, Mrs. Pierson.” Tom put the telephone down.

  He began to pack. The Hotel Franke seemed suddenly a very unsafe place. The duet or trio who had Frank might well have followed him and Frank to the hotel at some time since Friday evening, and might think nothing of firing a shot at him as he left the hotel, or even of coming up to his room to do it. Tom picked up the telephone and told the desk that he would be leaving in a few minutes, and could they make up his bill and also the bill for Herr Andrews? Then Tom closed his suitcase, and went to Frank’s room with its key. He had thought a moment ago of ringing Eric Lanz. Eric might be willing to put him up, but if Eric couldn’t, then any hotel in Berlin was safer than this one. Tom packed Frank’s things, shoes from the floor, toothpaste and toothbrush from the bathroom, the Berlin bear, closed the suitcase, and went out with it, leaving the key in the lock. He took the suitcase to his own room, found Eric’s card in his jacket pocket still, and dialed the number.

  A German voice, deeper than Eric’s, answered, and asked who was calling.

  “Tom Ripley. I’m in Berlin.”

  “Ach, Tom Ripley! Einen Moment, bitte! Eric ist im Bad!”

  Tom smiled. Eric home and having a bath! After a few seconds, Eric came on.

  “Hello, Tom! Welcome to Berlin! When can we see each other?”

  “Now—if possible,” Tom said as calmly as he could. “Are you busy?”

  “No-o. Where are you?”

  Tom told him. “I’m about to check out of the hotel.”

  “We can fetch you! Have you got some time?” Eric asked gaily. “Peter! Albrecht-Achillesstrasse, easy for us . . .” His voice faded away in German, then came back. “Tom! We shall see you in less than ten minutes!”

  Tom put the telephone down, much comforted.

  The desk man had not sounded surprised at Tom’s request for the bills, but might think it odd that he was leaving with the boy’s suitcase. Tom was prepared to say that Herr Andrews was waiting at the air terminus. Tom paid the two bills, plus the extra for his telephone calls, and no questions were asked. Fine. He might have been one of Frank’s kidnappers, Tom thought, or in cahoots with them, simply taking away Frank’s belongings.

  “Have a good trip!” said the desk man, smiling.

  “Thank you!” Then Tom saw Eric walking into the lobby.

  “Hello, Tom!” said Eric, beaming. His dark hair looked still damp from his bath. “You are finished?” he asked with a glance at the desk. “I’ll take one suitcase, shall I?— By yourself?”

  There was a bellhop, but he was lingering near another man who had three suitcases.

  “Yes, just now. My friend’s waiting at the Flughafen,” Tom said in case the desk man or anyone else might be able to hear them.

  Eric had Frank’s suitcase. “Come! Peter’s car is just here to the right. Mine’s at the garage till tomorrow. Temporarily kaputt. Ha!”

  A pale green Opel sat at the curb not far away, and Eric introduced Tom to Peter Schubler, or so the name sounded, a tall slender man of about thirty, with a lantern jaw and black hair cut quite short as if from a fresh haircut. The luggage went easily on the backseat and floor. Eric insisted that Tom sit in front with Peter.

  “Where is your friend? Really at the airport?” Eric leaned forward with interest as Peter started the car.

  Eric didn’t know who his friend was, though he might suspect he was Frank Pierson, recipient of the passport Eric had brought for Tom to Paris. “No,” Tom said. “Tell you later. Can we possibly go to your house now, Eric, or is it awkward for you?” Tom spoke in English, not knowing if Peter understood.

  “But of course! Yes, we go home, Peter!— Peter was going home anyway. We thought you might have a little time free.”

  Tom was looking on either side of the street, as he had on coming out of the hotel, at the people on the pavement, even at cars parked at the curbs, but by the time they arrived at the Kur-fürstendamm, Tom was feeling easier.

  “You’re with the boy?” Eric asked in English. “Where is he?”

  “Taking a walk. I can reach him later,” Tom said casually, and suddenly felt sick and awful. He lowered his window all the way.

  “My house is your house, as the Spanish say,” said Eric, pulling out a key-ring inside the front door of an old but refurbished apartment house. They were in Niebuhrstrasse, parallel with the Ku’damm.

  The three of them rode up with the suitcases in a roomy elevator, and Eric opened another door. More words of welcome from Eric, and with Peter’s help Tom set the suitcases in a corner of the living room. It was a bachelor’s flat with no frills, substantial old furniture, and only a highly polished silver coffeepot flashed a bit of glitter from a sideboard. There were several nineteenth-century German landscapes and woodland paintings on the walls, which Tom recognized as valuable, but such paintings bored Tom to a degree.

  “Excuse us a minute, Peter. Take a beer, if you like,” said Eric.

  The taciturn Peter nodded, picked up a newspaper, and prepared to sit on a large black sofa under a lamp.

  Eric beckoned Tom into an adjacent bedroom and closed the door. “Now what’s the matter?”

  They did not sit down. Tom told his story quickly, including his telephone conversation with Lily Pierson. “It occurred to me that the kidnappers might like to get rid of me. It’s possible that they recognized me in Grunewald. Or they can get it out of the boy. So I’d be more than grateful, Eric, if you can put me up tonight.”

  “Tonight? Two nights! More! What a happening, mein Gott! And now—the ransom request, I suppose? To the mother?”

  “I suppose.” Tom drew on a cigarette, and shrugged.

  “I doubt if they will try to get the boy out of West Berlin, you know. Too difficult. Every car searched thoroughly at the East borders.”

  Tom could imagine. “I’d like to make two phone calls tonight, one to the police to ask if they found out anything about that Audi in Grunewald, and one to the hotel to ask if Frank possibly turned up. It occurred
to me that the kidnappers might get cold feet and let the boy go. But I—”

  “But?”

  “I shall not give your phone number or address to anybody. That’s not necessary.”

  “Thank you, not to the police anyway. Important.”

  “I could even ring from outside, if you’d prefer.”

  “My telephone!” Eric waved a hand. “Your calls are innocent compared to what goes on here! Often in code, I will admit! Go ahead, Tom, and ask Peter to do it for you!” Eric sounded sure of himself. “For the moment, Peter is my chauffeur, secretary, bodyguard—all! Come out and have a drink!” He pulled Tom’s arm.

  “You trust Peter.”

  Eric whispered. “Peter escaped from East Berlin. The second attempt he made it. I should say, they threw him out. The first attempt, they threw him in prison, where he made himself such a nuisance, they couldn’t stand him. Peter—he looks mild und leise, but he has—um—guts.”

  They went into the living room where Eric poured whiskeys, and Peter went at once to the kitchen to fetch ice. It was almost eight now.

  “I shall ask Peter to ring the Hotel Franke and ask if there has been a message from— What was his name?”

  “Benjamin Andrews.”

  “Ah, yes.” Eric looked Tom up and down. “You are nervous, Tom. Sit down.”

  Peter pressed ice from a black rubber tray into a silver bucket. Tom soon had a scotch in his hand. Eric turned to Peter and related the story in rapid German.

  “Wa-as?” Peter said, astounded, and he gave Tom a respectful look, as if he suddenly realized that Tom had been through a bit of hell that day.

  “. . . the emergency department,” Eric was saying to Peter in German. “And the number of the car, you said. You didn’t tell them your name, I suppose.”

  “Certainly not.” Tom copied out the number from the Roth-Haendle packet more legibly on some paper by Eric’s telephone, and added “dark blue Audi.”

  “Maybe early to get news on the car,” said Eric. “Maybe they will abandon it, if it is stolen. That gets us nothing, unless the police will take fingerprints.”

  “Ring the hotel first, Peter,” Tom said. He got the number from his hotel bill. “The less they hear my voice there, the better, somehow. Can you ask if there is a message from Herr Andrews?”

  “Andrews,” Peter repeated, and dialed the number.

  “Or any message for Herr Ripley.”

  Peter nodded, and put those questions to the Hotel Franke. After a few seconds, Peter said, “Okay. Thank you.” To Tom he said, “No messages.”

  “Thank you, Peter. Now could you try the police about the car?” Tom looked in Eric’s telephone directory, and made sure the emergency number was the same one he had dialed, and pointed it out to Peter. “This one.”

  Peter dialed, spoke to someone for a couple of minutes, with long pauses, and finally hung up. “They have not found such a car,” Peter said.

  “We can try again later—both places,” Eric said.

  Peter went into the kitchen, and Tom heard a rattle of plates, the fridge door closing. Peter seemed quite familiar with the house.

  “Frank Pierson,” said Eric with his neat little smile, oblivious of Peter who was coming in with a tray. “Didn’t his father die not so long ago? Yes. I read that.”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “Suicide, wasn’t it?”

  “So it seems.”

  Peter was setting the table. He had brought out a cold roast beef, tomatoes, and a bowl of sliced fresh pineapple which gave out an aroma of kirsch. They pulled up chairs and sat down at a long table.

  “You spoke with the mother. Are you supposed to speak with the detective in Paris?” Eric poked red meat into his mouth, and followed it with a sip of red wine.

  Eric’s casualness annoyed Tom slightly. This was merely a little crooked situation, and Eric was willing to help Tom a bit, because Tom was a friend of Reeves Minot. Eric had never even met Frank. “I don’t have to speak with Paris, no,” Tom said, meaning that he didn’t have to appoint himself as go-between. “As I said, the mother doesn’t know my name.”

  Peter was listening carefully, maybe understanding everything.

  “But I hope that detective doesn’t put the Berlin police onto this—after Mrs. Pierson gets a ransom demand. Police don’t always help in a case like this.”

  “No, not if you want the boy back alive,” Eric said.

  Tom was wondering if the American detective was going to come to Berlin? The boy would very likely be released in Berlin, since it was so difficult to get him out to anywhere else. And where would the kidnappers want the money deposited? That was anybody’s guess, Tom thought.

  “What are you worried about now?” asked Eric.

  “Not worried,” Tom said, smiling. “I was thinking that Mrs. Pierson might tell her detective to beware of an American in Berlin who is either playing tricks or is in cahoots with the kidnappers. I told her—”

  “Cahoots?”

  “Working with them. I told her I thought I’d seen Frank in Paris, you know. Unfortunately she knows I rang from Berlin, because the Hotel Franke operator said it.”

  “Tom, you worry too much. But maybe that is why you are successful.”

  Successful? Was he?

  Peter said something to Eric in German so fast that Tom missed it.

  Eric laughed, and when he had swallowed his food, he said to Tom, “Peter hates kidnappers. He says they pretend to be leftists, all that political Scheiss, when all they want is money, just like any other crooks.”

  “I think I would like to ring the Hôtel Lutetia tonight to see if they have news,” Tom said. “The kidnappers may have phoned Mrs. Pierson. I can hardly imagine them sending her a telegram or an express letter.”

  “No,” said Eric, pouring more wine for everybody.

  “By now the Paris detective might know where the money’s to be delivered and where the boy’s to be released and all that.”

  “Is he going to tell you all that?” Eric asked, reseating himself.

  Tom smiled again. “Maybe not. But I’ll still pick up something, I imagine. By the way, Eric, I’ll be responsible for my telephone bill.” Tom was envisaging more calls.

  “What an idea! Very English, friends and guests paying telephone bills. Not in my house—which is your house. What time is it? Would it help if I telephoned the Lutetia instead of you, Tom?” Eric looked at his wristwatch and spoke before Tom could answer. “Just about ten now, same time in Paris. Let us give the detective time to finish his Fr-rench dinner—at the Piersons’ expense. Ha-ha!”

  Eric switched on his television, while Peter made the coffee. There was a news program after a few minutes. Eric had to answer his telephone twice, and the second time spoke in rather awful Italian. Then Eric and Peter listened to a political figure who spoke for several minutes, and they chuckled throughout and made comments to each other. Tom was not interested enough to try to follow what the man on the screen was saying.

  Around eleven, Eric proposed ringing the Hôtel Lutetia. Tom had refrained from mentioning it, lest Eric call him nervous again.

  “I think I have the number right here.” Eric consulted a black leather address book. “Ja, here we are—” He began to dial.

  Tom was standing by. “Ask for John Pierson, would you, Eric? Because I don’t know the detective’s name.”

  “Don’t they know your name by now?” Eric asked. “Wouldn’t the boy have said—” Eric pointed to the little round receiver at the back of his telephone.

  Tom picked it up and put it to his ear.

  “Hello. May I speak to John Pierson, if you please?” Eric said in French, and gave a satisfied nod to Tom as the operator promised to connect him.

  “Hello?” said a young American voice, much like Frank’s.

  “Hello. I am ringing to ask if you have news of your brother.”

  “Who are you?” asked Johnny, and there were sounds of his being spoken to by anoth
er male voice.

  “Hello?” said a deeper voice.

  “I am calling to ask for news about Frank. Is he all right? Have you had news?”

  “May I ask your name? Where are you calling from?”

  Tom nodded at Eric’s questioning glance.

  “Berlin,” said Eric. “What is the message for Mrs. Pierson?” Eric asked with almost bored matter-of-factness.

  “Why should I tell you, if you don’t identify yourself,” replied the detective.

  Peter was leaning against the sideboard, listening.

  Tom motioned for Eric to pass the telephone to him, and Tom handed Eric the little receiver. “Hello, this is Tom Ripley.”

  “Oh!— Yes. Was it you who spoke with Mrs. Pierson?”

  “Yes, it was. I would like to know if the boy is all right, and what the arrangements are.”

  “We don’t know if the boy is all right,” the detective replied frigidly.

  “They’ve asked for a ransom?”

  “Y-yes-s.” It came out as if the detective had reflected that he had nothing to lose by disclosing this.

  “Money to be delivered in Berlin?”

  “I don’t know why you’re interested, Mr. Ripley.”

  “Because I’m a friend of Frank’s.”

  The detective refrained from comment.

  “Frank can tell you that—when you speak with him,” Tom said.

  “We haven’t spoken with him.”

  “But they’ll let him speak to prove they’ve got him—won’t they? Anyway, Mr.— May I ask your name?”

  “Yes-s. Thurlow. Ralph. How did you know that the boy was kidnapped?”

  Tom couldn’t answer or didn’t want to. “Have you informed the Berlin police?”

  “No, they don’t want us to do that.”

  “Any idea where they are in Berlin?” Tom asked.

  “No.” Thurlow sounded discouraged.

  Not easy to have a call traced without police cooperation, Tom supposed. “What kind of proof are they going to give you?”

  “They said he’d speak to us—maybe later tonight. Said he’d had some sleeping pills.— Can you give me your telephone number there?”

  “Sorry, I can’t. But I can reach you. ’Night, Mr. Thurlow.” Tom put the telephone down as Thurlow was saying something else.