Simone was simply shocked, Jonathan thought, like himself. She was putting into words ideas that she hadn’t thought out. He followed her into the kitchen. ‘Known something about what?’
Simone was putting the basket away in the corner cupboard. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’
15
THE funeral service for Pierre Gauthier took place at 10 a.m. Monday in the church of St Louis, the main church of Fontainebleau. The church was filled, and people stood even on the pavement outside where the two black automobiles waited dismally – one a shiny hearse, the other a boxlike bus to carry the family relations and friends who had no car of their own. Gauthier was a widower without children. He perhaps had a brother or sister, maybe therefore some nieces or nephews. Jonathan hoped so. The funeral seemed a lonely thing, despite all the people.
‘Do you know he lost his glass eye on the street?’ a man next to Jonathan whispered to him in church. ‘It fell out when he was hit.’
‘Oh?’ Jonathan shook his head in sympathy. The man who had spoken to him was a shopkeeper. Jonathan knew his face, but could not connect him with any shop. Jonathan could see clearly Gauthier’s glass eye on the black tar road, maybe crushed by a car wheel by now, maybe found in the gutter by some curious children. What did the back of a glass eye look like?
Candles twinkled yellow-white, barely illuminating the church’s dreary grey walls. It was an overcast day. The priest intoned in French the formal phrases. Gauthier’s coffin stood short and thick in front of the altar. At least, if Gauthier had little family, he had many friends. Several women, a few men, were wiping away tears. And other people were murmuring to each other, as if their own exchanges could give them more comfort than the rote the priest was reciting.
There were some soft bells, like chimes.
Jonathan looked to his right, at the people in the rows of chairs across the aisle, and his eyes were caught by the profile of Tom Ripley. Ripley was looking straight ahead towards the priest who was speaking again, and he seemed to be following the ceremony with concentration. His face stood out among the faces of the French. Or did it? Was it merely because he knew Tom Ripley? Why had Ripley troubled to come? In the next instant Jonathan wondered if Tom Ripley might be putting on an act by coming? If, as Simone suspected, he really had had something to do with Gauthier’s death, even arranged it and paid for it?
When the people all stood up to file out of the church, Jonathan tried to avoid Tom Ripley, and he thought the best way to succeed in this was not to try to avoid him, above all not to glance another time in his direction. But on the steps in front of the church, Tom Ripley suddenly dashed up at one side of Jonathan and Simone and greeted them.
‘Good morning!’ Ripley said in French. He wore a black muffler around his neck, a dark blue raincoat. ‘Bonjour, madame. I’m glad to see you both. You were friends of M. Gauthier, I think.’
They were all walking slowly down the steps, because of the dense crowd, so slowly it was hard to keep one’s balance.
‘Oui,’ Jonathan replied. ‘He was one of our neighbourhood shopkeepers, you know. A very nice man.’
Tom nodded. ‘I haven’t seen the papers this morning. A friend in Moret rang me – and told me. Have the police any idea who did it?’
‘I haven’t heard,’ Jonathan said. Just “two boys”. Did you hear anything else, Simone?’
Simone shook her head which was covered in a dark scarf. ‘No. Not a thing.’
Tom nodded. T was hoping you might’ve heard something – living closer than I do.’
Tom Ripley seemed genuinely concerned, Jonathan thought, not just putting on a show for them.
‘I must buy a paper. – Are you going to the cemetery?’ Tom asked.
‘No, we’re not,’ said Jonathan.
Tom nodded. They had all now reached the pavement level. ‘Nor am I. I’ll miss old Gauthier. It’s too bad. – Very nice to have seen you.’ With a quick smile, Ripley went away.
Jonathan and Simone walked on, around the corner of the church into the Rue de la Paroisse, the direction of their house. Neighbours nodded to them, gave them brief smiles, and some said, ‘Good morning, Madame, M’sieur,’ in a way they wouldn’t have done on ordinary mornings. Car motors started up, ready to follow the hearse to the cemetery – which Jonathan recalled was just behind the Fontainebleau Hospital where he had so often gone for transfusions.
‘Bonjour, M. Trevanny! Et Madame!’ It was Dr Ferrier, sprightly as ever, and almost as beaming as usual. He pumped Jonathan’s hand, at the same time making a small bow to Simone. ‘What a dreadful thing, eh?… No, no, no, no, they haven’t found the boys at all. But someone said it was a Paris licence on the car. A black D.S. That’s all they know … And how are you feeling, M. Trevanny?’ Dr Perrier’s smile was confident.
‘About the same,’ Jonathan said. ‘No complaints.’ He was glad that Dr Perrier took off at once, because Jonathan was aware that Simone knew he was supposed to be seeing Dr Perrier rather frequently now for pills and injections, though he hadn’t been to Perrier since at least a fortnight, when he had delivered Dr Schroeder’s report that had come to him at his shop.
‘We must buy a paper,’ said Simone.
‘Up at the corner,’ Jonathan said.
They bought a paper, and Jonathan stood on a pavement still a bit crowded with people dispersing from Gauthier’s service, and read about ‘the disgraceful and wanton act of young hoodlums’ which had taken place late Saturday evening in a street of Fontainebleau. Simone looked over his shoulder. The week-end paper had not had time to print the story, so this was the first account they had seen. Someone had seen a large, dark car with at least two young men in it, but no mention was made of a Paris licence number. The car had gone on in the direction of Paris, but had vanished by the time police tried to give pursuit.
‘It is shocking,’ said Simone. ‘It isn’t often, you know, that there are hit-and-run drivers in France …’
Jonathan detected a note of chauvinism.
‘That’s what makes me suspect—’ She shrugged. ‘Of course I could be completely wrong. But it is quite in character if this type Ripley makes an appearance at M. Gauthier’s funeral service!’
‘He —’Jonathan stopped. He had been going to say that Tom Ripley had certainly seemed concerned that morning, and also that he bought his art supplies at Gauthier’s shop, but Jonathan realized that he was not supposed to know this. ‘What do you mean by “in character”?’
Simone shrugged again, and Jonathan knew she was in a mood in which she might refuse to say another word on the subject. ‘I think it is just possible this Ripley found out from M. Gauthier that I spoke with him, asking him who started this story about you. I told you I thought it was Ripley, even though M. Gauthier wouldn’t say so. And now – this – the very mysterious death of M. Gauthier.’
Jonathan was silent. They were nearing the Rue St Merry. ‘But that story, darling – it couldn’t possibly be worth killing a man for. Be reasonable.’
Simone suddenly remembered they needed something for lunch. She went into a charcuterie, and Jonathan waited on the pavement. For a few seconds Jonathan realized – in a different way, as if he saw it through Simone’s eyes – what he had done in killing one man by gunshot, and by helping to kill another. Jonathan had rationalized it by telling himself that the two men had been gunmen themselves, murderers. Simone, of course, wouldn’t see it that way. They were human life, after all. Simone was sufficiently upset because Tom Ripley might have hired someone to kill Gauthier – just might have. If she knew that her own husband had pulled a trigger — Or was he influenced at the moment by the funeral service he had just been to? The service had after all been about the sanctity of human life, despite saying that the next world was even better. Jonathan smiled ironically. It was the word sanctity —
Simone came out of the charcuterie, awkwardly holding little packages, because she hadn’t her shopping net with her. Jonathan took a couple o
f them. They walked on.
Sanctity. Jonathan had given the Mafia book back to Reeves. If he ever had serious qualms about what he had done, all he needed to do was remember some of the murderers he had read about.
Nevertheless, Jonathan felt apprehensive as he climbed the steps of the house behind Simone. It was because Simone was now so hostile towards Ripley. Simone hadn’t cared for Pierre Gauthier all this much, to be so affected by his death. Her attitude was composed of a sixth sense, conventional morality and wifely protectiveness. She believed that Ripley had started the story about his dying soon, and Jonathan foresaw that nothing would shake her, because no other person could easily be substituted as a source of the story, especially now that Gauthier was dead, and couldn’t back Jonathan up if he tried to invent another person.
Tom shed his black muffler in his car, and drove southward towards Moret and home. It was a pity about Simone’s hostility, that Simone suspected he had arranged Gauthier’s death. Tom lit a cigarette with the lighter from his dashboard. He was in the red Alfa-Romeo, and felt tempted to go fast, but he held his speed back prudently.
Gauthier’s death had been an accident, Tom was sure. A nasty, unfortunate thing, but still an accident, unless Gauthier was mixed up in stranger things than Tom knew about.
A big magpie swooped across the road, beautiful against a background of a pale green weeping willow. The sun had begun to come out. Tom thought of stopping in Moret to buy something – there seemed always something that Mme Annette needed or might like – but today he couldn’t recall anything that she’d asked for, and he didn’t really feel like stopping. It was his usual framer in Moret who had rung him yesterday to tell him about Gauthier. Tom must have mentioned to him at some point that he bought his paints at Gauthier’s in Fontainebleau. Tom let his foot down on the accelerator and passed a truck, then two speeding Citroens, and soon he was at the turn-off to Villeperce.
‘Ah, Tome, you had a long-distance telephone call,’ Heloise said when he came into the living-room.
‘From where?’ But Tom knew. It was probably Reeves.
‘Germany, I think. Heloise went back to the harpsichord, which now had a place of honour near the french windows.
Tom recognized a Bach chaconne whose treble she was reading. ‘They’ll ring back?’ he asked.
Heloise turned her head and her long blonde hair swung out. ‘I don’t know, chéri. It was only the operator I spoke to, because they wanted person-to-person. There it is!’ she said as the telephone rang on her last words.
Tom dashed upstairs to his room.
The operator ascertained that he was M. Ripley, then Reeves’ voice said:
‘Hello, Tom. Can you talk?’ Reeves sounded calmer than the last time.
‘Yes. You’re in Amsterdam?’
‘Yeah, and I have a little news you won’t find in the newspaper that I thought you might like to hear. That bodyguard died. You know, the one they took to Milan.’
‘Who said he died?’
‘Well, I heard it from one of my friends in Hamburg. A usually reliable friend.’
It was the kind of story the Mafia might put out, Tom thought. He would believe it when he saw the corpse. ‘Anything else?’
‘I thought it might be good news for our mutual friend, that this guy is dead. You know.’
‘Sure. I do understand, Reeves. And how are you?’
‘Oh, still alive.’ Reeves forced the sound of a laugh. ‘Also I’m arranging for my things to be sent to Amsterdam. I like it here. I feel much safer than in Hamburg, I can tell you that. Oh, there is one thing. My friend Fritz. He telephoned me, got my number from Gaby. He’s now with his cousin in some little town near Hamburg. But he got beaten up, lost a couple of teeth, poor guy. Those swine beat him up for what they could get out of him…’
That was close to home, Tom thought, and felt a pang of sympathy for this unknown Fritz – Reeves’ driver, or package-runner.
‘Fritz never knew our friend as anything else but “Paul”,’ Reeves went on. ‘Also Fritz gave them an opposite description, black hair, short and plump, but I’m afraid they might not believe him. Fritz did pretty well, considering he was getting the treatment. He said he stuck to his story – the way our friend looks, and that’s all he knows about him. I’m the one in a mess, I think.’
That was certainly true, Tom thought, because the Italians knew what Reeves looked like, all right. ‘Very interesting news. I don’t think we should talk all day, my friend. What’re you really worried about?’
Reeves’ sigh was audible. ‘Getting my things here. But I sent Gaby some money, and she’s going to get things shipped. I’ve written my bank and all that. I’m even growing a beard. And of course I’m using a – another name.’
Tom had supposed Reeves would be using another name, with one of his fake passports. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Andrew Lucas – of Virginia.’ Reeves said, with a ‘Hah’ by way of a laugh, ‘By the way, have you seen our mutual friend?’
‘No. Why should I? – Well, Andy, let me know how things go.’ Tom was sure Reeves would ring if he were in trouble, if it was the kind of trouble in which he was still able to ring, because Reeves thought Tom Ripley could pull him out of anything. But mainly for Trevanny’s sake, Tom wanted to know if Reeves was in trouble.
‘I’ll do that, Tom. Oh, one more thing! A Di Stefano man was plugged in Hamburg! Saturday night. You might see it in the papers and you might not. But the Genotti family must’ve got him. That’s what we wanted…’
Reeves at last signed off.
If the Mafia got to Reeves in Amsterdam, Tom was thinking, they’d torture some facts out of him. Tom doubted if Reeves could stand up as well as Fritz apparently had done. Tom wondered which family, the Di Stefanos or the Genottis, had got hold of Fritz? Fritz probably knew only about the first operation, the shooting in Hamburg. That victim had been merely a button man. The Genottis would be far more livid: they had lost a capo, and, it was said now, a button man or bodyguard. Didn’t both families know by now that the murders had started with Reeves and the Hamburg casino boys, and not through family warfare? Were they finished with Reeves? Tom felt quite incapable of protecting Reeves, if he should need protection. If it was only one man they were up against, how easy it would be! But the Mafia were beyond count.
Reeves had said at the last that he had been ringing from a post office. That was at least safer than if he had rung from his hotel. Tom was thinking about Reeves’ first call. Hadn’t that been from the hotel called the Zuyder Zee? Tom thought so.
Harpsichord notes came purely from below stairs, a message from another century. Tom went down the stairs.
Heloise would want him to tell her about the funeral service, say something about it, though when he had asked her if she wanted to go with him, she had said that funeral services depressed her.
Jonathan stood in his living-room, gazing out the front window. It was just after 12 noon. He had turned on the portable radio for the noonday news, and now it was playing pop music. Simone was in the garden with Georges, who had stayed in the house alone while he and Simone went to the funeral service. On the radio a man’s voice sang ‘runnin’ on along … runnin’ on along …’ and Jonathan watched a young dog that looked like an Alsatian loping after two small boys on the opposite pavement. Jonathan had a sense of the temporariness of everything, of life of all kinds – not only of the dog and the two boys, but of the houses behind them, a sense that everything would perish, crumble finally, shapes destroyed and even forgotten. Jonathan thought of Gauthier in his coffin being lowered into the ground perhaps at this moment, and then he didn’t think about Gauthier again but about himself. He hadn’t the energy of the dog that had trotted past. If he’d had any prime, he felt past it. It was too late, and Jonathan felt that he hadn’t the energy to enjoy what was left of his life, now that he had a little wherewithal to enjoy it. He ought to close up his shop, sell it or give it away, what did it matter? Yet
on second thought he couldn’t simply squander the money with Simone, because what would she and Georges have when he died? Forty thousand quid wasn’t a fortune. His ears were ringing. Calmly Jonathan took deep, slow breaths. He made an effort to raise the window in front of him, and found he hadn’t the strength. He turned to face the centre of the room, his legs heavy and nearly incontrollable. The ringing in his ears had completely drowned the music.
He came to, sweating and cool, on the living-room floor. Simone was on her knees beside him, lightly passing a damp towel across his forehead, down his face.
‘Darling, I just found you! How are you? – Georges, it is all right. Papa is all right? But Simone sounded frightened.
Jonathan put his head down again on the carpet.
‘Some water?’
Jonathan managed to sip from the glass she held. He lay back again. ‘I think I might have to lie here all afternoon!’ His voice warred with the ringing in his ears.
‘Let me straighten this.’ Simone pulled at his jacket which was bunched under him.
Something slipped out of a pocket. He saw Simone pick up something, then she looked back at him with concern, and Jonathan kept his eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, because things were worse if he closed his eyes. Minutes passed, minutes of silence. Jonathan was not worried, because he knew he would hang on, that this wasn’t death, merely a faint. Maybe first cousin to death, but death wouldn’t come quite like this. Death would probably have a sweeter, more seductive pull, like a wave sweeping out from a shore, sucking hard at the legs of a swimmer who’d already ventured too far, and who mysteriously had lost his will to struggle. Simone went away, urging Georges out with her, then returned with a cup of hot tea.
‘This has a lot of sugar. It will do you good. Do you want me to telephone Dr Perrier?’
‘Oh no, darling. Thanks.’ After some sips of the tea, Jonathan got himself to the sofa and sat down.