‘You are of die distinguished Genotti family, non è vero, Lippo?’
Lippo hesitated, but very briefly, as if it only flitted across his mind to deny it. ‘Si,’ he said firmly, with a trace of vergogna.
Tom was amused. Strength in number, in togetherness, the families had. Alone like this one, they turned yellow, or green. Tom was sorry about Lippo’s arm, but he wasn’t torturing him yet, and Tom knew the tortures the Mafia put its victims to if they didn’t come across with money or services – yanked toenails and teeth, cigarette burns. ‘How many men have you killed, Lippo?’
‘Nessuno!’ cried Lippo.
‘No one,’ Tom said to Jonathan. ‘Ha, ha.’ Tom went to rinse his hands in the little loo opposite the front door. Then he finished his drink, picked up the piece of log beside the front door, and approached Lippo with it. ‘Lippo, you’re going to telephone your boss tonight. Maybe your new, capo eh? Where is he tonight? Milano? Monaco di Bavaria?’ Tom gave Lippo a swat over the head with the wood, just to show he meant business, but the blow was fairly hard, because Tom was nervous.
‘Stop it!’ yelled Lippo, staggering up from a near collapse, one hand pitifully on top of his head. ‘Me a guy with one arm?’ he shrieked, talking like himself now, the gutter Italian of Naples, Tom thought, though it could have been of Milan, because Tom was not an expert.
‘Sissi! And two against one even!’ Tom replied. ‘We don’t play fair, eh? Is that your complaint?’ Tom called him something unspeakable, and turned on his heel to get a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you pray to the Virgin Mary?’ Tom said over his shoulder. ‘Another thing,’ he said to Lippo in English, ‘no more shouting or you’ll get this over your head in no time flat!’ He came down with the piece of firewood in the air – whish! – to show what he meant. ‘This is what killed Angy.’
Lippo blinked, his mouth slightly open. He was breathing shallowly and audibly.
Jonathan had finished his drink. He was holding the gun pointed at Lippo, holding it in two hands, because the gun had become heavy. He was not at all sure he could hit Lippo if he had to fire it, and anyway Tom was frequently between him and Lippo. Now Tom was shaking the Italian by his belt. Jonathan couldn’t understand all of what Tom was saying, some of it being in clipped Italian, the rest in French and in English. Tom was mostly muttering, but his voice finally rose in anger, and he shoved the Italian back and turned round. The Italian had hardly said anything.
Tom went to the radio, pressed a couple of buttons, and a ‘cello concerto came on. Tom made the volume medium. Then he made sure the front curtains were completely closed. ‘Isn’t this dreary.’ Tom said apologetically to Jonathan. ‘Sordid. He won’t tell me where his boss is, so I’ve got to hit him a bit. Naturally he’s as afraid of his boss as he is of me.’ Tom gave Jonathan a quick smile, and went and changed the music. He found some pop. Then he picked up the wood with determination.
Lippo brushed the first blow aside, but Tom bashed him in the temple with a backhand stroke. Lippo had yelped, and now he cried, ‘No! Lasciame!’
‘Your boss’s number!’ Tom yelled.
Crack! That was a swat at Lippo’s middle, which caught the hand Lippo had put there to protect himself. Glass particles fell on the floor. Lippo wore his watch on his right wrist, the watch must have been shattered, and Lippo held his hand in pain against his abdomen, while he looked at the glass on the floor. He gasped for breath.
Tom waited. The log was poised.
‘Milano!’ Lippo said.
‘All right, you’re going to —’
Jonathan missed the rest.
Tom was pointing to the telephone. Then Tom went to the table near the front windows where the telephone was and got a pencil and paper. He was asking the Italian the number in Milan.
Lippo gave a number and Tom wrote it down.
Then Tom made a longer speech, after which he turned to Jonathan and said, ‘I’ve told this guy he’s going to be garrotted if he doesn’t ring his boss and tell him what I want him to say.’ Tom adjusted the garrotte for action, and as he turned to face Lippo, the sound of a car came from the road, the sound of a car stopping at the gates.
Jonathan stood up, thinking it was either Italian reinforcements or Simone in Gerard’s car. Jonathan didn’t know which would be the worse fate, both seeming a death of sorts at that moment.
Tom didn’t want to part the curtains to look out. The motor purred on. Lippo’s face showed no change, no sign of relief that Tom could see.
Then the car moved on, towards the right. Tom looked between the curtains. The car was going on, very much on, and all was well, unless the car had let out a few men to hide in the bushes and fire through the windows. Tom listened for several seconds. It might have been the Grais, Tom thought, might have been the Grais who had telephoned a few minutes ago, and maybe they’d seen the strange car on the gravel inside the gates, and decided to go on, thinking the Ripleys had visitors.
‘Now, Lippo,’ Tom said calmly, ‘you’re going to telephone your boss, and I’m going to listen with this little gadget.’ Tom picked up the round earpiece that was clipped to die back of his telephone, which the French employed for the second ear to augment the sound. ‘And if anything doesn’t sound perfect to me,’ Tom continued in French now, which he could see the Italian understood, ‘I won’t hesitate to pull this suddenly tight, you see?’ Tom illustrated with the noose around his wrist, then he walked towards Lippo and flipped the garrotte over Lippo’s head.
Lippo jerked back a little in surprise, then Tom led him forward like a dog on a leash towards the telephone. He pushed Lippo down in the chair there, so Tom was in a position to apply strength on the garrotte.
‘Now I’ll get the number for you, collect, I’m afraid. You will say you are in France, and you and Angy think you are being followed. You will say you have seen Tom Ripley, and Angy says he is not the man you were looking for. Right? Understand? Any funny words, code words and – this —’ Tom tightened the garrotte, but not so tight that it disappeared in Lippo’s neck.
‘Sissi!’ said Lippo, staring in terror from Tom to the telephone.
Tom dialled the operator, and asked for the long-distance operator, for Milan, Italy. When the operator asked for his number, as French operators always did, Tom gave it.
‘From whom?’ asked the operator.
‘Lippo. Just Lippo,’ Tom replied. Then he gave the number. The operator said she would ring Tom back. He said to Lippo, ‘If this turns out to be a corner grocery or one of your girl friends, I’ll choke you just the same! Capish?’
Lippo squirmed, looking as if he were desperate to try something by way of escape, but as if he didn’t know what, as yet.
The telephone rang.
Tom motioned for Lippo to pick the telephone up. Tom took the earpiece and listened. The operator was saying that the call would be accepted.
‘Pronto ?’ a male voice said at the other end.
Lippo held the telephone with his right hand to his left ear. ‘Pronto. Lippo here. Luigi!’
‘Si,’ said the other voice.
‘Listen, I —’ Lippo’s shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. ‘We saw —’
Tom jerked the garrotte a little to make Lippo get on with it.
‘You are in France, no? With Angy?’ the other voice said with some impatience. ‘Allora – what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. I — We saw this fellow. Angy says he is not the man… No…’
‘And you think you are being followed,’ Tom whispered, because the connection was not good, and he hadn’t any fear that the man in Milan could hear him.
‘And we think – maybe we’re being followed.’
‘Followed by who?’ asked Milan sharply.
‘I dunno. So what the — should we do?’ Lippo asked, in fluent argot with a word Tom didn’t understand. Lippo sounded genuinely scared now.
Tom’s ribs tensed with laughter, and he glanced at Jonathan who was still dutifully cov
ering Lippo with his gun. Tom could understand not quite all of what Lippo was saying, but Lippo didn’t seem to be pulling any tricks.
‘Return?’ said Lippo.
‘Si.’ said Luigi. ‘Abandon the car! Take a taxi to the nearest airport! Where are you now?’
‘Tell him you’ve got to hang up,’ Tom whispered, gesturing.
‘Got to sign off. Rivederch, Luigi,’ said Lippo and hung up. He looked up at Tom with eyes like a miserable dog’s.
Lippo was finished and he knew it, Tom thought. For once Tom was proud of his reputation. Tom had no intention of sparing Lippo’s life. Lippo’s family wouldn’t have spared anyone’s life under the circumstances.
‘Stand up, Lippo,’ Tom said, smiling.’ Let’s see what else you’ve got in your pockets.’
When Tom started to search him, Lippo’s good arm twitched back as if to strike him, but Tom didn’t bother ducking. Just nerves, Tom thought. Tom felt coins in one pocket, a crumpled bit of paper which on inspection turned out to be a decrepit strip of Italian tram ticket, then in the hip pocket a garrotte, this one a sportif red-and-white striped cord that reminded Tom of a barber’s pole, fine as cat-gut, and Tom thought it was.
‘Look at this! Still another!’ Tom said to Jonathan, holding up the garrotte as if it were a pretty pebble he had found on a beach.
Jonathan barely glanced at the dangling string. The first garrotte was still around Lippo’s neck. Jonathan did not look at the dead man who was hardly two yards from him, one shoe turned inward in an unnatural way on the polished floor, but Jonathan kept seeing the prone figure in the margin of his vision.
‘My goodness.’ Tom said, looking at his watch. He hadn’t realized it was so late, after 10 p.m. It had to be done now, he and Jonathan had to drive hours’ distance away and get back before sun-up, if possible. They had to dispose of the corpses some distance from Villeperce. South, of course, in the direction of Italy. South-east, perhaps. It didn’t really matter, but Tom preferred south-east. Tom took a deep breath, preparatory to action, but the presence of Jonathan inhibited him. However, Jonathan had seen corpses’ removal before, and there was no time to lose. Tom picked up the wood from the floor.
Lippo dodged, flung himself on the floor, or tripped and fell, but Tom came down on his head, and again a second time, with the wood. At the same time, Tom had not put his fall strength into it – the thought of not getting more blood on Mme Annette’s floors being in the back of his mind.
‘He’s only unconscious,’ Tom said to Jonathan. ‘He’s got to be finished, and if you don’t want to see it – go in the kitchen, perhaps.’
Jonathan had stood up. He definitely didn’t want to see it.
‘Can you drive?’ Tom asked. ‘My car, I mean. The Renault.’
‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. He had a licence from the early days in France with Roy, his chum from England, but the licence was at home.
‘We’ve got to drive tonight. Go in the kitchen.’ Tom motioned Jonathan away. Then Tom bent to his task of pulling the garrotte tight, not a pleasant task – the trite phrase crossed his mind – but what about people who hadn’t the merciful anaesthetic, unconsciousness? Tom held the cord tight, the cord had disappeared in flesh, and Tom fortified himself with the thought of Vito Marcangelo succumbing on the Mozart Express by the same means: Tom had brought that job off, and this was his second.
He heard a car, tentative on the road, then rolling up, stopping, with a pull of the handbrake.
Tom kept his grip exactly the same on the garrotte. How many seconds had passed? Forty-five? Not more than a minute, unfortunately’
‘What’s that?’ Jonathan whispered, coming in from the kitchen.
The motor of the car was still running.
Tom shook his head.
They both heard light footsteps trotting on the gravel, then a knock at the door. Jonathan felt suddenly weak, as if his knees would give way.
‘I think it’s Simone,’ Jonathan said.
Tom desperately hoped that Lippo was dead. Lippo’s face looked merely dark pink. Damn him!
The knock came again. ‘M. Ripley? – Jon!’
‘Ask her who’s with her,’ Tom said. ‘If she’s with somebody, we can’t open the door. Tell her we’re busy.’
‘Who are you with, Simone?’ Jonathan asked through the closed door.
‘No one! – I’ve told the taxi to wait. What is happening, Jon?’
Jonathan saw that Tom had heard what she said.
‘Tell her to get rid of the taxi,’ Tom said.
‘Pay off the taxi, Simone,’ Jonathan called.
‘He is paid!’
‘Tell him to leave.’
Simone went away towards the road to do this. They heard the taxi drive off. Simone came back, up the steps, and this time she didn’t knock, only waited.
Tom straightened up from Lippo, leaving the garrotte on him. Tom was wondering if Jonathan could go out and explain to her that she couldn’t come into the house? That – they had other people? That they would send for another taxi for her? Tom was thinking of the taxi-driver’s impressions. Best to have dismissed this one, rather than not show signs of letting Simone into a house that plainly had lights and at least one person in it.
‘Jon!’ she called. ‘Will you open the door? I would like to speak with you.’
Tom said softly, ‘Can you wait with her outside while I ring for another taxi? Tell her we’re talking business with a couple of other people.’
Jonathan nodded, hesitated an instant, then slid back the bolt. He opened the door not widely, intending to slip out himself, but Simone thrust the door against him suddenly. She was in the foyer.
‘Jon! I am sorry to —’ Breathless, she glanced around as if looking for Tom Ripley, master of the house, then she saw him, and at the same time saw the two men on the floor. She gave a short cry. Her handbag slipped from her fingers and dropped with a soft thud on the marble. ‘Mon dieu! – What is happening here?’
Jonathan gripped one of her hands tightly. ‘Don’t look at them. These —’
Simone stood rigid.
Tom walked towards her. ‘Good evening, madame. Don’t be frightened. These men were invading the house. They are unconscious. We had a bit of trouble! – Jonathan, take Simone into the kitchen.’
Simone didn’t walk. She was swaying, and leaned against Jonathan for a moment, then lifted her head and looked at Tom with hysterical eyes. ‘They look dead! – Murderers! C’est épourantable! – Jonathan! I cannot believe that it is you – here!’
Tom was going to the bar-cart. ‘Can Simone take some brandy, do you think?’ he called to Jonathan.
‘Yes. – We’ll go in the kitchen, Simone.’ He was prepared to walk between her and the corpses, but she wouldn’t move.
Tom, finding the brandy more difficult than the whisky to open, poured whisky into one of the glasses on the cart. He took it to Simone, neat. ‘Madame, I realize this is dreadful. These men are of the Mafia – Italians. They came to the house to attack us – me, anyway.’ Tom was much relieved to see that she was sipping the whisky, barely grimacing, as if it were medicine that was good for her. Jonathan helped me, for which I’m very grateful. Without him —’ Tom stopped. Anger was rising again in Simone.
‘Without him? What is he doing here?’
Tom stood straighten He went into the kitchen himself, thinking it the only way to draw her from the living-room. She and Jonathan followed him. That I can’t explain tonight, Madame Trevanny. Not now. We’ve got to leave now – with these men. Would you —’ Tom was thinking, had they time, had he time to take her back to Fontainebleau in the Renault, then return to remove the corpses with Jonathan’s assistance? No. Tom absolutely didn’t want to waste that much time which would mean a good forty minutes. ‘Madame, shall I ring for a taxi to take you back to Fontainebleau ?’
‘I will not leave my husband. I want to know what my husband is doing here – with such filth as you!’
He
r fury was directed entirely against him. Tom wished it could all come out now and for ever, in a great burst. He could never deal with angry women – not that he had had to deal with many. To Tom it was a circular chaos, a ring of little fires, and if he successfully extinguished one, the woman’s mind leapt to the next Tom said to Jonathan, ‘If Simone could only take a taxi back to Fontainebleau —’
‘I know, I know. Simone, it really is best if you go back to our house.’
‘Will you come with me?’ she asked.
‘I – I can’t,’ Jonathan said, desperate.
‘Then you don’t want to. You are on his side.’
‘If you’ll let me talk with you later, darling —’
Jonathan went on in that vein, while Tom thought, perhaps Jonathan wasn’t willing, or had changed his mind.
Jonathan was getting nowhere with Simone. Tom interrupted:
‘Jonathan.’ Tom beckoned to him. ‘You must excuse us a moment, madame.’ Tom spoke with Jonathan in the living-room, in a whisper. ‘We’ve got six hours’ work ahead – or I have. I’ve got to take these two away and dispose of them – and I’d prefer to be back by dawn or before. Are you really willing to help?’
Jonathan felt lost in the sense that he might be lost in the middle of a battle. But the situation seemed already lost in regard to Simone. He could never explain. Going back to Fontainebleau with her would gain him nothing. He had lost Simone, and what else was there to lose? These thoughts flashed in Jonathan’s mind like a single image. ‘I am willing, yes.’
‘Good. – Thanks.’ Tom gave a tense smile. ‘Surely Simone doesn’t want to stay here. She could of course stay in my wife’s room. Maybe I can find a sedative. But for Christ’s sake, she can’t come with us.’
‘No.’ Simone was his responsibility. Jonathan felt powerless either to persuade or command. ‘I have never been able to tell her—’
‘There’s some danger,’ Tom interrupted, then stopped. There was no time to lose in talking, and he went back into the living-room, felt compelled to glance at Lippo whose face was now bluish, or so Tom thought. At any rate, his clumsy body had that abandoned look of the dead – not even dreamlike or sleeplike, but simply an empty look as if consciousness had departed for ever. Simone was coming in from the kitchen, which Tom had been heading for, and he saw that her glass was empty. He went to the bar-cart and brought the bottle. He poured more into the glass in her hand, though Simone indicated that she didn’t want any more. ‘You don’t have to drink it, madame,’ Tom said. ‘Since we must leave, I must tell you there is some danger if you stay in this house. I simply don’t know if more of these won’t turn up.’