Now he was arranging for the Rome police to come to him. Being an American citizen still commanded certain privileges, Tom supposed.
“At what hotel are you staying?” the officer asked.
“At the Costanza.”
The officer gave this piece of information to Rome. Then he hung up and informed Tom politely that a representative of the Rome police would be in Venice that evening after eight o’clock to speak to him.
“Thank you,” Tom said, and turned his back on the dismal figure of the officer writing on his form sheet. It had been a very boring little scene.
Tom spent the rest of the day in his room, quietly thinking, reading, and making further small alterations in his appearance. He thought it quite possible that they would send the same man who had spoken to him in Rome, Tenente Rovassini or whatever his name was. He made his eyebrows a trifle darker with a lead pencil. He lay around all afternoon in his brown tweed suit, and even pulled a button off the jacket. Dickie had been rather on the neat side, so Tom Ripley was going to be notably sloppy by contrast. He ate no lunch, not that he wanted any, anyway, but he wanted to continue losing the few pounds he had added for the role of Dickie Greenleaf. He would make himself thinner than he had even been before as Tom Ripley. His weight on his own passport was one hundred and fifty-five. Dickie’s was a hundred and sixty-eight, though they were the same height, six feet one and one-half.
At eight-thirty that evening his telephone rang, and the switchboard operator announced that Tenente Roverini was downstairs.
“Would you have him come up, please?” Tom said.
Tom went to the chair that he intended to sit in, and drew it still farther back from the circle of light cast by the standing lamp. The room was arranged to look as if he had been reading and killing time for the last few hours—the standing lamp and a tiny reading lamp were on, the counterpane was not smooth, a couple of books lay open face down, and he had even begun a letter on the writing table, a letter to Aunt Dottie.
The tenente knocked.
Tom opened the door in a languid way. “Buona sera.”
“Buona sera. Tenente Roverini della Polizia Romana.” The tenente’s homely, smiling face did not look the least surprised or suspicious. Behind him came another tall, silent young police officer—not another, Tom realized suddenly, but the one who had been with the tenente when Tom had first met Roverini in the apartment in Rome. The officer sat down in the chair Tom offered him, under the light. “You are a friend of Signor Richard Greenleaf?” he asked.
“Yes.” Tom sat down in the other chair, an armchair that he could slouch in.
“When did you last see him and where?”
“I saw him briefly in Rome, just before he went to Sicily.”
“And did you hear from him when he was in Sicily?” The tenente was writing it all down in the notebook that he had taken from his brown briefcase.
“No, I didn’t hear from him.”
“Ah-hah,” the tenente said. He was spending more time looking at his papers than at Tom. Finally, he looked up with a friendly, interested expression. “You did not know when you were in Rome that the police wanted to see you?”
“No. I did not know that. I cannot understand why I am said to be missing.” He adjusted his glasses, and peered at the man.
“I shall explain later. Signor Greenleaf did not tell you in Rome that the police wanted to speak to you?”
“No.”
“Strange,” he remarked quietly, making another notation. “Signor Greenleaf knew that we wanted to speak to you. Signor Greenleaf is not very cooperative.” He smiled at Tom.
Tom kept his face serious and attentive.
“Signor Reepley, where have you been since the end of November?”
“I have been traveling. I have been mostly in the north of Italy.” Tom made his Italian clumsy, with a mistake here and there, and with quite a different rhythm from Dickie’s Italian.
“Where?” The tenente gripped his pen again.
“Milano, Torino, Faenza—Pisa—”
“We have inquired at the hotels in Milano and Faenza, for example. Did you stay all the time with friends?”
“No, I—slept quite often in my car.” It was obvious that he hadn’t a great deal of money, Tom thought, and also that he was the kind of young man who would prefer to rough it with a guidebook and a volume of Silone or Dante, than to stay in a fancy hotel. “I am sorry that I did not renew my permiso di soggiorno,” Tom said contritely. “I did not know that it was such a serious matter.” But he knew that tourists in Italy almost never took the trouble to renew their soggorino, and stayed for months after stating on entering the country that they intended to be there for only a few weeks.
“Permesso di soggiorno,” the tenente said in a tone of gentle, almost paternal correction.
“Grazie.”
“May I see your passport?”
Tom produced it from his inside jacket pocket. The tenente studied the picture closely, while Tom assumed the faintly anxious expression, the faintly parted lips, of the passport photograph. The glasses were missing from the photograph, but his hair was parted in the same manner, and his tie was tied in the same loose, triangular knot. The tenente glanced at the few stamped entries that only partially filled the first two pages of the passport.
“You have been in Italy since October second, except for the short trip to France with Signor Greenleaf?”
“Yes.”
The tenente smiled, a pleasant Italian smile now, and leaned forward on his knees. “Ebbene, this settles one important matter—the mystery of San Remo boat.”
Tom frowned. “What is that?”
“A boat was found sunken there with some stains that were believed to be bloodstains. Naturally, when you were missing so far as we knew, immediately after San Remo—” He threw his hands out and laughed. “We thought it might be advisable to ask Signor Greenleaf what had happened to you. Which we did. The boat was missed the same day that you two were in San Remo!” He laughed again.
Tom pretended not to see the joke. “But did not Signor Greenleaf tell you that I went to Mongibello after San Remo? I did some—” he groped for a word “—little labors for him.”
“Benone!” Tenente Roverini said, smiling. He loosened his brass-buttoned overcoat comfortably, and rubbed a finger back and forth across the crisp, bushy mustache. “Did you also know Fred-derick Mee-lays?” he asked.
Tom gave an involuntary sigh, because the boat incident was apparently closed. “No. I only met him once when he was getting off the bus in Mongibello. I never saw him again.”
“Ah-hah,” said the tenente, taking this in. He was silent a minute, as if he had run out of questions, then he smiled. “Ah Mongibello! A beautiful village, is it not? My wife comes from Mongibello.”
“Ah, indeed!” Tom said pleasantly.
“Si. My wife and I went there on our honeymoon.”
“A most beautiful village,” Tom said. “Grazie.” He accepted the Nazionale that the tenente offered him. Tom felt that this was perhaps a polite Italian interlude, a rest between rounds. They were surely going to get into Dickie’s private life, the forged checks and all the rest. Tom said seriously in his plodding Italian, “I have read in a newspaper that the police think that Signor Greenleaf may be guilty of the murder of Freddie Miles, if he does not present himself. Is it true that they think he is guilty?”
“Ah, no, no, no!” the tenente protested. “But it is imperative that he present himself! Why is he hiding from us?”
“I don’t know. As you say—he is not very cooperative,” Tom commented solemnly. “He was not enough cooperative to tell me in Rome that the police wanted to speak with me. But at the same time—I cannot believe it is possible that he killed Freddie Miles.”
“But—you see, a man has said in Rome that he saw two men standing beside the car of Signor Mee-lays across the street from the house of Signor Greenleaf, and that they were both drunk or—” he paused for
effect, looking at Tom “—perhaps one man was dead, because the other was holding him up beside the car! Of course, we cannot say that the man who was being supported was Signor Mee-lays or Signor Greenleaf,” he added, “but if we could find Signor Greenleaf, we could at least ask him if he was so drunk that Signor Mee-lays had to hold him up!” He laughed.
“Yes.”
“It is a very serious matter.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“You have absolutely no idea where Signor Greenleaf might be at this moment?”
“No. Absolutely no.”
The tenente mused. “Signor Greenleaf and Signor Mee-lays had no quarrel that you know of?”
“No, but—”
“But?”
Tom continued slowly, doing it just right. “I know that Dickie did not go to a ski party that Freddie Miles had invited him to. I remember that I was surprised that he had not gone. He did not tell me why.”
“I know about the ski party. In Cortina d’ Ampezzo. Are you sure there was no woman involved?”
Tom’s sense of humor tugged at him, but he pretended to think this one over carefully. “I do not think so.”
“What about the girl, Marjorie Sherwood?”
“I suppose it it possible,” Tom said, “but I do not think so. I am perhaps not the person to answer questions about Signor Greenleaf’s personal life.”
“Signor Greenleaf never talked to you about his affairs of the heart?” the tenente asked with a Latin astonishment.
He could lead them on indefinitely, Tom thought. Marge would back it up, just by the emotional way she would react to questions about Dickie, and the Italian police could never get to the bottom of Signor Greenleaf’s emotional involvements. He hadn’t been able to himself! “No,” Tom said. “I cannot say that Dickie ever talked to me about his most personal life. I know he is very fond of Marjorie.” He added, “She also knew Freddie Miles.”
“How well did she know him?”
“Well—” Tom acted as if he might say more if he chose.
The tenente leaned forward. “Since you lived for a time with Signor Greenleaf in Mongibello, you are perhaps in a position to tell us about Signor Greenleaf’s attachments in general. They are most important.”
“Why don’t you speak to Signorina Sherwood?” Tom suggested.
“We have spoken to her in Rome—before Signor Greenleaf disappeared. I have arranged to speak to her again when she comes to Genoa to embark for America. She is now in Munich.”
Tom waited, silent. The tenente was waiting for him to contribute something more. Tom felt quite comfortable now. It was going just as he had hoped in his most optimistic moments: the police held nothing against him at all, and they suspected him of nothing. Tom felt suddenly innocent and strong, as free of guilt as his old suitcase from which he had carefully scrubbed the Deponimento sticker from the Palermo baggage room. He said in his earnest, careful, Ripley-like way, “I remember that Marjorie said for a while in Mongibello that she would not go to Cortina, and later she changed her mind. But I do not know why. If that could mean anything—”
“But she never went to Cortina.”
“No, but only because Signor Greenleaf did not go, I think. At least, Signorina Sherwood likes him so much that she would not go alone on a holiday after she expected to go on the holiday with him.”
“Do you think they had a quarrel, Signors Mee-lays and Greenleaf, about Signorina Sherwood?”
“I cannot say. It is possible. I know that Signor Miles was very fond of her, too.”
“Ah-hah.” The tenente frowned, trying to figure all that out. He glanced up at the younger policeman, who was evidently listening, though, from his immobile face, he had nothing to contribute.
What he had said gave a picture of Dickie as a sulking lover, Tom thought, unwilling to let Marge go to Cortina to have some fun, because she liked Freddie Miles too much. The idea of anybody, Marge especially, liking that walleyed ox in preference to Dickie made Tom smile. He turned the smile into an expression of noncomprehension. “Do you actually think Dickie is running away from something, or do you think it is an accident that you cannot find him?”
“Oh, no. This is too much. First, the matter of the checks. You perhaps know about that from the newspapers.”
“I do not completely understand about the checks.”
The officer explained. He knew the dates of the checks and the number of people who believed they were forged. He explained that Signor Greenleaf had denied the forgeries. “But when the bank wishes to see him again about a forgery against himself, and also the police in Rome wish to see him again about the murder of his friend, and he suddenly vanishes—” The tenente threw out his hands. “That can only mean that he is running away from us.”
“You don’t think someone may have murdered him?” Tom said softly.
The officer shrugged, holding his shoulders up under his ears for at least a quarter of a minute. “I do not think so. The facts are not like that. Not quite. Ebbene—we have checked by radio every boat of any size with passengers which has left from Italy. He has either taken a small boat, and it must have been as small as a fishing boat, or else he is hiding in Italy. Or of course, anywhere else in Europe, because we do not ordinarily take the names of people leaving our country, and Signor Greenleaf had several days in which to leave. In any case, he is hiding. In any case, he acts guilty. Something is the matter.”
Tom stared gravely at the man.
“Did you ever see Signor Greenleaf sign any of those remittances? In particular, the remittances of January and February?”
“I saw him sign one of them,” Tom said. “But I am afraid it was in December. I was not with him in January and February.— Do you seriously suspect that he might have killed Signor Miles?” Tom asked again, incredulously.
“He has no actual alibi,” the officer replied. “He says he was taking a walk after Signor Mee-lays departed, but nobody saw him taking the walk.” He pointed a finger at Tom suddenly. “And—we have learned from the friend of Signor Mee-lays, Signor Van Houston, that Signor Mee-lays had a difficult time finding Signor Greenleaf in Rome—as if Signor Greenleaf were trying to hide from him. Signor Greenleaf might have been angry with Signor Mee-lays, though, according to Signor Van Houston, Signor Mee-lays was not at all angry with Signor Greenleaf!”
“I see,” Tom said.
“Ecco,” the tenente said conclusively. He was staring at Tom’s hands.
Or at least Tom imagined that he was staring at his hands. Tom had his own ring on again, but did the tenente possibly notice some resemblance? Tom boldly thrust his hand forward to the ashtray and put out his cigarette.
“Ebbene,” the tenente said, standing up. “Thank you so much for your help, Signor Reepley. You are one of the very few people from whom we can find out about Signor Greenleaf’s personal life. In Mongibello, the people he knew are extremely quiet. An Italian trait, alas! You know, afraid of the police.” He chuckled. “I hope we can reach you more easily the next time we have questions to ask you. Stay in the cities a little more and in the country a little less. Unless, of course, you are addicted to our countryside.”
“I am!” Tom said heartily. “In my opinion, Italy is the most beautiful country of Europe. But if you like, I shall keep in touch with you in Rome so you will always know where I am. I am as much interested as you in finding my friend.” He said it as if his innocent mind had already forgotten the possibility that Dickie could be a murderer.
The tenente handed him a card with his name and the address of his headquarters in Rome. He bowed. “Grazie tante, Signor Reepley. Buona sera!”
“Buona sera,” Tom said.
The younger policeman saluted him as he went out, and Tom gave him a nod and closed the door.
He could have flown—like a bird, out of the window, with spread arms! The idiots! All around the thing and never guessing it! Never guessing that Dickie was running from the forgery questions because he wasn
’t Dickie Greenleaf in the first place! The one thing they were bright about was that Dickie Greenleaf might have killed Freddie Miles. But Dickie Greenleaf was dead, dead, deader than a doornail and he, Tom Ripley, was safe! He picked up the telephone.
“Would you give me the Grand Hotel, please,” he said in Tom Ripley’s Italian. “Il ristorante, per piacere.— Would you reserve a table for one for nine-thirty? Thank you. The name is Ripley. R-i-p-l-e-y.”
Tonight he was going to have a dinner. And look out at the moonlight on the Grand Canal. And watch the gondolas drifting as lazily as they ever drifted for any honeymooner, with the gondoliers and their oars silhouetted against the moonlit water. He was suddenly ravenous. He was going to have something luscious and expensive to eat—whatever the Grand Hotel’s speciality was, breast of pheasant or petto di pollo, and perhaps cannelloni to begin with, creamy sauce over delicate pasta, and a good valpolicella to sip while he dreamed about his future and planned where he went from here.
He had a bright idea while he was changing his clothes: he ought to have an envelope in his possession, on which should be written that it was not to be opened for several months to come. Inside it should be a will signed by Dickie, bequeathing him his money and his income. Now that was an idea.
23
Venice
28 Feb., 19——
Dear Mr. Greenleaf:
I thought under the circumstances you would not take it amiss if I wrote you whatever personal information I have in regard to Richard—I being one of the last people, it seems, who saw him.
I saw him in Rome around 2 February at the Inghilterra Hotel. As you know, this was only two or three days after the death of Freddie Miles. I found Dickie upset and nervous. He said he was going to Palermo as soon as the police finished their questioning him in regard to Freddie’s death, and he seemed eager to get away, which was understandable, but I wanted to tell you that there was a certain depression underlying all this that troubled me much more than his obvious nervousness. I had the feeling he would try to do something violent—perhaps to himself. I knew also that he didn’t want to see his friend Marjorie Sherwood again, and he said he would try to avoid her if she came up from Mongibello to see him because of the Miles affair. I tried to persuade him to see her. I don’t know if he did. Marge has a soothing effect on people, as perhaps you know.