Bernard sat forward, forearms on his knees. Was he rallying to the challenge, or about to blurt out all?
“Yes. I’ve heard that.” Tom said to Mme. Annette, “We speak about Derwatt the painter—his presumed suicide.”
“Yes, madame,” Webster said courteously, “excuse us for a moment. Anything important, I shall say in French.” Then to Tom, “So it means Derwatt entered and maybe even left England like the Scarlet Pimpernel or a ghost.” He chuckled. “But you, Mr. Tufts, you knew Derwatt in the old days, I understand. Did you see him in London?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you went to his show, I suppose?” Webster’s smile was in maniacal contrast to Bernard’s gloom.
“No. I may go later,” Bernard said solemnly. “I become—upset about anything to do with Derwatt.”
Webster seemed to look Bernard over with a new eye. “Why?”
“I’m—very fond of him. I know he doesn’t like publicity. I thought—when all the fuss is over, I’ll go to see him before he goes back to Mexico.”
Webster laughed and slapped his thigh. “Well, if you can find him, tell us where he is. We’d like to speak to him on this matter of possible forgery. I’ve spoken to Mr. Banbury and Mr. Constant. They saw ‘The Clock’ and said it was genuine, but of course they might say that, if I may say so,” he added with a smiling glance at Tom, “because they sold it. They also said Derwatt identified it positively as his own. But after all I’ve only—now—Mr. Banbury’s and Mr. Constant’s word for that, since I can’t find Derwatt or Mr. Murchison. It would be interesting if Derwatt had disowned it, or maybe was doubtful about it, and— Oh, well, I’m not writing mystery stories, even in my imagination!” Webster gave a hearty laugh, the corners of his mouth went up merrily, and he rolled a little on the sofa. His laugh was infectious and attractive, despite Webster’s oversized and somewhat stained teeth.
Tom knew that Webster had been going to say: the Buckmaster Gallery people might have seen fit to shut Derwatt up somehow, or spirit him away. Shut Murchison up, too. Tom said, “But Mr. Murchison told me about his conversation with Derwatt. He said Derwatt acknowledged the painting. What worried Mr. Murchison is that he thought Derwatt might’ve forgotten painting it. Or should I say
not
painting it. But Derwatt seems to have remembered it.” Now Tom laughed.
Detective-Inspector Webster looked at Tom and blinked, and kept what Tom felt was a polite silence. It was the same as saying, “And now I have
your
word, which might not be worth much.” Webster finally said, “I’m fairly sure someone for some reason thought it worthwhile to get rid of Thomas Murchison. What else can I think?” He translated this politely to Mme. Annette.
Mme. Annette said, “
Tiens
!” and Tom sensed her
frisson
of horror, though he did not glance at her.
Tom was glad that Webster didn’t know that he knew Jeff and Ed, even slightly. It was funny Webster hadn’t asked directly if he knew them, Tom thought. Or had Jeff and Ed already told him they knew Tom Ripley
slightly
, because he’d bought two pictures from them? “Mme. Annette, perhaps we might have some coffee. Can I offer you some coffee, Inspector, or a drink?”
“I saw some Dubonnet on your cart. I’d love some with a little ice and a lemon peel, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Tom conveyed this to Mme. Annette.
Nobody wanted coffee. Chris, leaning on the back of a chair near the French windows, did not want anything. He seemed rapt by the goings on.
“Exactly why,” Webster said, “did Mr. Murchison think his painting was a forgery?”
Tom sighed thoughtfully. The question had been addressed to him. “He spoke about the spirit of it. Something also about the brushstrokes.” All vague.
“I’m quite sure,” Bernard said, “that Derwatt would not countenance any forgery of his work. It’s out of the question. If he thought ‘The Clock’ was a forgery, he would’ve been the first to say so. He would’ve gone straight to the—I don’t know—the police, I suppose.”
“Or the Buckmaster Gallery people,” said the inspector.
“Yes,” said Bernard firmly. He stood up suddenly. “Would you excuse me a minute?” He went off toward the stairs.
Mme. Annette served Webster’s drink.
Bernard came down with a thick brown notebook, quite worn, in which he was trying to find something as he walked across the room. “If you want to know a little about Derwatt—I copied several things from his journals here. They were left in a suitcase in London when he went to Greece. I borrowed them for a while. His journals are chiefly about painting, the difficulties he had from day to day, but there’s one entry— Yes, here it is. It’s seven years old. This is really Derwatt. May I read it?”
“Yes, please do,” said Webster.
Bernard read, “‘There is no depression for the artist except that caused by a return to the Self.’ He spells Self with a capital, ‘The Self is that shy, vainglorious, egocentric, conscious magnifying glass which should never be looked at or through. A glimpse of it occurs in midstream sometimes, when it is a real horror, and between paintings, and on vacations—which should never be taken.’” Bernard laughed a little. “‘Such a depression consists in, besides wretchedness, vain questions such as what is it all about? And the exclamation, how badly I’ve fallen short! And the even worse discovery which I should have noticed long ago, I can’t even depend on the people who are supposed to love me at a time when I need them. One doesn’t need them when working well. I mustn’t show myself in this moment of weakness. It will be, might be, thrown at me at some later date, like a crutch that should have been burnt—tonight. Let the memory of the black nights live only in me.’ Next paragraph,” said Bernard with reverence. “‘Do people who can really talk to each other without fear of reprisals have the best marriages? Where has kindness, forgiveness gone in the world? I find more in the faces of children who sit for me, gazing at me, watching me with innocent wide eyes that make no judgment. And friends? In the moment of grappling with the enemy Death, the potential suicide calls upon them. One by one, they are not at home, the telephone doesn’t answer, or if it does, they are busy tonight—something quite important that they can’t get away from—and one is too proud to break down and say, “I’ve got to see you tonight or else!” This is the last effort to make contact. How pitiable, how human, how noble—for what is more godlike than communication? The suicide knows that it has magical powers.’” Bernard closed the notebook. “Of course he was rather young when he wrote that. Still not thirty.”
“Very moving,” said the inspector. “When did you say he wrote that?”
“Seven years ago. In November,” Bernard replied. “He tried a suicide in London in October. He wrote this when he recovered. It wasn’t a—bad bout. Sleeping pills.”
Tom listened uneasily. He hadn’t heard of Derwatt’s attempted suicide.
“Perhaps you think it melodramatic,” Bernard said to the inspector. “His journals weren’t meant for anyone to read. The Buckmaster Gallery has the others. Unless Derwatt asked for them.” Bernard had begun to stammer, to look uncomfortable, probably because he was carefully trying to lie.
“He’s the suicide type, then?” asked Webster.
“Oh, no! He has ups and downs. Perfectly normal. I mean, normal for a painter. At the time he wrote this, he was broke. A mural assignment had fallen through, and Derwatt had even finished the mural. The judges turned it down because there were a couple of nudes in it. It was for a post office somewhere.” Bernard laughed as if it were of no importance now.
And oddly, Webster’s face was serious and thoughtful.
“I read this to show you that Derwatt is an honest man,” Bernard continued, undaunted. “No dishonest man could have written this—or anything else that’s in this book on the subject of painting—or simply life.” Bernard thumped the book with the back of his fingers. “I was one of the ones who was too busy to see him when he needed me. I had no idea he was in such a bad state, you see. None of us did. He even needed money, and he was too proud to ask for any. Such a man doesn’t steal, doesn’t commit—I mean permit forgery.”
Tom thought Inspector Webster was going to say, with the solemnity proper to the occasion, “I understand,” but he only sat with splayed knees, still thoughtful, with one hand turned inward on his thigh.
“I think that’s great—what you read,” Chris said in the long silence. When no one said anything, Chris ducked his head, then lifted it again, as if ready to defend his opinion.
“Any more later entries?” Webster asked. “I’m quite interested in what you read, but—”
“One or two,” Bernard said, leafing through the notebook. “But again six years ago. For instance, ‘The eternal falling short is the only thing that takes the terror out of the act of creation.’ Derwatt has always been—respectful of his talent. It’s very hard for me to put into words.”
“I think I understand,” said Webster.
Tom sensed at once Bernard’s severe, almost personal disappointment. He glanced at Mme. Annette, standing discreetly mid-distance from the arched doorway and the sofa.
“Did you speak with Derwatt at all in London, even by telephone?” Webster asked Bernard.
“No,” Bernard said.
“Or with Banbury or Constant either—while Derwatt was there?”
“No. I don’t often see them.”
No one, Tom thought, could suspect Bernard of lying. He looked the essence of probity.
“But you’re on good terms with them?” Webster asked, cocking his head, looking a little apologetic for the question. “I understand you knew them years ago when Derwatt lived in London?”
“Oh, yes. Why not? But I don’t go out much in London.”
“Do you know if Derwatt has any friends,” Webster continued to Bernard in his rather gentle voice, “with a helicopter or a boat or a couple of boats who could’ve whisked him into England and out again—like a Siamese cat or a Pakistani?”
“I don’t know. I certainly don’t know of any.”
“Another question, surely you wrote to Derwatt in Mexico when you learned he was alive, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.” Bernard gulped, and his rather large Adam’s apple seemed in distress. “As I said, I have little contact with—Jeff and Ed at the Buckmaster. And they don’t know Derwatt’s village, I know that, because the paintings are sent from Vera Cruz by boat. I thought Derwatt could’ve written to me, if he wanted to. Since he didn’t, I didn’t try to write to him. I felt—”
“Yes? You felt?”
“I felt Derwatt had been through enough. In his spirit. Maybe in Greece or before Greece. I thought it might have changed him and even soured him on his past friends, and if he didn’t want to communicate with me—that was his way of doing things, seeing things.”
Tom could have wept for Bernard. He was doing his painful best. Bernard was as miserable as someone, who was not an actor, trying to act on a stage and hating every minute of it.
Inspector Webster glanced at Tom, then looked at Bernard. “Strange— You mean Derwatt was in such—”
“I think Derwatt was really fed to the back teeth,” Bernard interrupted, “fed up with people when he went to Mexico. If he wanted seclusion, I didn’t make any effort to break it. I could have gone to Mexico and looked for him forever—until I found him, I suppose.”
Tom almost believed the words he had just heard. He must believe them, he told himself. So he began to believe them. Tom went to the bar to refresh Webster’s glass of Dubonnet.
“I see. And now—when Derwatt leaves again for Mexico, and perhaps he’s already left, you won’t know where to write to him?” asked Webster.
“Certainly not. I’ll only know that he’s painting and—I suppose, happy.”
“And the Buckmaster Gallery? They won’t know where to find him either?”
Bernard shook his head again. “As far as I know, they won’t.”
“Where do they send the money that he earns?”
“I think—to a bank in Mexico City which forwards it to Derwatt.”
For this smooth reply, much thanks, thought Tom, as he bent to pour the Dubonnet. He left room in the glass for ice, and brought the bucket from the cart. “Inspector, will you stay for lunch with us? I’ve told my housekeeper I expected you would stay.”
Mme. Annette had slipped away to the kitchen.
“No, no, thank you very much,” Inspector Webster said with a smile. “I’ve a lunch appointment with the police of Melun. The only time I could speak with them at leisure, I think. That’s very French, isn’t it? I’m due in Melun at a quarter to one, so the next thing I should do is ring for a taxi.”
Tom rang a Melun taxi service for a cab.
“I would like to look around your grounds,” said the inspector. “They look lovely!”
This might have been a change of mood, Tom thought, like someone asking to have a look at the roses by way of escaping a deadly tea conversation, but Tom didn’t think it was that.
Chris would have followed them, so fascinated was he by the British police, but Tom gave him a negative glance, and went out with the inspector alone. Down the stone steps where Tom had nearly fallen yesterday, only yesterday, in pursuit of the rain-soaked Bernard. The sun was half-hearted, the grass almost dry. The inspector shoved his hands into his baggy trousers. Webster might not definitely suspect him of wrongdoing, Tom thought, but he sensed that he was not entirely in the clear.
I have done the State some disservice and they know’t
. It was an odd morning for Shakespeare to be in his head.
“Apple trees. Peach. You must have a wonderful life here. Have you a profession, Mr. Ripley?”
The question was sharp as that of an immigration inspector, but Tom was used to it by now. “I garden, paint, and study what I please. I have no occupation in the sense of having to go to Paris daily or even weekly. I seldom go to Paris.” Tom picked up a stone that was marring his lawn, and aimed it at a tree trunk. The stone hit the tree with a
tock
, and Tom suffered a twinge in his turned ankle.
“And woods. Are these yours?”
“No. As far as I know, they’re communal. Or State. I sometimes get a bit of firewood from them, kindling, from trees that’ve already fallen. Do you want to take a little walk?” Tom indicated the lane.