Ripley Under Water (27 page)

“But you seem a little tense. You’re making yourself get back home. All right. I hope Heloise rings you.”

Tom was on his feet, smiling. “Who knows?”

“And you know you’re always welcome here for a meal or just to drop in.”

“I prefer to telephone first, as you know.” Tom’s tone was equally pleasant. Today was a weekday, Antoine would not arrive until Friday evening or Saturday noon. And the children were due any minute now from school, Tom realized. “Bye-bye, Agnes. Many thanks for the nice espressos.”

She walked with him to the kitchen door. “You look a little sad. Don’t forget your old friends are here.” She patted his arm before he walked off to his car.

Tom gave a final wave from his car window, and pulled onto the road just before the yellow school bus, coming from an opposite direction, paused to drop off Edouard and Sylvie Grais.

He found himself thinking of Mme Annette, of her holiday which was due in early September. Mme Annette did not like to take her holiday in August, the traditional French holiday month, because there was too much traffic and congestion if she traveled anywhere, she said, and in August the other housekeepers of the village had more than usual free time, as their employers were often away, so she and her cronies had time for visiting. Should he suggest to Mme Annette now, however, that she might begin her holiday, if she wished?

Should he, for safety’s sake? There was a limit to what he wanted Mme Annette to see or hear in the village.

Tom became aware that he was worried. The realization made him feel weaker. He would have to do something about that feeling, and the sooner the better.

Tom decided to ring Jeff or Ed; they each seemed now of equal value to Tom. It was a friend’s presence that he needed, a helping hand or arm if necessary. After all, Pritchard had one in Teddy.

And what was Teddy going to say if Pritchard hit his quarry? Just what had Pritchard told Teddy he was looking for, anyway?

Tom suddenly doubled over with laughter, nearly staggered in the living room, where he had been slowly walking about. That Teddy, the music student—was he?—maybe finding a corpse!

At that moment, Mme Annette walked in. “Ah, M’sieur Tome—I am so glad to see you in good humor!”

Tom was sure that his face was pink with mirth. “I just recalled a good joke … no, no, madame, helas, it does not translate well into French!”

Chapter 18

A few minutes after those words, Tom checked Ed’s number in London and dialed it. He heard Ed’s recorded voice requesting the caller to give name and telephone number, and Tom was about to speak when, to his relief, Ed came on.

“Hello, Tom! Yes, just got in. What’s the latest?”

Tom took a breath. “The latest is the same. David Preekard is still fishing in the neighborhood, dragging his hooks from a rowboat.” Tom spoke with deliberate calm.

“No kidding! And how long is it now? Ten—well, more than a week, certainly.”

Ed had plainly not been counting the days, nor had Tom, but Tom knew it was more like two weeks that Pritchard had been at work. “About ten days,” Tom said. “To be honest, Ed, if he keeps this up—and he shows every sign of doing so—he just might come up with you know what.”

“Yes. It’s incredible—I think you need support.”

Tom could hear that Ed understood. “Yes. Well, I might. Pritchard’s got a helper. I told Jeff that, I believe. A man called Teddy. They work together on this indefatigable rowboat-with-motor, dragging their two rakes—rather, rows of hooks. They’ve been at it so long—”

“I’ll come over, Tom, to do whatever I can. Sounds like the sooner the better.”

Tom hesitated. “I confess I’d feel better.”

“I’ll do my best. Got a job to finish by Friday noon, but I’ll try to finish it by tomorrow afternoon. Have you talked to Jeff?”

“No, I was thinking of it—but maybe not if you’re able to come over. Friday afternoon? Evening?”

“Let me see how this work goes and perhaps I can make it earlier, such as Friday, midday. I’ll ring you again, Tom—with the flight time.”

Tom felt better after that, and at once went in quest of Mme Annette to inform her that they would likely have a weekend guest, a gentleman from London. Mme Annette’s room door was closed. Silence. Was she napping? She didn’t often.

He looked out of a kitchen window and saw her stooped by a patch of wild violets to the right. The violets were pale purple and impervious to draft, cold or predatory insects, or so they seemed to Tom. He went out. “Madame Annette?”

She stood up. “M’sieur Tome—I am admiring the violets from very near. Are they not mignonnes!”

Tom agreed. They peppered the soil near the laurel and box hedge there. Tom imparted his good news: someone to cook for, to prepare the guest room for.

“A good friend! That will cheer you, m’sieur. Has he been to Belle Ombre before?”

They were walking back toward the side or service entrance which led to the kitchen.

“Not sure. I don’t think so. Curious.” It did seem odd, considering he’d known Ed such a long time. Perhaps unconsciously Ed had stayed away from contact with Tom and household, because of the Derwatt forgeries. And the Bernard Tufts fiasco of a visit, of course.

“And what do you think he might take pleasure in eating?” asked Mme Annette, once she was back in her domain, the kitchen.

Tom laughed, trying to think. “He’ll probably want something French. In this weather—” It was warm, but not hot.

“Lobster—cold? Ratatouille? Of course! Cold. Escalopes de veau avec sauce madere?” Her pale blue eyes brightened.

“Ye-es.” The way Mme Annette pronounced all this did summon the appetite. “Good ideas. It seems to be Friday that he arrives.”

“And his wife?”

“Not married. M’sieur Ed will be by himself.”

Then Tom drove to the bureau de poste to buy stamps and also to see if anything had come from Heloise by the second post, which was not delivered to the house. There was an envelope addressed in Heloise’s hand, which made his heart jump. The postmark was Marrakesh, date quite illegible due to faint ink on the stamp. Inside was a postcard on which she had written:

Cher Tom,

All is well, an actif town here. So beautiful! Purple sands at evening view. We are not sick, eat couscous every noon almost. Meknes comes next. We go par avion. Noelle sends love, I much love.

Nice to receive, Tom supposed, but he had known days ago that they were going from Marrakesh to Meknes.

Tom then worked in the garden with inspiration, driving the spade in to sharpen edges that Henri had missed. Henri had a whimsical idea of what his chores should be. He was to some extent practical, even wise about plants; then he would get sidetracked and do a neat job on something of no great importance. But he was not expensive or dishonest, and Tom told himself he couldn’t complain.

After his labors, Tom had a shower and read in the Oscar Wilde biography. As Mme Annette had predicted, he was cheered by the prospect of a visit. He even looked in Tele 7-Jours to see what might be on TV tonight.

He found nothing that excited his interest, but thought he might try one program at ten, unless he had something more interesting to do. Tom did switch it on at 10 p.m., but in five minutes switched it off, and walked with a flashlight to Marie’s and Georges’s bar-tabac for an espresso.

The card-players were at it again, the game-machines clacked and slammed. But Tom picked up nothing about David Pritchard, the curious fisherman. Tom supposed that Pritchard might well be too tired in the evening to come out to the bar-tabac for a late beer, or whatever he drank. Tom, however, still kept an eye out for him when the front door opened. Tom had paid and was about to leave, when a glance toward the door—which had just opened again—told him that Pritchard’s companion Teddy had entered.

Teddy seemed to be alone, and looked freshly washed in his beige shirt and chino trousers, but he also looked a bit sullen, or perhaps simply tired.

“Encore un express, Georges, s’il vous plait,” said Tom.

“Et bien sur, M’sieur Reepley,” answered Georges without even looking at Tom, and turned his round figure toward the steam machine.

The man called Teddy seemed not to have noticed Tom, if indeed Tom had ever been pointed out to Teddy, and took a place standing near the door end of the bar. Marie brought him a beer, and greeted him as if she had seen him before, Tom thought, though he couldn’t hear what she had said.

Tom decided to chance it and glance at Teddy more often than a stranger would, to see if Teddy showed any recognition. Teddy did not.

Teddy frowned and stared down at his beer. An exchange with a man on his left was a brief one, without a smile.

Was Teddy contemplating pulling out of Pritchard’s employ? Was he missing a girlfriend in Paris? Was he fed up with the atmosphere in the Pritchard house, because of David and Janice’s odd relationship? Could Teddy hear Pritchard hitting his wife in the bedroom, because he hadn’t found his quarry that day? More likely Teddy wanted a breath of fresh air. Teddy was the strong type, judging from his hands.

Not the brainy type. A music student? Tom knew that some American colleges had curricula that read like trade-school curricula, anyway. To be a “music student” need not mean that the student knew or cared anything about music; it was the diploma that mattered. Teddy was over six feet, and the sooner he quit the scene, the happier Tom would be.

Tom paid for his second coffee and headed toward the door. Just as he passed the motorcycle game, the rider hit a barrier, his crash simulated by a flashing star that finally stayed fixed. Game over, insert coins insert coins insert coins . Low moans from the onlookers had given way to laughter.

The man called Teddy had not glanced at him. Tom came to the conclusion that Pritchard had not told Teddy what they were looking for, Murchison’s corpse. Maybe Pritchard had said they were looking for jewelry from a sunken yacht? A suitcase with valuables in it? But as Tom saw it, Pritchard had not said that it had anything to do with a neighbor who lived in the same town.

When Tom looked back from the doorway, Teddy was still hunched over his beer, and not in conversation with anybody.

Since it was warm, and Mme Annette seemed inspired by the prospect of lobster on the menu, Tom offered to drive in to Fontainebleau to aid with the shopping and to look in at its best fish shop. With not too much difficulty—Mme Annette always had to be asked twice for such outings—Tom persuaded her to accompany him.

In spite of the list, assembling shopping bags and baskets and some clothes of Tom’s to go to the cleaners, they had left the house by nine-thirty. Another glorious day of sunlight, and Mme Annette had heard on her radio that fine weather was predicted for Saturday and Sunday. Mme Annette asked what M. Edouard did for a living?

“He’s a journalist,” Tom replied. “I never really tested him out on his French. He’s bound to know some.” Tom laughed, imagining what was coming.

When their bags and baskets were full, with the lobsters tied up in a great white plastic bag that the fishmonger assured Tom was double, Tom fed the parking meter again and invited Mme Annette (twice) to come into a nearby tea room for “a treat,” un petit extra. She yielded, smiling with pleasure.

A great globe or scoop of chocolate ice cream with two ladyfingers perched like rabbit’s ears upon it, a generous daub of whipped cream between the ears, was Mme Annette’s choice. She glanced discreetly around her at the matrons chatting away about nothing at nearby tables. Nothing? Well, one could never be sure, Tom supposed, despite the broad smiles as they plunged into their sweets. Tom had an espresso. Mme Annette loved her treat and said so, which pleased Tom.

Suppose nothing happened this weekend, Tom thought as they walked back to the car. How long could Ed stay? Till Tuesday? Would Tom then feel he had to call upon Jeff? The question was, Tom supposed, how long would Pritchard keep at it?

“You will be happier when Madame Heloise returns, M’sieur Tome,” said Mme Annette, as they were driving back toward Villeperce. “What is madame’s news?”

“News! I wish I had some! The post—well, the post seems to be worse than the telephone. I would think in less than a week, Madame Heloise will be back home.”

As Tom turned into the main street of Villeperce, he saw Pritchard’s white pickup cross the street from his right. Tom did not quite have to slow down, but he did. The stern of the boat with motor removed projected over the pickup’s floor. Did they take the boat out of the water during the lunch period? Tom supposed so, or it would not be safe, merely tied to the bank, from either thieves or the bumping of a barge. The dark canvas or tarpaulin was now on the floor by the boat. They were going out again after lunch, Tom supposed.

“M’sieur Preechard,” Mme Annette remarked.

“Yes,” Tom said. “The American.”

“He is trying to find something in the canals,” Mme Annette continued. “Everyone talks about it. But he doesn’t say what he wants to find. He spends so much time and money—”

“There are stories—” Now Tom could smile as he spoke. “You know, madame, stories about sunken treasure, gold coins, jewelry boxes—”

“He brings up skeletons of cats and dogs, you know, M’sieur Tome. He leaves them on the bank—just throws them up there or his friend does! It is annoying for the people living nearby, the people walking …”

Tom didn’t want to hear about it, but he listened nonetheless. Now he turned right, into the still open front gates of Belle Ombre.

“He can’t be happy here. He’s not a happy man,” Tom said with a glance at Mme Annette. “I can’t imagine that he’ll be living in this neighborhood very long.” Tom’s voice was soft, but his pulse ran a bit faster. He detested Pritchard, and there was nothing new about that, it was just that in the presence of Mme Annette, he could not curse Pritchard aloud or even under his breath.

In the kitchen, they put away the extra butter, the beautiful broccoli, lettuce, three kinds of cheeses, an especially good coffee, a good section of beef for roasting, and of course the two living lobsters, which later Mme Annette could handle, as Tom did not wish to. To Mme Annette, they might be worthy of hardly more concern than haricots verts dumped into boiling water, Tom knew, but he imagined that he heard them screaming, wailing at least, as they were boiled to death. Equally depressing was something Tom had read about microwave cooking (of lobsters—baked, presumably), which said that one had fifteen seconds after switching it on to run out of the kitchen before having to hear and possibly watch the beating of claws against the glass windows of the oven, before the lobsters died. There were people, Tom supposed, who could go about peeling potatoes while the lobsters got roasted to death—in how many seconds? Tom tried not to believe that Mme Annette was such a type. At any rate, they did not yet possess a microwave oven. Neither Mme Annette nor Heloise had showed any interest in acquiring one, and if either did, Tom had some counter-ammunition: he had read that microwave-baked potatoes came out more like boiled than baked, a point which Heloise, Mme Annette and Tom would take seriously. And in regard to cooking, Mme Annette was never in a hurry.