Ripley Under Water (32 page)

“What a break!” Tom said, smiling. He was reminded of his euphoria with the unresponsive Bernard Tufts, after they had dumped—yes—the same bones, Murchison’s bones, into the Loing at Voisy. He had felt like singing. Now he felt simply relieved and merry, but realized that Ed Banbury didn’t, couldn’t. So Tom drove carefully and said no more.

“A break?”

“Oh—” Tom was now driving in a darkness that seemed dense; he was not sure where the next crossroad or signpost would turn up. But he thought his course could take him again south of Villeperce proper, and past the main street at right angles. Marie and Georges’s bar-tabac would be closed, probably, but Tom didn’t want to be seen even crossing the main street. “A break—that nobody drove by during those minutes back there! Not that I’d have cared much. What’ve I got to do with the Pritchards or the bones in their pond—which I assume will be found tomorrow?” Tom vaguely imagined two corpses floating an inch or so beneath the pond’s surface. He gave a laugh and glanced at Ed.

Ed, smoking a cigarette, returned Tom’s glance, then plunged his head down, held his forehead with one hand. “Tom, I can’t—”

“Do you feel sick?” asked Tom with concern, and let the car slow down. “We can stop—”

“No, but we’re leaving the scene and they’re drowning back there.”

They have drowned, Tom thought. He thought of David Pritchard calling to his wife, “Your hand!” as if to pull her deliberately in, as if in a final act of sadism, but Pritchard had had no footing then, and had wanted to live. Tom realized, with a sense of frustration, that Ed didn’t understand it in the same way that he did. “They’re a pair of meddlers, Ed.” Tom again concentrated on the road, on the patch of now sandy-colored surface that kept advancing under the car. “Please don’t forget tonight had to do with Murchison. That is—”

Ed put out his cigarette in the ashtray. He still rubbed his forehead.

I didn’t enjoy watching that either, Tom wanted to say, but could he say it and be believed, when he had just been laughing? Tom took a breath. “Those two would have loved to get at the forgeries—get at the Buckmaster Gallery, get at all of us via Mrs. Murchison—probably,” Tom went on. “Pritchard was after me, but the forgery would have opened up. They asked for what they got, Ed. They were absolute outsider meddlers.” Tom spoke with force.

They were nearly home; the bucolic few lights of Villeperce twinkled on their left. They were on the road that would take them to Belle Ombre. And now Tom saw the great tree opposite Belle Ombre’s gates that leaned toward his home, protectively, Tom always felt. The big gates were still open. The faintest light from the living room showed in a window left of the front door. Tom drove into the empty space on one side of his garage.

“I’ll use the flashlight,” Tom said, and took it. With a rough cloth he found in a corner of the garage, Tom flicked out some grains of sand from the back of the station wagon, gray crumbs of soil. Soil? It occurred to Tom that the crumbs might be, must be, the remnants of Murchison, indescribable (by him) remains of human flesh. There were very few, and Tom pushed them off the cement floor of his garage with his foot. Tiny they were, vanishing into the gravel, invisible, at least to the eye.

Tom held the flashlight as they walked to the front door. Ed had had a busy day, Tom realized, with a genuine taste of his own life—Tom’s—and what he had to do, what had to be done now and then, to protect the lot of them. But Tom was by no means in the mood for making a speech to Ed, even a short statement. Had he not just done that in the car?

“After you, Ed,” said Tom at the door, letting Ed precede him.

Tom put on another light in the living room. Mme Annette had hours before drawn the curtains. Ed had gone into the downstairs bathroom, and Tom hoped he was not going to be sick. Tom washed at the kitchen sink. What to offer Ed? Tea? A stiff scotch? Didn’t Ed prefer gin? Or a hot chocolate and bed? Ed rejoined Tom in the living room.

Ed was trying to look as usual, and even pleasant, though his face held an element of puzzlement or worry, Tom thought.

“Something, Ed?” asked Tom. “I’m going to have a pink gin, no ice. Say what you’d like. Tea?”

“The same. Same as you,” said Ed.

“Sit down.” Tom went to the bar cart and shook the Angostura bottle. He brought the identical drinks over.

After they lifted their glasses together, and sipped, Tom said, “Thank you very much, Ed, for being with me tonight. It was a great help, your presence.”

Ed tried to smile, and could not. “And if I may ask—what’s going to happen now? What comes next?”

Tom hesitated. “For us? Why should anything come?”

Ed sipped again, and swallowed with what seemed difficulty. “At that house—”

“The Pritchard house!” Tom said in a low voice, with a smile. He was still on his feet. The question amused him. “Well—I can see it tomorrow, for instance. The postman—probably—arrives around nine, let’s say. He just might notice the garden hook, the wooden end of it, sticking out of the water and go closer to look. Or maybe not. He would see the house door open, unless the wind blew it shut, might notice the lights on—the light on the porch roof.” Or the postman might walk up from the driveway direction toward the main steps to the porch. And the hook utensil, being less than two meters long, might not project at all from the pond’s surface, since the bottom was muddy. It could be more than a day before the Pritchards were discovered, Tom thought.

“And then?”

“Very likely in less than two days they’ll be discovered. And so what? Murchison can’t be traced, identified, I’ll bet anything! Not even by his wife.” Tom thought quickly of

Murchison’s class ring. Well, he’d hide the ring somewhere in the house tonight, in case the most unlikely happened, police visiting tomorrow. The Pritchards’ lights would remain on, Tom realized, but their lifestyle was so odd, he doubted if any neighbor was going to knock on their door because of lights burning all night. “Ed, this is the simplest thing I’ve ever done—I think,” Tom said. “Do you realize that we didn’t lift a finger?”

Ed looked at Tom. He was sitting on one of the yellow straight chairs, leaning forward with forearms on his knees. “Yes. All right, you could say that.”

“Very definitely,” Tom said firmly, and took another comforting sip of his pink gin. “We know nothing about the pond. We were nowhere near the Pritchard house,” Tom said, speaking softly and going closer to Ed. “Who knows that—bundle was ever here? Who’s going to question us? Nobody. You and I took a drive to Fontainebleau, decided—maybe after all not to look in at a bar, and we drove back home. We were gone—less than forty-five minutes. And that’s about right.”

Ed nodded, glanced up at Tom again and said, “True, Tom.”

Tom lit a cigarette, and sat down on another of the straight chairs. “I know it’s unnerving. I’ve had to do much worse. Much, much—much worse,” said Tom, and gave a laugh. “Now what time would you like coffee brought to your room tomorrow morning? Or tea? You should sleep as late as you wish, Ed.”

“Tea, I think. That’s elegant—tea before—something else downstairs.” Ed tried to smile. “Say—nine o’clock, quarter to nine?”

“Right. Madame Annette adores pleasing guests, you know? I’ll leave a note for her. But I’ll probably be up before nine. Madame Annette’s up just after seven, as a rule,” Tom said in cheerful tone. “Then she’s apt to walk to the bakery for fresh croissants.”

The bakery, Tom thought, that information center. What news would Mme Annette come back with at 8 a.m.?

Chapter 22

Tom awoke just after eight. Birds sang beyond his partly open window, and it looked like another sunny day. Tom went—compulsively, like a neurotic, he felt—to his sock drawer, the bottom drawer of his captain’s chest, and felt in a certain black woolen sock for the lump that was Murchison’s class ring. It was there. Tom slid the brass-cornered drawer shut again. He had hidden the ring there last night; otherwise he would not have been able to sleep, knowing that the ring was simply in a trouser pocket. Hang the trousers absently over a chair, for instance, and there was the ring on the carpet for all to see.

In the same Levis as last night, a fresh shirt, and after his shower and shave, Tom went quietly downstairs. Ed’s door was closed, and Tom hoped Ed was still asleep.

“Bonjour, madame!” Tom said with more than usual cheer, he realized.

Mme Annette reciprocated with a smile, and commented on the fine weather, yet another day of it. “And now your cafe, m’sieur.” She went off to the kitchen.

Horrible news, if any, would have already been announced by Mme Annette, Tom thought. Though she may not have been to the bakery as yet, a friend could have telephoned. Patience, Tom told himself. The news would be all the more surprising when it came, and he had to look surprised, no doubt about that.

After his first coffee, Tom went out and cut two fresh dahlias and three interesting roses, and got vases for them in the kitchen, with some help from Mme Annette.

Then he took a broom and went out to the garage. He began by giving the garage floor a hasty sweep, and found it so free of leaves and dust that his sweepings could go onto the gravel outside and disappear. Tom opened the back of the station wagon and swept out the grayish particles, so few he did not count them, and sent them Finally into the gravel as well.

Perhaps Moret this morning would be a good idea, Tom thought. A little outing for Ed, and he could dispose of the ring in the river there. And perhaps, Tom indeed hoped, Heloise would have rung by then, telling the arrival time of her train. They might combine all this, the Moret detour, Fontainebleau, and the drive home in the station wagon, surely big enough to hold what Heloise would have acquired in the way of extra suitcases.

The post that came just after nine-thirty brought a card from Heloise dated ten days back from Marrakesh. Typical. How welcome it would have been in the desert of last week with no word! The photograph on it was of a market scene with women in striped shawls.

Dear Tom,

Again camels but more fun! We have met two men from Lille! Amusants and nice for dinner. They take both vacations from wifes. 

Bises from Noelle. 

XXX Je t’embrasse!

Vacation from wifes, but not from women, it seemed. Nice for dinner sounded as if Heloise and Noelle might have eaten them.

“Morning, Tom.” Ed came down the stairs smiling, rosy-cheeked as he sometimes was for no reason, Tom had noticed, and Tom had to believe that it was an English peculiarity.

“Morning, Ed,” Tom replied. “Another fine day! We’re in luck.” Tom gestured toward the table in the dining alcove, which was set for two at one corner, with enough space for comfort. “Does the sun bother you? I can close the curtain.”

“I like it,” said Ed.

Mme Annette arrived with orange juice, warm croissants and fresh coffee.

“Might you like a boiled egg, Ed?” Tom asked. “Or coddled? Poached? I like to think we can do anything in this house.”

Ed smiled. “No egg, thanks. I know why you’re in a good mood—Heloise is in Paris and she’s probably coming home today.”

Tom’s smile broadened. “I hope. I trust. Unless something very tempting is on in Paris. Can’t think what. Not even a good cabaret show—which she likes, and Noelle too. I think Heloise will telephone—any minute. Oh! Had a postcard this morning from Heloise. Took ten days to get here from Marrakesh. Can you imagine?” Tom laughed. “Try the marmalade. Madame Annette makes it.”

“Thank you. The postman—would he come here before he got to that house?” Ed’s voice was just audible.

“I don’t know, really. I’d think he’d come here first. From the center outward. Not sure.” Tom saw the worry in Ed’s face. “I thought this morning—once we hear from Heloise—we might take a drive toward Moret-sur-Loing. Lovely town.” Tom paused, and was about to mention that he’d like to drop the ring in the river there when he thought better of it: the fewer angst-making items Ed had on his mind, the better.

Tom and Ed took a stroll on the grass beyond the French windows. Blackbirds pecked, barely showing wariness of them, and a robin looked them in the eye. One black crow flew over with its ugly cry that made Tom wince, as if at cacophonous music.

“Caw—caw—caw!” Tom mimicked. “Sometimes only two caws, even worse. I wait for the third as if it were the second shoe that ought to drop. This reminds me—”

The telephone rang; they heard it faintly from the house.

“Probably Heloise. Excuse me,” Tom said, and trotted off. In the house, he said, “That’s all right, Madame Annette, I’ll get it.”

“Hello, Tom. Jeff here. I thought I’d ring and ask how things are.”

“Nice of you, Jeff! Things are—oh—” Tom saw Ed coming quietly through the French windows into the living room ”—rather quiet, so far.” He winked elaborately at Ed, and kept a sober face. “Nothing exciting to report. Would you like a word with Ed?”

“Yes, if he’s handy. But before you sign off—don’t forget I’m willing to pop over any time. I trust you’ll let me know—and don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you, Jeff. I appreciate that. Now here’s Ed.” Tom put the telephone on the hall table. “We’ve been in the whole time—nothing’s happened,” Tom whispered to Ed as they passed each other. “Better that way,” he added as Ed picked up the telephone.

Tom drifted toward the yellow sofa, went past it and stood by the tall windows, practically out of hearing. He heard Ed say that all was quiet on the Ripley front, and that the house and the weather were beautiful.

Tom spoke to Mme Annette about lunch. It looked as if Mme Heloise would not be here for lunch, so it would be M. Banbury and himself. He told Mme Annette that he was now going to ring Mme Heloise at Mme Hassler’s apartment in Paris to ask what Mme Heloise’s plans were.

At that moment, the telephone rang.

“That must be Madame Heloise!” said Tom to Mme Annette, and went off to answer it. “Hello?”

” ‘Ello, Tome!” It was Agnes Grais’ familiar voice. “Have you heard the news’?”

“No. What news?” asked Tom, and he noticed that Ed was paying attention.

“Les Preechards. They were found dead this morning in their pond!”