Authors: Patricia Highsmith
‘
Non
!’ She put her cigarette out, and started clearing the table. ‘I am sorry to say also that I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with you.’
‘Oh, yes, I assumed that.’ And you’ll go to church tomorrow and say a prayer for my soul, Jonathan thought.
‘Simone, you must let a little time go by. Don’t say things now that you don’t mean.’
‘I will not change. Ask M. Ripley. I think he knows.’
Georges came back. Television was forgotten, and he looked at them both with puzzlement.
Jonathan touched Georges’ head with his fingertips as he went into the hall. Jonathan had thought to go up to the bedroom – but it wasn’t their bedroom any more, and anyway what would he do up there? The television droned on. Jonathan turned in a circle in the hall, then took his raincoat and a muffler, and went out. He walked to the Rue de France and turned left and at the end of the street went into the bar-café on the corner. He wanted to telephone Tom Ripley. He remembered Tom’s number.
‘Hello?’ Tom said.
Jonathan.’
‘How are you? … I telephoned the hospital, I heard you stayed the night. You’re out now?’
‘Oh, yes, this morning. I —’Jonathan gasped.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Could I see you for a few minutes? If you think it’s safe. I’m – 1 suppose I could get a taxi. Surely.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The corner bar – the new one near the Aigle Noir.’
‘I could pick you up. No?’ Tom suspected Jonathan had had a bad scene with Simone.
‘I’ll walk towards the Monument. I want to Walk a little. I’ll see you there.’
Jonathan felt at once better. It was spurious, no doubt, it was postponing the situation with Simone, but for the moment that didn’t matter. He felt like a tortured man momentarily relieved of the torture, and he was grateful for a few moments of the relief. Jonathan lit a cigarette and walked slowly, because it would take Tom nearly fifteen minutes. Jonathan went into the Bar des Sports, just beyond the Hôtel de 1’Aigle Noir, and ordered a beer. He tried not to think at all. Then one thought rose to the surface on its
own: Simone
would
come round. As soon as he thought consciously about this, he feared that she wouldn’t. He was alone now. Jonathan knew he was alone, that even Georges was more than half cut off from him now, because surely Simone was going to keep Georges, but Jonathan was aware that he didn’t yet realize it fully. That would take days. Feelings were slower than thoughts. Sometimes.
Tom’s dark Renault in a thin stream of other cars came out of the darkness of the woods into the light around the Obelisque, the Monument. It was a little past 8 p.m. Jonathan was on the corner, on the left side of the road, and Tom’s right. Tom would have to make the complete circle to regain his road homeward – if they went to Tom’s. Jonathan preferred Tom’s house to a bar. Tom stopped and unlatched the door.
‘Evening!’ Tom said.
‘Evening,’ Jonathan replied, pulling the door shut, and at once Tom moved off. ‘Can we go to your place? I don’t feel like a crowded bar.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve had a bad evening. And day, I’m afraid.’
‘So I thought. Simone?’
‘It seems she’s finished. Who can blame her?’ Jonathan felt awkward, started to take a cigarette, and found even that purposeless, so he didn’t.
‘I tried my best,’ Tom said. He was concentrating on driving as fast as possible without bringing down a motor-cycle cop, some of whom lurked in the woods at the edge of the road here.
‘Oh, it’s the money – it’s the corpses, good Christ! As for the money, I said I was holding the stake for the Germans, you know.’ It was suddenly ludicrous to Jonathan, the money, the bet also. The money was so concrete in a way, so tangible, so useful, and yet not nearly so tangible or meaningful as the two dead men that Simone had seen. Tom was driving quite fast. Jonathan felt unconcerned whether they hit a tree or bounced off the road. ‘To put it
simply.’ Jonathan went on, ‘it’s the dead men. The fact that I helped – or did it. I don’t think she’s going to change.’ What profiteth it a man – Jonathan could have laughed. He hadn’t gained the whole world, nor had he lost his soul. Anyway, Jonathan didn’t believe in a soul. Self-respect was more like it. He hadn’t lost his self-respect, only Simone. Simone was morale, however, and wasn’t morale self-respect?
Tom did not think Simone was going to change towards Jonathan either, but he said nothing. Maybe he could talk at home, and yet what else could he say? Words of comfort, words of hope, of reconciliation, when he didn’t really believe there’d be one? And yet who knew about women? Sometimes they appeared to have stronger moral attitudes than men, and at other times – especially as to political skulduggery and the political swine they could sometimes marry – it seemed to Tom that women were more flexible, more capable of double-think than men. Unfortunately, Simone presented a picture of inflexible rectitude. Hadn’t Jonathan said she was a church-goer too? But Tom’s thoughts were equally on Reeves Minot now. Reeves was nervous, for no very strong reason that Tom could see. Suddenly Tom was at the turn-off at Villeperce, guiding the car slowly through the familiar, quiet streets.
And there was Belle Ombre behind the tall poplars, a light glowing above the doorway – all intact.
Tom had just made coffee, and Jonathan said he would join him in a cup. Tom heated the coffee a bit, and brought it with the brandy bottle to the coffee-table.
‘Speaking of problems,’ Tom said, ‘Reeves wants to come to France. I phoned him today from Sens. He’s in Ascona staying at a hotel called The Three Bears.’
‘I remember,’ Jonathan said.
‘He imagines he’s being spied on – by people in the street. I tried to tell him – our enemies don’t waste time with that sort of thing. He should know. I tried to discourage him from coming even to Paris. Certainly not to my place, here.
I wouldn’t call Belle Ombre the safest spot in the world, would you? Naturally, I couldn’t even hint at Saturday night, which might’ve reassured Reeves. I mean, we at least got rid of the two people who saw us on the train. I’m not sure how long the peace and quiet will last.’ Tom hitched forward, elbows on his knees, and glanced at the silent windows. ‘Reeves doesn’t know anything about Saturday night, or didn’t say anything, anyway. Might not even connect it, if he reads the papers. I suppose you saw the papers today?’
‘Yes,’ Jonathan said.
‘No clues. Nothing on the radio tonight either, but the TV boys gave it a spot. No clues.’ Tom smiled, and reached for one of his small cigars. He extended the box to Jonathan, but Jonathan shook his head. ‘What’s equally good news, not a question from the townsfolk here. I bought bread and went to the butcher’s today – on foot, taking my time – just to see. And around seven-thirty p.m. Howard Glegg arrived, one of my neighbours, bringing me a big plastic sack of horse manure from one of his farmer friends where he buys a rabbit now and then.’ Tom puffed on his cigar and relaxed with a laugh. ‘It was Howard who stopped his car outside Saturday night, remember? He thought we had guests, Heloise and I, and that it mightn’t be die time to deliver horse manure.’ Tom rambled on, trying to fill in the time, while Jonathan, he hoped, lost a little of his tension. ‘I told him Heloise was away for a few days, and I said I’d been entertaining some friends from Paris, hence the Paris car outside. I think that went down very well.’
The clock on the mantel struck nine, with pure little pings.
‘However, back to Reeves,’ Tom said. ‘I thought of writing him, saying I had some grounds for thinking the situation had improved, but two things stopped me. Reeves might leave Ascona at any hour now, and second, things haven’t improved for him, if the wogs still want to get him. He’s using the name Ralph Piatt now, but they know his
real name and what he looks like. There’s nothing for Reeves but Brazil, if the Mafia still wants to get him. And even Brazil —’ Tom smiled, but not happily now.
‘But isn’t he rather used to it?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Like this? No. – Very few people, I suppose, get used to the Mafia and live to talk about it. They may live, but not very comfortably.’
But Reeves had brought it on himself, Jonathan was thinking. And Reeves had drawn him into it. No, he’d walked into it of his own free will, let himself be persuaded – for money. And it was Tom Ripley who had – at least tried to help him collect that money, even if it had been Tom’s idea from the start, this deadly game. Jonathan’s mind spun back to those minutes on the train between Munich and Strassburg.
‘I
am
sorry about Simone,’ Tom said. Jonathan’s long, cramped figure, hunched over his coffee cup, seemed to illustrate failure, like a statue. ‘What does she want to do?’
‘Oh —’Jonathan shrugged. ‘She talks about a separation. Taking Georges, of course. She has a brother, Gerard, in Nemours. I don’t know what she’ll say to him – or to her family there. She’s absolutely shocked, you see. And ashamed.’
‘I do understand.’ So is Heloise ashamed, Tom thought, but Heloise was more capable of double-think. Heloise knew he dabbled in murder, crime – yet was it crime? At least recently, with the Derwatt thing, and now the accursed Mafia? Tom brushed the moral question aside for the moment, and at the same time found himself flicking a bit of ash off his knee. What was Jonathan going to do with himself? Without Simone, he’d have no morale at all. Tom wondered if he should try talking to Simone again? But his memory of yesterday’s interview discouraged him. Tom didn’t fancy trying again with Simone.
‘I am finished,’ Jonathan said.
Tom started to speak, and Jonathan interrupted:
‘You know I’m finished with Simone – or she is with me.
Then there’s the old business of how long will I live anyway? Why drag it on? So Tom —’ Jonathan stood up. ‘If I can be of service, even suicidal, I’m at your disposal.’
Tom smiled. ‘Brandy?’
‘Yes, a little. Thanks.’
Tom poured it. ‘I’ve spent the last few minutes trying to explain why I think – I
think
we’re over the hump. That is with the wogs. Of course we’re not out of the woods if they catch Reeves – and torture him. He might talk about both of us.’
Jonathan had thought of that. It simply didn’t matter much to him, but of course it mattered to Tom. Tom wanted to stay alive. ‘Can I be of any service? As a decoy, perhaps? A sacrifice?’ Jonathan laughed.
‘I don’t want any decoys,’ Tom said.
‘Didn’t you say once the Mafia might want a certain amount of blood, as revenge?’
Tom had certainly thought it, but he wasn’t sure if he had said it. ‘If we do nothing – they may get Reeves and finish him,’ Tom said. ‘This is called letting nature take its course. I didn’t put this idea – assassinating Mafiosi – into Reeves’ head, and neither did you.’
Tom’s cool attitude took the wind out of Jonathan’s sails a little. He sat down. ‘And what about Fritz? Any news? I remember Fritz well.’ Jonathan smiled, as if recollecting halcyon days, Fritz arriving at Reeves’ flat in Hamburg, cap in hand, with a friendly smile and the efficient little pistol.
Tom had to think for a moment who Fritz was: the factotum, the taxi-driver-messenger in Hamburg. ‘No. Let’s hope Fritz has returned to his folks in the country, as Reeves said. I hope he’s staying there. Maybe they’re finished with Fritz.’ Tom stood up. ‘Jonathan, you’ve got to go home tonight and face the music’
‘I know.’ Tom had, however, made him feel better. Tom was realistic, even about Simone. ‘Funny, the problem isn’t the Mafia any more, it’s Simone – for me.’
Tom knew. ‘I’ll go with you, if you like. Try to talk with her again.’
Jonathan shrugged again. He was on his feet now, restless. He glanced at the painting that Tom had said was called
Man in Chair,
by Derwatt, over the fireplace. He was reminded of Reeves’ flat, with another Derwatt over the fireplace, maybe destroyed now. ‘I think I’ll be sleeping on the Chesterfield tonight – whatever happens,’ Jonathan said.
Tom thought of turning on the news. It wasn’t the right time to get anything, though, not even to get Italy. ‘What do you think? Simone can always forbid me the door. Unless you think it’ll make it worse for you if I’m with you.’
‘Things could not be worse. – All right. I’d like you to come, yes. But what’ll we say?’
Tom pushed his hands into the pockets of his old grey flannels. In his right pocket was the small Italian gun which Jonathan had carried on the train. Tom had slept with it under his pillow since Saturday night. Yes, what to say? Tom usually relied on inspiration of the moment, but hadn’t he already shot his bolt with Simone? What other brilliant facet of the problem could he come up with, to dazzle her eyes, her brain, and make her see things their way? ‘The only thing to do,’ Tom said thoughtfully, ‘is try and convince her of die safety of everything – now. I admit that’s hard to do. That’s hurdling the corpses all right. But much of her trouble is anxiety, you know.’
‘Well – are things safe?’ Jonathan asked. ‘We can’t be sure, can we? – It’s Reeves, I suppose.’
23
T
HEY
were in Fontainebleau at 10 p.m. Jonathan led the way up the front steps, knocked, then put his key into the lock. But the door was bolted inside.