Ripley Under Ground (21 page)

Ed was standing facing him. “Any clues against you about Murchison, Tom?”

“Not that I know of.” Tom smiled. “Nothing except the facts.”

“Was ‘The Clock’ really stolen?”

“The picture was with Murchison’s suitcase—wrapped separately—at Orly. Somebody swiped it, that’s plain,” Tom said. “I wonder who’s hanging it now? I wonder if they know what they’ve got? In which case it might not be hanging. Let’s get on with the briefing, shall we? Can we have some music?”

To souped-up Radio Luxembourg, Tom submitted to a semi-dress rehearsal. The beard, on gauze, was still in one piece, and they tested it but did not glue it. Bernard had not taken back Derwatt’s old dark-blue suit, and Tom put on the jacket.

“Do you know anything about Mrs. Murchison?” Tom asked.

They didn’t really, though they volunteered fragments of information which showed her, as far as Tom could see, neither aggressive nor timid, intelligent nor stupid. One datum canceled out the other. Jeff had spoken with her by telephone at the Buckmaster Gallery, where she had rung by a cabled prearrangement.

“A miracle she didn’t ring me,” Tom said.

“Oh, we said we didn’t know your telephone number,” said Ed, “and considering it was France, I suppose it gave her pause.”

“Mind if I ring my house tonight?” Tom asked, putting on Derwatt’s voice. “By the way, I’m broke here.”

Jeff and Ed could not have been more obliging. They had plenty of cash on hand. Jeff put in the call at once to Belle Ombre. Ed made Tom a small strong coffee, which Tom asked for. Tom showered and got into pajamas. That was better—in a pair of Jeff’s house slippers as well. Tom was to sleep on the studio couch.

“I hope I’ve made it clear,” Tom said, “Bernard wants to call it quits. Derwatt will go into permanent retirement and—maybe get eaten by ants in Mexico or devoured by fire, and presumably any future paintings along with him.”

Jeff nodded, started to nibble a fingernail, and whipped it out of his mouth. “What have you told your wife?”

“Nothing,” Tom said. “Nothing important, really.”

The telephone rang.

Jeff beckoned Ed to come into his bedroom with him.

“Hello, darling, it’s
me
!” Tom said. “No, I’m in London. . . . Well, I changed my mind. . . .”

When was he coming home? . . . And Mme. Annette’s tooth was hurting again.

“Give her the dentist’s name in
Fontainebleau
!” Tom said.

It was surprising how comforting a telephone call could be in the circumstances in which he was now. It almost made Tom love the telephone.

19

“I
s Detective-Inspector Webster there, please?” Jeff asked. “Jeffrey Constant of the Buckmaster Gallery. . . . Would you tell the inspector that I had a ring from Derwatt this morning, and we expect to see him this morning at the gallery. . . . I’m not sure of the exact time. Before twelve.”

It was a quarter to ten.

Tom stood in front of the long mirror again, examining his beard and the reinforcement of his eyebrows. Ed was looking at his face under one of Jeff’s strongest lamps, which was glaring in Tom’s eyes. His hair was lighter than the beard, but darker than his own, as before. Ed had been careful with the cut on the back of his head, and happily it was not bleeding. “Jeff, old man,” Tom said in Derwatt’s taut voice. “Can you cut that music and get something else?”

“What would you like?”

“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Have you got a record?”

“No-o,” Jeff said.

“Can you get it? That’s what I’m in the mood for. It inspires me, and I need inspiration.” Imagining the music this morning was not quite enough.

Jeff didn’t know anyone, even, who he was sure had it.

“Can’t you go out and get it, Jeff? Isn’t there a music shop between here and St. John’s Wood Road?”

Jeff ran out.

“You didn’t speak with Mrs. Murchison, I suppose,” Tom said, relaxing for a moment with a Gauloise. “I must buy some English cigarettes. I don’t want to push my luck too much with these Gauloises.”

“Take these. If you run out, people’ll offer you fags,” Ed said quickly, shoving a packet of something into Tom’s pocket. “No, I didn’t speak with her. At least she hadn’t sent over an American detective. That might be pretty rough if she did.”

She might be flying over with one, Tom thought. He removed his two rings. He had not, of course, the Mexican ring now. Tom picked up a ballpoint pen and tried duplicating the bold derwatt signature stamped on a blue pencil eraser on Jeff’s table. Tom did the signature three times, then crumpled the paper on which he had written it, and dropped into a basket.

Jeff arrived back, panting as if he had run.

“Turn it up loud—if you can,” Tom said.

The music began—rather loud. Tom smiled. It was his music. An audacious thought, but this was the time for audacity. Tom felt aglow now, stood up taller, then remembered Derwatt didn’t stand tall. “Jeff, can I ask another favor? Ring up a florist and have some flowers sent to Cynthia. Put it on my bill.”

“Are you talking about bills? Flowers—to Cynthia. Okay. What kind?”

“Oh, gladioli, if they have them. If not, two dozen roses.”

“Flowers, flowers, florists—” Jeff was looking in his telephone directory. “From whom? Just signed ‘Tom’?”

“With love from Tom,” Tom said, and held still while Ed went over his upper lip again with pale pink lipstick. Derwatt’s upper lip was fuller.

They left Jeff’s studio while the first half of the record was still playing. It would turn off automatically, Jeff said. Jeff took the first taxi by himself. Tom felt sure enough to have gone on his own, but he sensed that Ed did not want to risk that, or didn’t want to leave him. They went in a taxi together and got out a street away from Bond Street.

“If somebody speaks to us, I happened to meet you walking to the Buckmaster,” Ed said.

“Relax. We shall carry the day.”

Again, Tom went in by the red-painted back door of the gallery. The office was empty, except for Jeff who was on the telephone. He motioned for them to sit down.

“Would you put that through as quickly as possible?” Jeff said. He hung up. “I’m making a courtesy call to France. The police in Melun. To tell them Derwatt has turned up again. They did ring us, you know—Derwatt, and I promised to let them know if you got in touch with us.”

“I see,” Tom said. “I suppose you haven’t told any newspapers?”

“No, and I don’t see why I should, do you?”

“No, let it go.”

Leonard, the blithe spirit who was the front manager, poked his head in the door. “Hello! May I come in?”

“No-o!” Jeff whispered, not meaning it.

Leonard came in and closed the door, beaming at the second resurrection of Derwatt. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, if I weren’t looking at it! Who’re we expecting this morning?”

“Inspector Webster of the Metropolitan Police for a start,” said Ed.

“Am I to let anyone—”

“No, not just anyone,” Jeff said. “Knock first, and I’ll open the door, but I won’t lock the door today. Now shoo!”

Leonard went out.

Tom was sunk in the armchair when Inspector Webster arrived.

Webster smiled like a happy rabbit with big stained front teeth. “How do you do, Mr. Derwatt? Well! I never expected I’d have the pleasure of meeting you!”

“How do you do, Inspector?” Tom did not quite get up. Remember, he told himself, you are a little older, heavier, slower, more stooped than Tom Ripley. “I am sorry,” Tom said easily, as if he were not very sorry and certainly not disturbed, “that you were wondering where I was. I was with some friends down in Suffolk.”

“So I was told,” said the inspector, taking a straight chair which was some two yards from Tom.

The venetian blind of the window was three-quarters down, partly closed, Tom had noticed. The light was adequate, even for writing a letter, but not bright.

“Well, your whereabouts were incidental, I think, to those of Thomas Murchison,” Webster said, smiling. “It’s my job to find him.”

“I read something or—Jeff said something about his disappearing in France.”

“Yes, and one of your pictures disappeared with him. ‘The Clock.’”

“Yes. Probably not the first—theft,” Tom said philosophically. “I understand his wife may come to London?”

“Indeed she has come.” Webster looked at his watch. “She’s due at 11 a.m. After a night flight, I dare say she’ll want to rest for a couple of hours. Will you be here this afternoon, Mr. Derwatt? Can you be here?”

Tom knew he had to say yes to be courteous. He said, with only a hint of reluctance, that he could be, of course. “About what time? I have a few errands to do this afternoon.”

Webster stood up, like a busy man. “Shall we say three-thirty? And in case of a change, I’ll let you know through the gallery.” He turned to Jeff and Ed. “Thank you so much for informing me about Mr. Derwatt. Bye-bye, gentlemen.”

“Bye-bye, Inspector.” Jeff opened the door for him.

Ed looked at Tom and smiled a satisfied smile, with his lips closed. “A little more lively for this afternoon. Derwatt was a little more—energetic. Nervous energy.”

“I have my reasons,” Tom said. He put his fingertips together and stared into space, in the manner of Sherlock Holmes reflecting, an unconscious gesture perhaps, because he been thinking of a certain Sherlock Holmes story which resembled this situation. Tom hoped his disguise would not be seen through so easily. At any rate, it was better than some of those exploded by Sir Arthur—when a nobleman forgot to remove his diamond ring or some such.

“What’s your reason?” Jeff asked.

Tom jumped up. “Tell you later. Now I could use a scotch.”

They lunched at Norughe’s, an Italian restaurant in the Edgware Road. Tom was hungry, and the restaurant was just to his taste—quiet, pleasant to look at, and the pasta was excellent. Tom had gnocchi with a delicious cheese sauce, and they drank two bottles of Verdicchio. A nearby table was occupied by some notables of the Royal Ballet, who plainly recognized Derwatt, as Tom recognized them, but in the English style, the exchanged glances soon stopped.

“I’d rather arrive at the gallery alone and through the front door this afternoon,” Tom said.

They all had cigars and brandy. Tom felt fit for anything, even Mrs. Murchison.

“Let me out here,” Tom said in the taxi. “I feel like walking.” He spoke in Derwatt’s voice, which he had used throughout lunch, too. “I know it’s a bit of a walk, but at least there’re not so many hills as in Mexico. Ah-hum.”

Oxford Street looked busy and inviting. Tom realized he had not asked Jeff or Ed if they had concocted any more receipts for paintings. Maybe Webster would not ask for them again. Maybe Mrs. Murchison would. Who knew? Some of the crowd on Oxford Street glanced at him twice, perhaps recognizing him—though Tom really doubted that—or perhaps their eyes were caught by his beard and his intense eyes. Tom supposed his eyes looked intense because of his brows, and because Derwatt frowned a little, though this had not meant ill-temper, Ed had assured him.

This afternoon is either success or failure, Tom thought. It would be, it had to be a success. Tom began to imagine what would happen if the afternoon were a failure, and his mind stopped when he came to Heloise—and her family. It would be the end of all that, the end of Belle Ombre. Of Mme. Annette’s kind services. In plain words, he would go to prison, because it would be more than obvious that he had eliminated Murchison. Perish the thought of going to prison.

Tom came head-on with the old bloke with the sandwich boards advertising quick passport photos. As if he were blind, the old man didn’t step aside. Tom did. Tom ran in front of him again. “Remember me? Greetings!”

“Eh? Um-m?” An unlighted half-cigarette again hung from between his lips.

“Here’s for luck!” Tom said, and stuck what was left of his packet of cigarettes into the old tweed overcoat pocket. Tom hurried on, remembering to stoop.

Tom walked quietly into the Buckmaster Gallery, where all Derwatt’s pictures, except those on loan, were graced with a little red star. Leonard gave him a smile and a nod that was almost a bow. There were five other people in the room, a young couple (the girl barefoot on the beige carpet), one elderly gentleman, two men. As Tom made his way toward the red door at the rear of the gallery, he could feel all eyes turn and follow him—until he was out of sight.

Jeff opened the door. “Derwatt, hello. Come in. This is Mrs. Murchison—Philip Derwatt.”

Tom bowed slightly to the woman seated in the armchair. “How do you do, Mrs. Murchison?” Tom nodded also to Inspector Webster, who was sitting on a straight chair.

Mrs. Murchison looked about fifty, with short razor-cut hair that was red-blonde, bright blue eyes, a rather wide mouth—a face, Tom thought, that might have been cheerful if the circumstances had been different. She wore a good tweed suit of graceful cut, a necklace of jade, a pale green sweater.

Jeff had gone behind his desk, but was not seated.

“You saw my husband in London. Here,” Mrs. Murchison said to Tom.

“Yes, for a few minutes. Yes. Perhaps ten minutes.” Tom moved toward the straight chair that Ed was offering. He felt Mrs. Murchison’s eyes on his shoes, the nearly cracked shoes that had actually belonged to Derwatt. Tom sat down gingerly, as if he had rheumatism, or worse. Now he was some five feet away from Mrs. Murchison, who had to turn her head a little to her right to see him.

“He was going to visit a Mr. Ripley in France. He wrote me that,” said Mrs. Murchison. “He didn’t make an appointment to see you later?”

“No,” Tom said.

“Do you happen to know Mr. Ripley? I understand he has some of your pictures.”

“I’ve heard his name, never met him,” Tom said.

“I’m going to try to see him. After all—my husband may still be in France. What I would like to know, Mr. Derwatt, is if you think there is any ring of your paintings— It’s hard for me to put in words. Any people who would think it worth their while to do away with my husband to keep him from exposing a forgery? Or maybe several forgeries?”

Tom shook his head slowly. “Not to my knowledge.”

“But you’ve been in Mexico.”

“I’ve talked with—” Tom looked up at Jeff, then at Ed who was leaning against the desk. “This gallery knows of no group or ring and what is more, don’t know of any forgeries. I saw the picture your husband brought, you know. ‘The Clock.’”

“And that’s been stolen.”

“Yes, so I’m told. But the point is, it’s my picture.”

“My husband was going to show it to Mr. Ripley.”

“He did,” Webster put in. “Mr. Ripley told me about their conversation—”

“I know, I know. My husband had his theory,” Mrs. Murchison said with an air of pride or courage. “He might be wrong. I admit I’m not such a connoisseur of paintings as my husband. But supposing he
is
right.” She waited for an answer, from anybody.

Tom hoped she didn’t know about her husband’s theory, or didn’t understand it.

“What was his theory, Mrs. Murchison?” Webster asked with an eager expression.

“Something about the purples in Mr. Derwatt’s later paintings—some of them. Surely he discussed it with you, Mr. Derwatt?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “He said the purples of my earlier paintings were darker. That may be so.” Tom smiled slightly. “I hadn’t noticed. If they’re lighter now, I think there’re more of ’em. Witness ‘The Tub’ out there.” Tom had mentioned, without thinking, a painting Murchison had considered quite as obvious a forgery as “The Clock”—the purples in both paintings being pure cobalt violet, in the old style.

No reaction from this.

“By the way,” Tom said to Jeff, “you were trying to ring the French police this morning to say I was back in London. Did the call go through?”

Jeff started. “No. No, by George, it didn’t.”

Mrs. Murchison said, “Did my husband mention anyone besides Mr. Ripley he was going to see in France, Mr. Derwatt?”

Tom pondered. Start a small wild-goose chase? Or be honest. Tom said very honestly, “Not that I recall. He didn’t mention Mr. Ripley to me, for that matter.”

“May I offer you some tea, Mrs. Murchison?” Ed asked amiably.

“Oh, no thank you.”

“Anyone for tea? Or a spot of sherry?” Ed asked.

No one wanted or dared to accept anything.

It seemed to be a signal, in fact, for Mrs. Murchison to take her leave. She wanted to ring Mr. Ripley—she had his telephone number from the inspector—and make an appointment to see him.

Jeff, with a coolness that was right up Tom’s alley, said, “Would you like to ring him from here, Mrs. Murchison?” indicating the telephone on his desk.

“No, thanks very much, but I’ll do it from my hotel.”