Ripley's Game (11 page)

‘A scotch.’

Reeves bent over the bottles. He asked in a soft voice, ‘How many – how many shots, Jonathan?’

‘One.’ And what if he wasn’t dead, Jonathan thought suddenly. Wasn’t that quite possible? Jonathan took the scotch from Reeves.

Reeves had a stemmed glass of champagne, and he raised the gl^ss to Jonathan and drank. ‘No difficulties? – Fritz did well?’

Jonathan nodded, and glanced at the door where Gaby would appear if she came back. ‘Let’s hope he’s dead. It just occurs to me – he might not be.’

‘Oh, this’ll do all right if he’s
not
dead. You saw him fall?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Jonathan gave a sigh, and realized he had been hardly breathing for several minutes.

‘The news may have reached Milan already,’ Reeves said cheerfully. ‘An Italian bullet. Not that the Mafia always use Italian guns, but it was a nice little touch, I thought. He was of the Di Stefano family. There are a couple of the Genotti family here in Hamburg now too, and we hope these two families will start shooting at each other.’

Reeves had said that before. Jonathan sat down on the sofa. Reeves walked about in a glow of satisfaction.

‘If it suits you, we’ll have a quiet evening here,’ Reeves said. ‘If anyone telephones, Gaby’s going to say I’m out.’

‘Does Karl or Gaby—How much do they know?’

‘Gaby – nothing. Karl, it doesn’t matter if he does. Karl simply isn’t interested. He works, for other people besides me, and he’s well paid. It’s in his interest
not
to know anything, if you follow me.’

Jonathan understood. But Reeves’ information did not make Jonathan feel any more comfortable. ‘By the way – I’d like to go back to France tomorrow.’ This meant two things, that Reeves could pay him or make the arrangement to pay him tonight, and that any other assignment ought to be discussed tonight. Jonathan intended to say no to any other assignment, whatever the financial arrangement, but he thought he should be entitled to half the forty thousand pounds for what he had done.

‘Why not, if you like,’ said Reeves. ‘Don’t forget you have the appointment tomorrow morning.’

But Jonathan didn’t want to see Dr Wentzel again. He wet his lips. His report was bad, and his condition was worse. And there was another element: Dr Wentzel with his walrus moustaches represented ‘authority’ somehow, and Jonathan felt that he would be putting himself in a dangerous position by confronting Wentzel again. He knew he wasn’t thinking logically, but that was the way he felt. ‘I don’t really see any reason to see him again – since I’m not staying any longer in Hamburg. I’ll cancel the appointment early tomorrow. He’s got my Fontainebleau address for the bill.’

‘You can’t send francs out of France,’ Reeves said with a smile. ‘Send me the bill when you get it. Don’t worry about that.’

Jonathan let it go. He certainly didn’t want Reeves’ name on a cheque to Wentzel, however. He told himself to come to the point, which was his own payment from Reeves. Instead, Jonathan sat back on the sofa and asked rather pleasantly, ‘What do you do here – as to work, I mean?’

‘Work —’ Reeves hesitated, but looked not at all disturbed by the question. ‘Various things. I scout for New York art dealers, for example. All those books over there —’ He indicated the bottom row of books in a bookshelf. ‘They’re art books, mainly German art, with names and addresses of individuals who own things. There’s a demand in New York for German painters. Then, of course, I scout among the young painters here, and recommend them to galleries and buyers in the States. Texas buys a lot. You’d be surprised.’

Jonathan was surprised. Reeves Minot – if what he said was true – must judge paintings with the coldness of a Geiger counter. Was Reeves possibly a
good
judge? Jonathan had realized that the painting over the fireplace, a pinkish scene of a bed with an old person lying in it – male or female? – apparently dying, really
was
a Derwatt. It must be extremely valuable, Jonathan thought, and evidently Reeves owned it.

‘Recent acquisition,’ Reeves said, seeing Jonathan looking at his painting. ‘A gift – from a grateful friend, you might say.’ He had an air of wanting to say more, but of thinking he shouldn’t.

During the dinner, Jonathan wanted to bring up the money again, and couldn’t, and Reeves started talking about something else. Ice-skating on the Alster in winter, and iceboats that went like the wind and occasionally collided. Then nearly an hour later, when they were sitting on the sofa over coffee, Reeves said:

‘This evening I can’t give you more than five thousand francs, which is absurd. No more than pocket money.’ Reeves went to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘But at least it’s in francs.’ He came back with the francs in his hand. ‘I could give you an equal amount in marks tonight too.’

Jonathan didn’t want marks, didn’t want to have to change them in France. The francs, he saw, were in hundred-franc notes in pinned together batches often, the way French banks issued them. Reeves laid the five stacks on the coffee-table, but Jonathan did not touch them.

‘You see I can’t get any more until the rest contribute. Four or five people,’ Reeves said. ‘But there’s no doubt at all that I can get the marks.’

Jonathan was thinking, somewhat vaguely because he was anything but a bargainer himself, that Reeves was in a weak position asking other people for money after the deed was done. Shouldn’t his friends have put up the money first, in trust somehow, or at least more money? ‘I don’t want it in marks, thanks,’ said Jonathan.

‘No, of course. I understand. That’s another thing, your money ought to be in Switzerland in a secret account, don’t you think? You don’t want it showing on your account in France, or you don’t want to keep it in a sock like the French, do you?’

‘Hardly. – When can you get the half?’ Jonathan asked, as if he was sure it was coming.

‘Within a week. Don’t forget there might be a second job – in order to make the first job count for something. We’ll have to see.’

Jonathan was irked and tried to conceal it. ‘When will you know that?’

‘Also within a week. Maybe even in four days. I’ll be in touch.’

‘But – to be frank – 1 think more money than this is only fair, don’t you? Now, I mean.’ Jonathan felt his face grow warm.

‘I do. That’s why I apologized for this paltry sum. I tell you what. I shall do the very best I can, and die next you will hear from me – via me – is the pleasant news of a Swiss bank account and a statement of the sum you have in it.’

That sounded better. ‘When?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Within a week. My word of honour.’

‘That is — a half ?’ Jonathan said.

‘I’m not sure I can get a half before — You know I explained to you, Jonathan, this was a double-barrelled deal. The boys who are paying this kind of money want a certain kind of result.’ Reeves looked at him.

Jonathan could see Reeves was asking, silently, was he, going to do the second shooting or was he not? And if he wasn’t, say so now. T understand.’ Jonathan said. A little more, a third of the money even, wouldn’t be bad, Jonathan was thinking. Something like fourteen thousand pounds. For the work he had done, that was a comfortable little sum. Jonathan decided to sit tight and stop arguing tonight.

He flew back to Paris the next day on a midday plane. Reeves had said he would cancel Dr Wentzel, and Jonathan had left it to him to do. Reeves had also said he would telephone him Saturday, day after tomorrow, in his shop. Reeves had accompanied Jonathan to the airport, and had shown him the morning paper with a picture of Bianca on the U-bahn platform. Reeves had an air of quiet triumph: there was not a clue except the Italian gun, and a Mafia killer was suspected. Bianca was labelled a Mafia soldier or button man. Jonathan had seen the front pages of the newspapers on the stands that morning when he went out to buy cigarettes, but he had had no desire to buy a newspaper. Now in the plane, he was handed a newspaper by the smiling stewardess. Jonathan left the paper folded on his lap, and closed his eyes.

It was nearly 7 p.m. when Jonathan got home, via train and taxi, and he let himself into the house with his key.

Jon!’ Simone came down the hall to greet him.

He put his arms around her. ‘Hello, darling!’

T was expecting you!’ she said, laughing. ‘Somehow. Just now. – What’s the news? Take off your coat. I had your letter this morning that you might be home last night. Are you out of your mind?’

Jonathan flung his overcoat on the hook, and picked up Georges who had just crashed against his legs. ‘And how’s my little pest? How’s Cailloux?’ He kissed Georges’ cheek. Jonathan had brought Georges a truck which dumped things and this was in the plastic bag with the whisky, but Jonathan thought the truck could wait, and he pulled out the drink.

‘Ah,
quel luxe!’
Simone said. ‘Shall we open it now?’

‘I insist!’ said Jonathan.

They went into the kitchen. Simone liked ice with scotch and Jonathan was indifferent.

‘Tell me what the doctors said.’ Simone took the ice tray to the sink.

‘Well – they say about the same as the doctors here. But they want to try out some drugs on me. They’re going to let me know.’ Jonathan had, on the plane, decided to say this to Simone. It would leave the way open for another trip to Germany. And what was the real
use
of telling her things were a trifle worse, or looked worse? What could she do about it but worry a little more? Jonathan’s optimism had risen on the plane: if he’d come well through the first episode, he might make it through the second.

‘You mean you’ll have to go back?’ she asked.

‘That’s possible.’ Jonathan watched her pour the two scotches, generous ones. ‘But they’re willing to pay me for it. They’re going to let me know.’

‘Really?’ said Simone, surprised.

‘Is that scotch? What do .’ get?’ Georges said in English, with such clarity that Jonathan burst out laughing.

‘Want some? Take a sip,’ Jonathan said, holding out his glass.

Simone restrained his hand. ‘There’s orange juice, Georgie!’ She poured orange juice for him. ‘They’re trying a certain cure, you mean?’

Jonathan frowned, but he still felt master of the situation. ‘Darling, there’s no cure. They’re – they’re going to try a lot of new pills. That’s about all I know. Cheers!’ Jonathan felt a bit euphoric. He had the five thousand francs in his inside jacket pocket. He was safe, for the moment, safe in the bosom of his family. If all went well, the five thousand was merely pocket money, as Reeves Minot had said.

Simone leaned on the back of one of the straight chairs. They’ll
pay
for your going back? That means there’s some danger attached?’

‘No. I think – there’s some inconvenience attached. Going back to Germany. I only mean they’ll pay my transportation.’ Jonathan hadn’t worked it out: he could say that Dr Perrier would give the injections, administer the pills. But for the moment he thought he was saying the right thing.

‘You mean – they consider you a special case?’

‘Yes. In a way. Of course I’m not,’ he said, smiling. He wasn’t, and Simone knew he wasn’t. ‘They just
might
want to try some tests. I don’t know yet, darling.’

‘Anyway you look awfully happy about it. I’m glad, darling.’

‘Let’s go out to dinner tonight. The restaurant on the corner here. We can take Georges,’ he protested over her voice. ‘Come on, we can afford it.’

8

J
ONATHAN
put four thousand of the francs into an envelope in a certain drawer among eight such drawers in a wooden cabinet at the back of his shop. This drawer was the next from the bottom drawer, and held nothing but ends of wire and string and some tags with reinforced holes – junk that only a frugal person or an eccentric would save, Jonathan thought. It was a drawer, like the one below it (Jonathan had no idea what that contained) which Jonathan never opened ordinarily, therefore neither would Simone open it, he thought, on the rare occasions when she helped out in the shop. Jonathan’s real cash drawer was the top one on the right under his wooden counter. The remaining thousand francs Jonathan put into the joint account at the Société Générale on Friday morning. It could be two or three weeks before Simone noticed the extra thousand, and she might not comment, even if she saw it in their cheque book. And if she did, Jonathan could say that a few customers had suddenly paid up. Jonathan usually signed cheques to pay their bills, and the bankbook lived in the drawer of the
écritoire
in the living-room, unless one or the other of them had to take it out of the house to pay for something, which happened only about once a month.

And by Friday afternoon, Jonathan had found a way to use a little of the thousand. He bought a mustard-coloured tweed suit for Simone from a shop in the Rue de France for 395 francs. He’d seen the suit days ago, before Hamburg, and thought of Simone – the rounded collar, the dark yellow tweed flecked with brown, the four brown buttons set in a square on the jacket had seemed created just for Simone. The price had been shocking to his eyes, more than a bit out of line, he’d thought. Now it seemed almost a bargain, and Jonathan gazed with pleasure at the new material being folded with care between snowy sheets of tissue paper.
4
And Simone’s appreciation gave Jonathan pleasure all over again. Jonathan thought it was the first new thing she’d had, the first pretty clothes, in a couple of years, because the dresses from the market or the Prisunic didn’t count.

‘But it must’ve been terribly expensive, Jon!’

‘No – not really. The Hamburg doctors gave me an advance – in case I have to go back. Quite generous. Don’t think about that.’

Simone smiled. She didn’t want to think about money, Jonathan saw. Not just now. ‘I’ll count this as one of my birthday presents.’

Jonathan smiled too. Her birthday had been almost two months ago.

On Saturday morning Jonathan’s telephone rang. It had rung a few times that morning, but this was the irregular ring of a long distance call.

‘This is Reeves…. How is everything?’