Ripley's Game (24 page)

Tom was thinking they might find a quieter place, or sit in his car. But would he be able to think any better in a quieter place? ‘I will try to get an idea!’ Tom yelled. Why did everyone – even Jonathan – suppose that he could come up with an idea for them? Tom often thought he had a hard enough time trying to steer a course for himself. His own welfare often required ideas, those inspirations that came sometimes while he was under the shower, or gardening, those gifts of the gods that were presented only after his own anxious pondering. A single person hadn’t the mental equipment to take on the problems of another and maintain the same degree of excellence, Tom thought. Then Tom reflected that his own welfare was tied up with Jonathan’s after all, and if Jonathan cracked up – but Tom couldn’t imagine Jonathan saying to anyone that Tom had been on the train with him, helping him. There shouldn’t be any need to say that, and Jonathan as a matter of principle wouldn’t.
How does one suddenly acquire about ninety-two thousand dollars?
That was the problem. It was the question Simone was asking Jonathan.

‘If we could only make a double-barrelled thing out of it,’ Tom said finally.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Something added to the sum the doctors might have paid you. – How about a
bet?
One doctor has bet another in Germany, and they’ve both deposited the money with you, a sort of trust fund – I mean it’s in
trust
with you. That could account for – let’s say fifty thousand dollars of it, more than half. Or are you thinking in francs? Um-m — more than two hundred and fifty thousand francs, perhaps.’

Jonathan smiled. The idea was amusing, but rather wild. ‘Another beer?’

‘Sure,’ said Tom, and lit a Gauloise. ‘Look. You might say to Simone that – that because the bet seemed so frivolous,
or ruthless or whatever, you hadn’t wanted to tell her, but there’s a bet on your life. One doctor has bet that you’ll live – a full life span, for instance. That would leave you and Simone with a little more than two hundred thousand francs of your own – which by the way I hope you’ve already begun to enjoy!’

Tock! Tock!
A hectic barman set down Tom’s fresh glass and bottle. Jonathan was already on his second.

‘We’ve bought a sofa – much needed,’ Jonathan said. ‘We could treat ourselves to a telly too. Your idea
is
better than nothing. Thank you.’

A stocky man of about sixty greeted Jonathan with a brief handshake and walked on towards the back of the bar with no glance at Tom. Tom stared at two blonde girls who were being chatted up by a trio of boys in bell-bottom trousers standing by their table. A roly-poly old dog with skinny legs looked miserably up at Tom as he waited on his leash for his master to finish his
petit rouge.

‘Heard from Reeves lately?’ Tom asked.

‘Lately – not in about a month, I think.’

Then Jonathan didn’t know about Reeves’ flat being bombed, and Tom saw no reason to tell him. It would only shake his morale.

‘Have you? Is he all right?’

Tom said casually, ‘I really don’t know,’ as if Reeves was not in the habit of writing or telephoning. Tom felt suddenly ill-at-ease, as if eyes were on him. ‘Let’s take off, shall we?’ He beckoned to the barman to take his two ten-franc notes, though Jonathan had pulled out his money also. ‘My car’s outside to the right.’

On the pavement, Jonathan began awkwardly, ‘You feel you’re all right yourself? Nothing to worry about?’

Now they were beside his car. ‘I’m the worrying type. You’d never think so, would you? I try to think of the worst before it happens. Not quite the same as being pessimistic’ Tom smiled. ‘You going home? I’ll drop you off.’

Jonathan got into the car.

When Tom got in and closed the door, he at once had a sense of privacy, as if they were in a room in his own house. And how long would his house be safe? Tom had an unpleasant vision of the ubiquitous Mafia, like black cockroaches darting everywhere, coming from everywhere. If he fled his house, getting Heloise and Mme Annette out before him or with him, the Mafia might simply set fire to Belle Ombre. Tom thought of the harpsichord burning, or going up in pieces from a bomb. Tom admitted that he had a love of house and home usually found only in women.

‘I’m in more danger than you, if that bodyguard, the second one, can identity my face. I’ve had a few pictures in the newspapers, that’s the trouble,’ Tom said.

Jonathan knew. ‘I apologize for asking to see you today. I’m afraid I’m awfully worried about my wife. It’s because – how
we
get along is the most important thing in my life. It’s the first time I’ve ever tried to deceive her about anything, you see. And I’ve rather failed – so it’s shattering to me. But – you were a help. Thanks.’

‘Yes. It’s all right this time,’ Tom said pleasantly. He meant their seeing each other this evening. ‘But it occurs to me —’ Tom opened the glove compartment, and took out the Italian gun. ‘I think you ought to have this handy. In your shop, for instance.’

‘Really? – To tell you the truth, I’m afraid I’d be hopeless in a shoot-out.’

It’s better than nothing. If someone comes into your shop who looks odd — Haven’t you got a drawer just behind your counter?’

A tingle went up Jonathan’s spine, because he’d had a dream a few nights ago of exactly that: a Mafia gunman coming into his shop and shooting him point-blank in the face. ‘But why do you think I’ll need it? There’s some reason, isn’t there?’

Suddenly Tom thought, why not tell Jonathan? It might inspire him to more caution. At the same time Tom knew that caution wasn’t of much help. It also occurred to Tom
that Jonathan would be safer if he took his wife and child away on a trip for a while. ‘Yes, I had a telephone call today that bothered me. A man who sounded French, but that doesn’t mean anything. He asked for some French name. It may not mean anything and yet I can’t be sure. Because as soon as I open my mouth, I sound like an American, and he may have been verifying —’ Tom trailed off. ‘To fill you in further, Reeves’ place in Hamburg was bombed – 1 suppose it was around the middle of April.’

‘His flat. Good God! Was he injured?’

‘No one was in the place at the time. But Reeves went to Amsterdam in a hurry. He’s still there as far as I know, under another name.’

Jonathan thought of Reeves’ flat being looked over for names and addresses, of his and maybe Tom Ripley’s also being found. ‘Then how much does the enemy know?’

‘Oh, Reeves says he has all his important papers under control. They got hold of Fritz – I suppose you know Fritz – and beat him up a bit, but according to Reeves, Fritz was heroic. He gave them an opposite description of you – you being the man Reeves hired, or somebody hired.’ Tom sighed. ‘I’m assuming they suspect Reeves and a few casino club men – only.’ He glanced at Jonathan’s wide eyes. Jonathan didn’t look so much frightened as jolted.

‘Good Christ!’ Jonathan whispered. ‘Do you suppose they got hold of my address – pr our addresses?’

‘No,’ Tom said, smiling, ‘or they’d have been here already, I can tell you that.’ Tom wanted to get home. He turned on the ignition and manoeuvred himself into the traffic of the Rue Grande.

‘Then – assuming the man who phoned you was one of them, how did he get your number?’

‘Now we enter the realm of guesswork,’ Tom said, getting his car into the clear at last. He was still smiling. Yes, it was dangerous, and this time he wasn’t getting a penny out of it, not even protecting his own money, which was what he had
done at least in the Derwatt near-fiasco. ‘Maybe because Reeves was stupid enough to ring me from Amsterdam. I’m toying with the possibility that the Mafia boys might’ve traced him to Amsterdam, because for one thing he’s having his housekeeper send his possessions there. Pretty stupid move, so soon,’ Tom said as if in parentheses. ‘I’m wondering, you see, if – even if Reeves got out of his Amsterdam hotel, the Mafia boys didn’t check on the phone calls he made. In which case my number might be there. By the way, he didn’t ring you, I trust, when he was in Amsterdam. You’re sure?’

‘The last call I had was from Hamburg, I know.’ Jonathan remembered Reeves’ cheerful voice, telling him his money, all of it, would be deposited at once in the Swiss bank. Jonathan was worried about the bulge of the gun in his pocket. ‘Sorry, but I’d better go to my shop first to get rid of this gun. Drop me anywhere here.’

Tom pulled up to a kerb. Take it easy. If you’re seriously – alarmed about anything, go ahead and ring me. I mean that.’

Jonathan gave an awkward smile, because he felt scared. ‘Or if I can be of help – do the same.’

Tom drove on.

Jonathan walked towards his shop, one hand in his pocket supporting the weight of the gun. He put the gun into his cash drawer which slid under the heavy counter. Tom was right, the gun was better than nothing, and Jonathan knew he had another advantage: he didn’t care much about his own life. It wouldn’t be like Tom Ripley getting shot or whatever, losing his life while in the best of health, and for literally nothing, it seemed to Jonathan.

If a man walked into his shop with intent to shoot him, and if he was lucky enough to be able to shoot the man first, it would be the end of the game, anyway. Jonathan didn’t need Tom Ripley to tell him that. The gunshot would bring people, the police, the dead man would be identified, and the question would be asked, ‘Why should a Mafia man
want to shoot at Jonathan Trevanny?’ The train journey would be the next thing exposed, because the police would ask his movements in the last weeks, would want to see his passport. He’d be finished.

Jonathan locked his shop door and walked on towards the Rue St Merry, He was thinking of Reeves’ flat bombed, all those books, the records, the paintings. He was thinking of Fritz who had guided him to the button man called Salvatore Bianca, of Fritz beaten up and not betraying him.

It was nearly 7.30 p.m., and Simone was in the kitchen.
‘Bonsoir!’
Jonathan said, smiling.

‘Bonsoir,’
Simone said. She turned the oven down, then straightened and removed her apron. ‘And what were you doing with M. Ripley this evening?’

Jonathan’s face tingled a little. Where had she seen them? When he’d got out of Tom’s car? ‘He came to talk about some framing,’ Jonathan said. ‘So we had a beer. It was near closing time.’

‘Oh?’ She looked at Jonathan, not moving. ‘I see.’

Jonathan hung his jacket in the hall. Georges was coming down the stairs to greet him, saying something about his hovercraft. Georges was assembling a model Jonathan had bought for him, and it was a little too complicated for him. Jonathan swung him up over his shoulder. ‘We’ll have a look at it after dinner, all right?’

The atmosphere did not improve. They had a delicious pur6e of vegetable soup, made in a six-hundred-franc mixer that Jonathan had just bought: it made fruit juices and pulverized almost everything, including some chicken bones. Jonathan tried without success to talk about other things. Simone could soon bring any subject to a halt. It wasn’t impossible, Jonathan was thinking, that Tom Ripley should want him to frame some pictures. After all, Tom had said he painted. Jonathan said:

‘Ripley is interested in framing several things. I might have to go to his house to look at them.’

‘Oh?’ in the same tone. Then she said something pleasant to Georges.

Jonathan disliked Simone when she was like this, and hated himself for disliking her. He had been going to plunge into the explanation – the bet explanation – of the sum of money in the Swiss bank. That evening, he simply couldn’t.

17

A
FTER
dropping Jonathan, Tom had an impulse to stop at a bar-
café and ring his house. He wanted to know if all was well, and if Heloise was home. To his great relief Heloise answered.

‘
Oui, chéri
,
I just got home. Where are you? No, I had only a drink with Noëlle.’

‘Heloise, my pet, let’s do something nice tonight. Maybe the Grais or the Berthelins are free… I know it’s late to ask anyone for dinner, but for after dinner. Maybe the Cleggs … Yes, I feel like seeing some people.’ Tom said he would be home in fifteen minutes.

Tom drove fast, but carefully. He felt curiously shaky about tonight. He was wondering about any telephone calls that Mme Annette might have got since he left the house.

Heloise, or Mme Annette, had put the front light on at Belle Ombre, though the dusk had not yet fallen. A big Citroen cruised slowly past, just before Tom turned into his gates, and Tom looked at it: dark blue, lumbering on the slightly uneven road, with a licence plate ending in 75, meaning a Paris car. There had been two people in it at least. Was it casing Belle Ombre? He was probably over anxious.

‘Hello, Tome!
Les
Clegg can come for a quick drink, and
les
Grais can come for dinner, because Antoine didn’t go to Paris today. Does that please you?’ Heloise kissed his cheek. ‘Where were you? Look at the suitcase! – I admit it’s not very big —’