They gripped hands.
“It’s really like the country out here.”
“How do you like Paris?”
“Oh, I like it. It’s bigger than I thought.”
Christopher took in everything, craning his neck at the most ordinary bar-cafés, plane trees, private houses along the way. His friend Gerald might go for two or three days to Strassburg, Christopher told Tom. “This is the first French village I’ve seen. It’s real, isn’t it?” he asked, as if it might be a stage set.
Tom found it amusing, strangely nervous-making, Chris’s enthusiasm. Tom remembered his own mad joy—though there’d been no one for him to speak to—at his first glimpse of the Leaning Tower of Pisa from a moving train, his first view of the curving lights of Cannes’ shore.
Belle Ombre was not fully visible in the dark now, but Mme. Annette had put the light on at the front door, and its proportions could be guessed from a light in the front left corner, where the kitchen was. Tom smiled to himself at Chris’s ecstatic comments, but they pleased Tom nevertheless. Sometimes Tom felt like kicking Belle Ombre and the Plisson family, too, to pieces, as if they were a conglomerate sand castle that he could destroy with a foot. These times came when he was maddened by some incident of French bloodymindedness, greed, a lie that was not exactly a lie but a deliberate concealment of fact. When other people praised Belle Ombre, Tom liked it, too. Tom drove into the garage, and carried one of Chris’s two suitcases. Chris said he had everything with him.
Mme. Annette opened the front door.
“My housekeeper, faithful retainer, without whom I couldn’t live,” Tom said, “Mme. Annette. M. Christophe.”
“How do you do?
Bonsoir
,” Chris said.
“Bonsoir, m’sieur. The room of m’sieur is ready.”
Tom took Chris upstairs.
“This is marvelous,” Chris said. “It’s like a museum!”
There was, Tom supposed, a considerable amount of satin and ormolu. “It’s my wife, I think—the decorating. She’s not here just now.”
“I saw a picture of her with you. Uncle Herbert showed it to me in New York just the other day. She’s blonde. Her name’s Heloise.”
Tom left Christopher to wash up, and said he would be downstairs.
Tom’s thoughts drifted to Murchison again: Murchison would be missing from his plane’s passenger list. The police would check Paris hotels and find that Murchison had not been at any. An immigration check would show that Murchison had been at the Hotel Mandeville October 14th and 15th, and had said he would be back on the 17th. Tom’s own name and address was on the Hotel Mandeville register for the night of 15 October. But he would not be the only resident of France in the Mandeville that night, surely. Would the police come to question him or would they not?
Christopher came downstairs. He had combed his wavy blond hair, and still wore his corduroy trousers and army boots. “Hope you’re not having guests for dinner. If you are, I’ll change.”
“We’re alone. It’s the country, so wear what you like.”
Christopher looked at Tom’s paintings, and paid more attention to a pinkish Pascin nude, a drawing, than to the paintings. “You live here all year round? It must be a pleasure.”
He accepted a scotch. Tom had to account for his time again, and mentioned his gardening and his informal study of languages, though in fact Tom’s routine of study was stricter then he admitted. Tom loved his leisure, however, as only an American could, he thought—once an American got the hang of it, and so few did. It was not a thing he cared to put into words to anyone. He had longed for leisure and a bit of luxury when he had met Dickie Greenleaf, and now that he had attained it, the charm had not palled.
At the table, Christopher began to talk of Dickie. He said he had photographs of Dickie that someone had taken in Mongibello, and that Tom was in one of the photographs. Christopher spoke with a little difficulty of Dickie’s death—his suicide, as everyone thought. Chris had something better than manners, Tom saw, which was sensitivity. Tom was fascinated by the candlelight through the irises of his blue eyes, because so often Dickie’s eyes had looked the same late at night in Mongibello, or in some candlelit restaurant in Naples.
Christopher said, standing tall and looking at the French windows, and up at the cream-colored coffered ceiling, “It’s fabulous to live in a house like this. And you have music besides—and paintings!”
Tom was reminded painfully of himself at twenty. Chris’s family wasn’t poor, Tom was sure, but their house wouldn’t be quite like this one. While they drank coffee, Tom played
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream
music.
Then the telephone rang. It was about 10 p.m.
The French telephone operator asked him if his number was so-and-so, then told him not to quit for a call from London.
“Hello. This is Bernard Tufts,” said the tense voice, and there followed crackles.
“Hello? Yes. Tom here. Can you hear me?”
“Can you speak louder? I’m ringing to say . . .” Bernard’s voice faded out as if drowned in a deep sea.
Tom glanced at Chris, who was reading the sleeve of a record. “Is this
better
?” Tom roared into the telephone, and as if to spite him, the telephone gave a fart, then a crack like a mountain splitting beneath a stroke of lightning. Tom’s left ear rang from the impact, and he switched to the right ear. He could hear Bernard struggling on slowly, loudly, but alas the words were quite unintelligible. Tom heard only “Murchison.” “
He’s in London!
” Tom shouted, glad to have something definite to convey. Now it was something about the Mandeville. Had the man from the Tate Gallery tried to reach Murchison at the Mandeville, then spoken to the Buckmaster Gallery, Tom wondered? “Bernard, it is
hopeless
!” Tom yelled desperately. “Can you write me?” Tom didn’t know whether Bernard hung up or not, but a buzzing silence followed, and Tom assumed Bernard had given up, so he put the telephone down. “To think one pays a hundred and twenty bucks just to
get
a telephone in this country,” Tom said. “I’m sorry for all the shouting.”
“Oh, I’ve always heard French telephones are lousy,” Chris said. “Was it important? Heloise?”
“No, no.”
Chris stood up. “I’d like to show you my guide books. Can I?” He ran upstairs.
A matter of time, Tom thought, till the French police or the English—maybe even the American—questioned him about Murchison. Tom hoped Chris would not be here when it happened.
Chris came down with three books. He had the
Guide Bleu
for France, an art book on French châteaux, and a big book on the Rheinland, where he intended to go with Gerald Hayman when Gerald came back from Strassburg.
Christopher sipped with pleasure at a single brandy, prolonging it. “I have serious doubts about the value of democracy. That’s a terrible thing for an American to say, isn’t it? Democracy depends on a certain minimal level of education for everybody, and America tries to give it to everybody—but we really haven’t got it. And it isn’t even true that everybody wants it. . . .”
Tom half listened. But his occasional comments seemed to satisfy Chris, at least this evening.
The telephone rang again. Tom noticed that it was five to eleven by the little silver clock on the telephone table.
A man’s voice said in French that he was an agent of police, and apologized for ringing at this hour, but was M. Ripley there? “Good evening, m’sieur. Do you by any chance know an American named Thomas Murchison?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“Did he by chance visit you recently? Wednesday? Or Thursday?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Ah,
bon
! Is he with you now?”
“No, he went back to London on Thursday.”
“No, he did not. But his suitcase was found at Orly. He did not take the sixteen-hours plane he was supposed to.”
“Oh?”
“You are a friend of M. Murchison, M. Reeply?”
“No, not a friend. I have known him for only a short time.”
“How did he depart from your house to Orly?”
“I drove him to Orly—around three-thirty Thursday afternoon.”
“Do you know any friends of his in Paris—where he might be staying? Because he is not in any hotel in Paris.”
Tom paused, thinking. “No. He did not mention anyone.”
This was evidently disappointing to the agent. “You are at home in the next days, M. Reeply? . . . We may wish to speak with you. . . .”
This time Christopher was curious. “What’s that all about?”
Tom smiled. “Oh—someone asking me where a friend is. I don’t know.”
Who was making the fuss about Murchison, Tom wondered? The man at the Tate Gallery? The French police at Orly, had they started it? Or even Murchison’s wife in America?
“What’s Heloise like?” Christopher asked.
9
W
hen Tom came downstairs the next morning, Mme. Annette told him that M. Christophe had gone out for a walk. Tom hoped not into the woods behind the house, but it was more likely Chris would look around the village. Tom picked up the London Sundays, which he had barely glanced at yesterday, and looked through the news sections for any item, however small, about Murchison, or a disappearance at Orly. There was nothing.
Chris came in, pink-cheeked and smiling. He had bought a wire whisk, the kind the French beat eggs with, at the local
droguerie
. “Little present for my sister,” Chris said. “It doesn’t weigh much in a suitcase. I’ll tell her it came from your village.”
Tom asked if Chris would like to take a drive and have lunch in another town. “Bring your
Guide Bleu
along. We’ll drive along the Seine.” Tom wanted to wait a few minutes for the post.
The post brought only one letter addressed in a tall angular hand in black ink. Tom felt at once it was from Bernard, though he didn’t know Bernard’s writing. He opened the letter and saw from the signature at the bottom that he was correct.
127 Copperfield St.
S.E.1.
Dear Tom,
Forgive this unexpected letter. I would like very much to see you. Can I come over? You do not need to put me up. It would be good for me to speak with you for a bit, providing you are willing.
Yours,
Bernard T.
P.S. I may try to ring you before you receive this.
He would have to cable Bernard at once. Cable him what? A refusal would depress Bernard further, Tom supposed, although Tom certainly did not want to see him—not just now. Perhaps he could cable Bernard from a small town post office this morning, and give a false last name and address for himself, since the sender’s name and address were demanded at the bottom of French telegram forms. He must send Chris on his way as soon as possible, which he disliked doing. “Shall we shove off?”
Chris got up from the sofa, where he had been writing a postcard. “Fine.”
Tom opened the front door in the faces of two French police officers who had been about to knock. In fact, Tom stepped back from the upraised fist in the white glove.
“Bonjour. M. Reeply?”
“Yes. Come in, please.” They must be from Melun, Tom thought, because the two police in Villeperce knew him, and Tom knew their faces, too, but not these faces.
The agents came in but declined to sit down. They removed their caps, stuck them under their arms, and the younger officer pulled a tablet and pencil from a pocket.
“I telephoned you last evening in regard to a M. Murchison,” said the older officer, who was a
commissaire
. “We have spoken with London and after some telephone calls we ascertained that you and M. Murchison arrived at Orly on the same plane Wednesday and were also at the same hotel in London, the Mande
veel
. So—” The
commissaire
smiled with satisfaction. “You say you brought M. Murchison to Orly at three-thirty on Thursday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And you accompanied M. Murchison into the terminal?”
“No, because I couldn’t park my car at the pavement, you see, so I let him out.”
“Did you see him go through the doors of the terminal?”
Tom thought. “I did not look back as I drove away.”
“Because he left his suitcase on the pavement and he has simply disappeared. Was he expecting to meet someone at Orly?”
“He did not say anything about that.”
Christopher Greenleaf was standing some distance away, listening to all this, but Tom was sure he could not understand much.
“He mentioned friends in London he was going to see?”
“No. Not that I recall.”
“This morning we telephoned again to the Mande
veel
, where he was supposed to go, to ask if they had news. They informed us no, but a M.—” He turned to his colleague.
“M. Riemer,” the younger officer supplied.
“M. Riemer had telephoned to the hotel, because he had an appointment with M. Murchison on Friday. We also learned from the London police that M. Murchison is interested in verifying a painting in his possession. One by Derwatt. Do you know anything about this?”
“Oh, yes,” Tom said. “M. Murchison had his painting with him. He wanted to see my Derwatts here.” Tom indicated them on his walls. “That is why he came over from London with me.”
“Ah, I understand. How long have you known M. Murchison?”
“Since Tuesday last. I saw him at the art gallery, where the Derwatt exhibition is on, and then I saw him in my hotel that evening, and we began talking.” Tom turned and said, “Excuse me, Chris, but this is important.”
“Oh, go ahead, I don’t mind,” Chris said.
“Where is the painting of M. Murchison?”
“He took it with him,” Tom said.
“It was in his suitcase? It is not in his suitcase.” The
commissaire
looked at his colleague, and both men’s faces showed some surprise.
It had been stolen at Orly, and thank God, Tom thought. “It was wrapped in brown paper. M. Murchison was carrying it. I hope it wasn’t stolen.”
“Ah, well—apparently it is. What was the picture called? And how big was it? Can you describe it?”
Tom replied to all this accurately.
“This is complicated for us, and perhaps is a matter for the London police, but we must tell them all we can. This is the picture—‘L’Horloge’—of whose authenticity Murchison doubts?”
“Yes, he did doubt it at first. He is more of an expert than I am,” Tom said. “I was interested in what he said, because of my own two Derwatts, so I invited him to come to see them.”
“And—” The
commissaire
frowned in a puzzled way. “—what did he say about yours?” It might have been a question inspired by simple curiosity.
“Certainly he thinks mine are genuine and so do I,” Tom replied. “I think he began to think his own was genuine, too. He said he might cancel his appointment with M. Riemer.”
“Ah-hah.” The
commissaire
looked at the telephone, perhaps debating ringing Melun, but he did not ask to use the telephone.
“May I offer you a glass of wine?” Tom asked, including the two officers in his question.
They declined the wine, but they did wish to look at his paintings. Tom was pleased to show them. The two agents walked about, murmuring comments which might have been quite knowledgeable, judging from their fascinated faces and their gestures as they looked at canvases and drawings. They might have been visiting a gallery in their spare time.
“A famous painter in England, Derwatt,” said the younger officer.
“Yes,” Tom said.
The interview was over. They thanked Tom and took their leave.
Tom was glad Mme. Annette had been out on her morning shopping round.
Christopher laughed a little when Tom had closed the door. “Well, what was that all about? All I could understand was ‘Orly’ and ‘Murchison.’”
“It seems that Thomas Murchison, an American who visited me last week, didn’t take his plane back to London from Orly. He seems to have disappeared. And they found his suitcase on the pavement at Orly—where I left him Thursday.”
“Disappeared? Gosh!— That’s four days ago.”
“I didn’t know anything about it till last night. That was the telephone call I had last night. From the police.”
“Gosh. How strange.” Chris asked a few questions, and Tom answered them, as he had answered the police. “Sounds like he had a blackout, leaving his luggage like that. Was he sober?”
Tom laughed. “Absolutely. I can’t understand it.”
They rambled along the Seine in the Alfa Romeo, and near Samois, Tom showed Chris the bridge where General Patton had crossed the Seine with his army, on the way to Paris in 1944. Chris got out and read the inscription on the gray little column, and came back as wet-eyed as Tom after the grave of Keats. Lunch in Fontainebleau, because Tom disliked the main restaurant in Bas Samois—Chez Bertrand or some such—where he and Heloise had never yet received an honest
addition
, and where the family who ran it had the habit of starting to mop the floors before people were finished eating, dragging metal-legged chairs across tiles with merciless unconcern for the human ear. Later, Tom did not forget his little chores for Mme. Annette—
champignons à la grecque, céleri rémoulade
, and some sausages whose name Tom could not remember, because he did not care for them—things one could not buy in Villeperce. He got them in Fontainebleau, and also some batteries for his transistor.
On the way home, Chris burst out laughing and said, “This morning in the woods I came across what looked like a fresh grave. Really fresh. I thought it was funny because of the police this morning. They’re looking for a missing man who was at your house, and if they saw that
grave
shape in the woods—” He went off in guffaws.
Yes, it was funny, damned funny. Tom laughed at the crazy danger of it. But he made no comment.