Read Online Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online

and rang Jeff’s studio.
    Jeff answered at once. “Hello. What’s up?”
    “I spoke with Mr. M. tonight, and we got along fine. He’s coming to France with me tomorrow. So that will delay things, you see.”
    “And—you’ll try to persuade him or something, you mean.”
    “Yes. Something like that.”
    “Want me to come to your hotel, Tom? You’re probably too tired to pop over here. Or are you?”
    “No, but there’s no need. And you might just run into Mr. M. if you came here, and we don’t want that.”
    “No.”
    “Did you hear from Bernard?” Tom asked.
    “No.”
    “Please tell him—” Tom tried to find the right words. “Tell him that you—not me—happen to know Mr. M. is going to wait a few days before he does anything about his painting. I’m mainly concerned that Bernard doesn’t blow up. Will you try to take care of that?”
    “Why don’t you speak to Bernard?”
    “Because it would be wrong,” Tom said somewhat crossly. Some people had no inkling of psychology!
    “Tom, you were marvelous today,” Jeff said. “Thank you.”
    Tom smiled, gratified by Jeff’s ecstatic tone. “Take care of Bernard. I’ll ring you before I take off.”
    “I expect to be in my studio all morning tomorrow.”
    They said good night.
    If he had told Jeff about Murchison’s intention to ask for receipts, the records of paintings sent from Mexico, Jeff would have been in a tizzy, Tom thought. He must warn Jeff about that tomorrow morning, ring him from a pavement telephone booth, or from a post office. Tom was wary of hotel switchboard listeners. Of course, he hoped to dissuade Murchison from his theory, but if he couldn’t, it would be just as well if the Buckmaster Gallery made some records that looked authentic.

5
    T he next morning, breakfasting in bed—a privilege for which one paid a few Puritan shillings extra in England—Tom rang Mme. Annette. It was only eight o’clock, but Tom knew she would have been up for nearly an hour, singing as she went about her chores of turning up the heat (a little gauge in the kitchen), making her delicate infusion (tea), because coffee in the morning made her heart beat fast, and adjusting her plants on various windowsills so they would catch the most sun. And she would be mightily pleased by a coup de fil from him in Londres.
    “’Allo!— ’Allo— ’allo! ” Operator furious.
    “’Allo?” Quizzical.
    “ ’Allo! ”
    Three French operators were on the telephone at once, plus the woman at the Mandeville switchboard.
    At last, Mme. Annette came on. “It is very beautiful here this morning. Sunlight!” Mme. Annette said.
    Tom smiled. He badly needed a voice of cheer. “Mme. Annette . . . Yes, I am very well, thank you. How is the tooth? . . . Good! I am telephoning to say I will be home this afternoon around four with an American gentleman.”
    “Ah-h!” said Mme. Annette, pleased.
    “Our guest for tonight, perhaps for two nights, who knows? Will you prepare the guest room nicely? With some flowers? And for dinner perhaps tournedos with your own delicious béarnaise ?”
    Mme. Annette sounded delirious with joy that Tom would have a guest and she would have something definite to do.
    Then Tom rang Mr. Murchison, and they agreed to meet in the hotel lobby around noon and to take a taxi together to Heathrow.
    Tom went out, intending to walk to Berkeley Square, off which was a haberdashery where he bought a pair of silk pajamas as a small ritual nearly every time he came to London. It might also be his last chance this trip for a ride on the Underground. The Underground was a part of the atmosphere of London life, and Tom also was an admirer of Underground graffiti. The sun was struggling rather hopelessly through a wet haze, though it was not actually raining. Tom ducked into Bond Street station along with some last stragglers, perhaps, of the morning rush hour. What Tom admired about London graffiti-writers was their ability to scrawl things