Read Online Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
Tags: Suspense
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from moving escalators. Underwear posters abounded on the escalator routes, nothing but girls in girdles and panties, and they were adorned by anatomical additions male and female, sometimes whole phrases: I LOVE BEING HERMAPHRODITE! How did they do it? By running in an opposite direction from the escalator’s while writing? WOGS OUT! was a favorite everywhere, varied by WOGS OUT NOW! Down on the train platform, Tom spotted a poster for the Zeffirelli Romeo and Juliet with Romeo naked on his back and Juliet crawling over him with a shocking proposal coming out of her mouth. Romeo’s reply in a balloon was “Okay, why don’t you?”
Tom had his pajamas by 10:30. He bought a yellow pair. He had wanted purple, as he had none now, but he had heard enough about purple lately. Tom took a taxi to Carnaby Street. For himself, he bought a pair of narrow satin-like trousers, as he did not care for flared cuffs. And for Heloise flared hipsters of black wool, waist twenty-six. The booth where Tom tried on his own trousers was so tiny, he could not step back from the mirror to see if the length was right, but Mme. Annette loved to adjust little things like that for him and Heloise. Besides, two Italians who kept saying “ Bellissimo! ”were pulling back the curtain every few seconds, wanting to come in and try on their own gear. When Tom was paying, two Greeks arrived and began discussing prices loudly in drachmas. The shop was about six feet by twelve, and no wonder there was only one assistant, because there would have been no room for two.
With his purchases in big crisp paper bags, Tom went to a pavement telephone booth and rang Jeff Constant.
“I spoke to Bernard,” Jeff said, “and he’s absolutely terrified of Murchison. I asked him what he said to Murchison, because Bernard told me he’d spoken with Murchison, you see. Bernard said he’d told Murchison not to buy any more—paintings. That’s bad enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “And what else?”
“Well—I tried to tell Bernard he’d already said all he could or should. It’s difficult to explain because you don’t know Bernard, but he’s got such a guilt thing about Derwatt’s genius and all that. I tried to convince Bernard that he’d eased his own conscience by saying that to Murchison, and why not let well enough alone?”
“What did Bernard say to that?”
“He’s so down in the mouth, it’s hard to tell what he said. The show was a sellout, you see, except for one picture. Imagine! And Bernard feels guilty about that!” Jeff laughed. “‘The Tub.’ It’s one of the ones Murchison is picking on.”
“If he doesn’t want to paint more just now, don’t force him.”
“That’s exactly my attitude. You’re so right, Tom. But I think in about a fortnight, he’ll be on his feet again. Painting. It’s the strain of the show, and seeing you as Derwatt. He thinks more of Derwatt than most people do of Jesus Christ.”
Tom didn’t have to be told that. “One small thing, Jeff. Murchison may want to see the gallery’s books for Derwatt’s paintings. From Mexico. Do you keep some kind of record?”
“N-not from Mexico.”
“Can you fake something? Just in case I can’t persuade him to drop the whole thing?”
“I’ll try, Tom.” Jeff sounded a bit off balance.
Tom was impatient. “Fake something. Age it. Regardless of Mr. M., isn’t it a good idea to have a few books to substantiate—” Tom broke off. Some people didn’t know how to run a business, even a successful business like Derwatt Ltd.
“All right, Tom.”
Tom detoured to the Burlington Arcade, where he stopped in a jewelry shop and bought a gold pin—a little crouched monkey—for Heloise, which he paid for with American traveler’s checks. Heloise’s birthday was next month. Then he walked on toward his hotel, via Oxford Street, which was crowded as usual with shoppers, women with bulging bags and boxes, children in tow. A sandwich man
Tom had his pajamas by 10:30. He bought a yellow pair. He had wanted purple, as he had none now, but he had heard enough about purple lately. Tom took a taxi to Carnaby Street. For himself, he bought a pair of narrow satin-like trousers, as he did not care for flared cuffs. And for Heloise flared hipsters of black wool, waist twenty-six. The booth where Tom tried on his own trousers was so tiny, he could not step back from the mirror to see if the length was right, but Mme. Annette loved to adjust little things like that for him and Heloise. Besides, two Italians who kept saying “ Bellissimo! ”were pulling back the curtain every few seconds, wanting to come in and try on their own gear. When Tom was paying, two Greeks arrived and began discussing prices loudly in drachmas. The shop was about six feet by twelve, and no wonder there was only one assistant, because there would have been no room for two.
With his purchases in big crisp paper bags, Tom went to a pavement telephone booth and rang Jeff Constant.
“I spoke to Bernard,” Jeff said, “and he’s absolutely terrified of Murchison. I asked him what he said to Murchison, because Bernard told me he’d spoken with Murchison, you see. Bernard said he’d told Murchison not to buy any more—paintings. That’s bad enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “And what else?”
“Well—I tried to tell Bernard he’d already said all he could or should. It’s difficult to explain because you don’t know Bernard, but he’s got such a guilt thing about Derwatt’s genius and all that. I tried to convince Bernard that he’d eased his own conscience by saying that to Murchison, and why not let well enough alone?”
“What did Bernard say to that?”
“He’s so down in the mouth, it’s hard to tell what he said. The show was a sellout, you see, except for one picture. Imagine! And Bernard feels guilty about that!” Jeff laughed. “‘The Tub.’ It’s one of the ones Murchison is picking on.”
“If he doesn’t want to paint more just now, don’t force him.”
“That’s exactly my attitude. You’re so right, Tom. But I think in about a fortnight, he’ll be on his feet again. Painting. It’s the strain of the show, and seeing you as Derwatt. He thinks more of Derwatt than most people do of Jesus Christ.”
Tom didn’t have to be told that. “One small thing, Jeff. Murchison may want to see the gallery’s books for Derwatt’s paintings. From Mexico. Do you keep some kind of record?”
“N-not from Mexico.”
“Can you fake something? Just in case I can’t persuade him to drop the whole thing?”
“I’ll try, Tom.” Jeff sounded a bit off balance.
Tom was impatient. “Fake something. Age it. Regardless of Mr. M., isn’t it a good idea to have a few books to substantiate—” Tom broke off. Some people didn’t know how to run a business, even a successful business like Derwatt Ltd.
“All right, Tom.”
Tom detoured to the Burlington Arcade, where he stopped in a jewelry shop and bought a gold pin—a little crouched monkey—for Heloise, which he paid for with American traveler’s checks. Heloise’s birthday was next month. Then he walked on toward his hotel, via Oxford Street, which was crowded as usual with shoppers, women with bulging bags and boxes, children in tow. A sandwich man
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