Read Online Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
Tags: Suspense
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advertised a passport photo studio, service fast and cheap. The old fellow wore an ancient overcoat, a limp hat, and a sordid unlit cigarette hung from between his lips. Get a passport for your cruise to the Greek islands, Tom thought, but this old guy was never going anywhere. Tom removed the cigarette butt and stuck a Gauloise between the man’s lips.
“Have a cigarette,” Tom said. “Here’s a light.” Tom lit it quickly with his matches.
“Ta,” said the man, through his beard.
Tom pushed the rest of the Gauloise pack, then his matches, into the torn pocket of the overcoat, and dashed away, his head ducked, hoping no one had seen him.
Tom rang Murchison from his room, and they met downstairs with their luggage.
“Been doing a little shopping for my wife this morning,” Murchison said in the taxi. He seemed in a good mood.
“Yes? So have I. A pair of Carnaby Street trousers.”
“For Harriet, it’s Marks and Spencer sweaters. And Liberty scarves. Sometimes balls of wool. She knits, and she likes to think the wool came from old England, y’know?”
“You canceled your appointment for this morning?”
“Yep. Made it for Friday morning. At the man’s house.”
At the airport, they had a rather good lunch with a bottle of claret. Murchison insisted on paying. During lunch Murchison told Tom about his son, who was an inventor working in a California laboratory. His son and daughter-in-law had just had their first baby. Murchison showed Tom a photograph of her, and laughed at himself for being a doting grandfather, but it was his first grandchild, named Karin after her grandmother on her maternal side. In answer to Murchison’s questions, Tom said he had chosen to live in France because he had married a French girl three years ago. Murchison was not blunt enough to ask how Tom earned his living, but he did ask how he spent his time.
“I read history,” Tom said casually. “I study German. Not to mention that my French still needs work. And gardening. I’ve got a pretty big garden in Villeperce. Also I paint,” he added, “just for my amusement.”
They were at Orly by 3 p.m., and Tom went off in the little gaso bus to fetch his car from the garage, and then he picked up Murchison near the taxi rank with their suitcases. The sun was shining, and it was not so cold as in England. Tom drove to Fontainebleau and went past the château so that Murchison could see it. Murchison said he hadn’t seen it in fifteen years. They reached Villeperce around 4:30 p.m.
“Where we buy most of our groceries,” Tom said, indicating a store on his left on the main village street.
“Very pretty. Unspoiled,” Murchison said. And when they came to Tom’s house: “Why, this is terrific! Really beautiful!”
“You should see it in summer,” Tom said, modestly.
Mme. Annette, hearing the car, came out to greet them and to help with the luggage, but Murchison could not bear to see a woman carrying the heavy things, only the little bags of cigarettes and spirits.
“Everything goes well, Mme. Annette?” Tom asked.
“Everything. Even the plumber came to repair the WC.”
One of the WCs had been dripping, Tom remembered.
Tom and Annette showed Murchison up to his room, which had an adjoining bath. It was actually Heloise’s bath, and her room was on the other side of the bath. Tom explained that his wife was in Greece now, with friends. He left Murchison to wash and to open his suitcase, and said he would be downstairs in the living room. Murchison was already gazing with interest at some drawings on the walls.
Tom went down and asked Mme. Annette to make some tea. He presented her with a bottle of toilet water from England, “Lake Mist”—which he had bought at Heathrow.
“Oh, M. Tome, comme vous êtes gentil !”
Tom smiled. Mme. Annette always made him feel grateful for her gratitude. “Good tournedos for tonight?”
“Ah, oui! And for dessert mousse au chocolat .”
Tom went into the living
“Have a cigarette,” Tom said. “Here’s a light.” Tom lit it quickly with his matches.
“Ta,” said the man, through his beard.
Tom pushed the rest of the Gauloise pack, then his matches, into the torn pocket of the overcoat, and dashed away, his head ducked, hoping no one had seen him.
Tom rang Murchison from his room, and they met downstairs with their luggage.
“Been doing a little shopping for my wife this morning,” Murchison said in the taxi. He seemed in a good mood.
“Yes? So have I. A pair of Carnaby Street trousers.”
“For Harriet, it’s Marks and Spencer sweaters. And Liberty scarves. Sometimes balls of wool. She knits, and she likes to think the wool came from old England, y’know?”
“You canceled your appointment for this morning?”
“Yep. Made it for Friday morning. At the man’s house.”
At the airport, they had a rather good lunch with a bottle of claret. Murchison insisted on paying. During lunch Murchison told Tom about his son, who was an inventor working in a California laboratory. His son and daughter-in-law had just had their first baby. Murchison showed Tom a photograph of her, and laughed at himself for being a doting grandfather, but it was his first grandchild, named Karin after her grandmother on her maternal side. In answer to Murchison’s questions, Tom said he had chosen to live in France because he had married a French girl three years ago. Murchison was not blunt enough to ask how Tom earned his living, but he did ask how he spent his time.
“I read history,” Tom said casually. “I study German. Not to mention that my French still needs work. And gardening. I’ve got a pretty big garden in Villeperce. Also I paint,” he added, “just for my amusement.”
They were at Orly by 3 p.m., and Tom went off in the little gaso bus to fetch his car from the garage, and then he picked up Murchison near the taxi rank with their suitcases. The sun was shining, and it was not so cold as in England. Tom drove to Fontainebleau and went past the château so that Murchison could see it. Murchison said he hadn’t seen it in fifteen years. They reached Villeperce around 4:30 p.m.
“Where we buy most of our groceries,” Tom said, indicating a store on his left on the main village street.
“Very pretty. Unspoiled,” Murchison said. And when they came to Tom’s house: “Why, this is terrific! Really beautiful!”
“You should see it in summer,” Tom said, modestly.
Mme. Annette, hearing the car, came out to greet them and to help with the luggage, but Murchison could not bear to see a woman carrying the heavy things, only the little bags of cigarettes and spirits.
“Everything goes well, Mme. Annette?” Tom asked.
“Everything. Even the plumber came to repair the WC.”
One of the WCs had been dripping, Tom remembered.
Tom and Annette showed Murchison up to his room, which had an adjoining bath. It was actually Heloise’s bath, and her room was on the other side of the bath. Tom explained that his wife was in Greece now, with friends. He left Murchison to wash and to open his suitcase, and said he would be downstairs in the living room. Murchison was already gazing with interest at some drawings on the walls.
Tom went down and asked Mme. Annette to make some tea. He presented her with a bottle of toilet water from England, “Lake Mist”—which he had bought at Heathrow.
“Oh, M. Tome, comme vous êtes gentil !”
Tom smiled. Mme. Annette always made him feel grateful for her gratitude. “Good tournedos for tonight?”
“Ah, oui! And for dessert mousse au chocolat .”
Tom went into the living
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