Read Online Ripley Under Water by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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regard to eggs. “Oeufs dorlotes? Remember the trouble I had translating? In the little porcelain cups. I know where they are.” Tom fetched them from a cupboard. There was a set of six.
“Ah, oui, M’sieur Tome! Je me souviens. Quatre minutes.”
“At least. But first I shall ask if the ladies want them. Yes, my coffee. Most welcome!” Tom waited the few seconds while Mme Annette poured from her ever-ready kettle of hot water into his filter coffee maker. Then he carried it on a tray into the living room.
Tom liked to stand and drink a cup while gazing out across the back lawn. His thoughts wandered, and he could also think about what the garden needed.
A few minutes later, Tom was out in his herb section, cutting some parsley, in case the coddled eggs idea met with approval. One dropped some cut parsley, plus butter and salt and pepper, into the cups with the raw egg in each, before screwing the lids on and immersing the jars in hot water.
“Allo, Tome! Working already? Good morning!” It was Noelle, dressed in black cotton slacks, sandals, and a purple shirt. Her English was not bad, Tom knew, but she nearly always spoke French to him.
“Morning. Very hard work.” Tom extended his parsley bouquet. “Would you like a taste?”
Noelle took a sprig and began nibbling. She had already applied her pale blue eyeshadow and her pale lipstick. “Ah, delicieux! You know,” she continued in French, “Heloise and I were talking last evening after dinner. I may join you in Tangier, if I can arrange a couple of matters in Paris. You two go next Friday. Maybe I can take off by Saturday. That is, if it doesn’t bother you. Maybe for five days—“
“But what a nice surprise!” Tom replied. “And you know the country. I think it’s a splendid idea.” Tom meant it.
The ladies did opt for coddled eggs, one egg each, and the cheerful breakfast required more toast and tea and coffee. They were just finished when Mme Annette came in from the direction of the kitchen with an announcement.
“M’sieur Tome, I believe I should tell you, there is a man across the road taking pictures of Belle Ombre.” She pronounced Belle Ombre with a certain reverence.
Tom was on his feet. “Excuse me,” he said to Heloise and Noelle. Tom had a suspicion who it was. “Thank you, Madame Annette.”
He went to the kitchen window to have a look. Yes, the sturdy David Pritchard was at work, stepping out of the shadow of the great leaning tree which Tom loved, opposite the house, into the sunlight, camera lifted to his eye.
“Perhaps he thinks it a pretty house,” Tom said to Mme Annette in a tone calmer than he felt. He could have shot David Pritchard gladly, if he’d had a rifle in the house, and of course if he could have got away with it. Tom gave a shrug.
“If you notice him on our grass,” Tom added with a smile, “that’s a different matter, and tell me.”
“M’sieur Tome—he may be a tourist but I believe he lives in Villeperce. I think he is the American who rented a house down there with his wife.” Mme Annette gestured, and in the right direction.
How news traveled in a small town, Tom thought, and most of the femmes de menage had no cars of their own, only windows and telephones. “Really,” said Tom, and felt at once guilty, as Mme Annette might know, or soon know, that he had been in this same American’s house yesterday evening at the aperitif hour. “Probably not important,” Tom said as he moved toward the living room.
He found Heloise and their guest looking out of a living-room front window, Noelle holding a long curtain back a little, smiling as she said something to Heloise . Tom was now sufficiently far from the kitchen not to be overheard by Mme Annette, but he still glanced behind him before he spoke. “That’s the American, by the way,” he said in French in a soft voice. “David Pritchard.”
“Where you were, cheri?” Heloise had whirled around to face him. “Why is he
“Ah, oui, M’sieur Tome! Je me souviens. Quatre minutes.”
“At least. But first I shall ask if the ladies want them. Yes, my coffee. Most welcome!” Tom waited the few seconds while Mme Annette poured from her ever-ready kettle of hot water into his filter coffee maker. Then he carried it on a tray into the living room.
Tom liked to stand and drink a cup while gazing out across the back lawn. His thoughts wandered, and he could also think about what the garden needed.
A few minutes later, Tom was out in his herb section, cutting some parsley, in case the coddled eggs idea met with approval. One dropped some cut parsley, plus butter and salt and pepper, into the cups with the raw egg in each, before screwing the lids on and immersing the jars in hot water.
“Allo, Tome! Working already? Good morning!” It was Noelle, dressed in black cotton slacks, sandals, and a purple shirt. Her English was not bad, Tom knew, but she nearly always spoke French to him.
“Morning. Very hard work.” Tom extended his parsley bouquet. “Would you like a taste?”
Noelle took a sprig and began nibbling. She had already applied her pale blue eyeshadow and her pale lipstick. “Ah, delicieux! You know,” she continued in French, “Heloise and I were talking last evening after dinner. I may join you in Tangier, if I can arrange a couple of matters in Paris. You two go next Friday. Maybe I can take off by Saturday. That is, if it doesn’t bother you. Maybe for five days—“
“But what a nice surprise!” Tom replied. “And you know the country. I think it’s a splendid idea.” Tom meant it.
The ladies did opt for coddled eggs, one egg each, and the cheerful breakfast required more toast and tea and coffee. They were just finished when Mme Annette came in from the direction of the kitchen with an announcement.
“M’sieur Tome, I believe I should tell you, there is a man across the road taking pictures of Belle Ombre.” She pronounced Belle Ombre with a certain reverence.
Tom was on his feet. “Excuse me,” he said to Heloise and Noelle. Tom had a suspicion who it was. “Thank you, Madame Annette.”
He went to the kitchen window to have a look. Yes, the sturdy David Pritchard was at work, stepping out of the shadow of the great leaning tree which Tom loved, opposite the house, into the sunlight, camera lifted to his eye.
“Perhaps he thinks it a pretty house,” Tom said to Mme Annette in a tone calmer than he felt. He could have shot David Pritchard gladly, if he’d had a rifle in the house, and of course if he could have got away with it. Tom gave a shrug.
“If you notice him on our grass,” Tom added with a smile, “that’s a different matter, and tell me.”
“M’sieur Tome—he may be a tourist but I believe he lives in Villeperce. I think he is the American who rented a house down there with his wife.” Mme Annette gestured, and in the right direction.
How news traveled in a small town, Tom thought, and most of the femmes de menage had no cars of their own, only windows and telephones. “Really,” said Tom, and felt at once guilty, as Mme Annette might know, or soon know, that he had been in this same American’s house yesterday evening at the aperitif hour. “Probably not important,” Tom said as he moved toward the living room.
He found Heloise and their guest looking out of a living-room front window, Noelle holding a long curtain back a little, smiling as she said something to Heloise . Tom was now sufficiently far from the kitchen not to be overheard by Mme Annette, but he still glanced behind him before he spoke. “That’s the American, by the way,” he said in French in a soft voice. “David Pritchard.”
“Where you were, cheri?” Heloise had whirled around to face him. “Why is he
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