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Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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photographing us?”
Indeed, Pritchard hadn’t stopped, had moved across the road to where the famous lane began, no-man’s land. There were trees and bushes near. Pritchard would not be able to get a clear picture of the house from the lane.
“I don’t know, dear, but he’s the type who loves to irritate others. He’d love for me to go out and show some annoyance, which is why I prefer to say nothing.” He gave Noelle an amused glance, and walked back to the dining area where his cigarettes lay on the table.
“I think he saw us—looking out,” said Heloise in English.
“Good,” Tom replied, relishing his first cigarette of the day. “Really, he’d like nothing better than for me to go out and ask him why he’s taking photographs!”
“What a strange man!” Noelle said.
“Indeed,” Tom replied.
“He didn’t say last evening he wanted to take pictures of your house?” Noelle went on.
Tom shook his head. “No. Let’s forget him. I asked Madame Annette to tell me if he sets foot on—on our land.”
They did talk of other things—traveler’s checks versus Visa cards for North African countries. Tom said he preferred a little of both.
“A little of both?” asked Noelle.
“You find hotels that won’t take Visa, only American Express, for instance,” Tom said.
“But—a traveler’s check can always do it.” He was near the French windows at the terrace, and he took the opportunity to scan the lawn from the left, where the lane was, to the right corner where the greenhouse squatted in tranquillity. No sign of a human figure or of movement. Tom saw that Heloise had noticed his concern. Where had Pritchard left his car, Tom wondered. Or had Janice dropped him and was she going to swoop by and pick him up?
The ladies consulted a timetable for the trains to Paris. Heloise wanted to drive Noelle to Moret, where there was a train direct to the Gare de Lyon. Tom offered to do it, but it seemed that Heloise really wanted to drive her friend. Noelle had the smallest of overnight cases, and was already packed, and she was downstairs in a trice with it.
“Thank you, Tome!” said Noelle. “So it seems we shall see one another sooner than usual—in just six more days!” She laughed.
“Let us hope. That’ll be fun.” Tom wanted to carry her case, but Noelle wouldn’t let him.
Tom walked out with them, and watched the red Mercedes turn left and head toward the village. Then he saw a white car approaching from the left, slowing, and a figure stepped out from the bushes into the road—Pritchard in rumpled tan summer jacket and dark trousers. He got into the white car. Now Tom stepped behind a conveniently tall hedge at one side of the gates of Belle Ombre, a hedge taller than a Pots-darner guard, and waited.
The self-assured Pritchards cruised by, David grinning at the excitable Janice, who was looking at him rather than at the road. Pritchard glanced at the open gates of Belle Ombre, and Tom almost wished he had dared to order Janice to stop, back up and drive in—Tom felt like taking them both on with his fists—but apparently Pritchard did not give such an order, because the car rolled slowly away. The white Peugeot had a Paris license, Tom noticed.
What was left of Murchison by now, Tom wondered. The flow of the river over the years, slow and steady, would have done as much or more than predatory fish to diminish Murchison. Tom was not sure there were types of fish in the Loing there that would be interested in flesh, unless of course there were eels. Tom had heard—he checked his sickening thoughts. He did not want to imagine it. Two rings, Tom recalled, which he had decided to leave on the dead man’s fingers. The stones just might have held the corpse in the same spot. Would the head have come loose from the neck bones, and rolled away on its own somewhere, dispelling dental identification? The tarpaulin or canvas would certainly have rotted.
Stop it! Tom told himself, and
Indeed, Pritchard hadn’t stopped, had moved across the road to where the famous lane began, no-man’s land. There were trees and bushes near. Pritchard would not be able to get a clear picture of the house from the lane.
“I don’t know, dear, but he’s the type who loves to irritate others. He’d love for me to go out and show some annoyance, which is why I prefer to say nothing.” He gave Noelle an amused glance, and walked back to the dining area where his cigarettes lay on the table.
“I think he saw us—looking out,” said Heloise in English.
“Good,” Tom replied, relishing his first cigarette of the day. “Really, he’d like nothing better than for me to go out and ask him why he’s taking photographs!”
“What a strange man!” Noelle said.
“Indeed,” Tom replied.
“He didn’t say last evening he wanted to take pictures of your house?” Noelle went on.
Tom shook his head. “No. Let’s forget him. I asked Madame Annette to tell me if he sets foot on—on our land.”
They did talk of other things—traveler’s checks versus Visa cards for North African countries. Tom said he preferred a little of both.
“A little of both?” asked Noelle.
“You find hotels that won’t take Visa, only American Express, for instance,” Tom said.
“But—a traveler’s check can always do it.” He was near the French windows at the terrace, and he took the opportunity to scan the lawn from the left, where the lane was, to the right corner where the greenhouse squatted in tranquillity. No sign of a human figure or of movement. Tom saw that Heloise had noticed his concern. Where had Pritchard left his car, Tom wondered. Or had Janice dropped him and was she going to swoop by and pick him up?
The ladies consulted a timetable for the trains to Paris. Heloise wanted to drive Noelle to Moret, where there was a train direct to the Gare de Lyon. Tom offered to do it, but it seemed that Heloise really wanted to drive her friend. Noelle had the smallest of overnight cases, and was already packed, and she was downstairs in a trice with it.
“Thank you, Tome!” said Noelle. “So it seems we shall see one another sooner than usual—in just six more days!” She laughed.
“Let us hope. That’ll be fun.” Tom wanted to carry her case, but Noelle wouldn’t let him.
Tom walked out with them, and watched the red Mercedes turn left and head toward the village. Then he saw a white car approaching from the left, slowing, and a figure stepped out from the bushes into the road—Pritchard in rumpled tan summer jacket and dark trousers. He got into the white car. Now Tom stepped behind a conveniently tall hedge at one side of the gates of Belle Ombre, a hedge taller than a Pots-darner guard, and waited.
The self-assured Pritchards cruised by, David grinning at the excitable Janice, who was looking at him rather than at the road. Pritchard glanced at the open gates of Belle Ombre, and Tom almost wished he had dared to order Janice to stop, back up and drive in—Tom felt like taking them both on with his fists—but apparently Pritchard did not give such an order, because the car rolled slowly away. The white Peugeot had a Paris license, Tom noticed.
What was left of Murchison by now, Tom wondered. The flow of the river over the years, slow and steady, would have done as much or more than predatory fish to diminish Murchison. Tom was not sure there were types of fish in the Loing there that would be interested in flesh, unless of course there were eels. Tom had heard—he checked his sickening thoughts. He did not want to imagine it. Two rings, Tom recalled, which he had decided to leave on the dead man’s fingers. The stones just might have held the corpse in the same spot. Would the head have come loose from the neck bones, and rolled away on its own somewhere, dispelling dental identification? The tarpaulin or canvas would certainly have rotted.
Stop it! Tom told himself, and
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