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Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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lifted his head. Mere seconds had passed since he had seen the creepy Pritchards, and he was only now at his own unlocked door.
Mme Annette had by now cleared the breakfast table and was probably doing the most minor of chores in the kitchen, such as checking the black and white pepper supplies. Or she might even be in her own room, sewing for herself or a friend (she had an electric sewing machine), or writing a letter to her sister Marie-Odile in Lyons. Sunday was Sunday, and exerted its influence, Tom had noticed, also on him: one simply didn’t try to work as hard on Sunday. Monday was Mme Annette’s official day off.
Tom stared at the beige harpsichord with its black and beige keys. Their music teacher, Roger Lepetit, was coming Tuesday afternoon to give a lesson to them both. Tom was practicing some old English songs now, ballads, which he didn’t love as much as he loved Scarlatti, but the ballads were more personal, warmer, and of course a change. He liked to listen to, or overhear (Heloise did not like attention paid), Heloise ‘s efforts with Schubert. Her naivete, her goodwill, seemed to Tom to bring out a new dimension in the familiar tunes of the master. Tom was further amused by her Schubert playing, for the reason that M. Lepetit rather resembled the young Schubert—of course Schubert had always been young, Tom realized. M. Lepetit was under forty, somewhat soft and rotund, and wore rimless glasses, as had Schubert. Unmarried, he lived with his mother, as did the giant Henri, the gardener. What a difference in the men!
Stop dreaming, Tom told himself. What was he logically to expect from Pritchard’s photographic efforts this morning? Would the photographs or negatives be sent to the CIA, that organization which, as Tom recalled, JFK had once said he would like to see hanged, drawn and quartered? Or would David and Janice pore over the photos, some of them, perhaps, enlarged, giggle and chatter about invading the Ripley stronghold, which was apparently unguarded by dog or man? Would the Pritchards’ chatter be dreams or real plans?
What did they have against him, and why? What did they have to do with Murchison, or Murchison with them? Were they related? Tom couldn’t believe it. Murchison had been reasonably well educated, a cut above the Pritchards. Tom had also met his wife; she had come to Belle Ombre to meet Tom after her husband’s disappearance, and she and Tom had talked for an hour or so. A civilized woman, Tom remembered.
Creepy collectors, of sorts? The Pritchards had not asked for his autograph. Would they try to do some harm to Belle Ombre in his absence? Tom debated saying something to the police, that he’d seen a man who might be a prowler, and because the Ripleys were going to be away for a while -
Tom was still debating when Heloise returned.
Heloise was in good humor. “Cheri, why didn’t you ask this man—photographing—to come in? Prickard—”
“Pritchard, dear.”
“Pritchard. You were at his house. What’s the trouble?”
“He is not really friendly, Heloise.” Tom, who had been standing at the French windows that gave on to the back lawn, had taken a stance with feet slightly apart. He deliberately relaxed. “A boring little snoop,” Tom went on more calmly. “Fouineur—that’s what he is.”
“Why is he snooping?”
“I dunno, darling. I know—we must keep a distance—and ignore him. And his wife.”
The next morning, Monday, Tom chose a moment when Heloise was in her bath and telephoned the institute at Fontainebleau, where Pritchard had said he was taking courses in marketing. Tom took some time over this, saying first that he wished to speak with someone in the department of marketing studies. Tom was prepared to speak in French, but the woman who answered spoke English, and without an accent.
When Tom got the right person he asked if David Pritchard, an American, was in the building now, or could he leave a message. “In marketing, I
Mme Annette had by now cleared the breakfast table and was probably doing the most minor of chores in the kitchen, such as checking the black and white pepper supplies. Or she might even be in her own room, sewing for herself or a friend (she had an electric sewing machine), or writing a letter to her sister Marie-Odile in Lyons. Sunday was Sunday, and exerted its influence, Tom had noticed, also on him: one simply didn’t try to work as hard on Sunday. Monday was Mme Annette’s official day off.
Tom stared at the beige harpsichord with its black and beige keys. Their music teacher, Roger Lepetit, was coming Tuesday afternoon to give a lesson to them both. Tom was practicing some old English songs now, ballads, which he didn’t love as much as he loved Scarlatti, but the ballads were more personal, warmer, and of course a change. He liked to listen to, or overhear (Heloise did not like attention paid), Heloise ‘s efforts with Schubert. Her naivete, her goodwill, seemed to Tom to bring out a new dimension in the familiar tunes of the master. Tom was further amused by her Schubert playing, for the reason that M. Lepetit rather resembled the young Schubert—of course Schubert had always been young, Tom realized. M. Lepetit was under forty, somewhat soft and rotund, and wore rimless glasses, as had Schubert. Unmarried, he lived with his mother, as did the giant Henri, the gardener. What a difference in the men!
Stop dreaming, Tom told himself. What was he logically to expect from Pritchard’s photographic efforts this morning? Would the photographs or negatives be sent to the CIA, that organization which, as Tom recalled, JFK had once said he would like to see hanged, drawn and quartered? Or would David and Janice pore over the photos, some of them, perhaps, enlarged, giggle and chatter about invading the Ripley stronghold, which was apparently unguarded by dog or man? Would the Pritchards’ chatter be dreams or real plans?
What did they have against him, and why? What did they have to do with Murchison, or Murchison with them? Were they related? Tom couldn’t believe it. Murchison had been reasonably well educated, a cut above the Pritchards. Tom had also met his wife; she had come to Belle Ombre to meet Tom after her husband’s disappearance, and she and Tom had talked for an hour or so. A civilized woman, Tom remembered.
Creepy collectors, of sorts? The Pritchards had not asked for his autograph. Would they try to do some harm to Belle Ombre in his absence? Tom debated saying something to the police, that he’d seen a man who might be a prowler, and because the Ripleys were going to be away for a while -
Tom was still debating when Heloise returned.
Heloise was in good humor. “Cheri, why didn’t you ask this man—photographing—to come in? Prickard—”
“Pritchard, dear.”
“Pritchard. You were at his house. What’s the trouble?”
“He is not really friendly, Heloise.” Tom, who had been standing at the French windows that gave on to the back lawn, had taken a stance with feet slightly apart. He deliberately relaxed. “A boring little snoop,” Tom went on more calmly. “Fouineur—that’s what he is.”
“Why is he snooping?”
“I dunno, darling. I know—we must keep a distance—and ignore him. And his wife.”
The next morning, Monday, Tom chose a moment when Heloise was in her bath and telephoned the institute at Fontainebleau, where Pritchard had said he was taking courses in marketing. Tom took some time over this, saying first that he wished to speak with someone in the department of marketing studies. Tom was prepared to speak in French, but the woman who answered spoke English, and without an accent.
When Tom got the right person he asked if David Pritchard, an American, was in the building now, or could he leave a message. “In marketing, I
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