Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online

you—or Derwatt. I’m just saying, I don’t think this is a Derwatt. I can’t tell you what happened .” Murchison looked at all of them in turn, a bit embarrassed by his own outburst, but still carried along by his conviction. “My theory is that a painter never reverts to a single color which he once used or any combination of colors once he has made a change to another color as subtle and yet as important as lavender is in Derwatt’s paintings. Do you agree, Derwatt?”
    Tom sighed and touched his mustache with a forefinger. “I can’t say. I’m not so much of a theoretician as you, it seems.”
    A pause.
    “Well, Mr. Murchison, what would you like us to do about ‘The Clock?’ Refund your money?” Jeff asked. “We’d be happy to do that, because—Derwatt has just verified it, and frankly it’s worth more than ten thousand dollars now.”
    Tom hoped Mr. Murchison would accept, but he was not that kind of man.
    Murchison took his time, pushed his hands into his trousers pockets and looked at Jeff. “Thank you, but I’m more interested in my theory—my opinion, than in the money. And since I’m in London, where there’re as good judges of painting as anywhere in the world, maybe the best, I intend to have ‘The Clock’ looked at by an expert and compared with—certain indisputable Derwatts.”
    “Very well,” said Tom amiably.
    “Thank you very much for seeing me, Derwatt. A pleasure to meet you.” Murchison held out his hand.
    Tom shook it firmly. “A pleasure, Mr. Murchison.”
    Ed helped Murchison wrap up his painting, and provided more string, as Murchison’s string would no longer tie.
    “Can I reach you through the gallery here?” Murchison said to Tom. “Say tomorrow?”
    “Oh, yes,” Tom said. “They’ll know where I am.”
    When Murchison had left the room, Jeff and Ed gave huge sighs.
    “Well—how serious is it?” Tom asked.
    Jeff knew more about pictures. He spoke first, with difficulty. “It’s serious if he drags in an expert, I suppose. And he will. He may have a point about the purples. One might call it a clue that could lead to worse.”
    Tom said, “Why don’t we go back to your studio, Jeff? Can you whisk me out the back door again—like Cinderella?”
    “Yep, but I want to speak to Leonard.” Jeff grinned. “I’ll drag him in to meet you.” He went out.
    The hum from the gallery was less now. Tom looked at Ed, whose face was a bit pale. I can disappear, but you can’t , Tom thought. Tom squared his shoulders, and lifted his fingers in a V. “Chin up, Banbury. We’ll see this one through.”
    “Or that’s what they’ll do to us ,” Ed replied, with a more vulgar gesture.
    Jeff came back with Leonard, a smallish, neat young man in an Edwardian suit with many buttons and velvet facings. Leonard burst into laughter at the sight of Derwatt, and Jeff shushed him.
    “It is marvelous, marvelous!” Leonard said, looking Tom over with a genuine admiration. “I’ve seen so many pictures, you know! I haven’t seen anything so good since I did Toulouse-Lautrec with my feet tied up behind me! That was last year.” Leonard stared at Tom. “Who are you?”
    “That,” Jeff said, “you are not to know. Suffice it to say—”
    “Suffice it to say,” Ed said, “Derwatt has just given a brilliant interview to the press.”
    “And tomorrow Derwatt is no more. He will return to Mexico,” Jeff said in a whisper. “Now back to your duties, Leonard.”
    “ Ciao ,” said Tom, raising a hand.
    “ Hommage ,” said Leonard, bowing. He backed toward the door, and added, “The crowd’s nearly all gone. So’s the booze.” He slipped out.
    Tom was not quite so cheerful. He very much wanted out of his disguise. The situation was a problem, not yet solved.
    Back at Jeff’s studio, they found that Bernard Tufts had gone. Ed and Jeff seemed surprised. And Tom was a little uneasy, because Bernard ought to know what was going on.
    “You can reach Bernard, of