Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page B

so, he said.
    “What’re you going to do?” Ed asked.
    Tom smiled a little, “I don’t know just yet,” he said, which was true.

4
    T he Hotel Mandeville was rather plush, but by no means as expensive as the Dorchester. Tom arrived at 8:15 p.m. and registered, giving his address as Villeperce-sur-Seine. It had crossed his mind to give a false name and some English country address, because he might get into considerable difficulties with Mr. Murchison and have to disappear quickly, but there was also the possibility of inviting Murchison to France, in which case Tom might need his real name. Tom asked a bellhop to take his suitcase to his room, and then he looked into the bar, hoping Mr. Murchison might be there. Mr. Murchison was not there, but Tom decided to have a lager and wait a few moments.
    A ten-minute wait with a lager and an Evening Standard brought no Mr. Murchison. The neighborhood was full of restaurants, Tom knew, but he could hardly approach Murchison’s table and strike up an acquaintance on the strength of saying he had seen Murchison at the Derwatt show that day. Or could he—saying he had also seen Murchison going into the back room to meet Derwatt? Yes. Tom was just about to venture out to explore the local restaurants, when he saw Mr. Murchison coming into the bar, gesturing to someone to follow him.
    And to Tom’s surprise, horror even, he saw that the other person was Bernard Tufts. Tom slipped quickly out of the door on the other side of the bar, which opened onto the pavement. Bernard hadn’t seen him, Tom was fairly sure. He looked around for a telephone booth, for another hotel from which to telephone, and, finding none, he went back into the Mandeville by the main entrance and took his key for his room, number four eleven.
    In his room, Tom rang Jeff’s studio. Three rings, four, five, then to Tom’s relief, Jeff answered.
    “Hello, Tom! I was just going down the stairs with Ed when I heard the phone. What’s up?”
    “Do you happen to know where Bernard is now?”
    “Oh, we’re leaving him alone tonight. He’s upset.”
    “He’s having a drink with Murchison in the bar of the Mandeville.”
    “ What ?”
    “I’m ringing from my room. Now whatever you do, Jeff— Are you listening?”
    “Yes-yes.”
    “Don’t tell Bernard I saw him. Don’t tell Bernard I’m at the Mandeville. And don’t get in a flap about anything. That’s providing Bernard isn’t spilling the beans now, I don’t know.”
    “Oh, my God,” Jeff groaned. “No-no. Bernard wouldn’t spill the beans . I don’t think he would.”
    “Are you in later tonight?”
    “Yes, by— Oh, home before midnight, anyway.”
    “I’ll try to ring you. But don’t be worried if I don’t. Don’t try to ring me because—I just might have somebody in my room.” Tom said with a sudden laugh.
    Jeff laughed, but a bit sickly, “Okay, Tom.”
    Tom hung up.
    He definitely wanted to see Murchison tonight. Would Murchison and Bernard have dinner? That would be a bore to wait out. Tom hung up a suit and stuck a couple of shirts in a drawer. He splashed some more water on his face and looked in the mirror to make sure every bit of glue was gone.
    Out of restlessness, he left his room, his topcoat over his arm. He would take a walk, to Soho perhaps, and find a place for dinner. In the lobby, he looked through the glass doors of the Mandeville bar.
    He was in luck. Murchison sat alone, signing the bill, and the street door of the bar was just closing, perhaps even with Bernard’s departure. Still, Tom glanced around in the lobby, in case Bernard had slipped out to the men’s room and might be coming back. Tom did not see Bernard, and he waited until Murchison was actually standing up to leave before he went into the bar. Tom looked depressed and thoughtful, and in fact he felt that way. He looked twice at Murchison, whose eyes met his once, as if he were recalling Murchison from somewhere.
    Then Tom approached him.