Ripley Under Water by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page A

cigarette. She looked constantly from her husband to Tom and back.
    And what did that mean—that Cynthia had blabbed the whole story out to Janice and David Pritchard? Tom simply could not believe that. If so, let the Pritchards say it right out: the Buckmaster Gallery people are phony as to the last sixty-odd Derwatts.
    “Is she married now?” Tom asked.
    “I think so, isn’t she, David?” asked Janice, and rubbed her right arm above the elbow with the palm of her hand for a few seconds.
    “I forget,” David said. “She was alone the—the couple of times we saw her, anyway.”
    Saw her where, Tom wondered. And who had introduced Cynthia to them? But Tom was shy about probing further. Were Janice’s arms bruised, Tom wondered. Was that the reason for the rather quaint long-sleeved cotton blouse on this hot August day? To hide bruises inflicted by her aggressive husband? “You go often to art exhibitions?” Tom asked.
    “Art—ha-ha!” David, after a glance at his wife, had given a genuine laugh.
    Cigaretteless, Janice was again twiddling her fingers, and her knees were pressed together. “Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?”
    “What’s more pleasant than art?” Tom asked, smiling. “The pleasure of looking at a Cezanne landscape! Chestnut trees, a country road—those warm orange colors in the house roofs.” Tom gave a laugh, and it was good-natured. Time he was leaving, but he tried to think what to say in order to learn more. He accepted a second cheese canape when Janice extended the plate. Tom was not going to say anything about Jeff Constant, a photographer, and Ed Banbury, a freelance journalist, who years ago had bought the Buckmaster Gallery on the strength of Bernard Tufts’s forgeries and the profit they would derive from them. Tom also was deriving a percentage from Derwatt sales, a sum merely steady in recent years, but that was normal, considering no more forgeries were coming since Bernard Tufts’s death.
    Tom’s sincere remark on Cezanne might have fallen on deaf ears. He took a glance at his wristwatch. “Thinking of my wife,” Tom said. “I must be getting home.”
    “And suppose we kept you for a while?” said David.
    “Kept me?” Tom was on his feet now.
    “Didn’t let you out.”
    “Oh, David! Games with Mr. Ripley?” Janice writhed with apparent embarrassment, but she was grinning with her head tipped sideways. “Mr. Ripley doesn’t like games!” Her voice had gone shrill again.
    “Mr. Ripley’s very fond of games,” said David Pritchard. Now he was sitting upright on the sofa, his sturdy thighs in evidence, big hands on his hips. “You couldn’t leave now, if we didn’t want you to leave. And I know judo too.”
    “Really.” The front door, or the door Tom had come in by, was some six meters behind him, he thought. He didn’t relish a fight with Pritchard, but was ready to defend himself if it came to that. He’d grab the heavy ashtray between them now, for instance. An ashtray in the forehead had done for Freddie Miles in Rome good and proper. One blow. Dead was Freddie. Tom gazed at Pritchard. A bore, an overweight, everyday, mediocre bore. “I’ll be off. Many thanks, Janice. And Mr. Pritchard.” Tom smiled and turned.
    Tom heard nothing behind him, and turned again in the doorway that led to the hall. Mr. Pritchard was merely strolling toward him, as if his game was forgotten. Janice fluttered near. “Are you people finding everything you need in the neighborhood?” Tom asked. “Supermarket? Hardware shop? Moret’s still the best bet for everything. Nearest, anyway.”
    Affirmative replies.
    “Ever hear from the Greenleaf family?” asked David Pritchard, throwing his head back as if to increase his height.
    “Now and then. Yes.” Tom still wore his bland expression. “Do you know Mr. Greenleaf?”
    “Which one?” asked David, jokingly and a bit roughly.
    “Then you don’t,” said Tom. He looked up at the circle of quivering