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

water reflected on the ceiling in the living room. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the trees.
    “Big enough to drown in when it rains!” said Janice, noticing Tom’s glance.
    “How deep is that pond?”
    “Oh—five feet or so,” replied Pritchard. “Soggy bottom, I think. Not for wading.” He grinned; the square teeth showed.
    The grin might have seemed pleasant and naive, but Tom knew him better now. Tom descended the steps to the grass. “Thank you both. We’ll see each other soon, I hope.”
    “No doubt! Thanks for coming,” David said.
    Weirdos, Tom thought as he drove homeward. Or was he one hundred percent out of touch with America by now? Was there a couple like the Pritchards in every small town in the United States? With funny hang-ups? Just as there were young men and women—seventeen, nineteen years old—who ate until they were two meters and more in girth? These were to be found mostly in Florida and California, Tom had read somewhere. These extremists went on draconian diets after food binges, and once they had become skeletons started the cycle again. A form of self-obsession, Tom supposed.
    Tom’s gates were open, and he rolled onto the soothing crunch of Belle Ombre’s gray gravel forecourt, then into the garage at the left, parallel with the red Mercedes.
    Noelle Hassler and Heloise sat in the living room on the yellow sofa, and Noelle’s laugh rang out as merrily as ever. This evening Noelle’s dark hair was her own, longish and straight. She was fond of wigs—disguises, almost. Tom never knew what to expect.
    “The ladies!” he said. “Good evening, mesdames. How are you, Noelle?”
    “Bien, merci,” said Noelle, “et toi?”
    “We discuss life,” Heloise added in English.
    “Ah, the supreme subject,” Tom went on in French. “I hope I did not delay the dinner?”
    “Mais non, cheri!” said Heloise.
    Tom loved looking at her slender form on the sofa now, left foot bare and propped on her right knee. Heloise was such a contrast to the taut, writhing Janice Pritchard!
    “Because I’d like to make one telephone call before dinner, if I may.”
    “And why not?” said Heloise.
    “Excuse me.” Tom turned and went up the stairs to his own room, washed his hands quickly in his bathroom as was his wont after a disagreeable episode such as the one he’d just been through. His bathroom would be shared by Heloise tonight, he realized, as she gave hers to any guest they might have. Tom ascertained that the second door to the bathroom, giving on to Heloise’s bedroom, was unlocked. Damned unpleasant, that moment when the beefy Pritchard had said, “And suppose we kept you for a while?” and Janice had stared on, fixated. Would Janice have aided her husband? Tom thought she would have. Maybe like an automaton. Why?
    Tom flipped the hand towel back onto its rod, and went to his telephone. His brown leather address book was there, and he needed it, as he didn’t know Jeff Constant’s or Ed Banbury’s telephone numbers by heart.
    Jeff first. He was still living in NW8, where he had his photographic studio, as far as Tom knew. Tom’s watch said 7:22. He dialed.
    An answering machine came on after the third ring, and Tom seized a ballpoint, and wrote down another number: “… until nine p.m.,” Jeff’s voice said.
    That meant ten, Tom’s time. He dialed the number he’d been given. A male voice answered, and the background noise sounded as if a party were in progress.
    “Jeff Constant,” Tom repeated. “Is he there? He’s a photographer.”
    “Oh, the photographer! Just a moment, please. And your name?”
    Tom hated it. “Just say Tom, would you?”
    A fairly long wait before Jeff came on, sounding a bit out of breath. The party racket continued. “Oh, Tom! I was thinking of another Tom…Oh, it’s a wedding…after-the-ceremony reception. What’s new?”
    Tom was glad of the background noise now. Jeff had to shout and strain to hear. “Do you know of somebody