Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith

cart, and now he straightened up. “They did. But it’s such trouble, you know, shipping and insuring. I lent ‘The Red Chairs’ for a show two years ago.”
    “I may buy a Derwatt,” said the Count thoughtfully. “That is if I can afford one. It will have to be a small one, at his prices.”
    Tom poured a straight scotch on ice for himself.
    The telephone rang.
    “Excuse me,” Tom said, and answered it.
    Eduardo was walking about, looking at other things on the walls.
    It was Reeves Minot. He asked if the Count had arrived, then if Tom were alone.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “It’s in the—”
    “I can’t quite hear.”
    “ Toothpaste ,” Reeves said.
    “O-oh.” It was almost a groan from Tom, of fatigue, contempt, boredom even. Was this a child’s game? Or something in a lousy film? “Very good. And the address? Same as last time?” Tom had an address in Paris, three or four actually, where he had sent Reeves’s items on other occasions.
    “That’ll do. The last one. Is everything all right?”
    “Yes, I think so, thank you,” Tom said pleasantly. He might have suggested Reeves have a word with the Count, just to be friendly, but it was probably better the Count didn’t know that Reeves had rung. Tom felt quite off his form, off on the wrong foot. “Thanks for ringing.”
    “No need to ring me if everything’s okay,” said Reeves and hung up.
    “Would you excuse me a second, Eduardo,” Tom said, and ran upstairs.
    He went into the Count’s room. One of his suitcases was open on the antique wood-box where guests and Mme. Annette usually put suitcases, but Tom looked first in the bathroom. The Count had not put out his toilet articles. Tom went to the suitcase and found an opaque plastic bag with a zipper. He tried this and ran into tobacco. There was another plastic bag in which were shaving gear, toothbrush and toothpaste, and he took the toothpaste. The end of the tube was a little rough, but sealed. Reeves’s man probably had some kind of clamp with which to seal the metal again. Tom squeezed the tube cautiously and felt a hard lump near the end of it. He shook his head in disgust, pocketed the toothpaste, replaced the plastic kit. He went to his own room and put the toothpaste at the back of his top left drawer, which contained a stud box and a lot of starched collars.
    Tom rejoined the Count downstairs.
    During dinner they talked about Derwatt’s surprising return, and his interview which the Count had read in the press.
    “He’s living in Mexico, isn’t he?” Tom asked.
    “Yes. And he won’t say where. Like B. Traven, you know. Ha! Ha!”
    The Count praised the dinner and ate heartily. He had the European faculty of being able to talk with his mouth full, which no American could manage without looking or feeling extremely messy.
    After dinner, the Count, seeing Tom’s gramophone, expressed a desire for some music, and chose Pelléas et Mélisande . The Count wanted the third act—the duet, somewhat hectic, between soprano and deep male voice. While listening, even singing along, the Count managed to talk.
    Tom tried to pay attention to the Count and to exclude the music, but Tom always found it hard to exclude music. He was in no mood for Pelléas et Mélisande . What he needed was the music from A Midsummer Night’s Dream , the fabulous overture, and now as the other thing played on with a heavy drama, Mendelssohn’s overture danced in Tom’s inner ear—nervous, comic, full of invention. He desperately needed to be full of invention.
    They were dipping into the brandy. Tom suggested that tomorrow morning they might take a drive and lunch at Moret-sur-Loing. Eduardo had said he wanted to take an afternoon train to Paris. But first he wanted to make sure he had seen all Tom’s art treasures, so Tom took him on a tour of the house. Even in Heloise’s room, there was a Marie Laurencin.
    Then they said good night, and Eduardo retired with a couple of Tom’s art books.
    In his