Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith Page B

would perhaps have an address book, some old envelope in his suitcase. By tomorrow, Murchison might be declared “missing.” Or the day after tomorrow. The Tate Gallery man was expecting Murchison tomorrow morning. Tom wondered if Murchison had told anyone that he was going to stay with Tom Ripley? Tom hoped not.

7
    F riday was sunny and cool, though not cool enough to be called crisp. Tom and Eduardo breakfasted in the living room near the French windows through which the sun came. The Count was in pajamas and dressing gown, which he would not be wearing, he said, if there were a lady in the house, but he hoped Tom did not mind.
    A little after 10 a.m., the Count went up to dress, and came downstairs with his suitcases, ready to take off for a drive before lunch. “I wonder if I can borrow some toothpaste,” said Eduardo. “I think I forgot mine in my hotel in Milano. Very stupid of me.”
    Tom had been expecting the Count to ask this, and was rather glad that he had, at last. Tom went to speak with Mme. Annette who was in the kitchen. Since the Count’s toilet kit was in his suitcase downstairs, Tom supposed, Tom thought it best to show him the spare loo with the basin. Mme. Annette brought some toothpaste to him.
    The post arrived, and Tom excused himself to glance at it. A postcard from Heloise, saying nothing really. And another letter from Christopher Greenleaf. Tom tore this open. It said:
    Oct. 15, 19——
    Dear Mr. Ripley,
    I just found out I can get a charter flight to Paris so I am coming earlier than I thought. I hope you are home just now. I am flying with a friend, Gerald Hayman, also my age, but I assure you I will not bring him to meet you because that might be a drag although he’s a nice fellow. I am arriving in Paris Sat. 19th Oct. and will try to call you. Of course I will spend Saturday night in a Paris hotel somewhere, as the plane gets in 7 p.m. French time.
    Meanwhile, greetings and yours sincerely,
    Chris Greenleaf
    Saturday was tomorrow. At least Chris wasn’t going to arrive here tomorrow. Good God, Tom thought, all he needed now was for Bernard to turn up. Tom thought of asking Mme. Annette not to answer the telephone for the next two days, but that would seem strange, and would furthermore annoy Mme. Annette, who received at least one telephone call a day from one of her friends, usually Mme. Yvonne, another housekeeper in the village.
    “Bad news?” asked Eduardo.
    “Oh, no, not in the least,” Tom replied. He had to get Murchison’s body out. Preferably tonight. And of course he could put Chris off, tell him he was busy at least until Tuesday. Tom had a vision of French police walking in tomorrow, looking for Murchison, and finding him within seconds in the most logical place, the cellar.
    Tom went into the kitchen to say good-bye to Mme. Annette. She was polishing a big silver tureen and a lot of soup spoons, all adorned with Heloise’s family’s initials, P.F.P. “I’m off for a little tour. M. the Count is leaving. Shall I bring anything back for the house?”
    “If you find some really fresh parsley, M. Tome—”
    “I’ll remember it. Persil . I shall return before five o’clock, I think. Dinner tonight by myself. Something simple.”
    “Shall I help with the valises?” Mme. Annette stood up. “I don’t know where my mind is today.”
    Tom assured her it was not necessary, but she came out to say good-bye to the Count—who bowed to her and paid compliments in French on her cooking.
    They drove to Nemours, looked at the marketplace with its fountain, then went northward along the Loing to Moret, whose one-way streets Tom negotiated very knowledgeably now. The town had splendid gray stone towers, formerly the town gates, on both sides of the bridge over the river. The Count was enchanted.
    “It is not so dusty as Italy,” he remarked.
    Tom did his best not to appear nervous during their slow lunch, and he gazed frequently out the window at the weeping willows on