Ripley's Game by Patricia Highsmith Page B

took off the topcoat, dropped it in an upholstered chair, and went for his cigarettes which he had forgotten to take with him. He inhaled the comforting smoke of Gitane. He put the cigarette on the edge of the basin in the bathroom, washed his hands and face, then stripped to the waist and washed with a face towel and hot water.
    As he was pulling on a sweater, the telephone rang.
    ‘Herr Karl waits on you below, sir.’
    Jonathan went down. He carried the topcoat over his arm. He wanted to give it back to Reeves, wanted to see the last of it.
    ‘Good evening, sir!’ said Karl, beaming, as if he had heard the news and deemed it good.
    In the car, Jonathan lit another cigarette. It was Wednesday evening. He’d said to Simone that he might be home tonight, but she probably wouldn’t have his letter till tomorrow. He thought of two books due back Saturday at the Bibliothèque pour Tous by the church in Fontainebleau.
    Jonathan was again in Reeves’ comfortable apartment. He handed the topcoat to Reeves, rather than to Gaby. Jonathan felt awkward.
    ‘How are you, Jonathan?’ Reeves asked, tense and concerned. ‘How did it go?’
    Gaby went away. Jonathan and Reeves were in the living-room.
    ‘All right,’ Jonathan said. ‘I think.’
    Reeves smiled a little – even the little making his face look radiant. ‘Very good. Fine! I hadn’t heard, you know? – May I offer you champagne, Jonathan? Or scotch? Sit down!’
    ‘A scotch.’
    Reeves bent over the bottles. He asked in a soft voice, ‘How many – how many shots, Jonathan?’
    ‘One.’ And what if he wasn’t dead, Jonathan thought suddenly. Wasn’t that quite possible? Jonathan took the scotch from Reeves.
    Reeves had a stemmed glass of champagne, and he raised the gl^ss to Jonathan and drank. ‘No difficulties? – Fritz did well?’
    Jonathan nodded, and glanced at the door where Gaby would appear if she came back. ‘Let’s hope he’s dead. It just occurs to me – he might not be.’
    ‘Oh, this’ll do all right if he’s not dead. You saw him fall?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Jonathan gave a sigh, and realized he had been hardly breathing for several minutes.
    ‘The news may have reached Milan already,’ Reeves said cheerfully. ‘An Italian bullet. Not that the Mafia always use Italian guns, but it was a nice little touch, I thought. He was of the Di Stefano family. There are a couple of the Genotti family here in Hamburg now too, and we hope these two families will start shooting at each other.’
    Reeves had said that before. Jonathan sat down on the sofa. Reeves walked about in a glow of satisfaction.
    ‘If it suits you, we’ll have a quiet evening here,’ Reeves said. ‘If anyone telephones, Gaby’s going to say I’m out.’
    ‘Does Karl or Gaby—How much do they know?’
    ‘Gaby – nothing. Karl, it doesn’t matter if he does. Karl simply isn’t interested. He works, for other people besides me, and he’s well paid. It’s in his interest not to know anything, if you follow me.’
    Jonathan understood. But Reeves’ information did not make Jonathan feel any more comfortable. ‘By the way – I’d like to go back to France tomorrow.’ This meant two things, that Reeves could pay him or make the arrangement to pay him tonight, and that any other assignment ought to be discussed tonight. Jonathan intended to say no to any other assignment, whatever the financial arrangement, but he thought he should be entitled to half the forty thousand pounds for what he had done.
    ‘Why not, if you like,’ said Reeves. ‘Don’t forget you have the appointment tomorrow morning.’
    But Jonathan didn’t want to see Dr Wentzel again. He wet his lips. His report was bad, and his condition was worse. And there was another element: Dr Wentzel with his walrus moustaches represented ‘authority’ somehow, and Jonathan felt that he would be putting himself in a dangerous position by confronting Wentzel again. He knew he wasn’t thinking logically,