Ripley Under Water Read Free

on him. Tom looked somewhere else, straight ahead, and was sorry that his airline ticket envelope was still in his left hand, visible on their side. Would the Pritchards notice it? Would they cruise the road past Belle Ombre, explore the lane to one side of it, once they ascertained that he was absent for a while? Or was he worrying too much, absurdly? Tom trotted the last meters toward the gold-tinted windows of Mon Luxe. Before going through the open door, he stopped and looked back to see if the pair was still staring at him, even drifting into the travel agency. Nothing would surprise him, Tom told himself. He saw Pritchard’s broad shoulders in his blue blazer just above the crowd, saw the back of his head. The Odd Pair were, apparently, passing the travel agency by.
    Tom entered the perfumed air of Mon Luxe, where Heloise was talking with an acquaintance whose name Tom had forgotten.
    ” ‘Ello, Tome! Francoise—tu te rappelles? Friend of the Berthelins.”
    Tom didn’t, but pretended to. It didn’t matter.
    Heloise had made her purchase. They went out, after an au revoir to Francoise, who Heloise said was studying in Paris and also knew the Grais. Antoine and Agnes Grais were old friends and neighbors, who lived on the north side of Villeperce.
    “You look worried, mon cher,” said Heloise. “The tickets are all right?”
    “I think so. Hotel confirmed,” said Tom, slapping his left jacket pocket, from which the tickets protruded. “Lunch at L’Aigle Noir?”
    “Ah—oui!” said Heloise, pleased. “Sure.”
    That was what they had planned. Tom loved to hear her say “sure” with her accent, so he had stopped reminding her that “surely” was correct.
    They lunched on the terrace in the sunlight. The waiters and the headwaiter knew them, knew that Heloise liked Blanc de Blanc, fillet of sole, sunlight, salad probably of endive. They talked of pleasant things: summer, Moroccan leather handbags. Maybe a brass or copper pitcher? Why not? A camel ride? Tom’s head swam. He’d once done it, he thought, or had that been an elephant in a zoo? Suddenly to be swayed upwards yards above the ground (where he’d surely land if he lost his balance) was not to his taste. Women loved it. Were women masochists? Did that make sense? Childbirth, a stoic tolerance of pain? Did all that hang together? Tom bit his lower lip.
    “You are nervous, Tome.” She pronounced it “nervuse.”
    “No,” he said, emphatically.
    And he made himself look calm for the rest of the meal, and on the drive home.
    They were to leave for Tangier in about two weeks. A young man called Pascal, a friend of Henri the handyman, would come with them in their car to the airport and drive the car back to Villeperce. Pascal had done it before.
    Tom took a spade to the garden and did some weeding by hand as well. He had changed into Levis and the waterproof leather shoes that he liked. He chucked the weeds into a plastic sack destined for the compost, then began deadheading, and was at this when Mme Annette called to him from the French windows on the back terrace.
    “M’sieur Tome? Telephone, s’il vous plait!”
    “Merci!” He snapped the clippers as he walked, left them on the terrace, and picked up the telephone in the downstairs hall. “Hello?”
    “Hello, I’m—is this Tom?” asked a voice which sounded like that of a young man.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m phoning from Washington, D.C.” Here there was an ooey-ooey interfering sound as if from under water. “I’m …”
    “Who is phoning?” Tom asked, unable to hear anything. “Hang on, would you? I’ll take it on another telephone.”
    Mme Annette was using the vacuum cleaner in the dining area of the living room, sufficiently distant for a normal telephone conversation, but not for this one.
    Tom took the call upstairs in his room. “Hello, back again.”
    “This is Dickie Greenleaf,” said the young man’s voice. “Remember me?” A chuckle.
    Tom had an impulse to hang