Ripley Under Water Read Free Page B

hour, madame,” Tom said in French to her, “in case anyone rings.”
    “Oui, M’sieur Tome,” she replied, then went on with her activities.
    Mme Annette had been with Tom and Heloise for several years. Her bedroom and bath were on the left side of the house as one approached Belle Ombre, and she had her own television set and radio. The kitchen was also her domain, approached from her quarters via a small hall. She was of Normandy stock, with pale blue eyes and lids that drew down at their outer corners. Tom and Heloise loved her, because she loved them, or seemed to. She had two great friends in the town, Mmes Genevieve and Marie-Louise, also housekeepers, and the three seemed to rotate their TV evenings at the house of one or another on their days off.
    Tom got his clippers from the terrace, and put them into a wooden box that lurked in a corner for such items. The box was more convenient than walking all the way to the greenhouse at the back right corner of the garden. He took a cotton jacket from the front closet, and made sure he had his wallet with his driving license in it, even for this short journey. The French were fond of spot-checking, using non-local and therefore merciless policemen. Where was Heloise? Maybe up in her room, choosing clothes for the trip? What a good thing Heloise hadn’t picked up the telephone when the creeps had rung! She surely hadn’t, or she’d have come immediately into his room, puzzled, asking questions. But then, Heloise had never been an eavesdropper, and Tom’s business affairs didn’t interest her. If she realized that a telephone call was for Tom, she hung up right away, not hastily, but as if without thinking about it.
    Heloise knew the Dickie Greenleaf story, had even heard that Tom was suspected (or had been), Tom was sure. But she made no comment, asked no questions. Certainly she and Tom had had to minimize Tom’s questionable activities, his frequent trips for inexplicable causes, in order to placate Jacques Plissot, Heloise’s father. He was a manufacturer of pharmaceuticals, and the Ripley household partly depended upon his generous allowance to Heloise, who was his only offspring. Heloise’s mother, Arlene, was even quieter than Heloise about Tom’s business. A slender and elegant woman, she seemed to make an effort to be tolerant of the younger, and was fond of giving Heloise, or anybody, household tips about furniture care, and, of all things, economy, thrift.
    These details ran through Tom’s head as he drove the brown Renault at moderate speed toward the center of town. It was nearly 5 p.m. This being Friday, Antoine Grais might be home, Tom thought, though maybe not quite, if Antoine had put in a full day in Paris. He was an architect, and he and his wife had two children in their early teens. The house that David Pritchard said he had rented was beyond the Grais’ house, which was why Tom turned right at a certain road in Villeperce: he could tell himself he was going by the Grais to say hello or some such. Tom had driven through the comforting main street of the town, with its post office, one butcher’s shop, one bakery, and bar-tabac, which was about all Villeperce consisted of.
    There was the Grais’ house, just visible behind a handsome stand of chestnuts. It was a round house, shaped like a military turret, now prettily overgrown, almost, by climbing pink rose-vines. The Grais had a garage, and Tom could see that its door was closed, meaning that Antoine hadn’t arrived as yet for the weekend, and that Agnes and maybe the two children were out shopping.
    Now the white house—not the first in view but the second, Tom saw through some trees, on the left side of the road. Tom shifted to second gear. The macadam road, on which two cars could just comfortably pass, was now deserted. There were few houses on this northern side of Villeperce, and the land was more meadow than farm field.
    If the Pritchards had rung him fifteen minutes ago, they