19

Around 7.30 p.m., when Tom was standing at the front window of his living-room, he saw the dark-blue Citroen – the same one he’d seen that morning, he thought – cruise past the house, this time at a faster speed, but still not as fast as the usual car which intended to get somewhere. Was it the same? In the dusk, colours were deceiving – the difference between blue and green. But the car had been a convertible with a dirty white upper trim, like the one this morning. Tom looked at the gates of Belle Ombre, which he had left ajar, but which the butcher’s boy had closed. Tom decided to leave them closed, but not locked. They creaked a little.

‘What’s up?’ Jonathan asked. He was drinking coffee. He hadn’t wanted tea. Tom’s unease was making him uneasy, and as far as he had been able to find out, Tom had no real reason to be so anxious.

‘I think I saw the same car as I saw this morning. A dark-blue Citroen. The one this morning had a Paris plate. I know most of the cars around here, and only two or three people have cars with Paris plates.’

‘Could you see the licence now?’ It looked dark to Jonathan, and he had a lamp on beside him.

‘No – I’m going to get the rifle.’ Tom went upstairs as if borne on wings, and returned at once with the rifle. He had left no lights on upstairs. He said to Jonathan, ‘I definitely don’t want to use a gun if I can avoid it, because of the noise. It’s not the hunting season, and a gunshot might bring the neighbours – or someone might investigate. Jonathan —’

Jonathan was on his feet. ‘Yes?’

‘You might have to wield this rifle like a club.’ Tom illustrated, so that the weightiest part of it, the butt, could be used to best effect. ‘You can see how it works, in case you have to shoot with it. Safety’s on now.’ Tom showed him.

But they’re not here, Jonathan was thinking. And at the same time he was feeling odd and unreal, as he had felt in Hamburg and in Munich, when he had known that his targets were real, and that they would materialize.

Tom was calculating how much time it would take the Citroen to cruise or drive around the circular road that led back to the village. They could of course turn at some convenient place on the road and come straight back. ‘If anyone comes to the door,’ Tom said, ‘I have the feeling I’m going to be plugged when I open the door. That would be the simplest for them, you see. Then the fellow with the gun jumps into the waiting car and off they go.’

Tom was a bit overwrought, Jonathan thought, but he listened carefully.

‘Another possibility is a bomb through that window,’ Tom said, gesturing towards the front window. ‘Same as Reeves had. So if you’re – um – agreeable — Sorry, but I’m not used to discussing my plans. I usually play it by ear. But if you’re willing, would you hide yourself in the shrubbery to the right of the door here – it’s thicker on the right – and clout anyone who walks up and rings the doorbell? They may not ring the doorbell, but I’ll be watching with the Luger for signs of bomb throwing. Clout him fast if he’s at the door, because he’ll be fast. He’ll have a gun in his pocket, and all he wants is a clear view of me.’ Tom went to die fireplace, where he had meant to light a fire and forgot, and took one of the third-of-a-log pieces from the wood basket. This he put on the floor to the right of the front door. It was not as heavy as the amethyst vase on the wooden chest by the door, but much easier to handle.

‘How about.’ Jonathan said, ‘if I open the door? If they know what you look like, as you say, they’ll see I’m not you and—’

‘No.’ Tom was surprised by Jonathan’s courageous offer. ‘First, they might not wait to see, just fire. And if they did look at you, and you said I don’t live here, or I’m not in, they’d only push in and see or —’ Tom gave it up with a laugh, imagining the Mafia blasting Jonathan in the stomach and pushing him into the house at the same time. ‘I think you should take up the post by the door now, if you’re willing. I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay there, but I can always bring you refreshments.’

‘Sure.’ Jonathan took the rifle from Tom and went out. The road in front of the house was quiet. Jonathan stood in the shadow of the house, and practised a swing with the rifle, high up so as to catch a man standing on the steps in the head.

‘Good,’ Tom said. ‘Would you care for a scotch now by any chance? You can leave the glass in the bushes. Doesn’t matter if it breaks.’

Jonathan smiled. ‘No, thanks.’ He crept into the shrubbery – cypress-like bushes four feet high, and laurel also. It was very dark where Jonathan was, and he felt absolutely concealed. Tom had closed the door.

Jonathan sat on the ground, his knees under his chin, and the rifle alongside near his right hand. He wondered if this could last for an hour? Longer? Or was it even a game Tom was playing. Jonathan couldn’t believe it was entirely a game. Tom wasn’t out of his head, and he believed something might happen tonight, and that small possibility made it wise to take precautions. Then as a car approached, Jonathan felt a start of real fear, an impulse to run straight into the house. The car went by at a fast clip. Jonathan hadn’t even a glimpse of it through the bushes and the house gates. He leaned a shoulder against a slender trunk of something and began to feel sleepy. Five minutes later, he lay at full length on his back, but still quite awake, beginning to feel the chill of the earth penetrating his shoulder-blades. If the telephone rang again, it might well be Simone. He wondered if she would, in some frenzy of temper, come to Tom’s house in a taxi? Or would she ring her brother Gerard in Nemours and ask him to bring her in his car? A bit more likely. Jonathan stopped thinking about that possibility, because it was so awful. Ludicrous. Unthinkable. How would he explain lying outside the house in the shrubbery, even if he concealed the rifle?

Jonathan heard the house door opening. He had been dozing.

Take this blanket,’ Tom whispered. The road was empty, and Tom stepped out with a steamer rug and handed it to Jonathan. Tut it under you. That ground must be awful.’ Tom’s own whispering made him realize that the Mafia boys might sneak up on foot. He hadn’t thought of that before. He went back into the house without another word to Jonathan.

Tom went up the stairs, and in the dark surveyed the situation from the windows, front and back. All looked calm. A street light glowed brightly, but without extending its light very far, on the road about a hundred yards to the left in the direction of the village. None of its light fell in front of Belle Ombre, as Tom knew well. It was extremely silent, but that was normal. Even the footsteps of a man walking on the road might have been heard through the closed windows, Tom thought. He wished he could put on some music. He was about to turn from the window, when he heard the faint crunch-crunch-crunch of someone walking on the dirt road, and then he saw a not very strong flashlight beam, moving from the right towards Belle Ombre. Tom felt sure this wasn’t a person who would turn in at Belle Ombre, and the figure didn’t, but went on and was lost to view before it reached the street light. Male or female, Tom couldn’t tell.

Jonathan was perhaps hungry. That couldn’t be helped. Tom was hungry, too. But of course it could be helped.

Tom went down the stairs, still in the dark, his fingertips on the banister, and into the kitchen – the living-room and kitchen were lighted – and made some caviare canapes. The caviare was left over from last night, in its jar in the fridge, so the job was quick. Tom was bringing the plate for Jonathan, when he heard the purr of a car. The car went past Belle Ombre from left to right, and stopped. Then there was the feeble click of a car door, the sound of a car door when it hadn’t quite closed. Tom set the plate down on the wooden chest by the door, and pulled out his gun.

Steps crunched firmly, at a polite-sounding pace, on the road, then the gravel. This wasn’t a bomb-thrower, Tom thought. The doorbell rang. Tom waited a few seconds, then said in French, ‘Who is it?’

‘I would like to ask a direction, please,’ the man’s voice said with a perfect French accent.

Jonathan had been crouching with the rifle since the approach of footsteps, and now he leapt out of the bushes just as he heard Tom slide the bolt of the door. The man was two steps up from Jonathan, but Jonathan was almost as tall nevertheless, and he swung his rifle butt with all his power at the man’s head – ’ which had turned just slightly towards Jonathan, because the man must have heard him. Jonathan’s blow caught him behind the left ear, just under the hat-brim. The man swayed, bumped the left side of the doorway, and dropped.

Tom opened the door and dragged him by the feet into the house, Jonathan helping, lifting the man’s shoulders. Then Jonathan recovered the rifle and came in the door, which Tom closed softly. Tom picked up the piece of firewood and walloped the man’s blondish head with it. The man’s hat had fallen off and lay upside down on the marble floor. Tom extended his hand for the rifle, and Jonathan handed it to him. Tom came down with the steel butt of it on the man’s temple.

Jonathan couldn’t believe his eyes. Blood flowed on to the white marble. This was the husky bodyguard with crinkly blond hair who had been so upset on the train.

‘Got that bastard !’ Tom whispered with satisfaction. This is that bodyguard. Look at the gun!’

A gun had fallen half out of the man’s right side jacket pocket.

‘Farther into the living-room.’ Tom said, and they hauled and pushed the man across the floor. ‘Mind the rug with that blood!’ Tom kicked the rug out of the way. ‘Next guy’s due in a minute, no doubt. Bound to be two, maybe three.’

Tom took a handkerchief – lavender, monogrammed – from the man’s breast pocket and tidied a splotch of blood on the floor near the door. He kicked the man’s hat and sent it flying 6ver the body, and it fell near the hall door to the kitchen. Then Tom bolted the front door, holding his left hand over the bolt so it would not make a noise. ‘Next one might not be so easy,’ he whispered.

There were footsteps on gravel. The bell rang – nervously twice.

Tom laughed without making a sound, and pulled his Luger. He motioned for Jonathan to take his gun also. Tom was suddenly convulsed, and doubled over to repress his mirth, then straightened and grinned at Jonathan, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

Jonathan didn’t smile.

The bell rang again, a long steady peal.

Jonathan saw Tom’s face change in a split-second. Tom frowned, grimaced, as if he didn’t know what he should do.

‘Don’t use the gun,’ Tom whispered, ‘unless you have to.’ His left hand was extended towards the door.

Tom was going to open the door and fire, Jonathan supposed, or cover the man.

Then steps crunched again. The man outside was walking towards the window behind Jonathan, a window now quite covered by the curtains. Jonathan edged away from die window.

‘Angy? – Angy!’ the man’s voice whispered.

‘Ask him at the door what he wants.’ Tom whispered. ‘Talk in English – as if you were the butler. Let him in. I’ll have him covered. – Can you do it?’

Jonathan didn’t care to think whether he could or not. Now there was a knocking, then another ring of the bell. ‘Who is it, please?’ Jonathan called to the door.

‘Je – je voudrais demander mon chemin, s’il vous plaît.’ The accent was not so good.

Tom smirked.

‘Whom did you wish to speak to, sir?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Une direction! – S’il vous plaît!’ the voice yelled. Desperation had entered in.

Tom and Jonathan exchanged a glance, and Tom gestured for Jonathan to open the door. Tom was immediately to the left of the door to anyone standing outside, but out of sight if the door were opened.

Jonathan slid the bolt, turned the knob of the automatic lock, and opened the door partway, fully expecting a bullet in his abdomen, but he stood tall and stiffly with his right hand in his jacket pocket on the gun.

The somewhat shorter Italian, wearing a hat like the other man, also had his hand in bis pocket and was plainly surprised to see a tall man in ordinary clothes in front of him.

‘Sir?’ Jonathan noticed that the man’s left jacket sleeve was empty.

As the man took a step inside the house, Tom poked him in the side with his Luger.

‘Give me your gun!’ Tom said in Italian.

Jonathan’s gun was also pointed at him now. The man heaved his jacket pocket up as if to fire, and Tom pushed him in the face with his left hand. The man didn’t fire. The Italian looked paralysed at finding himself suddenly so close to Tom Ripley.

‘Reeply!’ the Italian said, in a tone of mingled terror, surprise, and maybe triumph.

‘Oh, never mind that and give us the gun!’ Tom said in English, poking the man again in the ribs and knocking the door shut with his foot.

The Italian got the idea, at least. He dropped the gun on the floor, when Tom indicated that that was what he wanted. Then the Italian saw his chum on the floor yards away, and started, wide-eyed.

‘Bolt the door.’ Tom said to Jonathan. Then Tom said in Italian, ‘Any more of you?9

The Italian shook his head vigorously, which meant nothing, Tom thought. Tom saw that his arm was in a sling under his jacket. So much for the newspaper reports.

‘Cover him while I do this.’ Tom said, beginning to frisk the Italian. ‘Off with your jacket !’ Tom took the man’s hat off and threw it in Angy’s direction.

The Italian let his jacket slide off and drop. His shoulder-holster was empty. There were no weapons in his pockets.

‘Angy —’ said the Italian.

‘Angy è morto,’ Tom said. ‘So will you be, if you don’t do what we say. You want to die? What’s your name? — What’s your name?’

‘Lippo. Filippo.’

‘Lippo. Keep your hands up and don’t move. Your hand. Go stand over there.’ He motioned for Lippo to go stand by the dead man. Lippo lifted his good right arm. ‘Cover him, Jon, I want to have a look at their car.’

With his Luger ready, Tom went out and turned right on the road, approaching the car cautiously. He could hear the motor. The car was at the side of the road with parking lights on. Tom stopped and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them wide, trying to see if there was any movement at the sides of the car or behind the back window. He advanced slowly and steadily, expecting possibly a shot from the car. Silence. Could they have sent only two men? Tom hadn’t brought a torch in his nervousness. With his gun pointed at someone who might be crouched in the front seat, Tom opened the left-side door. The interior light came on. The car was empty. Tom closed the door enough to shut the light off, stooped, and listened. He didn’t hear anything. Tom trotted back and opened the gates of Belle Ombre, then went back to the car and backed it in on to the gravel. A car passed just then on the road, coming from the village direction. Tom turned off the ignition and the parking lights. He knocked and announced himself to Jonathan.

‘It seems this is all of them.’ Tom said.

Jonathan was standing where Tom had seen him last, pointing his gun at Lippo, who now had his good arm down and hanging a little out from his side.

Tom smiled at Jonathan, then at Lippo. ‘All alone now, Lippo? Because if you’re lying, it’s finito for you, you get me?’

Mafia pride seemed to be returning to Lippo, and he merely narrowed his eyes at Tom.

‘Risponde, you … !’

‘Si’ said Lippo, angry and scared.

‘Getting tired, Jonathan? Sit down.’ Tom pulled up a yellow upholstered chair for him. ‘You can sit down, too, if you want to,’ Tom said to Lippo. ‘Sit next to your pal.’ Tom spoke in Italian. His slang was returning.

But Lippo remained standing. He was a bit over thirty, Tom supposed, about five feet ten, with round but strong shoulders and a paunch already starting, hopelessly dumb, not capo material. He had straight black hair, a pale olive face that was now faintly green.

‘Remember me from the train? A little bit?’ Tom asked, smiling. He glanced at the blond hulk on the floor. ‘If you behave well, Lippo, you won’t end up like Angy. All right?’ Tom put his hands on his hips, and smiled at Jonathan. ‘Suppose we have a gin and tonic for fortification? You’re all right, Jonathan?’ Jonathan’s colour had returned, Tom saw.

Jonathan nodded with a tense smile. ‘Yep.’

Tom went into the kitchen. While he was pulling out the ice tray, the telephone rang. ‘Never mind the phone, Jonathan!’

‘Right!’ Jonathan had a feeling it was Simone again. It was now 9.45 p.m.

Tom was wondering how to force Lippo to get his chums off his trail. The telephone rang eight times and stopped. Tom had unconsciously counted the rings. He went into the living-room with a tray of two glasses, ice, and an open tonic bottle. The gin was on the bar cart near the dining-table.

Tom handed Jonathan his drink and said, ‘Cheers!’ He turned to Lippo. ‘Where’s your headquarters, Lippo? Milano?’

Lippo chose to maintain an insolent silence. What a bore. Lippo would have to be beaten up a little. Tom glanced with distaste at the splotch of drying blood under Angy’s head, set his glass down on the wooden chest by the door, and went back to the kitchen. He wet a sturdy floor-cloth – called a torchon by Mme Annette – and mopped up the blood from Mme Annette’s waxed parquet. Tom pushed aside Angy’s head with his foot, and stuck the cloth under it. No more blood was coming, Tom thought. With sudden inspiration, Tom searched Angy’s pockets more thoroughly, trousers, jacket. He found cigarettes, a lighter, small change. A wallet in the breast pocket, which he left. There was a wadded handkerchief in a hip pocket, and when Tom pulled it out, a garrotte came with it. ‘Look!’ Tom said to Jonathan. Just what I was wanting! Ah, these Mafia rosaries!’ Tom held it up and laughed with pleasure. ‘For you, Lippo, if you’re not a good boy,’ Tom said in Italian. ‘After all, we don’t want to make any noise with guns, do we?’

Jonathan looked at the floor for a few seconds as Tom strolled toward Lippo. Tom was whirling the garrotte around one finger.

‘You are of die distinguished Genotti family, non è vero, Lippo?’

Lippo hesitated, but very briefly, as if it only flitted across his mind to deny it. ‘Si,’ he said firmly, with a trace of vergogna.

Tom was amused. Strength in number, in togetherness, the families had. Alone like this one, they turned yellow, or green. Tom was sorry about Lippo’s arm, but he wasn’t torturing him yet, and Tom knew the tortures the Mafia put its victims to if they didn’t come across with money or services – yanked toenails and teeth, cigarette burns. ‘How many men have you killed, Lippo?’

‘Nessuno!’ cried Lippo.

‘No one,’ Tom said to Jonathan. ‘Ha, ha.’ Tom went to rinse his hands in the little loo opposite the front door. Then he finished his drink, picked up the piece of log beside the front door, and approached Lippo with it. ‘Lippo, you’re going to telephone your boss tonight. Maybe your new, capo eh? Where is he tonight? Milano? Monaco di Bavaria?’ Tom gave Lippo a swat over the head with the wood, just to show he meant business, but the blow was fairly hard, because Tom was nervous.

‘Stop it!’ yelled Lippo, staggering up from a near collapse, one hand pitifully on top of his head. ‘Me a guy with one arm?’ he shrieked, talking like himself now, the gutter Italian of Naples, Tom thought, though it could have been of Milan, because Tom was not an expert.

‘Sissi! And two against one even!’ Tom replied. ‘We don’t play fair, eh? Is that your complaint?’ Tom called him something unspeakable, and turned on his heel to get a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you pray to the Virgin Mary?’ Tom said over his shoulder. ‘Another thing,’ he said to Lippo in English, ‘no more shouting or you’ll get this over your head in no time flat!’ He came down with the piece of firewood in the air – whish! – to show what he meant. ‘This is what killed Angy.’

Lippo blinked, his mouth slightly open. He was breathing shallowly and audibly.

Jonathan had finished his drink. He was holding the gun pointed at Lippo, holding it in two hands, because the gun had become heavy. He was not at all sure he could hit Lippo if he had to fire it, and anyway Tom was frequently between him and Lippo. Now Tom was shaking the Italian by his belt. Jonathan couldn’t understand all of what Tom was saying, some of it being in clipped Italian, the rest in French and in English. Tom was mostly muttering, but his voice finally rose in anger, and he shoved the Italian back and turned round. The Italian had hardly said anything.

Tom went to the radio, pressed a couple of buttons, and a ‘cello concerto came on. Tom made the volume medium. Then he made sure the front curtains were completely closed. ‘Isn’t this dreary.’ Tom said apologetically to Jonathan. ‘Sordid. He won’t tell me where his boss is, so I’ve got to hit him a bit. Naturally he’s as afraid of his boss as he is of me.’ Tom gave Jonathan a quick smile, and went and changed the music. He found some pop. Then he picked up the wood with determination.

Lippo brushed the first blow aside, but Tom bashed him in the temple with a backhand stroke. Lippo had yelped, and now he cried, ‘No! Lasciame!’

‘Your boss’s number!’ Tom yelled.

Crack! That was a swat at Lippo’s middle, which caught the hand Lippo had put there to protect himself. Glass particles fell on the floor. Lippo wore his watch on his right wrist, the watch must have been shattered, and Lippo held his hand in pain against his abdomen, while he looked at the glass on the floor. He gasped for breath.

Tom waited. The log was poised.

‘Milano!’ Lippo said.

‘All right, you’re going to —’

Jonathan missed the rest.

Tom was pointing to the telephone. Then Tom went to the table near the front windows where the telephone was and got a pencil and paper. He was asking the Italian the number in Milan.

Lippo gave a number and Tom wrote it down.

Then Tom made a longer speech, after which he turned to Jonathan and said, ‘I’ve told this guy he’s going to be garrotted if he doesn’t ring his boss and tell him what I want him to say.’ Tom adjusted the garrotte for action, and as he turned to face Lippo, the sound of a car came from the road, the sound of a car stopping at the gates.

Jonathan stood up, thinking it was either Italian reinforcements or Simone in Gerard’s car. Jonathan didn’t know which would be the worse fate, both seeming a death of sorts at that moment.

Tom didn’t want to part the curtains to look out. The motor purred on. Lippo’s face showed no change, no sign of relief that Tom could see.

Then the car moved on, towards the right. Tom looked between the curtains. The car was going on, very much on, and all was well, unless the car had let out a few men to hide in the bushes and fire through the windows. Tom listened for several seconds. It might have been the Grais, Tom thought, might have been the Grais who had telephoned a few minutes ago, and maybe they’d seen the strange car on the gravel inside the gates, and decided to go on, thinking the Ripleys had visitors.

‘Now, Lippo,’ Tom said calmly, ‘you’re going to telephone your boss, and I’m going to listen with this little gadget.’ Tom picked up the round earpiece that was clipped to die back of his telephone, which the French employed for the second ear to augment the sound. ‘And if anything doesn’t sound perfect to me,’ Tom continued in French now, which he could see the Italian understood, ‘I won’t hesitate to pull this suddenly tight, you see?’ Tom illustrated with the noose around his wrist, then he walked towards Lippo and flipped the garrotte over Lippo’s head.

Lippo jerked back a little in surprise, then Tom led him forward like a dog on a leash towards the telephone. He pushed Lippo down in the chair there, so Tom was in a position to apply strength on the garrotte.

‘Now I’ll get the number for you, collect, I’m afraid. You will say you are in France, and you and Angy think you are being followed. You will say you have seen Tom Ripley, and Angy says he is not the man you were looking for. Right? Understand? Any funny words, code words and – this —’ Tom tightened the garrotte, but not so tight that it disappeared in Lippo’s neck.

‘Sissi!’ said Lippo, staring in terror from Tom to the telephone.

Tom dialled the operator, and asked for the long-distance operator, for Milan, Italy. When the operator asked for his number, as French operators always did, Tom gave it.

‘From whom?’ asked the operator.

‘Lippo. Just Lippo,’ Tom replied. Then he gave the number. The operator said she would ring Tom back. He said to Lippo, ‘If this turns out to be a corner grocery or one of your girl friends, I’ll choke you just the same! Capish?’

Lippo squirmed, looking as if he were desperate to try something by way of escape, but as if he didn’t know what, as yet.

The telephone rang.

Tom motioned for Lippo to pick the telephone up. Tom took the earpiece and listened. The operator was saying that the call would be accepted.

‘Pronto ?’ a male voice said at the other end.

Lippo held the telephone with his right hand to his left ear. ‘Pronto. Lippo here. Luigi!’

‘Si,’ said the other voice.

‘Listen, I —’ Lippo’s shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. ‘We saw —’

Tom jerked the garrotte a little to make Lippo get on with it.

‘You are in France, no? With Angy?’ the other voice said with some impatience. ‘Allora – what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I — We saw this fellow. Angy says he is not the man… No…’

‘And you think you are being followed,’ Tom whispered, because the connection was not good, and he hadn’t any fear that the man in Milan could hear him.

‘And we think – maybe we’re being followed.’

‘Followed by who?’ asked Milan sharply.

‘I dunno. So what the — should we do?’ Lippo asked, in fluent argot with a word Tom didn’t understand. Lippo sounded genuinely scared now.

Tom’s ribs tensed with laughter, and he glanced at Jonathan who was still dutifully covering Lippo with his gun. Tom could understand not quite all of what Lippo was saying, but Lippo didn’t seem to be pulling any tricks.

‘Return?’ said Lippo.

‘Si.’ said Luigi. ‘Abandon the car! Take a taxi to the nearest airport! Where are you now?’

‘Tell him you’ve got to hang up,’ Tom whispered, gesturing.

‘Got to sign off. Rivederch, Luigi,’ said Lippo and hung up. He looked up at Tom with eyes like a miserable dog’s.

Lippo was finished and he knew it, Tom thought. For once Tom was proud of his reputation. Tom had no intention of sparing Lippo’s life. Lippo’s family wouldn’t have spared anyone’s life under the circumstances.

‘Stand up, Lippo,’ Tom said, smiling.’ Let’s see what else you’ve got in your pockets.’

When Tom started to search him, Lippo’s good arm twitched back as if to strike him, but Tom didn’t bother ducking. Just nerves, Tom thought. Tom felt coins in one pocket, a crumpled bit of paper which on inspection turned out to be a decrepit strip of Italian tram ticket, then in the hip pocket a garrotte, this one a sportif red-and-white striped cord that reminded Tom of a barber’s pole, fine as cat-gut, and Tom thought it was.

‘Look at this! Still another!’ Tom said to Jonathan, holding up the garrotte as if it were a pretty pebble he had found on a beach.

Jonathan barely glanced at the dangling string. The first garrotte was still around Lippo’s neck. Jonathan did not look at the dead man who was hardly two yards from him, one shoe turned inward in an unnatural way on the polished floor, but Jonathan kept seeing the prone figure in the margin of his vision.

‘My goodness.’ Tom said, looking at his watch. He hadn’t realized it was so late, after 10 p.m. It had to be done now, he and Jonathan had to drive hours’ distance away and get back before sun-up, if possible. They had to dispose of the corpses some distance from Villeperce. South, of course, in the direction of Italy. South-east, perhaps. It didn’t really matter, but Tom preferred south-east. Tom took a deep breath, preparatory to action, but the presence of Jonathan inhibited him. However, Jonathan had seen corpses’ removal before, and there was no time to lose. Tom picked up the wood from the floor.

Lippo dodged, flung himself on the floor, or tripped and fell, but Tom came down on his head, and again a second time, with the wood. At the same time, Tom had not put his fall strength into it – the thought of not getting more blood on Mme Annette’s floors being in the back of his mind.

‘He’s only unconscious,’ Tom said to Jonathan. ‘He’s got to be finished, and if you don’t want to see it – go in the kitchen, perhaps.’

Jonathan had stood up. He definitely didn’t want to see it.

‘Can you drive?’ Tom asked. ‘My car, I mean. The Renault.’

‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. He had a licence from the early days in France with Roy, his chum from England, but the licence was at home.

‘We’ve got to drive tonight. Go in the kitchen.’ Tom motioned Jonathan away. Then Tom bent to his task of pulling the garrotte tight, not a pleasant task – the trite phrase crossed his mind – but what about people who hadn’t the merciful anaesthetic, unconsciousness? Tom held the cord tight, the cord had disappeared in flesh, and Tom fortified himself with the thought of Vito Marcangelo succumbing on the Mozart Express by the same means: Tom had brought that job off, and this was his second.

He heard a car, tentative on the road, then rolling up, stopping, with a pull of the handbrake.

Tom kept his grip exactly the same on the garrotte. How many seconds had passed? Forty-five? Not more than a minute, unfortunately’

‘What’s that?’ Jonathan whispered, coming in from the kitchen.

The motor of the car was still running.

Tom shook his head.

They both heard light footsteps trotting on the gravel, then a knock at the door. Jonathan felt suddenly weak, as if his knees would give way.

‘I think it’s Simone,’ Jonathan said.

Tom desperately hoped that Lippo was dead. Lippo’s face looked merely dark pink. Damn him!

The knock came again. ‘M. Ripley? – Jon!’

‘Ask her who’s with her,’ Tom said. ‘If she’s with somebody, we can’t open the door. Tell her we’re busy.’

‘Who are you with, Simone?’ Jonathan asked through the closed door.

‘No one! – I’ve told the taxi to wait. What is happening, Jon?’

Jonathan saw that Tom had heard what she said.

‘Tell her to get rid of the taxi,’ Tom said.

‘Pay off the taxi, Simone,’ Jonathan called.

‘He is paid!’

‘Tell him to leave.’

Simone went away towards the road to do this. They heard the taxi drive off. Simone came back, up the steps, and this time she didn’t knock, only waited.

Tom straightened up from Lippo, leaving the garrotte on him. Tom was wondering if Jonathan could go out and explain to her that she couldn’t come into the house? That – they had other people? That they would send for another taxi for her? Tom was thinking of the taxi-driver’s impressions. Best to have dismissed this one, rather than not show signs of letting Simone into a house that plainly had lights and at least one person in it.

‘Jon!’ she called. ‘Will you open the door? I would like to speak with you.’

Tom said softly, ‘Can you wait with her outside while I ring for another taxi? Tell her we’re talking business with a couple of other people.’

Jonathan nodded, hesitated an instant, then slid back the bolt. He opened the door not widely, intending to slip out himself, but Simone thrust the door against him suddenly. She was in the foyer.

‘Jon! I am sorry to —’ Breathless, she glanced around as if looking for Tom Ripley, master of the house, then she saw him, and at the same time saw the two men on the floor. She gave a short cry. Her handbag slipped from her fingers and dropped with a soft thud on the marble. ‘Mon dieu! – What is happening here?’

Jonathan gripped one of her hands tightly. ‘Don’t look at them. These —’

Simone stood rigid.

Tom walked towards her. ‘Good evening, madame. Don’t be frightened. These men were invading the house. They are unconscious. We had a bit of trouble! – Jonathan, take Simone into the kitchen.’

Simone didn’t walk. She was swaying, and leaned against Jonathan for a moment, then lifted her head and looked at Tom with hysterical eyes. ‘They look dead! – Murderers! C’est épourantable! – Jonathan! I cannot believe that it is you – here!’

Tom was going to the bar-cart. ‘Can Simone take some brandy, do you think?’ he called to Jonathan.

‘Yes. – We’ll go in the kitchen, Simone.’ He was prepared to walk between her and the corpses, but she wouldn’t move.

Tom, finding the brandy more difficult than the whisky to open, poured whisky into one of the glasses on the cart. He took it to Simone, neat. ‘Madame, I realize this is dreadful. These men are of the Mafia – Italians. They came to the house to attack us – me, anyway.’ Tom was much relieved to see that she was sipping the whisky, barely grimacing, as if it were medicine that was good for her. Jonathan helped me, for which I’m very grateful. Without him —’ Tom stopped. Anger was rising again in Simone.

‘Without him? What is he doing here?’

Tom stood straighten He went into the kitchen himself, thinking it the only way to draw her from the living-room. She and Jonathan followed him. That I can’t explain tonight, Madame Trevanny. Not now. We’ve got to leave now – with these men. Would you —’ Tom was thinking, had they time, had he time to take her back to Fontainebleau in the Renault, then return to remove the corpses with Jonathan’s assistance? No. Tom absolutely didn’t want to waste that much time which would mean a good forty minutes. ‘Madame, shall I ring for a taxi to take you back to Fontainebleau ?’

‘I will not leave my husband. I want to know what my husband is doing here – with such filth as you!’

Her fury was directed entirely against him. Tom wished it could all come out now and for ever, in a great burst. He could never deal with angry women – not that he had had to deal with many. To Tom it was a circular chaos, a ring of little fires, and if he successfully extinguished one, the woman’s mind leapt to the next Tom said to Jonathan, ‘If Simone could only take a taxi back to Fontainebleau —’

‘I know, I know. Simone, it really is best if you go back to our house.’

‘Will you come with me?’ she asked.

‘I – I can’t,’ Jonathan said, desperate.

‘Then you don’t want to. You are on his side.’

‘If you’ll let me talk with you later, darling —’

Jonathan went on in that vein, while Tom thought, perhaps Jonathan wasn’t willing, or had changed his mind.

Jonathan was getting nowhere with Simone. Tom interrupted:

‘Jonathan.’ Tom beckoned to him. ‘You must excuse us a moment, madame.’ Tom spoke with Jonathan in the living-room, in a whisper. ‘We’ve got six hours’ work ahead – or I have. I’ve got to take these two away and dispose of them – and I’d prefer to be back by dawn or before. Are you really willing to help?’

Jonathan felt lost in the sense that he might be lost in the middle of a battle. But the situation seemed already lost in regard to Simone. He could never explain. Going back to Fontainebleau with her would gain him nothing. He had lost Simone, and what else was there to lose? These thoughts flashed in Jonathan’s mind like a single image. ‘I am willing, yes.’

‘Good. – Thanks.’ Tom gave a tense smile. ‘Surely Simone doesn’t want to stay here. She could of course stay in my wife’s room. Maybe I can find a sedative. But for Christ’s sake, she can’t come with us.’

‘No.’ Simone was his responsibility. Jonathan felt powerless either to persuade or command. ‘I have never been able to tell her—’

‘There’s some danger,’ Tom interrupted, then stopped. There was no time to lose in talking, and he went back into the living-room, felt compelled to glance at Lippo whose face was now bluish, or so Tom thought. At any rate, his clumsy body had that abandoned look of the dead – not even dreamlike or sleeplike, but simply an empty look as if consciousness had departed for ever. Simone was coming in from the kitchen, which Tom had been heading for, and he saw that her glass was empty. He went to the bar-cart and brought the bottle. He poured more into the glass in her hand, though Simone indicated that she didn’t want any more. ‘You don’t have to drink it, madame,’ Tom said. ‘Since we must leave, I must tell you there is some danger if you stay in this house. I simply don’t know if more of these won’t turn up.’

‘Then I will go with you. I will go with my husband!’

‘That you cannot, madame.’ Tom was firm.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure, but we have to get rid of these – this carrion !’ Tom gestured. ‘Charogne!’ he repeated.

‘Simone, you have got to take a taxi back to Fontainebleau,’ Jonathan said.

‘Non!’

Jonathan grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand took the glass, so it wouldn’t spill. ‘You must do as I say. It’s your life, it’s my life. We cannot stay and argue!’

Tom leapt up the stairs. He found, after nearly a minute’s searching, Heloise’s little bottle of quarter-grain phenobarbitols, which she so seldom took that they were at the back of everything in her medicine cabinet. He went down with two in his fingers, and dropped them casually into Simone’s glass – which he had taken from Jonathan – as he topped the glass up with a splash of soda.

Simone drank this. She was sitting on the yellow sofa now. She seemed calmer, though it was too soon for the pills to have taken effect. And Jonathan was on the telephone now, Tom presumed phoning for a taxi. The slender Seine-et-Marne directory was open on the telephone-table. Tom felt a little dazed, the way Simone looked. But Simone looked also stunned with shock.

‘Just Belle Ombre, Villeperce,’ said Tom when Jonathan glanced at him.