Ripley Under Ground (26 page)

The bus came. The girl got on it, and the bus went on.

Tom took the shovel, and walked back as casually as he had come, holding the shovel as nonchalantly as he might have held an umbrella, except that he had to carry the shovel horizontally.

Back at the spot, Tom dropped the shovel and went in search of more wood. The time was getting on, and while it was still light enough to see quite well, Tom ventured farther into the woods for fuel. He would have to demolish the skull, he realized, above all get rid of the teeth, and he did not want to come back tomorrow. Tom stoked the fire once more, then took up the shovel and began to dig in an area of damp leaves. It was not so easy as with a fork. On the other hand, the remains of Bernard would not be of interest to any wandering animal, so the grave did not have to be deep. When he grew tired, he turned back to the fire, and without pausing brought the shovel down on the skull. It wasn’t going to work, he saw. But another couple of strokes removed the jawbone, and Tom raked it out with the shovel. He pushed more wood near the skull.

Then he went to the suitcase and deployed the newspapers over its interior. He would have to take something from the corpse. He recoiled at the idea of a hand or foot. Some of the flesh from the body, perhaps. Flesh was flesh, this was human and could not be mistaken for the flesh of a cow, for instance, Tom supposed. For a few moments, he suffered nausea and crouched, leaning against a tree. Then he went directly to the fire with his shovel, and raked out some of the flesh at Bernard’s waist. The stuff was dark and a little damp. Tom carried it in the shovel to the suitcase and dropped it in. He left the suitcase open. Then he lay down on the ground, exhausted.

Perhaps an hour passed. Tom did not sleep. He was aware of the dusk closing in around him, and realized that he had no flashlight. He got to his feet. Another try with the shovel at the head brought no results. Nor would his foot if he stamped on it, Tom knew. It would have to be a rock. Tom found a rock, and rolled it toward the fire. Then he lifted it with a newfound, and perhaps brief energy, and let it drop on the skull. The rock lay there. The skull was crushed under it. Tom pushed the rock off with his shovel, stepping back quickly to avoid the heat of the rosy red fire. Tom poked, and brought forth with his shovel a strange mess of bones and what should have been the upper teeth.

This activity brought a relief, and Tom now began tidying the fire. Optimistically, he felt that the elongated form bore no resemblance even to a human thing. He returned to his digging. It was a narrow trench, and soon it was nearly three feet deep. Tom worked with his shovel, and rolled the smoking form toward the grave he had dug. Now and again he smacked out little flames on the ground with his shovel. He checked, before burying the skeleton, to see if he had got the upper teeth, and he had. He buried the remains, and covered it over with earth. Some wreaths of smoke rose up through the leaves that he scattered on at the last. He tore some newspaper from those of the suitcase, and wrapped the bit of bones that contained the upper teeth, picked up the lower jaw also and put it in.

He pushed the fire together and made as sure as he could that embers were not going to pop out and start a fire amid the trees. He dragged leaves back from the fire, so that this would not happen. But he could not afford to spend more time here, because of the growing dark. Tom folded the newspapers in the suitcase around the small parcel, and walked back up the slope, with suitcase and shovel.

When he reached the bus stop, the wheelbarrow was not where it had been. Tom left the shovel on the curb, however.

At the next bus stop, quite a way on, Tom waited. A woman joined him in the wait. Tom did not glance at her.

As the bus rolled and bumped springily, letting passengers off and on with a wheeze of its door, Tom tried to think, and he thought in erratic jumps, as usual. How would it be for all of them—Bernard, Derwatt, and himself—to have met here in Salzburg, to have spoken together several times? Derwatt had spoken of suicide. He had said he wanted to be cremated, not in a crematory, but in the open. He had asked Bernard and Tom to do it. Tom had tried to persuade both men out of their depression, but Bernard had been depressed because of Cynthia (Jeff and Ed could vouch for that), and Derwatt—

Tom got off the bus, not caring where he was, because he wanted to think while walking.

“Take your bag, sir?” It was the bellhop at the Goldener Hirsch.

“Oh, it’s very light,” Tom said. “Thank you.” He went up to his room.

Tom washed his hands and face, then took off his clothes and bathed. He was imagining conversations with Bernard and Derwatt in various Salzburg Bier and Weinstübl. It would have been the first time Bernard had seen Derwatt since Derwatt had gone off to Greece five or more years ago, because Bernard had avoided seeing him on Derwatt’s return to London, and Bernard had not been in London during Derwatt’s second brief visit. Bernard had already been in Salbzburg. Bernard had spoken to Tom in Belle Ombre about Salzburg (true), and when Derwatt had rung Heloise in Belle Ombre, she had told Derwatt that Tom had gone to Salzburg to see Bernard, or to try to find him, therefore Derwatt had gone, too. Under what name had Derwatt come? Well, that would have to remain a mystery. Who knew what name Derwatt was using in Mexico, for example? It remained for Tom to tell Heloise (but only when and if someone asked her) that Derwatt had telephoned Belle Ombre.

Maybe that wasn’t all perfect and ironed out as yet, but it was a beginning.

For the second time, he faced Bernard’s duffelbag, and now he looked for recent notes by Bernard. The October 5 note said, “I sometimes feel I am already dead. There is curiously enough of me to realize that my identity, my self, has disintegrated and somehow vanished. I never was Derwatt. But now am I really Bernard Tufts?”

Tom couldn’t let that last pair of sentences stand, so he tore out the whole page.

Some of the drawings had notes on them. A few about colors, the greens of Salzburg buildings. “Mozart’s noisy public shrine—not a single portrait of him that one feels is any good.” Then, “I gaze often at the river. It’s a fast river and that’s nice. That’s perhaps the best way to go, off a bridge one night hopefully when no one is around to shout ‘Save him!’”

That was what Tom needed, and he closed the drawing pad quickly and dropped it back into the duffel.

Were there any entries about him? Tom looked again through the pad for his name or initials. Then he opened the brown notebook. Most of this was the copied excerpts from Derwatt’s journals, and the last few entries at the end, made by Bernard, were all dated, all during the time Bernard had been in London. Nothing about Tom Ripley.

Tom went down to the restaurant in the hotel. It was late, but he could still order something. After a few bites of food, he began to feel better. The cool, light white wine was inspiring. He could afford to leave on tomorrow afternoon’s plane. If his telephone call to Jeff yesterday was questioned, Tom would say he had rung Jeff on his own initiative to tell him that Derwatt was in Salzburg and that Tom was worried about him. Tom would also have to say he had asked Jeff not to tell anyone where he was—least of all “the public.” And Bernard? Tom might have mentioned to Jeff that Bernard was also in Salzburg, because why not? The police were not looking for Bernard Tufts. Bernard’s disappearance, surely a suicide and probably in the River Salzach, must have taken place the night of the day Tom and Bernard cremated Derwatt’s body. Best to say Bernard had helped him with that.

He was going to be censured for aiding and abetting a suicide, Tom foresaw. What did they do to people who did that? Derwatt had insisted on taking a massive dose of sleeping pills, Tom would say. The three of them had spent the morning in the woods, walking. Derwatt had taken a few pills before they joined one another. It had been impossible for them to prevent his taking the rest and—Tom would have to confess it—he had not wished to interfere with a desire so strong on Derwatt’s part. Nor had Bernard.

Tom returned to his room, opened his window, then opened the pigskin suitcase. He removed the smaller newspaper-wrapped bundle, and added more newspaper. It was still hardly bigger than a grapefruit. Then he closed the suitcase lest a maid come in (though the bed had already been turned down), left his window slightly open, and went downstairs with his little parcel. He took the bridge to the right, the bridge with the handrail, where he had seen Bernard leaning yesterday. Tom leaned on the rail in the same fashion. And when there were no passersby, Tom opened his hands and let the thing drop. It dropped lightly, and was lost to sight soon in the darkness. Tom had brought Bernard’s ring, and he dropped this in the same manner.

The next morning, Tom made his flight reservation, and then went out to buy some things, mostly for Heloise. He bought a green waistcoat for her and a Wolljanker of clear blue like the color of the Gauloise packet, a white ruffled blouse, and for himself a darker green waistcoat and a couple of hunting knives.

This time, his little plane was called the
Ludwig van Beethoven.

Orly by 8 p.m. Tom presented his own passport. A glance at him and his photograph, and no stamping was done. He took a taxi to Villeperce. He had been afraid Heloise would have visitors, and he was right, he saw from the slumping dark red Citroën in front of the house. The Grais’ car.

They were finishing dinner. There was a comfortable little fire going.

“Why didn’t you telephone?” Heloise complained, but she was happy to see him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Tom said.

“But we are finished!” said Agnès Grais.

It was true. They were about to have coffee in the living room.

“Have you had dinner, M. Tome?” Mme. Annette asked.

Tom said he had, but he would like some coffee. Tom, in quite a normal way, he thought, told the Grais he had been in Paris to see a friend who was in some personal difficulties. The Grais were not inclined to pry. Tom asked why Antoine, the busy architect, was home in Villeperce on a Thursday evening?

“Self-indulgence,” said Antoine. “The weather is good, I convince myself I am making notes for a new building, and what is more important, I am designing a fireplace for our guest room.” He laughed.

Only Heloise, Tom thought, noticed that he was not quite as usual. “How was Noëlle’s party Tuesday?” Tom asked.

“Lots of fun!” said Agnès. “We missed you.”

“What about the mysterious Mur-
chee
-son?” asked Antoine. “What is happening?”

“Well—they still can’t find him. Mrs. Murchison came here to see me—as Heloise might have told you.”

“No, she didn’t,” said Agnès.

“I couldn’t help her very much,” Tom said. “Her husband’s painting, one by Derwatt, was stolen at Orly also.” No harm on telling that, Tom thought, because it was true and it had been in the papers.

After his coffee, Tom excused himself, saying he wanted to open his suitcase, and he would be back in a moment. To his annoyance, Mme. Annette had carried his suitcases up, and his casual request to leave them downstairs had gone unheeded. Upstairs, Tom was relieved to see that Mme. Annette had not opened either of the suitcases, probably because she had enough to do downstairs. Tom set the new pigskin suitcase into a closet, and opened the lid of the other suitcase, which was full of his new purchases. Then he went downstairs.

The Grais were early risers, and left before eleven.

“Did Webster ring again?” Tom asked Heloise.

“No.” She said softly in English, “Is it all right if Mme. Annette knows you were in Salzburg?”

Tom smiled, a smile of relief because of Heloise’s efficiency. “Yes. In fact now you must say I was there.” Tom wanted to explain, but he couldn’t tell Heloise about Bernard’s remains tonight, or maybe any night. The ashes of Derwatt-Bernard. “I’ll explain later. But now I must ring London.” Tom took the telephone and put in a call to Jeff’s studio.

“What happened in Salzburg? Did you see the
fou
?” Heloise demanded, with more concern for Tom than annoyance with Bernard.

Tom glanced toward the kitchen, but Mme. Annette had said good night and closed the door. “The
fou
is dead. A suicide.”

“
Vraiment
! You are not joking, Tome?”

But Heloise knew he wasn’t joking. “The important thing—to tell anybody—is that I went to Salzburg.” Tom knelt on the floor beside her chair, put his head in her lap for a second, then stood up and kissed her on both cheeks. “Darling, I’ve got to say Derwatt is dead, too, also in Salzburg. And—in case you are asked, Derwatt rang Belle Ombre from London, and asked if he could see me. So you told him, ‘Tom went to Salzburg.’ All right? It’s easy to remember, because it is the truth.”

Heloise looked at him askance, a little mischievously. “What is true, what is not true?”

Her tone sounded oddly philosophic. It was indeed a question for philosophers, and why should he and Heloise bother about it? “Come upstairs and I’ll prove I was in Salzburg.” He pulled Heloise up from her chair.

They went up to Tom’s room and looked at the things in his suitcase. Heloise tried on the green waistcoat. She embraced the blue jacket. She tried it on, and it fitted.

“And you’ve bought a new suitcase!” she said, seeing the brown pigskin in his closet.

“That’s quite ordinary,” Tom said in French, as the telephone rang. He waved her away from the suitcase. Tom was told that Jeff’s telephone did not answer, and Tom asked the operator to keep trying. It was nearing midnight.

Tom took a shower, while Heloise talked to him. “Bernard is
dead
?” she asked.

Tom was rinsing soap off, delighted to be home, to feel a tub he was acquainted with under his feet. He put on silk pajamas. He did not know where to begin explaining. The telephone rang. “If you listen,” Tom said, “you will understand.”

“Hello?” Jeff’s voice said.

Tom stood up straight and tense, and his voice was serious. “Hello. Tom here. I’m ringing to say that Derwatt is dead. . . . He died in Salzburg. . . .”