Free Ripley Under Water by Patricia Highsmith

think,” Tom said. Tom said he had found a house Mr. Pritchard might be interested in renting, and it was important that he leave a message for Mr. Pritchard. Tom could tell that the man in insead took his words seriously, as people there were always looking for housing. He came back to the telephone and told Tom that there was no David Pritchard on their register, in marketing or any other department.
    “Then I’ve made a mistake somewhere,” Tom said. “I thank you for your trouble.”
    Tom took a turn around the garden. He might have known, of course, that David Pritchard—if that was his real name—made a game of telling lies.
    Now Cynthia. Cynthia Gradnor. That mystery. Tom bent quickly and plucked a buttercup, shiny and delicate, from his lawn. How had Pritchard got her name?
    Tom took a breath, and turned toward the house again. He had decided that the only thing to do was to ask either Ed or Jeff to ring up Cynthia and ask her straight if she knew Pritchard. Tom could have done it, but he strongly suspected that Cynthia would hang up on him, or be deliberately unhelpful, no matter what he wanted. She hated him more than she did the others.
    Just as Tom entered the living room, the front doorbell sounded, a buzz, twice. Tom drew himself up, clenched and unclenched his fists. The door had a peephole, and Tom took a look through it. He saw a stranger in a blue cap.
    “Who’s there?”
    “Express, m’sieur. Pour M’sieur Reepley?”
    Tom opened the door. “Yes, thank you.”
    The messenger handed Tom a small sturdy manila envelope, gave a vague salute and departed. He must have come from Fontainebleau or Moret, Tom thought, and inquired the position of Tom’s house perhaps from the bar-tabac. This was the mystery object from Reeves Minot of Hamburg, whose name and address was on the upper-left corner. Tom found inside a small white box, and in this something that looked like a miniature typewriter ribbon in a transparent plastic case. There was also a white envelope on which Reeves had written “Tom.” Tom opened it.

    Hello, Tom,
    Here it is. Please post it about five days from now to George Sardi, 307 Temple St., Peekskill, NY 10569, but not registered, and please label it tape or typewriter ribbon. Airmail, please.
    All the best, as always,

    And what was on this, Tom wondered, as he put the transparent case back into the white box. International secrets of some kind? Financial transactions? A record of drug-money movements? Or some revolting private and personal blackmail material, a pair of voices taped when the owners of the voices thought they were alone? Tom was glad to know nothing about the tape. He was not paid nor did he wish to be paid for work such as this, and he wouldn’t have accepted pay, or even danger money, if Reeves had offered it.
    Tom decided to try Jeff Constant first and ask him, insist even, that he find out how David Pritchard might have learned Cynthia Gradnor’s name. And what was Cynthia doing these days—married, working in London? Easy for Ed and Jeff to take a rather unanxious attitude, Tom thought. He, Tom Ripley, had eliminated Thomas Murchison for them all, and now Tom had a vulture cruising over him and his household in the form of Pritchard.
    Heloise was out of her bath, Tom was sure, and in her own room upstairs, but still Tom preferred to venture this call from his room with the door closed. He nipped up the stairs two at a time. Tom looked up the St. John’s Wood number and dialed, expecting an answering service.
    A strange voice, male, answered, saying that Mr. Constant was busy just now, and could he take a message? Mr. Constant was photographing someone at an appointed sitting.
    “Can you tell Mr. Constant that Tom is on the line and wants to speak just a moment?”
    In less than half a minute, Jeff was on the line. Tom said, “Jeff. Sorry, but this is a bit urgent. Can you and Ed make another effort to find out how this David Pritchard got hold of