Free Ripley Under Water by Patricia Highsmith Page A

Cynthia’s name? It’s very important. And—did Cynthia ever meet him? Pritchard’s a sick liar, if I ever saw one. I spoke with Ed the night before last. Did he ring you?”
    “Yes, this morning before nine.”
    “Good. My news—Pritchard was standing on the road outside, photographing my house yesterday morning. How do you like that?”
    “Photographing! Is he a cop?”
    “I’m trying to find out. I’ve got to find out. I’m leaving in a few days for a holiday with my wife. I hope you’ll understand why I’m thinking about the safety of my house. It might be a good idea to invite Cynthia for a drink or lunch, or whatever—to get the information we want.”
    “That won’t—”
    “I know it won’t be easy,” Tom said, “but it’s worth a try. It’s worth as much as a good bit of your income, Jeff, and Ed’s too.” Tom didn’t want to add, on the telephone, that it might also prevent a charge of fraud against Jeff and Ed, and a charge of first-degree murder against himself.
    “I’ll try,” said Jeff.
    “And Pritchard again: American about thirty-five, dark straight hair, about six feet, sturdy build, wears black-rimmed glasses, has a receding hairline that’s going to leave him with a widow’s peak.”
    “I’ll remember.”
    “If for some reason Ed might be better at the job—” But between the two, Tom couldn’t have told which might be better. “I know Cynthia’s difficult,” Tom went on, more gently, “but Pritchard’s on to Murchison—or at least mentioning his name.”
    “I know,” said Jeff.
    “Right, Jeff, you and Ed do your best and keep me posted. I’m here till Friday morning early.”
    They hung up.
    Tom seized a half-hour to practice with unusual concentration, he thought, at the harpsichord. He did better with definite short periods of time in view, twenty minutes, one half-hour, made more progress, if he dared use the word. Tom was not aiming at perfection, or even adequacy. Ha! What was that? He didn’t, wouldn’t, ever play for other people, so what did his mediocre level matter to anyone but himself? To Tom his practice, and the weekly visits and sessions with the Schubertly Roger Lepetit, were a form of discipline which he had come to love.
    The half-hour in Tom’s mind and on his wristwatch was two minutes short of being up, when the telephone rang. Tom went to take it in the hall.
    “Hello, Mr. Ripley, please—”
    Tom at once recognized Janice Pritchard’s voice. Heloise had picked up her telephone, and Tom said, “It’s all right, my dear, I think it’s for me.” He heard Heloise hang up.
    “This is Janice Pritchard,” the voice went on, tense and nervous. “I want to apologize for yesterday morning. My husband has such absurd, sometimes rude ideas—such as photographing your house! I’m sure you saw him or your wife did.”
    As she spoke, Tom recalled her face, apparently smiling approval as she gazed at her husband in the car. “I think my wife did,” said Tom. “No serious matter, Janice. But why does he want pictures of my house?”
    “He doesn’t,” she said on a high note. “He just wants to annoy you—and everybody else.”
    Tom gave a laugh, a puzzled laugh, and repressed a statement that he longed to make. “Finds it fun, does he?”
    “Yes. I can’t understand him. I’ve told him—”
    Tom interrupted the phony-sounding defense of husband with, “May I ask you, Janice, where you got my telephone number, or your husband did?”
    “Oh, that was easy. David asked our plumber. He’s the local plumber and he gave it to us right away. The plumber was here because we had a small problem.”
    Victor Jarot, of course, the indefatigable voider of rebellious cisterns, the rammer of clogged pipes. Could such a man have any idea of privacy? “I see,” said Tom, at once livid, but at a loss what to do about Jarot, except to tell him please not to give his number out to anyone, under any circumstances. The same thing could