Free The Boy Who Followed Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

saw that Frank was near breaking, or near tears, though the boy held himself straight. “Well,” Tom said softly, and closed the door. “What’s up?— Worried about Henri?” Tom knew it wasn’t Henri, but he had to lead the boy to talk. The newspaper still poked from a back pocket of Tom’s trousers.
    “If it isn’t Henri, it’ll be somebody else,” Frank said in a shaky but rather deep voice.
    “Now what’s wrong—up to now?” Johnny was coming, with a private detective, and the game might soon be up, Tom thought. But what game? “Why don’t you want to go back home?”
    “I killed my father,” Frank said in a whisper. “Yes, I pushed him over that—” The boy gave up, his mouth seemed to crumple like that of an old man, and he lowered his head.
    A murderer, Tom thought. And why? Tom had never seen such a gentle murderer. “Does Johnny know?”
    Frank shook his head. “No. Nobody saw me.” His brown eyes glistened with tears, but there were not enough tears to fall.
    Tom understood, or was beginning to. The boy’s conscience had driven him away. Or somebody’s words. “Did anybody say anything? Your mother?”
    “Not my mother. Susie—the housekeeper. But she didn’t see me. She couldn’t have. She was in the house. Anyway, she’s shortsighted and the cliff isn’t even visible from the house.”
    “She said something to you or somebody else?”
    “Both. The police—didn’t believe her. She’s old. A little cracked.” Frank moved his head like someone under torture, and sought his suitcase on the floor. “I’ve told you—okay. You’re the only person in the world I’d tell, and I don’t care what you say. I mean, to the police or anyone. But I’d better take off.”
    “Come on now, take off to where?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Tom knew. He couldn’t get out of France even with his brother’s passport. He had nowhere to hide except in fields. “You’re not going to be able to go anywhere outside of France and not far inside it. Look, Frank, we’ll talk about this after lunch. We have all the—”
    “Lunch?” Frank’s tone sounded as if he were affronted by the word.
    Tom advanced toward him. “I’m giving you orders now. It’s lunchtime. You can’t just disappear now, it’d look strange. Now you pull yourself together, eat a good lunch, and we’ll talk afterward.” Tom reached out to shake the boy’s hand, but Frank edged back.
    “I’ll go while I can!”
    Tom grabbed the boy’s shoulder with his left hand, his throat with his right. “You will not. You will not !”Tom gave his throat a shake, then released him.
    The boy’s eyes were wide and thoroughly shocked. That was what Tom wanted. “Come on with me. Downstairs.” Tom gestured, and the boy preceded him toward the door. Tom went into his own room for a minute to get rid of the France-Dimanche . For good measure, he stuck it in a back corner of his closet among shoes. He did not want Mme. Annette to find it even in the wastebasket.

5
    D ownstairs, Heloise was arranging orange and white gladioli—Tom knew she disliked them and that Mme. Annette must have cut them—in a tall vase on the coffee table. She looked up and smiled at Tom and Frank. To relax himself, Tom deliberately shrugged as if he were adjusting a jacket on his shoulders: he meant to be calm and cool.
    “Nice morning?” Tom asked Heloise in English.
    “Yes. I see that Henri decided to appear.”
    “Doing the minimum as usual. Billy’s better.” Tom motioned for Frank to follow him into the kitchen, whence Tom could smell—he thought—broiling lamb chops. “Madame Annette—excusez-nous. I would like a small aperitif before lunch.”
    She was indeed inspecting lamb chops in the over-the-stove grill. “But Monsieur Tome, you should have told me! Bonjour, monsieur!” she said to Frank.
    Frank replied politely.
    Tom went to the bar cart, which was now in the kitchen, and poured a scotch, not too big or too small, into a glass and