Free Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith

room. Here were flowers, and Mme. Annette had turned up the heat. There was a fireplace, and Tom loved fires, but he felt he had to watch them constantly, or he loved watching them so much he could not tear himself away, so he decided not to light one now. He stared at “Man in Chair” over the fireplace, and bounced on his heels with satisfaction—satisfaction with its familiarity, its excellence. Bernard was good. He’d just made a couple of mistakes in his periods. Damn periods anyway. Logically, “The Red Chairs,” a genuine Derwatt, should have the place of honor in the room over the fireplace. Typical of him that he had put the phony in the choice spot, he supposed. Heloise didn’t know that “Man in Chair” was bogus, and knew nothing of the Derwatt forgeries, in fact. Her interest in painting was casual. If she had any passions, they were for traveling, sampling exotic food, and buying clothes. The contents of her two closets in her room looked like an international costume museum without the dummies. She had waistcoats from Tunisia, fringed sleeveless jackets from Mexico, Greek soldiers’ baggy pants in which she looked quite charming, and embroidered coats from China that she had bought somehow in London.
    Then Tom suddenly remembered Count Bertolozzi, and went to his telephone. He didn’t particularly want Murchison to hear the Count’s name, but on the other hand Tom was not going to do any harm to the Count, and perhaps maintaining his open manner was all to the good. Tom asked for inquiries for Milan, got the number, and gave it to the French operator. She told Tom the call might take half an hour.
    Mr. Murchison came down. He had changed his clothes, and wore gray flannel trousers and a green-and-black tweed jacket. “The country life!” he said, beaming. “Ah!” He had caught sight of “The Red Chairs” facing him across the room, and went over for closer inspection. “That’s a masterpiece. That’s the real McCoy!”
    No doubt of that, Tom thought, and a thrill of pride went over him which made him feel slightly foolish. “Yes, I like it.”
    “I think I’ve heard about it. I remember the title from somewhere. I congratulate you, Tom.”
    “And there’s my ‘Man in Chair,’” Tom said, nodding toward the fireplace.
    “Ah,” Murchison said on a different note. He went nearer, and Tom saw his tall, sturdy figure grow tense with concentration. “And how old is this?”
    “About four years old,” Tom said truthfully.
    “What did you pay, to ask a rude question?”
    “Four thousand quid. Before devaluation. About eleven thousand two hundred dollars,” Tom said, calculating the pound at two eighty.
    “I’m delighted to see this,” Murchison said, nodding. “You see, the same purple turns up again. Very little of it here, but look.” He pointed to the bottom edge of the chair. Due to the height of the picture and the width of the fireplace, Murchison’s finger was inches away from the canvas, but Tom knew the streak of purple that he meant. “Plain cobalt violet.” Murchison crossed the room and looked again at “The Red Chairs,” peering at it at a distance of ten inches. “And this is one of the old ones. Plain cobalt violet too.”
    “You really think ‘Man in Chair’ is a forgery?”
    “Yes, I do. Like my ‘Clock.’ The quality is different. Inferior to ‘The Red Chairs.’ Quality is something one can’t measure with the aid of a microscope. But I can see it here. And —I’m also sure about the plain cobalt violet here.”
    “Then,” Tom said in an unperturbed way, “maybe it means Derwatt is using plain cobalt violet and the mixture you mentioned—alternately.”
    Murchison, frowning, shook his head. “I don’t see it that way.”
    Mme. Annette was pushing the tea in on a cart. One wheel of the cart squeaked slightly. “ Voilà le thé, M. Tome.”
    Mme. Annette had made flat brown-edged cookies, and they gave off a cozy smell of warm vanilla. Tom