Free Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith Page A

poured the tea.
    Murchison sat on the sofa. He might not have seen Mme. Annette come and go. He stared at “Man in Chair” as if dazed or fascinated. Then he blinked at Tom, smiled, and his face was genial again. “You don’t believe me, I think. That’s your privilege.”
    “I don’t know what to say. I don’t see the difference in quality, no. Maybe I’m obtuse. If, as you say, you’ll get an expert to look at yours, I’ll abide by what an expert says. And by the way, ‘Man in Chair’ is the picture you can take back to London with you, if you like.”
    “I’d most certainly like. I’ll write you a receipt for it and even insure it for you.” Murchison chuckled.
    “It’s insured. Don’t worry.”
    Over two cups of tea, Murchison asked Tom about Heloise, and what she was doing. Had they any children? No. Heloise was twenty-five. No, Tom didn’t think Frenchwomen were more difficult than other women, but they had their own idea of the respect with which they should be treated. This subject did not make much progress, because every woman wanted to be treated with a certain respect, and though Tom knew Heloise’s kind, he absolutely could not put it into words.
    The telephone rang, and Tom said, “Excuse me, I think I’ll take that up in my room.” He dashed up the stairs. After all, Murchison might suppose it was Heloise, and that he wanted to speak with her alone.
    “Hello?” Tom said. “Eduardo! How are you? I’m in luck to get you. . . . Via the grapevine. A mutual friend in Paris rang today and told me you were in Milan. . . . Now can you pay me a visit? After all, you promised.”
    The Count, a bon vivant ever willing to be distracted from the swift pursuit of his business (export-import) showed a slight hesitation about changing his Paris plans, then agreed with enthusiasm to come to Tom. “But not tonight. Tomorrow. Is that all right?”
    That was quite soon enough for Tom, who wasn’t quite sure what problems Murchison would present. “Yes, even Friday would be—”
    “ Thursday ,” said the Count firmly, not getting the point.
    “All right. I’ll pick you up at Orly. At what time?”
    “My plane is at—just a minute.” The Count took quite a time looking it up, came back to the telephone and said, “Arriving at five fifteen. Flight three zero six Alitalia.”
    Tom wrote this down. “I’ll be there. Delighted you can come, Eduardo!”
    Then Tom went back downstairs to Thomas Murchison. By now they called each other Tom, though Murchison said his wife called him Tommy. Murchison said he was an hydraulic engineer with a pipe-laying company whose main office was in New York. Murchison was one of the directors.
    They took a walk around Tom’s back garden, which blended into virgin woods. Tom rather liked Murchison. Surely he could persuade him, convert him, Tom thought. What should he do?
    During dinner, while Murchison talked about something brand new in his plant—packaged transport by pipe of anything and everything in soup-tin-sized containers—Tom wondered if he should bother to ask Jeff and Ed to get Mexican letterheads from some shipping company on which to list Derwatt’s paintings? And how quickly could this be done? Ed was the journalist, and couldn’t he handle a clerical job like this, and have Leonard, the gallery manager, and Jeff walk all over them on the floor to make them look five or six years old? The dinner was excellent, and Murchison had praise for Mme. Annette, which he delivered in quite passable French, for her mousse and even the Brie.
    “We’ll have coffee in the living room,” Tom said to her. “And can you bring the brandy?”
    Mme. Annette had lit the fire. Tom and Murchison settled themselves on the big yellow sofa.
    “It’s a funny thing,” Tom began, “I like ‘Man in Chair’ just as much as ‘The Red Chairs.’ If it’s phony. Funny, isn’t it?” Tom was still talking in a midwestern accent. “You can see it’s got the