{"id":4925,"date":"2026-01-04T00:56:05","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:56:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/ripley-under-water-highsmith-patricia\/"},"modified":"2026-01-04T00:56:05","modified_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:56:05","slug":"ripley-under-water-highsmith-patricia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/ripley-under-water-highsmith-patricia\/","title":{"rendered":"Ripley Under Water – Highsmith, Patricia"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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Chapter 1<\/span><\/p>\n


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Tom stood in Georges and Marie\u2019s bar-tabac with a nearly full cup of cafe express in his hand. He had paid, and Heloise\u2019s two packs of Marlboros bulged his jacket pocket. Tom was watching a slot-machine game that someone else was playing.<\/p>\n

The screen showed a cartoon motorcyclist hurtling into the background, the illusion of speed given by a forward-moving picket fence on either side of the road. The player manipulated a half-wheel, making the cyclist swerve to pass a slower car, or leap like a horse to hurdle a fence that had suddenly appeared across the road. If the motorcyclist (game-player) didn\u2019t hurdle in time, there was a silent impact, a black and gold star appeared to indicate a crash, the motorcyclist was finished and so was the game.<\/p>\n

Tom had watched the game many a time (it was the most popular he had ever known Georges and Marie to acquire), but he had never played it. He somehow didn\u2019t want to.<\/p>\n

\u201cNon-non!\u201d From behind the bar Marie\u2019s voice sang out over the usual din as she contested some customer\u2019s opinion, probably political. She and her husband were left-wing no matter what. \u201cEcoutez, Mitterrand \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

It crossed Tom\u2019s mind that Georges and Marie didn\u2019t like the influx of people from North Africa, however.<\/p>\n

\u201cEh, Marie! Deux pastis!\u201d That was fat Georges with a somewhat soiled white apron over shirt and trousers, serving the few tables, where people drank and occasionally ate potato chips and hard-boiled eggs.<\/p>\n

The jukebox played an old cha-cha-cha.<\/p>\n

A silent black and gold star! Spectators groaned sympathetically. Dead. All was over. The screen flashed its silent, obsessed message, insert coins insert coins insert coins , and the workman in blue jeans groped obediently in a pocket, inserted more coins, and the game began again, motorcyclist in tip-top shape, zooming into the background, ready for anything, neatly dodging a barrel that appeared in his lane, smoothly jumping the first barrier. The man at the controls was intent, determined to make his man come through.<\/p>\n

Tom was thinking now about Heloise, about her trip to Morocco. She wanted to see Tangier, Casablanca, maybe Marrakesh. And Tom had agreed to go with her. After all, it wasn\u2019t one of her adventure cruises requiring hospital visits for vaccines before departure, and it behooved him as her husband to accompany her on some of her jaunts. Heloise had two or three inspirations a year, not all of which she acted on. Tom wasn\u2019t in the mood for a holiday now. It was early August, Morocco would be at its hottest, and Tom loved his own peonies and dahlias at this time of year, loved cutting a fresh two or three for the living room almost daily. Tom was fond of his garden, and he rather liked Henri, the handyman who helped him with big jobs, a giant when it came to strength, though not the man for some tasks.<\/p>\n

Then there was the Odd Pair, as Tom had begun calling them to himself. He wasn\u2019t sure they were married, and of course that didn\u2019t matter. He felt they were lurking in the area and had their eye on him. Maybe they were harmless, but who knew? Tom had first noticed them a month or so ago in Fontainebleau, when he and Heloise had been shopping one afternoon: a man and woman who looked American and in their mid-thirties, walking toward them, eyeing them with that look Tom knew well, as if they knew who he was, perhaps knew his name, Tom Ripley. Tom had seen the same look a few times at airports, though rarely, and not lately. It could come after one\u2019s picture had been in the newspapers, he supposed, but Tom\u2019s hadn\u2019t been in any newspapers for years, he was sure of that. Not since the Murchison business, and that had been about five years ago\u2014Murchison, whose blood still stained Tom\u2019s cellar floor, and which Tom said was a wine stain, if anyone remarked on it.<\/p>\n

In truth, it was a mixture of wine and blood, Tom reminded himself, because Murchison had been hit over the head with a wine bottle. A bottle of Margaux wielded by Tom.<\/p>\n

Well, the Odd Pair. Crash went the motorcyclist. Tom made himself turn away and took his empty cup over to the bar counter.<\/p>\n

The male of the Odd Pair had dark straight hair, black round-rimmed glasses, and the woman light brown hair, a slender face and gray or hazel eyes. It was the man who stared, with a vague and empty smile. Tom felt that he might have seen the man before, at Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle airport, giving him that I-know-your-face look. Nothing hostile, but Tom didn\u2019t like it.<\/p>\n

And then Tom had seen them once cruising slowly in their car down the main street of Villeperce at midday when he was coming out of the bakery with a flute (must have been Mme Annette\u2019s day off or she\u2019d been busy with a lunch), and again Tom had seen them looking at him. Villeperce was a tiny town, several kilometers from Fontainebleau. Why should the Odd Pair have come here?<\/p>\n

Both Marie with her big red smile and balding Georges happened to be behind the bar just as Tom pushed his cup and saucer away. \u201cMerci et bonne nuit, Marie\u2014Georges!\u201d Tom called and gave a smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cBon soir, M\u2019sieur Reepley!\u201d cried Georges, one hand waving, the other pouring Calvados.<\/p>\n

\u201cMerci, m\u2019sieur, a bientot!\u201d Marie threw at him.<\/p>\n

Tom was almost at the door when the male of the Odd Pair walked in, round glasses and all, and seemingly alone.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Ripley?\u201d His pinkish lips again wore a smile. \u201cGood evening.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEvening,\u201d said Tom, still on his way out.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve\u2014my wife and I\u2014may I invite you for a drink?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, I\u2019m just leaving.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnother time, maybe. We\u2019ve rented a house in Villeperce. This direction.\u201d He gestured vaguely north, and his smile widened to reveal squarish teeth. \u201cLooks like we\u2019ll be neighbors.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tom was confronted by two people entering, and had to step back into the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name\u2019s Pritchard. David. I\u2019m taking courses at the Fontainebleau business school insead . I\u2019m sure you know of it. Anyway, my house here is a two-story white one with garden and a little pool. We fell in love with it because of the pool, reflections on the ceiling\u2014the water.\u201d He chuckled.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see,\u201d Tom said, trying to sound reasonably pleasant. He was now out of the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll telephone you. My wife\u2019s name is Janice.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tom managed a nod and forced a smile. \u201cYes\u2014fine. Do that. Good night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot too many Americans around here!\u201d the determined David Pritchard called after him.<\/p>\n

Mr. Pritchard would have a hard time finding his number, Tom was thinking, because he and Heloise had managed to keep it out of the telephone book. The outwardly dull David Pritchard\u2014nearly as tall as Tom and a bit heavier\u2014looked like trouble, Tom was thinking as he walked homeward. A police officer of some kind? Digging up old records? Private detective for\u2014for whom, really? Tom couldn\u2019t think of any active enemies. \u201cPhony\u201d was the word Tom thought of in regard to David Pritchard: phony smile, phony goodwill, maybe phony story about studying at instead . That educational institution at Fontainebleau could be a cover, in fact such an obvious one that Tom thought it might be true that Pritchard was studying something there. Or maybe they weren\u2019t man and wife but a CIA pair. What would the USA be after him for, Tom wondered. Not income tax, that was in order. Murchison? No, that was settled. Or case abandoned. Murchison and his corpse had disappeared. Dickie Greenleaf? Hardly. Even Christopher Greenleaf, Dickie\u2019s cousin, wrote Tom a friendly postcard now and then, from Alice Springs last year, for instance. Christopher was now a civil engineer, married, working in Rochester, New York, as Tom recalled. Tom was even on good terms with Dickie\u2019s father Herbert. At least, they exchanged Christmas cards.<\/p>\n

As Tom approached the big tree opposite Belle Ombre, a tree whose branches leaned a little over the road, his spirits rose. What was there to worry about? Tom pushed open one big gate just enough to slip through, then closed it with as gentle a clang as he could manage and slid the padlock home, then the long bolt.<\/p>\n

Reeves Minot. Tom stopped short and his shoes slid on the gravel of the forecourt. Another fence job for Reeves was in the offing. Reeves had telephoned a few days ago. Tom often vowed he would not do another, then found himself accepting. Was it because he enjoyed meeting new people? Tom gave a laugh, short and barely audible, then continued walking toward his front door with his usual light tread that hardly disturbed the gravel.<\/p>\n

The light was on in the living room, and the front door was unlocked, as Tom had left it forty-five minutes ago. Tom went in, then locked the front door behind him. Heloise sat on the sofa, poring over a magazine\u2014probably an article on North Africa, Tom thought.<\/p>\n

\u201cEllo, cheri\u2014Reeves telephoned,\u201d Heloise said, looking up, tossing her blonde hair back with a swing of her head. \u201cTome, did you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Catch!\u201d Smiling, Tom tossed the first red and white packet to her, then the second. She caught the first, the second hit her blue shirtfront. \u201cAnything pressing concerning Reeves? Repassant\u2014ironing\u2014bugelnd?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Tome, stop it!\u201d said Heloise, and used her lighter. She inwardly enjoyed his puns, Tom thought, though she would never say so, would hardly permit herself to smile. \u201cHe will telephone back but maybe not tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomebody\u2014well\u2014\u201d Tom stopped, because Reeves didn\u2019t go into detail with Heloise, ever, and Heloise professed to be uninterested, even bored, with Tom\u2019s and Reeves\u2019s doings. It was safer: the less she knew, the better, Tom supposed Heloise thought. And who could say that wasn\u2019t true?<\/p>\n

\u201cTome, tomorrow we go and buy the tickets\u2014to Maroc. All right?\u201d She had tucked her bare feet up on the yellow silk sofa like a comfortable kitten, and now she looked at him calmly with her pale lavender eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cY-yes. All right.\u201d He had promised, he reminded himself. \u201cWe fly first to Tangier.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOui, cheri, and then we go on from there. Casablanca\u2014of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d Tom echoed. \u201cRight, dear, we\u2019ll buy the tickets tomorrow\u2014Fontainebleau.\u201d They always went to the same travel agency there, where they knew the staff. Tom hesitated, then decided to say it now. \u201cDarling, do you remember the pair\u2014the American-looking couple we saw in Fontainebleau one day\u2014on the pavement? Walking toward us, and I said later I thought he was staring at us?<\/p>\n

Dark-haired man with glasses?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think\u2014yes. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

Tom could tell that she did remember. \u201cBecause he just spoke to me in the bar-tabac.\u201d Tom unbuttoned his jacket and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He had not sat down. \u201cI don\u2019t care for him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI remember the woman with him, with lighter hair. Americans, no?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe is, anyway. Well\u2014they\u2019ve rented a house here in Villeperce. Remember the house where the\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cVraiment? Villeperce?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOui, ma chere! The house where the pond water is reflected on the ceiling\u2014in the living room?\u201d He and Heloise\u00a0had marveled at the oval moving like water itself on the white ceiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. I remember the house. Two-story white, not such a pretty fireplace. Not very far from the Grais\u2019, is it not? Someone with us thought about buying it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Right.\u201d An American acquaintance of an acquaintance, looking for a country house not too far from Paris, had asked Tom and Heloise to accompany him while he inspected a couple of houses in the vicinity. He had bought nothing, at least nothing near Villeperce. That had been more than a year ago. \u201cWell\u2014to the point, the dark-haired man with glasses intends to be neighborly with me or us, and I\u2019m not having it. Just because we speak English or American, ho-ho! Seems he\u2019s connected with insead\u2014that big school near Fontainebleau.\u201d Tom added, \u201cHow does he know my name in the first place, and why is he interested?\u201d Lest he seem too concerned, he calmly sat down. Now he faced Heloise from his straight chair with the coffee table between them. \u201cDavid and Janice Pritchard, they\u2019re called. If they manage to telephone, we\u2019re\u2014polite, but we\u2019re busy. All right, dear?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, Tome.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd if they have the nerve to ring the bell, they\u2019re not to be let in. I\u2019ll warn Madame Annette, you can be sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

Heloise\u2019s usually clear blonde brow became thoughtful. \u201cWhat is the matter with them?\u201d<\/p>\n

The simplicity of the question made Tom smile. \u201cI have a feeling\u2014\u201d Tom hesitated. He did not usually talk to Heloise about his intuitions, but in this case he might be protecting her if he did. \u201cThey don\u2019t look normal to me.\u201d Tom glanced down at the carpet. What was normal? Tom couldn\u2019t have answered that question. \u201cI have the feeling they\u2019re not married.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd\u2014so what?\u201d<\/p>\n

Tom laughed, and reached for the blue pack of Gitanes on the coffee table, lit one with Heloise\u2019s Dunhill lighter. \u201cTrue, my dear. But why are they eyeing me? Didn\u2019t I tell you, I think I recall the same man, and maybe the pair, staring at me at some airport not long ago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you didn\u2019t,\u201d said Heloise.<\/p>\n

He smiled. \u201cThere\u2019ve been people before this we didn\u2019t like. No great problem.\u201d Tom got up, walked around the coffee table, and pulled Heloise up by the hand that she extended. He embraced her, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the fragrance of her hair, her skin. \u201cI love you. I want to keep you safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

She laughed. They loosened their embrace. \u201cBelle Ombre looks very safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey won\u2019t set foot here.\u201d<\/p>\n

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