Ripley Under Water by Patricia Highsmith Page A

as Jeff had put it.
    By midnight, Tom was upstairs in his room, ready to go to bed with Le Monde and the Trib whose edition today combined Saturday and Sunday.
    Some time later, Tom’s telephone rang in the darkness and woke him up. Tom at once recalled that he’d asked Heloise to disconnect the telephone in her room, in case he had a late call, and he was glad of that. Heloise and Noelle had sat up late enough talking.
    “Hello?” Tom said.
    “Hi, Tom! Ed Banbury. Sorry to ring so late, but I had a message from Jeff when I got in a couple of minutes ago, and I gather it’s rather important.” Ed’s light and precise diction sounded more precise than ever. “Someone called Pritchard?”
    “Yes. And wife. They—they’ve rented a house in my village. And they claim to have met Cynthia Gradnor. Do you know anything about that?”
    “N-no,” said Ed, “but I heard about this guy. Nick—Nick Hall is our new manager at the gallery, and he mentioned an American coming in, asking about—about Murchison.”
    “Murchison!” Tom echoed, softly.
    “Yes, it was a surprise. Nick—he’s been with us barely a year, and didn’t know anything about a Murchison who disappeared.”
    Ed Banbury said it as if Murchison had done just that, disappeared, whereas Tom had killed him. “If I may ask, Ed, did Pritchard say or ask anything about me?”
    “Not that I know of. I questioned Nick, not wanting to rouse his suspicions by doing so, of course!” Here Ed gave a whoop of laughter that sounded like his old self.
    “Did Nick say anything about Cynthia—Pritchard talking to her, for instance?”
    “No. Jeff told me about that. Nick wouldn’t know Cynthia.”
    Ed had been fairly well acquainted with Cynthia, Tom knew. “I’m trying to figure how Pritchard met Cynthia—or if he really did.”
    “But what’s this Pritchard on about?” asked Ed.
    “He’s delving into my past, damn his eyes,” Tom replied. “I hope he drowns in murk—in anything.”
    A short laugh from Ed. “Did he mention Bernard?”
    “No, thank God. And he didn’t mention Murchison—to me. I’ve had a drink with Pritchard, that’s all. Pritchard’s a tease. He’s a prick.”
    They both enjoyed a brief laugh.
    “Hey,” Tom said. “May I ask, does this Nick know anything about Bernard et cetera?”
    “I don’t think so. He might, but if so he chooses to keep his suspicions to himself.”
    “Suspicions? We’re open to blackmail, Ed. Either Nick Hall doesn’t suspect—or he’s with us. Got to be.”
    Ed sighed. “I have no reason to think he suspects, Tom—we have friends in common. Nick’s a failed composer, still trying. He needs a job and he has one with us. Doesn’t know or care much about paintings, that’s certain, just keeps some basic facts about prices on hand in the gallery, so he can ring up Jeff or me in case of a serious interest in anything.”
    “How old is Nick?”
    “About thirty. He’s from Brighton. Family’s there.”
    “I don’t want you to ask Nick anything about—Cynthia,” Tom said, as if thinking aloud. “But it worries me, what she might have said. She knows everything, Ed,” Tom said very softly. “One word from her, a couple of words—“
    “She’s not the type. I swear, I think she’d feel she was hurting Bernard somehow if she spilled the beans. She has a respect for his memory—a certain respect.”
    “You see her sometimes?”
    “Nah. She never comes to the gallery.”
    “You don’t know if she’s married now, for instance?”
    “No,” said Ed. “I could take a look in the phone book, see if she’s still listed under Gradnor.”
    “Um-m, yes, why not? I seem to remember she had a Bayswater number. I never had her address. And if it occurs to you how Pritchard might have met her, if he did, tell me, Ed. Might be important.”
    Ed Banbury promised he would.
    “Oh, and what’s your number, Ed?” Tom wrote it down, plus Ed’s new address which was in the Covent Garden