area.
They wished each other well, and signed off.
Tom went back to bed, after listening for a moment in the hall, looking for a streak of light under a door (he saw none) to see if the telephone call had disturbed anyone.
Murchison, good God! Murchison had last been heard of when staying overnight at Tom’s in Villeperce. His luggage had been found at Orly, and that was that. Presumably—no, definitely—Murchison had not boarded the airplane that he was supposed to. Murchison, what was left of him was sunk in a river called the Loing, or a canal off it, not far from Villeperce. The Buckmaster Gallery boys, Ed and Jeff, had asked the minimum of questions. Murchison, who suspected forgeries of Derwatts, had been erased from the scene. They were all saved, therefore. Of course Tom’s name had been in the newspapers, but briefly, as he had told a convincing story of driving Murchison to Orly airport.
That had been another murder he had regretfully, reluctantly, perpetrated, not like the couple of Mafia garrote jobs, which had been a pleasure and a satisfaction to Tom. Bernard Tufts had helped him dig Murchison’s corpse out of the shallow grave behind Belle Ombre, where Tom by himself had tried to bury him several days earlier. The grave hadn’t been deep or safe enough. He and Bernard in the dead of night had taken the corpse, in a tarpaulin or canvas of some kind, Tom remembered, in the station wagon to a certain bridge over the Loing waters, where it had not been too difficult for the two of them to heave Murchison—weighted with stones—over the parapet. Bernard had obeyed Tom’s orders like a soldier at that time, being then on some solitary plane of his own where different standards of honor prevailed, concerning different matters: Bernard’s conscience had not been able to bear the weight of his guilt in creating sixty or seventy paintings and countless drawings over the years, deliberately in the style of Bernard’s idol Derwatt.
Had the London or American newspapers (Murchison had been American) ever mentioned Cynthia Gradnor during the days of inquiry about Murchison? Tom didn’t think so. Bernard Tufts’s name had definitely not been mentioned in relation to Murchison’s disappearance. Murchison had had an appointment with a man at the Tate to discuss his forgery theory, Tom remembered. He had first gone to the Buckmaster Gallery, to speak with its owners, Ed Banbury and Jeff Constant, who had very soon alerted Tom. Tom had gone over to London to try to save the day, and had succeeded, disguising himself as Derwatt and verifying a few paintings. Then Murchison had visited Tom at Belle Ombre, in order to see Tom’s two Derwatts. Tom had been the last person Murchison was known to have seen, according to Murchison’s wife in America, with whom Murchison must have spoken by telephone in London before coming to Paris and then Villeperce to see Tom.
Tom thought he might be visited that night by unpleasant dreams of Murchison slumping to the cellar floor in a cloud of blood and wine, or of Bernard Tufts trudging in his worn-out desert boots to the edge of a cliff near Salzburg, and disappearing. But no. Such was the whimsicality, the illogic of dreams and the subconscious, that Tom’s sleep was untroubled, and he awoke the next morning feeling particularly refreshed and cheerful.
Chapter 5
Tom took a shower, shaved and dressed, and went downstairs just after eight-thirty. The morning was sunny, not yet warm, and a lovely breeze made the birch leaves flicker. Mme Annette was of course up and in the kitchen, with her little portable radio, which lived by the breadbox, on for the news and the chatter-and-pop programs in which the French radio abounded.
“Bonjour, Madame Annette!” Tom said. “I am thinking—since Madame Hassler probably departs this morning, we might have a substantial breakfast. Coddled eggs?” He said the last two words in English. Coddle was in his dictionary, but not in
They wished each other well, and signed off.
Tom went back to bed, after listening for a moment in the hall, looking for a streak of light under a door (he saw none) to see if the telephone call had disturbed anyone.
Murchison, good God! Murchison had last been heard of when staying overnight at Tom’s in Villeperce. His luggage had been found at Orly, and that was that. Presumably—no, definitely—Murchison had not boarded the airplane that he was supposed to. Murchison, what was left of him was sunk in a river called the Loing, or a canal off it, not far from Villeperce. The Buckmaster Gallery boys, Ed and Jeff, had asked the minimum of questions. Murchison, who suspected forgeries of Derwatts, had been erased from the scene. They were all saved, therefore. Of course Tom’s name had been in the newspapers, but briefly, as he had told a convincing story of driving Murchison to Orly airport.
That had been another murder he had regretfully, reluctantly, perpetrated, not like the couple of Mafia garrote jobs, which had been a pleasure and a satisfaction to Tom. Bernard Tufts had helped him dig Murchison’s corpse out of the shallow grave behind Belle Ombre, where Tom by himself had tried to bury him several days earlier. The grave hadn’t been deep or safe enough. He and Bernard in the dead of night had taken the corpse, in a tarpaulin or canvas of some kind, Tom remembered, in the station wagon to a certain bridge over the Loing waters, where it had not been too difficult for the two of them to heave Murchison—weighted with stones—over the parapet. Bernard had obeyed Tom’s orders like a soldier at that time, being then on some solitary plane of his own where different standards of honor prevailed, concerning different matters: Bernard’s conscience had not been able to bear the weight of his guilt in creating sixty or seventy paintings and countless drawings over the years, deliberately in the style of Bernard’s idol Derwatt.
Had the London or American newspapers (Murchison had been American) ever mentioned Cynthia Gradnor during the days of inquiry about Murchison? Tom didn’t think so. Bernard Tufts’s name had definitely not been mentioned in relation to Murchison’s disappearance. Murchison had had an appointment with a man at the Tate to discuss his forgery theory, Tom remembered. He had first gone to the Buckmaster Gallery, to speak with its owners, Ed Banbury and Jeff Constant, who had very soon alerted Tom. Tom had gone over to London to try to save the day, and had succeeded, disguising himself as Derwatt and verifying a few paintings. Then Murchison had visited Tom at Belle Ombre, in order to see Tom’s two Derwatts. Tom had been the last person Murchison was known to have seen, according to Murchison’s wife in America, with whom Murchison must have spoken by telephone in London before coming to Paris and then Villeperce to see Tom.
Tom thought he might be visited that night by unpleasant dreams of Murchison slumping to the cellar floor in a cloud of blood and wine, or of Bernard Tufts trudging in his worn-out desert boots to the edge of a cliff near Salzburg, and disappearing. But no. Such was the whimsicality, the illogic of dreams and the subconscious, that Tom’s sleep was untroubled, and he awoke the next morning feeling particularly refreshed and cheerful.
Chapter 5
Tom took a shower, shaved and dressed, and went downstairs just after eight-thirty. The morning was sunny, not yet warm, and a lovely breeze made the birch leaves flicker. Mme Annette was of course up and in the kitchen, with her little portable radio, which lived by the breadbox, on for the news and the chatter-and-pop programs in which the French radio abounded.
“Bonjour, Madame Annette!” Tom said. “I am thinking—since Madame Hassler probably departs this morning, we might have a substantial breakfast. Coddled eggs?” He said the last two words in English. Coddle was in his dictionary, but not in
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