The small boy was looking
in a drop of water for his voice.
- Federico Garcia Lorca, 'The Boy Unable To Speak'
Neither Light Nor Shadow
Like that unpleasant busybody Murchison, and the rather more welcome person of Dickie Greenleaf before him, Tom Ripley had to die. The very idea brought a kind of nauseous pain to Tom. There was the lovely house at Villeperce, Belle Ombre, to think of, with its garden and carefully chosen furnishings. Not to mention Tom's pretty wife, Heloise. She would be devastated. Did he put so much time and work into them, just so that they could be dropped like an out-of-date suit?
But there was no way around it. The Yard had been hovering around the Buckmaster Gallery for weeks, wanting to see its books and talk to the staff. It was only a matter of time before Jeff lost his nerve and tried to pin the whole business on Tom, never mind that the murder was ancient history and he had nothing to do with the scams that had gotten the Gallery in trouble. Tom knew that Jeff's weakness was that he was greedy, and he should have kept a closer eye on him. Too late for that now.
Perhaps he could save one of the Derwatts? The 'Man in Chair', which was Tom's favourite. A geuine Bernard Tufts forgery. Surely with all the remains of the fire to rifle over, no one would notice if a small painting were missing? But it would be dangerous, an unnecessary risk, something linking him to the late Thomas Ripley of Villeperce-sur-Seine, France. How would he explain his possession of it? A clean break was what he needed.
Unlike the first time, going to meet Dickie in Mongibello, when Tom had boarded the big liner in New York with all his best clothes in a tattered leather case, now he always crossed the Atlantic by airplane.
He landed in Bogotá El Dorado International carrying only a briefcase, and a bag that was the right size to hold just a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. He did not look exactly French, or exactly American, and his shoes were made in Italy. He looked like a businessman, somebody's husband, starched and well-pressed, successful but not showy, which was what the watch on his wrist said. Not the sort that got stopped at customs. Tom counted on it. In his suitcase, he had the address and number of a bank in Bogotá that was waiting for him. Or rather, it was waiting for the arrival of Lawrence Hopkins, which was the name on his passport. Thank you, Reeves, old friend. Larry Hopkins put on his sunglasses and hat, and reached out a hand to hail a cab.
THE END
19 January 2010