Ripley Under Ground Read Online Free PDF Page B

his face was flushed—or perhaps he had been using a suntan lamp. His shirt cuffs were adorned with square gold links, and his blue-and-black striped suit looked brand new. Tom noticed that a toupee—what they called a hairpiece—covered the bald spot on the top of Jeff’s head, which Tom knew must be quite barren by now. Through the closed door that led to the gallery came a hubbub of voices, lots of voices, out of which a woman’s laugh leapt like a porpoise over the surface of a troubled sea, Tom thought, though he was not in the mood for poetry now.
    “Six o’clock,” Jeff announced, flashing more cuff to see his watch. “I shall now quietly tell a few of the press that Derwatt is here. This being England, there will not be a—”
    “Ha-ha! Not be a what?” Ed interrupted.
    “—not be a stampede ,” Jeff said firmly. “I’ll see to that.”
    “You’ll sit back here. Or stand, as you like,” Ed said, indicating the desk which was set at an angle and had a chair behind it.
    “This Murchison chap is here?” Tom asked in Derwatt tones.
    Jeff’s fixed smile widened, but a little uneasily. “Oh, yes. You ought to see him, of course. But after the press.” Jeff was jumpy, eager to be off, though he looked as if he might have said more, and he went out. The key turned in the lock.
    “Any water anywhere?” Tom asked.
    Ed showed him a small bathroom, which had been concealed by a section of bookshelf that swung out. Tom took a hasty gulp, and as he stepped out of the bathroom, two gentlemen of the press were coming in with Jeff, their faces blank with surprise and curiosity. One was fifty-odd, the other in his twenties, but their expressions were much alike.
    “May I present Mr. Gardiner of the Telegraph ,” Jeff said. “Derwatt. And Mr.—”
    “Perkins,” said the younger man. “ Sunday . . .”
    Another knock on the door before they could exchange greetings. Tom walked with a stoop, almost rheumatically, toward the desk. The single lamp in the room was near the door to the gallery, a good ten feet away from him. But Tom had noticed that Mr. Perkins carried a flash camera.
    Four more men and one woman were admitted. Tom feared a woman’s eyes, under the circumstances, more than anything. She was introduced to him as a Miss Eleanor Somebody of the Manchester Something or other.
    Then the questions began to fly, although Jeff suggested that each reporter should ask his questions in turn. This was a useless proposal, as each reporter was too eager to get his own questions answered.
    “Do you intend to live in Mexico indefinitely, Mr. Derwatt?”
    “Mr. Derwatt, we’re so surprised to see you here. What made you decide to come to London?”
    “Don’t call me Mister Derwatt,” Tom said grumpily. “Just Derwatt.”
    “Do you like the latest—group of canvases you’ve done? Do you think they’re your best?”
    “Derwatt—are you living alone in Mexico?” asked Eleanor Somebody.
    “Yes.”
    “Could you tell us the name of your village?”
    Three more men came in, and Tom was aware of Jeff urging one of them to wait outside.
    “One thing I will not tell you is the name of my village,” Tom said slowly. “It wouldn’t be fair to the inhabitants.”
    “Derwatt, uh—”
    “Derwatt, certain critics have said—”
    Someone was banging with fists on the door.
    Jeff banged back and yelled, “No more just now, please!”
    “Certain critics have said—”
    Now the door gave a sound of splitting, and Jeff set his shoulder against it. The door was not giving, Tom saw, and turned his calm eyes from it to regard his questioner.
    “—have said that your work resembles a period of Picasso’s related to his cubist period, when he began to split faces and forms.”
    “I have no periods,” Tom said. “Picasso has periods. That’s why you can’t put your finger on Picasso—if anybody wants to. It’s impossible to say ‘I like Picasso,’ because no one period comes to mind. Picasso