Ripley Under Water Read Online Free PDF

drowned in Boston Harbor, Massachusetts, when Tom had been a small boy, and then he had been adopted by Aunt Dottie, the old skinflint also of Boston. Anyway, Tom felt that Heloise was happy with him, at least content, or she’d have lodged complaints before now—or, indeed, departed. Heloise was willful. And old bald-headed Jacques must surely realize that his daughter was happy, that they maintained a highly respectable house in Villeperce. Maybe once a year the Plissots came for dinner. Arlene Plissot’s visits by herself were slightly more frequent and definitely more pleasant.
    Tom had not thought of the Odd Pair, except fleetingly, for several days, when in the 9:30 a.m. post one Saturday came a square envelope addressed in a hand he didn’t know and at once disliked: puffy capitals, a circle instead of a dot over an i. Conceited and stupid, Tom thought. Since it was addressed to Mme et M., Tom opened the envelope, and opened it before anything else. Heloise was at that moment upstairs having her bath.

    Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ripley,
    We would be most pleased if you would come and have a drink with us Saturday (tomorrow). Can you come around 6? I realize this is short notice, and if not convenient for both of you, we can propose another date.
    So looking forward to making acquaintance with you both!
    Janice and David Pritchard 
    Other side: map to show where we are. Tel: 424-6434

    Tom turned the paper over and glanced at the simply drawn plan of Villeperce’s main street and the street at a right angle to it, on which the Pritchards’ house and the Grais’ house were indicated, plus the smaller vacant house in between.
    Tum-tee-tum, Tom thought, and flipped the letter against his fingers. The invitation was for today. He was curious enough to go, that was certain—the more one knew about a possible enemy, the better—but he didn’t want to take Heloise along. He would have to invent something to tell Heloise. Meanwhile, he should confirm, but not at 9:40 a.m., Tom thought.
    He opened the rest of the post, except for one envelope addressed to Heloise in what Tom thought was Noelle Hassler’s hand. She was a good friend of Heloise ‘s who lived in Paris. There was nothing interesting, a bank statement from Manny Hanny in New York, where Tom kept a current account, junk mail from Fortune 500, which for some reason thought him sufficiently moneyed to be interested in a magazine about investments and stocks. Tom left that task (where to invest) to his tax accountant Pierre Solway, who was also employed by Jacques Plissot, through whom Tom had made his acquaintance. Sometimes Solway had good ideas. This kind of work, if it could be called that, bored Tom, but it did not bore Heloise (perhaps handling money or at least being interested in it was bred in her bones), and she was always willing to check something out with her father before she and Tom made a move.
    Henri the Giant was due at eleven that morning, and vague though he was about the difference between Thursday and Saturday, sometimes, Henri did turn up at two minutes past eleven. Henri as usual wore his faded blue overalls with their old-fashioned shoulder straps, and his broad-brimmed straw hat which could be described as tattered. He also had a reddish brown beard, which he apparently whacked now and then with scissors, an easy way out of shaving. Van Gogh would have loved him as a sitter, Tom often thought. Curious to think that a pastel portrait of him by van Gogh could and would sell today for something like thirty million dollars. Of which van Gogh would get not a penny, of course.
    Tom pulled himself together and began to explain to Henri what he would need during his two or three weeks’ absence. The compost. Could Henri please turn it? Tom had a circular wire compost bin now, high as his own chest, a bit less than a meter in diameter, with a door that could open if one extracted a metal pin.
    But as Tom went on, following Henri toward the