Ripley's Game Read Online Free PDF Page B

afternoon in the middle of March, when he had said to Gauthier that he’d heard Trevanny wasn’t long for this world. Not too likely that Gauthier would speak to Trevanny directly, unless they were closer than Tom thought. Gauthier would more likely tell someone else about it. Tom counted on the fact (he was sure it was a fact) that the possibility of anyone’s imminent death was a fascinating subject to everyone.
    Tom went to Fontainebleau, some twelve miles from Villeperce, every two weeks or so. Fontainebleau was better than Moret for shopping, for having suede coats cleaned, for buying radio batteries and the rarer things that Mme Annette wished for her cuisine. Jonathan Trevanny had a telephone in his shop, Tom had noted in the directory, but apparently not in his house in the Rue St Merry. Tom had been trying to look up the house number, but he thought he would recognize the house when he saw it. Around the end of March, Tom became curious to see Trevanny again, from a distance, of course, and so on a trip to Fontainebleau one Friday morning, a market day, for the purpose of buying two round terracotta flower tubs, Tom, after putting these items in the back of the Renault station wagon, walked through the Rue des Sablons where Trevanny’s shop was. It was nearly noon.
    Trevanny’s shop looked in need of paint and a bit depressing, as if it belonged to an old man, Tom thought. Tom had never patronized Trevanny, because there was a good framer in Moret, closer to Tom. The little shop with ‘Encadrement’ in fading red letters on the wood over the door stood in a row of shops – a launderette, a cobbler’s, a modest travel agency – with its door on the left side and to the right a square window with assorted frames and two or three paintings with handwritten price tags on them. Tom crossed the street casually, glanced into the shop and saw Trevanny’s tall, Nordic-looking figure behind the counter some twenty feet away. Trevanny was showing a man a length of frame, slapping it into his palm, talking. Then Trevanny glanced at the window, saw Tom for an instant, but continued talking to the customer with no change in his expression.
    Tom strolled on. Trevanny hadn’t recognized him, Tom felt. Tom turned right, into the Rue de France, the next more important street after the Rue Grande, and continued till he came to the Rue St Merry where he turned right. Or had Trevanny’s house been to the left? No, right.
    Yes, there it was, surely, the narrow, cramped-looking grey house with slender black handrails going up the front steps. The tiny areas on either side of the steps were cemented, and no flower pots relieved the barrenness. But there was a garden behind, Tom recalled. The windows, though sparkling clean, showed rather limp curtains. Yes, this was where he’d come on the invitation of Gauthier that evening in February. There was a narrow passage on the left side of the house which must lead to the garden beyond. A green plastic garbage bin stood in front of the padlocked iron gate to the garden, and Tom imagined that the Trevannys usually got to the garden via the back door off the kitchen, which Tom remembered,
    Tom was on the other side of the street, walking slowly, but careful not to appear to be loitering, because he could not be sure that the wife, or someone, was not even now looking out one of the windows.
    Was there anything else he needed to buy? Zinc white. He was nearly out of it. And that purchase would take him to Gauthier die art supply man. Tom quickened his step, congratulating himself because his need of zinc white was a real need, so he’d be entering Gauthier’s on a real errand, while at the same time lie might be able to satisfy his curiosity.
    Gauthier was alone in the shop.
    ‘Bonjour, M. Gauthier!’ said Tom.
    ‘Bonjour, M. Reepley!’ Gauthier replied, smiling. ‘And how are you?’
    ‘Very well, thank you, and you? – I find I need some zinc white.’
    ‘Zinc white.’