The Boy Who Followed Ripley Read Online Free PDF Page B

to Tom’s surprise. Then he turned his attention to the greenhouse.
    Here were multicolored leaves, blossoms, plants ready to be given away to friends, all in proper dampness and rich soil. The boy inhaled as if he loved it. Was this really the son of John Pierson, raised in luxury to take over the business reins—unless that was the older son’s duty? Why didn’t he talk now, in the privacy of the greenhouse? But the boy kept peering at pots, and touched one plant gently with a fingertip.
    “Let’s go back,” Tom said, a bit impatient.
    “Yes, sir.” The boy straightened as if he had done something wrong, and followed Tom out.
    What kind of school demanded “Yes, sir” these days? A military school?
    They had dinner in the alcove off the living room. The main dish was chicken with dumplings, the dumplings laid on after the boy’s telephone call this afternoon, at Tom’s request. Tom had taught Mme. Annette how to make dumplings in the American style. The boy ate well and seemed to enjoy the Montrachet also. He asked polite questions about Heloise, where did her parents live, and what were they like? Tom restrained himself from giving his real opinion of the Plissons, especially the father.
    “Does your—does Madame Annette speak English?”
    Tom smiled. “She doesn’t even say ‘Good morning.’ Doesn’t like English, I think. Why?”
    The boy moistened his lips and leaned forward. More than a meter of table still separated them. “What if I were to tell you that I am the—the person you were speaking of—Frank.”
    “Yes, you asked that before,” Tom said, realizing that Frank was feeling what he had drunk. All to the good! “You’re here—just to get away from home for a while?”
    “Yes,” Frank said in an earnest way. “You won’t give me away, will you? I hope not.” He was almost whispering, trying to look at Tom steadily, but his eyes swam a little.
    “Certainly not. You can trust me. You probably had your own reasons—”
    “ Yes . I would like to be somebody else,” the boy interrupted, “for maybe—” He stopped. “I was sorry to run off the way I did, but—but—”
    Tom listened, sensing that Frank was coming out with only part of the truth, and might not come out with much more tonight. Tom felt grateful for the power of vino and its veritas. There was a limit to how much one could lie with it, at least someone as young as Frank Pierson. “Tell me about your family. Isn’t there a John Junior?”
    “Yes, Johnny.” Frank twirled the stem of his wine glass. He was now staring at the middle of the table. “I took his passport. I stole it from his room. He’s eighteen, nearly nineteen. I can forge his signature—or at least well enough to get by. I don’t mean I ever tried it before—not at all till now.” Frank paused, and swayed his head as if confused by many thoughts at the same time.
    “Then what did you do after you ran away?”
    “I took a plane to London, stayed there for—I think five days. Then I went to France. Paris.”
    “I see.— And you had enough money? You weren’t forging traveler’s checks?”
    “Oh, no, I took some cash, two or three thousand. That was easy—from the house. I can open the safe, of course.”
    At this moment, Mme. Annette came in to remove some dishes and to serve the strawberry—fraises de bois—shortcake with whipped cream.
    “And Johnny,” Tom said to start the ball rolling again, when Mme. Annette was gone.
    “Johnny’s at Harvard. On vacation now, of course.”
    “And where’s the house?”
    Frank’s eyes swam again, as if he were thinking, which house? “Maine. Kennebunkport.— That house?”
    “The funeral was in Maine, was it? I seem to remember. You left from the Maine house?” Now Tom was surprised at the boy’s apparent shock at the question.
    “Kennebunkport, yes. We’re usually there at this time of the year. The funeral was there—the cremation.”
    Do you think your father killed himself,