The Talented Mr Ripley
Patricia Highsmith
Chapter one
A Journey for Tom Ripley
Tom looked behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage. He walked faster. There was no doubt the man was following him. Tom had noticed him five minutes ago, staring at him from a table. Tom had paid for his drink in a hurry and left.
At the corner, Tom leaned forward and ran across Fifth Avenue. There was Raoul's. Should he take a chance and go in for another drink? Or should he run over to Park Avenue and try to escape by hiding in dark doorways? He went into Raoul's.
As he walked up to an empty seat at the bar, he looked around to see if he knew anyone. There was that big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot, sitting at a table with a blonde girl. But who was that man outside? Was that the kind of man they would send after him? He didn't look like a police officer or a detective. He looked like a businessman, someone's father, well-dressed with gray hair. Was that the kind of man they sent on a job like this? He would chat with you in a bar, and then bang! - one hand on the shoulder and the other hand holding a policeman's identification. Tom Ripley, you're under arrest! Tom watched the door.
Here he was, coming inside, taking a place at the bar. Tom stared at him. They couldn't give you more than ten years, Tom thought. Maybe fifteen, but with good behavior - As the man started to speak, Tom suffered a moment of desperate regret. Why was he pretending to work for the income tax office? Yes, he received checks for hundreds of dollars from stupid people who believed him when he said they owed money. But he never cashed the checks. It was really just a silly game that made him feel powerful.
"Pardon me, are you Tom Ripley?"
"Yes."
"My name is Herbert Greenleaf. Richard Greenleaf's father." The look on his face would have been less confusing if he had been holding a gun. The face was friendly, smiling, and hopeful. "You're a friend of Richard's, aren't you?"
Tom searched his memory. Dickie Greenleaf. A tall, blond guy. He had quite a lot of money, Tom remembered. "Oh, Dickie Greenleaf, yes."
"Charles and Marta Schriever told me about you. I know so few of Richard's friends, but they seemed to think you know him quite well. Somebody told them you drank at the Green Cage."
"I remember him, yes."
"But you're not writing him now?" Mr. Greenleaf seemed disappointed.
"No, I don't think I've seen Dickie in a couple of years."
"He's been in Europe for two years. The Schrievers thought you might have some influence on Richard. We want him to come home."
Tom hadh't seen the Schrievers more than three or four times in his life. He had once calculated Charley Schrievers income tax and saved him a lot of money. Maybe that was why the Schrievers had recommended him. Maybe Charley had said that Tom was intelligent, honest, and very willing to help. It was a slight mistake.
"I don't suppose you know anybody else close to Richard who might be able to persuade him?" Mr. Greenleaf asked.
"I'd certainly like to help. Where is he staying in Europe?" Tom asked, not caring at all where Dickie was staying.
"In a town called Mongibello, south of Naples. He divides his time between painting and sailing. He bought a house. Richard has his own income - not a large amount, but enough to live on in Italy it seems."
Tom thought Dickie was probably having a great time over there. An income, a house, a boat. Why should he want to come home? Dickie was lucky. What was Tom doing? Living from week to week. Hiding from the police now for the first time in his life. He had a talent for mathematics. Why didn't someone pay him for it? Tom realized that his whole body had tensed. He was bored, bored, bored! He wanted to be at the bar by himself.
"I'd be very happy to write to Dickie if you give me his address. I suppose he'll remember me. We were at a weekend party out on Long Island once, I remember. And I came up to your apartment a few times, too," Tom went on. "He showed me some of his models - of ships."
"Did he ever show you his drawings?" Mr. Greenleaf was smiling again.
Dickie hadn't, but Tom said brightly, "Yes, of course he did. Interesting, some of them." Tom had never seen them, but he could imagine them now - and he could see Dickie holding them up for him to see.
"Yes, Richard has talent," Mr. Greenleaf said with satisfaction.
"I think he has," Tom agreed. He was getting more bored every minute. He knew the feelings. He experienced them at parties or when he was having dinner with somebody he didn't want to be with. "I'm sorry I'm not free now or I'd go over and try to persuade Richard myself," Tom said, just because Mr. Greenleaf wanted him to.
"Richard has always listened to his friends' advice. If you or somebody else could find the time, I'd even send them over to talk to him. I don't suppose you could get time off from your present job, could you? "
Tom's heart suddenly jumped. He put a look of careful thought on his face. He didn't have a job. He might have to leave town soon anyway if the police started asking questions. He wanted to leave New York. "I might," he said carefully.
"I'd be glad to pay for your trip. Do you really think you might be able to go - this fall?"
"I think I might. I'd be glad to see Richard again - especially if you think I might be able to help."
"I do! I think he'd listen to you. You'll probably succeed where the rest of us have failed. Why don't you come over to my house and meet my wife? We'd be so happy if you would go to Europe and bring Richard back."
***
"Hello, Tom, my boy!" Mr. Greenleaf said in a voice that promised good drinks, an excellent dinner, and a bed for the night in case he got too tired to go home. "Emily, this is Tom Ripley!"
"I'm so happy to meet you!" his wife said warmly.
"How do you do, Mrs. Greenleaf?"
"Mr. Ripley's been here before," Mr. Greenleaf said. "He's come here with Richard."
"Oh, has he? I don't believe I met you, though."
About thirty minutes later, they went into the dining-room, where a table was set for three with a dark blue tablecloth and a whole cold chicken.
The conversation was dull and the dinner delicious. Tom told Mrs. Greenleaf that he was working for an advertising company called Rothenberg, Fleming, and Barter. Later, on purpose, he called it Reddington, Fleming, and Parker. The Greenleafs didn't notice the difference.
"Where did you go to college?" Mr. Greenleaf asked.
"I went to Princeton for a time, then when I visited an aunt in Denver I stayed out there and went to college." Tom hoped Mr. Greenleaf would ask him something about Princeton, but he didn't. Tom could discuss the teaching system, the college rules, the atmosphere at weekend dances, and the political beliefs of the students. He had been very friendly with a Princeton student last summer and had asked him for more and more information in case he might be able to use it some time. Tom had also met a young man who had been going to the University of Colorado. He had told the Greenleafs that he had been raised by his Aunt Dottie in Boston. In truth, though, she had taken him to Denver when he was sixteen, and he had only finished high school there, but he felt like he had gone to school there as well. After Tom had finished high school, they had moved back to Boston again.
Mrs. Greenleaf came in with some photographs and Tom sat down beside her as she looked through them. Richard taking his first step; Richard with long, blond curls. The photographs weren't interesting to him until Richard was about sixteen. Richard had hardly changed between sixteen and twenty-four.
Mrs. Greenleaf handed Tom several photos. "These are from Europe. This is Mongibello," she said, showing Tom a picture of Dickie in a boat on the sand. "And here's the girl, the only other American who lives there."
"Marge Sherwood," Mr. Greenleaf said. The girl was in a swimsuit on the beach, her arms around her knees. There was also a good picture of Richard in shorts, sitting on the wall of a terrace.
Tom noticed that Mrs. Greenleaf was staring down at the floor in front of her. He saw tears in her eyes. Mr. Greenleaf had told him that Mrs. Greenleaf was seriously ill and got emotional very easily. She was worried she would never see Dickie again. Her husband came over to comfort her.
"Mrs. Greenleaf," Tom said softly, "I want you to know that I'll do everything I can to make Dickie come home."
"Thank you, Tom." She pressed Tom's hand tightly.
"Emily, don't you think it's time for you to go to bed?" Mr. Greenleaf asked.
Tom stood up as Mrs. Greenleaf did. Mr. Greenleaf went out of the room with her.
Tom remained standing, his hands at his sides. In a large mirror on the wall he could see himself: the serious, hard-working young man again. He was doing the right thing, behaving the right way, but he had a feeling of guilt.
He felt himself beginning to sweat, and he tried to relax. What was he so worried about? He'd felt so good tonight. It's like a dream, Tom thought. In a minute, Mr. Greenleaf or somebody else would say, "Tom, Tom!" and he would open his eyes and find himself back in Raoul's with a drink in front of him.
Chapter two
A New Start
Tom's mood was calm and happy, but he didn't feel like making friends. He wanted his time for thinking. He began to play a role on the ship, the role of a serious young man with an important job ahead of him.
He had a sudden desire for a hat and so he bought one on the ship, a blue-gray cap of soft English wool. He could look like so many different types of people in the hat. He had always thought that he had the world's dullest face. The cap changed all that. Now he was a young man with a private income, not long out of Princeton, possibly.
He was starting a new life. Goodbye to all of the awful people he had known in New York. Whatever happened with Dickie, he would handle himself well and Mr. Greenleaf would respect him for it. When Mr. Greenleaf's money was gone, he might not come back to America. He might get an interesting job in a hotel. Or he might work as a salesperson for a European company and travel around in the world.
One afternoon, he wrote a polite letter to his Aunt Dottie.
Dear Auntie,
I am on my way to Europe by boat. I had a business offer that I can't explain right now. I had to leave suddenly, so I was not able to come to Boston and I'm sorry because it may be months or even years before I come back.
I wanted to tell you not to worry and not to send me any more checks. Thank you very much for the last one from a month ago. I am well and very happy.
Love, Tom
The letter made him feel better because it separated him from her. No more of the letters comparing him to his father and the stupid checks for six dollars and forty-eight cents or twelve dollars and ninety-five cents when she had some change left over from the store. Aunt Dottie had always told Tom that he had cost her more than his father had left in insurance. But did she have to keep repeating it? Lots of aunts and even strangers raised a child for nothing and were glad to do it.
After his letter to Aunt Dottie, he got up and walked around the ship. He always got angry when he wrote to her. He hated being nice to her. Until now he had always needed the money she sent him. But he didn't need it now. He would be independent forever.
He had run away from Aunt Dottie at seventeen and had been brought back, and he had done it again at twenty and succeeded. He remembered how innocent he had been, not knowing how the world worked. He remembered how he felt when he had been fired from a job in New York because he wasn't strong enough to lift boxes eight hours a day. He was very upset and thought it wasn't fair. He remembered deciding then that the world was full of selfish people and that you had to be an animal or you wouldn't eat. He remembered right after that, he had stolen a loaf of bread from a store and had taken it home and eaten it quickly, feeling that the world owed him bread, and more.
Tom sat back in his chair again, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and folded his hands over his stomach. His separation from the other passengers was making them notice him. He imagined the others asking, "Is he an American? I think so, but he doesn't act like an American, does he? Most Americans are so noisy. He's very serious, isn't he, and he can't be more than twenty-three. He must have something very important on his mind."
Yes, he had. The present and future of Tom Ripley.
A few days later, Tom arrived in Naples, where he stayed overnight. The next morning at eleven, he got on the bus for Mongibello. Now and then he saw little villages by the water's edge and people swimming near the shore. Finally, the driver said loudly, "Mongibello."
Tom jumped down out of the bus and walked into the little post office across the road, where he asked the man behind the window for Richard Greenleaf's house.
After a short walk, Tom found a two-floor house with an iron gate on the road and a terrace that hung over the cliff's edge. Tom rang the bell. An Italian woman came out of the house drying her hands.
"Mr. Greenleaf?" Tom asked.
The woman smiled and answered in Italian as she pointed down toward the sea.
Tom nodded. "Thank you." He didn't have a swimsuit so he went into one of the little shops near the post office and bought a tiny black and yellow one. He put on his shoes again and walked down a road which led to the beach.
Looking down the beach, Tom saw him from a great distance - definitely Dickie, though his skin was a dark brown and his hair looked lighter than Tom remembered it. He was with Marge. Tom approached the pair.
"Dickie Greenleaf?" he asked, smiling.
Dickie looked up. "Yes?"
"I'm Tom Ripley. I met you in the States several years ago. Remember? "
Dickie didn't seem to recognize Tom.
"I think your father said he was going to write you about me."
"Oh, yes!" Dickie said. He stood up. "Tom what is it?"
"Ripley."
"This is Marge Sherwood," he said. "Marge, Tom Ripley." Dickie was looking at him carefully, not in a very friendly manner.
"You don't seem to remember me from New York," Tom said.
"I can't really say that I do," Dickie said, "Where did I meet you?"
"I think - Wasn't it at Buddy Lankenau's?" It wasn't, but he knew Dickie knew Buddy Lankenau, and Buddy was a very nice guy.
After a short swim, Dickie and Marge returned to their towels. Dickie said, "We're leaving. Would you like to come up to the house and have lunch with us?"
"Well, yes. Thanks very much."
Fifteen minutes later, Tom had had a cool shower and was sitting in a comfortable chair on Dickie's terrace with a drink in his hand. He wondered if Marge lived here.
At that moment, Dickie came out and poured himself a drink. "Sorry there's no ice. I haven't got a refrigerator."
Tom smiled. "I have a shirt for you. Your mother said you'd asked for one. Also some socks."
"Do you know my mother?"
"I met your father just before I left New York, and he asked me to dinner at his house."
"I suppose he offered you a job, too. He's always searching for young men to work for his company."
"No, he didn't." Tom felt that Dickie didn't like him. Had Mr. Greenleaf told Dickie he was coming to persuade him to return home? Or was Dickie just in a bad mood? He probably could have persuaded Dickie to come home if he had met Dickie in a cafe down at the beach, but this way was useless. Tom was angry at himself. Nothing he took so seriously ever worked out. He had learned that years ago.
"What hotel are you staying in?" Marge asked Tom.
Tom smiled. "I haven't found one yet. What do you recommend?"
"The Miramare's the best."
"In that case, I'll try the Miramare," Tom said, standing up. "I must go."
Neither Dickie nor Marge asked him to stay. Dickie walked with him to the gate. Marge wasn't leaving. Tom wondered if Dickie and Marge were sleeping together. Marge was in love with Dickie, Tom thought, but Dickie didn't care much about her.
"It was nice to meet you. Goodbye, Dickie."
"Goodbye."
Tom let three days go by. On the fourth morning, he went down to the beach and found Dickie alone.
"Doesn't look like Marge is coming down," Dickie said. "I think I'll go up."
Tom got up. They walked to the Miramare, saying almost nothing to each other. They went up to Tom's room, and Dickie tried the shirt on and held the socks up to his feet. Both the shirt and the socks were the right size and, as Tom had thought, Dickie was very pleased with the shirt.
Now Dickie had everything, Tom thought, everything he had to offer. He would refuse an invitation for a drink, too, Tom knew. "Thanks for delivering the clothes. It was very nice of you." Dickie held out his hand.
"I think I ought to tell you something else," Tom said with a smile. "Your father sent me over here especially to ask you to come home."
"What do you mean?" Dickie asked. "Paid your way?"
"Yes." It was his last chance to make Dickie laugh or go out and slam the door in disgust. But the smile was coming the way Tom remembered Dickie's smile.
"Paid your way! He's getting desperate, isn't he?" Dickie closed the door again.
"He came up to me in a bar in New York," Tom said. "I told him I wasn't a close friend of yours, but he thought I could help if I came over. I told him I'd try. I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of your father. I'll try to find a job somewhere in Europe soon, and I'll be able to pay him back. He bought me a round-trip ticket."
"Oh, don't bother! The company will pay for it. I can just see Dad approaching you in a bar. Which bar was it?"
"Raonl's. He followed me from the Green Cage."
Tom and Dickie had a drink in the hotel bar. They drank to Herbert Richard Greenleaf.
Chapter three
Friendships and Jealousies
"Come on, Tom, I'll show you some of my paintings."
Dickie led the way into the big room Tom had looked into a couple of times on his way to and from the shower.
"This is one of Marge I'm working on now."
"Oh," Tom said with interest. It wasn't good in his opinion, probably in anybody's opinion.
"And these - a lot of paintings of the seashore. "Dickie obviously wanted Tom to say something nice about them, because he was proud of them. They were all wild and all the same.
"How long are you going to be here?" Dickie asked.
"Oh, at least a week, I think," Tom answered.
"Because - " Dickie's face was red from the wine which had put him in a good mood. "If you're going to be here a little longer, why don't you stay with me? There's no reason to stay in a hotel, unless you prefer it."
"Thank you very much," Tom said.
"There's a bed in the other room, which you didn't see."
The next morning, Tom moved in.
"Are we still going to Naples?" Tom asked. "Remember? We talked about it yesterday."
"Certainly." Dickie looked at his watch. "It's only a quarter to twelve. We can make the twelve o'clock bus."
The bus was just arriving as they reached the post office. Dickie stopped running, right in the face of a young man with red hair and a bright sports shirt, an American.
"Dickie!"
"Freddie!" Dickie yelled. "What are you doing here?"
"Came to see you! And the Cecchis. They're giving me a place to stay for a few days."
"I'm off to Naples with a friend. Tom?" Dickie introduced them.
The American's name was Freddie Miles. Tom thought he was disgusting. He hated red hair. Freddie had large red-brown eyes that shook in his head. He was also very heavy.
"See you tonight, Freddie."
...
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