Tom looked behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage[1]. Tom walked faster. There was no doubt that the man was following him. Tom noticed him five minutes ago from a table in the bar, so he drank his drink in a hurry, paid and got out. At the corner across Fifth Avenue[2] there was another bar – Raoul's. Tom hesitated – should he take a chance and go in for another drink? Or should he go further and try losing him?
He went into Raoul's, took an empty space at the bar and started watching the door.
'Gin and tonic, please,' he said to the barman.
Could they send this kind of man after him? Was he, wasn't he, was he? He didn't look like a policeman or a detective at all. He looked like a businessman, somebody's father, well-dressed, well-fed. He may start talking with you in a bar, and then bang! – the hand on the shoulder, the other hand showing a policeman's badge. Tom Ripley, you're under arrest. Tom watched the door.
Here he came. The man looked around, saw him and immediately looked away. My God, what did he want?
Tom saw that the man made a gesture to the barman, and came around the bar to him. Here it was! Tom was paralysed. They couldn't give you more than ten years, Tom thought.
Maybe fifteen. At the moment the man started to speak, Tom had a pain of agony.
'Pardon me, are you Tom Ripley?'
'Yes.'
'My name is Herbert Greenleaf. Richard Greenleaf's father.' The face was friendly, smiling and hopeful. 'You're a friend of Richard's, aren't you?'
Dickie Greenleaf. A tall blond fellow. He had a lot of money, Tom remembered. 'Oh, Dickie Greenleaf. Yes.'
'Do you think we could sit down at a table?'
'Yes,' Tom agreed, and picked up his drink. He followed the man towards an empty table at the back of the little room. Free! Nobody was going to arrest him. No matter what it was, it wasn't anything criminal. Maybe Richard was in trouble. Maybe Mr Greenleaf wanted help, or advice. Tom knew what to say to a father like Mr Greenleaf.
'I wasn't quite sure you were Tom Ripley,' Mr Greenleaf said. 'We are all trying to find you. Somebody told me you went to the Green Cage bar now and then. This is the first night I tried to find you, so I think I am lucky.' He smiled. 'I wrote you a letter last week, but maybe you didn't get it.'
'No, I didn't. ' Tom said. 'I moved a week or so ago,' he added.
'Oh, I see. I didn't say much in my letter. Only that I'd like to see you and have a chat with you. We think you knew Richard quite well.'
'I remember him, yes.'
'But you're not writing to him now?' He looked disappointed.
'No. I don't think I've seen Dickie for a couple of years.'
'He's been in Europe for two years. I want him to come home. He has responsibilities here – but just now he ignores anything that I or his mother try to tell him.'
Tom was puzzled. 'Why won't Richard come home?'
'He says he prefers living over there. But his mother's quite ill right now – Well, those are family problems. He says he's painting. There's no harm in that, but he doesn't have the talent to be a painter. But he's got great talent for boat designing.' He looked up as a waiter spoke to him. 'Scotch and soda, please. You're not ready, are you?' Mr Greenleaf looked at Tom as if to apologise.
'No, thanks,' Tom said.
'You're the first of Richard's friends who's willing to listen.
They all think that I'm intruding into his life.'
Tom could easily understand that. 'I certainly wish I could help,' he said politely. He remembered now that Dickie's money came from a shipbuilding company. Small sailing boats. No doubt his father wanted Dickie to come home and take the family firm. Tom smiled at Mr Greenleaf, then finished his drink. He was ready to leave, but he felt the disappointment across the table. 'Where is he staying in Europe?' Tom asked.
'In a town called Mongibello, south of Naples[3]. He divides his time between sailing and painting. He bought a house there. Richard has his own income – not big, but enough to live on in Italy. Well, I can't see why the place is attractive but every man has his own taste.' Mr Greenleaf smiled bravely. 'Can't I offer you a drink, Mr Ripley?' he asked when the waiter came with his Scotch and soda.
Tom wanted to leave. But he hated to leave the man sitting alone with his fresh drink. ' Thanks, I think I will,' he said, and handed the waiter his glass.
They didn't say anything for a minute. Mr Greenleaf's eyes were fixed on him. What on earth could he say? Tom was sorry he had accepted the drink. 'How old is Dickie now, by the way?' he asked.
'He's twenty-five.'
So am I, Tom thought. Dickie was probably having the best time of his life over there. An income, a house, a boat. Why should he want to come home? Dickie's face was becoming clearer in his memory: he had a big smile, blondish hair, a happy face. Dickie was lucky. What was he himself doing at twenty-five? Living from week to week. No bank account. Trying to escape from cops now for the first time in his life. He had a talent for mathematics. Why in hell didn't they pay him for it? Tom felt that all his body and fingers tensed. He was bored, bored, bored! He wanted to be back at the bar, by himself.
