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Tom wanted to ask, but he thought the question was vulgar, would be only to satisfy his curiosity, so he did not put it. “And how is your mother?” Tom asked instead, as if he knew Frank’s mother and was inquiring about her health.
    “Oh, she’s—she’s rather pretty—even though she’s forty something. Blonde.”
    “You get along well with her?”
    “Yes, sure. She’s more cheerful than—than my father was. She likes social life. And politics.”
    “Politics? What kind?”
    “Republican.” Here Frank smiled and looked at Tom.
    “Your father’s second wife, I think.” Tom thought he remembered that from the obituary.
    “Yes.”
    “And you told your mother where you are?”
    “Well, no. I left a note saying I was going to New Orleans, because they know I like New Orleans. I’ve stayed before at the Hotel Monteleone—by myself. I had to walk to the bus stop from the house, otherwise Eugene—he’s the driver—would’ve driven me to the railroad station and somehow—they might’ve known I wasn’t going to New Orleans. I just wanted to get away on my own feet, so I did, and I got to Bangor, then New York, and caught a plane over.— May I?” Frank reached for a cigarette from a silver cup. “No doubt my family rang up the Monteleone, and found out I wasn’t there, so this accounts for—I know, I read it in the Trib which I buy sometimes.”
    “How long after the funeral did you leave?”
    Frank struggled for the exact answer. “A week—maybe eight days after.”
    “Now why don’t you send your mother a cable and say you’re okay and in France and want to stay a while longer? It’s a bore to have to hide, isn’t it?” But maybe the game amused Frank, Tom thought also.
    “At the moment, I happen not to want—any contact with them. I’d like to be on my own. Free.” He said it with determination.
    Tom nodded. “At least now I know why your hair stands up. You used to part it on the left.”
    “I did.”
    Mme. Annette was bringing a tray of coffee to the living room. Frank and Tom got up, Tom glancing at his watch. It was not even ten as yet. Why had Frank Pierson decided that Tom Ripley would be sympathetic? Because Ripley had a shaky reputation, according to the newspaper files which the boy perhaps had seen? Had Frank done something wrong too? Killed his father, maybe, pushed him over the cliff?
    “Ah-hem,” Tom said for no reason, swinging a foot as he walked toward the coffee table. Disturbing thought, that. And was it the first time, even, that it had crossed his mind? Tom wasn’t sure. Anyway, he would let the boy come out with that one, if and when he wished to. “ Coffee ,” Tom said firmly.
    “Maybe you want me to take off?” asked Frank, having seen Tom glance at his watch.
    “No, no, I was thinking about Heloise. She said she’d be back before midnight, but it’s a long time till midnight. Sit down.” Tom fetched the brandy bottle from the bar cart. The more Frank talked tonight, the better, and Tom would see him home. “Cognac.” Tom poured, and poured the same amount for himself, though he disliked cognac.
    Frank looked at his own wristwatch. “I’ll leave before your wife gets back.”
    Heloise, Tom supposed, was one more person who might discover Frank’s identity. “Unfortunately, they’re going to widen the search, Frank. Don’t they know already that you’re in France?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Sit down. They must know. The search might even get to a small town like Moret, once they’re finished with Paris.”
    “Not if I wear old clothes and have a job—and another name.”
    Kidnapping, Tom thought. That might come next, certainly was a possibility. Tom didn’t want to remind Frank of the Getty boy’s kidnapping, that fine-tooth-comb search that had still been futile. The kidnappers had snipped off an ear lobe to prove that they had the boy, and the three million dollars ransom had been paid. Frank Pierson was hot property also. If