Audio book narration
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Tom Glenn's behind him and saw the man coming out of the green cage heading his way. Tom walked faster. There was no doubt that the man was after him. Tom had noticed in five minutes ago, eyeing him carefully from a table, as if he weren't quite sure. But almost he had looked sure enough for Tom to down his drink in a hurry. Pay and get out at the corner. Tom lean forward and trotted across Fifth Avenue. There was rolls. Should he take a chance and going for another drink, 10th fate and all that. Or should he beat it over to Park Avenue and try losing him? And if you dark doorways, he went to rolls automatically. As he strolled to an empty space at the bar, he looked around to see if there was anyone he knew. There was the big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot. Sitting at a table with a blonde girl, the redhead man waved her hand, and Tom's hand went up limply. In response, he said one leg over a stool and face the door, challenging me here with a fragrant casuals, gin and tonic, please, he said to the barman, Was this the kind of man that would send 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, graying at the temples, on an air of uncertainty about him. Was that the kind they sent on a job like this? Maybe to start chatting with you in a bar and then bang and on the shoulder, the other hand, displaying a policeman's badge Comradely. You're under arrest. Tell him, Watch the door. Here he came. The man looked around, saw him and immediately looked away. He removed his straw hat and took a place around the curve of the bar. My God, what did you want? He said he wasn't perfect. Tom thought for the second time. Now his tortured brain groped and produced. The actual word is the word could protect him because he would rather the man be a pervert than a policeman toe a pervert. He could simply say No, thank you and smile and walk away. Tom, stay back on the store, bracing himself, Tom. So the man make a gesture of postponement to the barman and come around the bar towards him. Here it was. Tom stared at him, paralyzed. They can give you more than 10 years. Tom thought maybe 15 but with good conduct. In the instant the man's lips part started to speak. Tom had a pang of desperate, agonized regret. Pardon me. Are you Tom Ripley? Yes. My name is Herbert Greenleaf. Richard Greenlees. Father. The expression on his face was more confusing to Tom than if he had focused a gun on him. The face was friendly, smiling and hopeful. You're a friend of Richard's, aren't you? It made a fake connection in his brain. Dickie Greenleaf, A tall, blond fellow. He had quite a bit of money. Tom remembered. Oh, Dickie Greenleaf? Yes. At any rate, you know Charles and Marta Shriver. They're the ones who told me about you. That you might, uh Do you think we could sit down at the table? Yes, Said Tom agreeably and picked up his drink. He followed the man towards an empty table at the back of the little room. Reprieved. He thought free. Nobody was going to arrest him. This was about something else. No, matter what it was. It wasn't grand larceny or tampering with the males or whatever they called it. Maybe Richard was in some kind of jam. Maybe Mr Greenleaf wanted to help or advice. Tom knew just what to say to a father like Mr Greenleaf. I wasn't quite sure. You're Mr Ripley. Mr Green said I've seen you only once before, I think. Did you come up to the house once with Richard? No. Yeah, I think I did. The Shrivers gave me a description of you two. We've all been trying to reach you because the drivers wanted us to meet their house. Somebody told them you went to the Green Cage Bar now and again. This is the first night I've tried to find you. So I suppose I should consider myself lucky. He smiled. I wrote you a letter last week, but maybe you didn't get it. No, I didn't. Mark wasn't forwarding his mail. Tom Sawyer. Damn it. Maybe there was a check there from Aunt Dottie. I moved a week or so ago. Tell Matty. Oh, I see. I didn't say much in the letter on Lee that I'd like to see you and have a chat with you. The Shrivers seemed to think you knew Richard quite well. I remember him. Yes, but you're not writing to him now. You look disappointed. No, I don't think I've seen Dickie for a couple of years.