The Club Dumas

“And use them.”

“Sometimes.”

“But this one doesn’t work.”

“No.”

“You’ve tried it.”

It was a statement, not a question. Borja looked at Corso with hostility. “Don’t be absurd. Let’s just say I’m certain it’s a forgery, and leave it at that. Which is why I need to compare it to the other copies.”

“I still say it doesn’t have to be a forgery. Books often differ even if they’re part of the same edition. No two books are the same really. From birth they all have distinguishing details. And each book lives a different life: it can lose pages, or have them added or replaced, or acquire a new binding.... Over the years two books printed on the same press can end up looking entirely different. That might have happened to this one.”

“Well, find out. Investigate  The Nine Doors as if were a crime. Follow trails, check each page, each engraving, the paper, the binding.... Work your way backward and find out where my copy comes from. Then do the same with the other two, in Sintra and in Paris.”

“It would help if I knew how you learned that yours was a forgery.”

“I can’t tell you. Trust my intuition.”

“Your intuition is going to cost you a lot of money.”

“All you have to do is spend it.”

He pulled the check from his pocket and gave it to Corso, who turned it over in his fingers, undecided.

“Why are you paying me in advance? You never did that before.”

“You’ll have a lot of expenses to cover. This is so you can get started.” He handed him a thick bound file. “Everything I know about the book is in there. You may find it useful.”

Corso was still looking at the check. “This is too much for an advance.”

“You may encounter certain complications....”

“You don’t say.” As he said this, he heard Borja clear his throat. They were getting to the crux of the matter at last.

“If you find out that the three copies are forgeries or are incomplete,” Borja said, “then you’ll have done your job and we’ll settle up.” He paused briefly and ran his hand over his tanned pate. He smiled awkwardly at Corso. “But one of the books may turn out to be authentic. In which case, you’ll have more money at your disposal. Because I’ll want it by whatever means, and without regard for expense.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look as if I’m joking, Corso?”

“It’s against the law.”

“You’ve done illegal things before.”

“Not this kind of thing.”

“Nobody’s ever paid you what I’ll pay you.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

“I’m letting you take the book with you. You’ll need the original for your work. Isn’t that enough of a guarantee?”

The jarring sound again, warning him. Corso was still hold­ing The Nine Doors. He put the check between the pages like a bookmark and blew some imaginary dust off the book before returning it to Borja.

“Before, you said that with money you could pay people to do anything. Now you can test that out yourself. Go and see the owners of the books and do the dirty work yourself.”

He turned and walked toward the door, wondering how many steps he’d take before the book dealer said anything. Three.

“This business isn’t for men of words,” said Borja. “It’s for men of action.”

His tone had changed. Gone was the arrogant composure and the disdain for the mercenary he was hiring. On the wall, an engraving of an angel by Diirer gently beat its wings behind the glass of a picture frame, while Corso’s shoes turned on the black marble floor. Next to his cabinets full of books and the barred window with the cathedral in the background, next to everything that his money could buy, Varo Borja stood blinking, disconcerted. His expression was still arrogant; he even tapped the book cover with disdain. But Lucas Corso had learned to recognize defeat in a man’s eyes. And fear.

His heart was beating with calm satisfaction as, without a word, he retraced his steps. As he approached Borja, he took the check poking out from between the pages of The Nine Doors. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he took the file and the book.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

He realized that he’d thrown the dice. That he’d moved to the first square in a dangerous game of Snakes and Ladders and that it was too late to turn back. But he felt like playing. He went down the stairs followed by the echo of his own dry laughter. Varo Borja was wrong. There were things money couldn’t buy.

THE STAIRS FROM THE main entrance led to an interior courtyard that had a well and two Venetian marble lions fenced off from the street by railings. An unpleasant dankness rose from the Tagus, and Corso stopped beneath the Moorish arch at the entrance to turn up his collar. He walked along the silent, narrow, cobbled streets until he came to a small square. There was a bar with metal tables, and chestnut trees with bare branches beneath the bell tower of a church. He took a seat in a patch of tepid sun on the terrace and tried to warm his stiff limbs. Two glasses of neat gin helped things along. Only then did he open the file on The Nine Doors and look through it properly for the first time.

There was a forty-two-page typed report giving the book’s historical background, both for the supposed original version, the Delomelanicon, or Invocation of Darkness, and for Torchia’s version, Book of the Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows, printed in Venice in 1666. There were various appendices pro­viding a bibliography, photocopies of citations in classical texts, and information about the other two known copies—their owners, any restoration work, purchase dates, present locations. There was also a transcription of the records of Aristide Torchia’s trial, with the account of an eyewitness, one Gennaro Galeazzo, describing the unfortunate printer’s last moments:

He mounted the scaffold without agreeing to be reconciled with God and maintained an obstinate silence. When the fire was lit, smoke began to suffocate him. He opened his eyes wide and uttered a terrible cry, commending himself to the Father. Many of those present crossed themselves, for in death he requested God’s mercy. Others say that he shouted at the ground, in other words toward the depths of the earth.

A car drove past on the other side of the square and turned down one of the corner streets leading to the cathedral. The engine paused for a moment beyond the corner, as if the driver had stopped before continuing down the street. Corso paid little attention, engrossed as he was in the book. The first page was the title page and the second was blank. The third, which began with a handsome capital N, contained a cryptic introduction, which read:

Nos p.tens L.f.r, juv.te Stn. Blz.b, Lvtn, Elm, atq Astrot. allq, hdie hcuerns ace.t pet fo.de.is c.m t qui no.st; et h.ic poLicem amrem mid. flo.em virg.nu.rn de.us man. hon v.lup et op. for.icab tr.d.o,.os.ta int. nos ma.et eb.iet Lli c.ra er. No.is of.ret se.el in ano sag. sig. s.b ped. cocuLab sa Ecle et no.s r.gat isius er.t; p.ct v.v.t an v.q fe.ix in t.a horn, et ven D:

Fa.t in inf int co.s daem,

Satanas. Belzebub, Lcfr, Elimi, Leviathan, Astaroth

Siq pos mag. diab. et daem. prLcp dom.

After the introduction, whose “authorship” was obvious, came the text. Corso read the first lines:

D.mine mag.que L.fr, te D.um m. etpr ag.sco. et polc.or t ser.ire. a.ob.re quamd p. wre; et rn.io aLrum d, et js.ch.st et a.s sn.ts tq.e s.ctas e. ec.les. apstl. et rom. et om i sc.am. et o.nia ips. sxramen. et o.nes .ado et r.g. q.ibfid. pos.nt intrcd. p.o me; et t.bi po.lceor q. fac. qu.tqu,t mlum pot., et atra, ad mala p. omn, Et ab.rncio chrsm. et b.ptm et omn...

He looked up at the church portico. The arches were carved with images of the Last Judgment worn by the elements. Be­neath them, dividing the door in two, a niche sheltered an angry-looking Pantocrator. His raised right hand suggested punishment rather than mercy. In his left hand he held an open book, and Corso could not help