The Club Dumas

He spoke quietly, so the widow wouldn’t hear. Corso put his bag on the bidet, noticed the whiteness of the towels, and rum­maged around on the bathroom shelf before turning to La Ponte.

“Because you’re a liar and a traitor,” he answered. “You didn’t tell me you were mixed up in all this. You’ve let them trick me, follow me, attack me.”

“I’m not mixed up in anything. And I’m the only one who’s been attacked here.” La Ponte was examining his face in the mirror. “God! Look what you’ve done to me! I’m disfigured.”

“I’ll disfigure you even more if you don’t tell what this is all about.”

La Ponte prodded his swollen cheek and looked at Corso sideways. “It’s no secret. Liana and I have ...” He searched for the appropriate words. “Hm. We’ve ... Well, you saw yourself.”

“You’ve become intimate.”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“The day you left for Portugal.”

“Who approached whom?”

“I did. In effect.”

“What do you mean, in effect?”

“More or less. I went to see her.”

“Why?”

“To make an offer for her husband’s collection.” “The idea just suddenly popped into your head, did it?” “Well, no. She phoned me first. I told you about it at the time.”

“That’s true.”

“She wanted the manuscript her late husband sold me.” “Did she give any reason?” “Sentimental value.” “And you believed her.” “Yes.”

“Or rather, you didn’t care.” “Really...”

“I know. What you really wanted was to screw her.” “That too.”

“And she fell into your arms.” “Like a stone.”

“Of course. And you came to Paris on your honeymoon.” “Not exactly. She had things to do here.” “And she asked you to come with her.”

“That’s right.”

“Quite casually? All expenses paid, so you could continue the romance.”

“Something like that.”

Corso frowned. “Love is a beautiful thing, Flavio. When you really are in love.”

“Don’t be such a cynic. She’s extraordinary. You can’t ima­gine ...”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I said I can.”

“I’d bet you’d like to. She’s quite a woman.”

“We’re getting off the subject, Flavio. We were here, in Paris.”

“Yes.”

“What were you two planning to do about me?”

“We weren’t planning to do anything. We were thinking of finding you today or tomorrow. To get the manuscript back.”

“Just like that.”

“Of course. How else?”

“You didn’t think I might refuse?”

“Liana had her doubts.”

“What about you?”

“I didn’t think it would be a problem. We’re friends, after all. And ‘The Anjou Wine’ is mine.”

“I see. You were her second choice.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Liana’s wonderful. And she adores me.”

“Yes. She seems very much in love.”

“Do you think so?”

“You’re a fool, Flavio. They’ve pulled the wool over your eyes as well as mine.”

Corso had a sudden intuition, as piercing as a fire alarm. He pushed La Ponte aside and ran into the bedroom to find Liana Taillefer out of bed, half dressed and packing a suitcase. He saw her icy eyes—the eyes of Milady de Winter—and realized that while he was shooting his mouth off like an idiot, she’d been waiting for something, a sound or a signal. Waiting like a spider in its web.

“Good-bye, Mr. Corso.”

He heard the words, her deep, husky voice. But he didn’t know what she meant, other than that she was about to leave. He took another step toward her, not knowing what he would do when he reached her, before realizing that there was some­one else in the room. A shadow behind him, to his left, by the door. He turned to face the danger. He knew he’d made another mistake, but it was too late. He heard Liana Taillefer laughing, like a wicked blond vamp in a movie, and felt the blow—his sec­ond in less than twelve hours—in the same spot as before, be­hind the ear. He just had time to see Rochefort fading, blurring. He was out cold before he hit the floor.

 XIII. THE PLOT THICKENS

At this moment you’re trembling because of the situation and the prospect of the hunt

Where would the tremor be if I were as precise as a railway timetable?

—A. Conan Doyle, THE VALLEY OF FEAR

-L irst he heard a voice in the

distance, an unintelligible murmur. He made an effort, sensing that he was being spoken to. Something about his appearance. Corso had no idea what he looked like at that moment and couldn’t have cared less. He was comfortable wherever he was, lying on his back. He didn’t want to open his eyes and make his head hurt even more.

Somebody was gently slapping his face, so he reluctantly opened one eye. La Ponte was leaning over him, looking wor­ried. He was still in pajamas.

“Get your hands off me,” Corso said grumpily.

La Ponte sighed with relief. “I thought you were dead,” he said.

Corso opened the other eye and started to sit up. He im­mediately felt his brain moving inside his skull like jelly on a plate.

“They really gave it to you,” La Ponte informed him un­necessarily as he helped him up. Corso leaned on his shoulder and looked around the room. Liana Taillefer and Rochefort were gone.

“Did you see who hit me?”

“Of course I did. A tall, dark guy with a scar on his face.”

“Have you ever seen him before?”

“No.” La Ponte frowned indignantly. “Seemed like she knew him well enough, though.... She must have let him in while we were arguing in the bathroom. He had a split lip, too, it was all swollen. He’d had a couple of stitches.” He felt his own cheek. The swelling was going down. He gave a spiteful little laugh. “Seems like everyone around here is getting what he deserves.”

Corso, searching unsuccessfully for his glasses, gave him a resentful look. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why they didn’t clobber you too.”

“They wanted too. But I told them it wasn’t necessary. They could just go about their business. I was an accidental tourist.”

“You could have done something.”

“Me? You must be joking. That punch you gave me was quite enough. I held up my hands like this.... Peace