The Club Dumas

“She did last night.”

Corso glanced over the heads of the crowd gathered at the police cordon. He couldn’t see much—the top of a ladder lean­ing against the building, intermittent flashes from the am­bulance at the door, and the tops of numerous helmets, policemen’s and firemen’s. The air smelled of burned wood and plastic. Among the onlookers, a couple of American tourists were photographing each other posing next to the policemen by the cordon. A siren sounded and then stopped. Somebody in the crowd said they were bringing out the corpse, but it was impossible to see anything. Not that there would be much to see anyway, thought Corso.

He met the girl’s gaze fixed on him. There was no sign of the night before. Her expression was attentive, practical, that of a soldier approaching the battlefield. “What happened?” she asked. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“I don’t mean this.” She seemed to notice La Ponte for the first time. “Who’s he?”

Corso told her. After a moment’s hesitation, wondering whether La Ponte would catch on, he said, “The girl I told you about. Irene Adler.”

La Ponte didn’t catch on. He gave a disconcerted look and put out his hand. She didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She was facing Corso.

“You don’t have your bag,” she said.

“No. Rochefort got it at last. He went off with Liana Taillefer.”

“Who’s Liana Taillefer?”

Corso gave her a hard look, but she returned it calmly. “You don’t know the grieving widow?” “No.”

She was unruffled, showing no anxiety or surprise. In spite of himself, Corso believed her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “The fact is, they’ve gone.”

“Where?”

“I have no idea.” He grimaced with desperation and suspi­cion, showing his teeth. “I thought you’d know something.”

“I don’t know anything about Rochefort. Or that woman.”

Her indifference said that it was none of her business. This confused Corso even more. He’d expected some emotion from her. Among other things, she had set herself up as his protector. He thought she’d at least reproach him, something like, Serves you right for thinking you’re so clever. But she said nothing. She looked around, as if searching for a familiar face in the crowd. He had no idea whether she was thinking about what had just happened or whether her mind was on other things.

“What can we do?” he asked no one in particular. He was bewildered. The attacks aside, he’d seen the three copies of The Nine Doors and the Dumas manuscript disappear one after the other. He had three corpses in his wake, if he counted Enrique Taillefer, and he’d spent a huge amount of money that was Varo Borja’s, not his.... Varus, Varus, give me back my legions. Damn his luck. At that instant he wished he was thirty-five years younger so he could sit down on the curb and burst into tears.

“We could go and have a coffee,” La Ponte suggested, jok­ingly, as if to say, “Come on, guys, things aren’t that bad,” and Corso realized that the poor dope had no idea of the enormous mess they were in. Still, coffee didn’t seem such a bad idea. Under the circumstances he couldn’t think of anything better.

“LET’S SEE IF I’VE understood.” Some coffee ran down La Ponte’s beard as he dunked his croissant in his cup. “In 1666 Aristide Torchia hid a special book. A kind of safety copy dis­tributed over three copies. Is that it? With differences in eight of the nine engravings. And the three original copies have to be brought together for the spell to work.” He took a bite of croissant and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “How am I doing?”

The three of them were sitting at a terrace opposite Saint Germain des Pres. La Ponte was making up for his interrupted breakfast at the Crillon. The girl, still aloof, was sipping an orangeade through a straw and listening in silence. She had The Three Musketeers open in front of her on the table and was reading distractedly, turning a page from time to time, then looking up and listening again. As for Corso, events had knotted his stomach and he couldn’t swallow a thing.

“Pretty good,” he told La Ponte. He was leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets, and staring blankly at the church tower. “Although it’s possible that the complete work, the one burned by the Holy Office, also consisted of three books with illustrations altered so that only those who were truly expert on the subject, the initiated, would be able to combine the three copies correctly.” He arched his eyebrows, frowning wearily. “But now we’ll never know.”

“Who says there were only three? Maybe he printed four, or nine different versions.”

“In that case all this would be pointless. There are only three known copies.”

“So somebody wants to piece together the original book. A_nd is collecting the authentic engravings ...” La Ponte spoke with his mouth full. He ate his breakfast with a hearty appetite. “But he doesn’t give a damn about the market value. Once he has the engravings, he destroys the rest. And murders the owner. Victor Fargas in Sintra. Baroness Ungern here in Paris. And Varo Borja in Toledo ...” He broke off and looked at Corso with disappointment. “This theory doesn’t work. Varo Borja’s still alive.”

“I have his copy. Had. And they certainly tried to take care of me, setting me up first last night and then this morning.”

La Ponte didn’t seem convinced. “If they set you up, why didn’t Rochefort kill you?”

“I don’t know.” Corso shrugged. He’d asked himself the same question. “He had the chance twice but didn’t do it... As for Varo Borja’s still being alive, I don’t know what to say. He hasn’t answered my calls.”

“That makes him another potential corpse. Or a suspect.”

“Varo Borja is a suspect by definition, and he has the means to have organized the whole thing.” He pointed at the girl. She was reading and appeared not to be following the conversa­tion. “I’m sure she could shed some light on all this, if she wanted to.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“No.”

“So turn her in. When people are getting murdered, there’s a name for it: accomplice.”

“How can I turn her in? I’m up to my neck in this, Flavio. And so are you.”

The girl stopped reading. She said nothing, just sipped her drink. Her eyes went from Corso to La Ponte, reflecting each in turn. Finally they rested on Corso.

“Do you really trust her?” asked La Ponte.

“Depends what for. Last night she fought off Rochefort and did a pretty good job of it.”

La Ponte frowned, perplexed, and stared at the girl. He must have been trying to imagine her as a bodyguard. He must also have been wondering how far things had gone between Corso and her. Corso saw him stroke his beard and cast an expert eye over the parts of her body that were visible beneath the duffel coat. Even if La Ponte did suspect her, there was no doubt how far he would go himself if the girl gave him the chance. Even at times like these, the ex-chairman of the Brotherhood of Nantucket Harpooners was willing to return to the womb. Any womb.

“She’s too pretty.” La Ponte shook his head. “And too young. Too young for you, that is.”

Corso smiled. “You’d be surprised how old she seems some­times.”

La Ponte tutted dubiously. “Gifts like that don’t just fall from heaven.”

The girl had followed the conversation in silence. Now they saw her smile for the first time that day, as if she’d just heard a funny joke.

“You talk too much, Flavio Whatever-your-name-is,” she said to La Ponte, who blinked nervously. She grinned like a naughty child. “And whatever there is between Corso and me is none of your business.”

It was the first time she’d said anything to La Ponte. Em­barrassed, he turned to his friend for support. But Corso just smiled.

“I think I’m in the way here.” La Ponte made as if to stand up but he didn’t. He stayed like that until Corso tapped him on the arm. A dry, friendly tap.

“Don’t be stupid. She’s on our side.”

La Ponte relaxed slightly, but he still wasn’t entirely con­vinced. “Well, let her prove it. Let her tell us what she knows.”

Corso turned to the girl and looked at her half-open mouth, her warm, comfortable neck. Wondering if she still smelled of heat and fever, he became lost in the memory for a moment. Her limpid green eyes, full of the morning light, as always met his gaze, unflinching, lazy, and calm. Her smile, sardonic a second before, now