The Club Dumas

changed. Once again it was like an imper­ceptible breath, an unspoken, conspiratorial word.

“We were talking about Varo Borja,” said Corso. “Do you know him?”

She stopped smiling and again was a tired, indifferent sol­dier. Corso thought he saw a glint of contempt in her expres­sion. He rested his hand on the marble-topped table.

“He may have been using me,” he added. “And put you on my trail.” But it seemed absurd. He couldn’t picture the mil­lionaire book collector resorting to a young girl to set a trap for him. “Or maybe Rochefort and Milady are working for him.”

She went back to reading The Three Musketeers and didn’t answer. But the mention of Milady reminded La Ponte of his wounded pride. He finished his coffee and raised a finger.

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” he said. “The link with Dumas... What’s my ‘Anjou Wine’ got to do with any of this?”

“ The Anjou Wine’ is yours only by accident.” Corso had taken off his glasses and was peering at them against the light, wondering if the cracked lens would hold up with all the ac­tivity. “It’s what I find most puzzling. But there are several intriguing coincidences. Cardinal Richelieu, the villain in the novel, is interested in books on the occult. Pacts with the devil give power, and Richelieu is the most powerful man in France. And to complete the cast, it turns out that the cardinal has two faithful agents who carry out his orders—the Count of Rochefort and Milady de Winter. She is blond, evil, and has been branded by the executioner with a fleur-de-lis. Rochefort is dark and has a scar on his face.... Do you see what I’m saying? They both have some sort of mark. According to Rev­ elations, the servants of the devil can be recognized by the mark of the Beast.”

The girl took another sip of her orangeade but didn’t look up from her book. La Ponte shuddered, as if a ghost had just walked over his grave. He clearly felt it was one thing to get involved with a statuesque blonde and quite another to take part in a witches’ sabbath. He fidgeted.

“Shit. I hope it’s not contagious.”

Corso looked at him unsympathetically. “There are too many coincidences, aren’t there? Well, there’s more.” Breathing on his lenses, he wiped them on a napkin. “In The Three Musketeers it turns out that Milady has been married to Athos, d’Artagnan’s friend. When Athos discovers that his wife bears the executi­oner’s mark, he decides to carry out the sentence himself. He hangs her and leaves her for dead, but she survives, etc.” He put his glasses back on. “Somebody must be having a lot of fun with all this.”

“I can sympathize with Athos hanging his wife,” said La Ponte, no doubt thinking of the hotel bill. “I’d like to get my hands on her and do the same myself.”

“Or as Liana Taillefer did to her husband. I’m sorry to hurt your pride, Flavio, but she was never interested in you, not in the slightest. She just wanted the manuscript her late husband sold you.”

“The bitch,” muttered La Ponte bitterly. “I bet she did him in. Helped by our friend with the mustache and the scar.”

“What I still don’t understand,” Corso went on, “is the link between The Three Musketeers and The Nine Doors. All I can think of is that Alexandre Dumas was on top of the world. He had success and the kind of power he wanted—fame, wealth, and women. Everything went swimmingly for him, as if he was privileged or had made some special pact. And when he died, his son, the other Dumas, wrote a strange epitaph for him: ‘He died as he lived—unaware.’ “

La Ponte sniffed. “Are you suggesting that Dumas sold his soul to the devil?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to work out the serial that somebody’s writing at my expense. It obviously all started when Enrique Taillefer decided to sell the Dumas manuscript. The mystery began there. His presumed suicide, my visit to his widow, my first encounter with Rochefort... And the job Varo Borja gave me.”

“What’s so special about the manuscript? Why is it impor­tant and to whom?”

“I have no idea.” Corso glanced at the girl. “Unless she can tell us something.”

She shrugged, not looking up from her book. “This is your story, Corso,” she said. “I understand you’re getting paid for it.”

“You’re involved too.”

“Up to a certain point.” She made a vague, noncommittal gesture and turned the page. “Only up to a certain point.”

Annoyed, La Ponte leaned over toward Corso. “Have you tried giving her a couple of slaps?”

“Shut up, Flavio.”

“Yes, shut up,” echoed the girl.

“This is ridiculous,” complained La Ponte. “Who does she think she is, talking like that? And instead of giving her the third degree, you leave her alone. This isn’t like you, Corso. However cute she is, I don’t think...” He searched for the words. “How did she get so uppity?”

“She once wrestled with an angel,” explained Corso. “And last night I saw her kick Rochefort’s teeth in, remember? The same guy who clobbered me this morning while you sat safely out of the way on the bidet.”

“On the toilet.”

“Makes no difference. You, in your pajamas, looking like Prince Danilo in Imperial Violets. I didn’t know you wore pa­jamas when you slept with your conquests.”

“What do you care?” La Ponte glanced at the girl, embar­rassed, annoyed. “I get cold at night, if you must know. Any­way,” he said, changing the subject, “we were talking about ‘The Anjou Wine.’ How’s the report going?”

“We know that it’s authentic, and in two different hands— Dumas’s and his collaborator’s, Auguste Maquet.”

“What have you found out about him?”

“Maquet? There’s not much to find out. He ended up on bad terms with Dumas with all sorts of lawsuits and claims for money. There is one strange thing—Dumas spent everything during his lifetime, he died without a penny. But Maquet was wealthy in his old age and even owned a castle. Things went well for each in his own way.”

“What about the half-written chapter?”

“Maquet wrote the original story, a simple first draft, and Dumas added to it, giving it style and quality. You’re familiar with the subject: Milady trying to poison d’Artagnan.”

La Ponte peered anxiously into his empty coffee cup. “To conclude...”

“Well, I’d say that someone who believes he’s Richelieu’s reincarnation has managed to collect all the original engravings from the Delomelanicon. Also the Dumas chapter. Somehow those things hold the key to what’s going on. This person may be trying to summon Lucifer as we speak. Meanwhile, you no longer have your manuscript and Varo Borja doesn’t have his book. I’ve really screwed up.”

He took Richelieu’s note out of his pocket and read it again. La Ponte seemed to agree with him. “The loss of the manu­script isn’t serious,” he said. “I paid Taillefer for it, but not that much.” He gave a cunning little laugh. “At least with Liana I got paid in kind. But you really are in a mess.”

Corso looked at the girl, who was still reading in silence. “Maybe she could tell us what kind of mess I’m in.”

He frowned, then rapped the table with his knuckles like a cardplayer throwing in the towel. But she didn’t respond to that either.

La Ponte grunted reprovingly. “I still don’t understand why you trust her.”

“He’s already told you,” the girl answered at last. She put the straw from her drink in between the pages of her book as a marker. “I look after him.”

Corso nodded, amused, although there wasn’t much in his situation to be amused about. “She’s my guardian angel,” he said.

“Really? Well, she should take better care of you. Where was she when Rochefort stole your bag?”

“You were there.”

“That’s different. I’m just a cowardly bookseller. Peace-loving. The exact opposite of a man of action. If I entered a coward competition, I’m sure I’d be disqualified for being too cowardly.”

Corso wasn’t listening because he’d just made a discovery. The shadow of the church tower was being thrown on the ground near them. The wide, dark shape had been gradually moving away from the sun. He noticed that the cross on the top was at the girl’s feet, very near but not actually touching her. The shadow of the cross maintained a prudent distance.