he phoned lisbon from a post office to find out how the investigation into Victor Fargas’s death was going. The news wasn’t encouraging. Pinto had seen the forensic report: death by forced immersion in the pond. The police in Sintra believed that robbery was the motive. Perpetrator or perpetrators unknown. The good news was that for the time being nobody had linked Corso with the murder. Pinto added that he had put out the description of the man with the scar, just in case. Corso told him to forget about Rochefort, the bird had flown.
It didn’t seem that the situation could get any worse. But at midday it got more complicated. As soon as Corso entered the hotel lobby with La Ponte and the girl, he knew something was wrong. Gruber was at the reception desk, and beneath his usual imperturbable expression there was a warning. As they approached, Corso saw the concierge turn casually to the pigeonhole with Corso’s key and give his lapel a slight tug, a gesture recognized throughout the world.
“Keep going,” Corso told the others.
He almost had to drag away the perplexed La Ponte. The girl walked ahead of them down the narrow corridor that led to the restaurant-bar, which looked out onto the Place du Palais Royal. Looking back at Gruber, Corso saw him place his hand on the telephone.
When they were outside on the street, La Ponte glanced nervously behind him. “What’s the matter?”
“Police,” explained Corso. “In my room.”
“How do you know?”
The girl didn’t ask any questions. She just looked at Corso, waiting for instructions. He took out the envelope that Gruber had handed him the night before, removed the note informing him of La Ponte’s and Liana Taillefer’s whereabouts, and replaced it with a five-hundred-franc bill. He did it slowly, so the others wouldn’t notice that his hands were trembling. He sealed the envelope, crossed out his own name, and wrote Grub-er’s on it, then handed it to the girl.
“Give this to one of the waiters in the restaurant.” The palms of his hands were sweating. He wiped them on the in-sides of his pockets. He pointed at a phone booth across the square. “Meet me over there.”
“What about me?” asked La Ponte.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Corso almost laughed. “You can do what you like. Although I think you might have just gone underground, Flavio.”
He crossed the square through the traffic, heading for the phone booth without waiting to see whether La Ponte was following. When he closed the door and inserted the card in the slot, he saw La Ponte a few meters away, looking around, anxious and defenseless.
Corso dialed the hotel number and asked for Reception.
“What’s going on, Gruber?”
“Two policemen came, Mr. Corso,” said the former SS officer in a low voice. “They’re still up in your room.”
“Did they give any explanation?”
“No. They wanted to know the date you checked in and asked if we knew what your movements had been up till two A.M. I said I didn’t and passed them on to my colleague, who was on night duty. They also wanted a description, not knowing what you look like. I told them I would get in touch with them when you returned. I’m about to do so now.”
“What will you tell them?”
“The truth, of course. That you came into the lobby for a moment and went straight out again. That you were accompanied by a bearded man. As for the young lady, they didn’t ask about her, so I see no reason to mention her.”
“Thanks, Gruber.” He paused and added with a smile. “I’m innocent.”
“Of course you are, Mr. Corso. All the guests at this hotel are innocent.” There was a sound of paper being torn. “Ah. I’ve just been handed your envelope.”
“Be seeing you, Gruber. Keep my room for a couple of days. I’m hoping to come back for my things. If there’s any problem, charge it to my credit card. And thanks again.”
“At your service.”
Corso hung up. The girl was back, standing next to La Ponte. Corso went to them. “The police have my name. Somebody gave it to them.”
“Don’t look at me,” said La Ponte. “This whole thing has been beyond me for some time.”
Corso thought bitterly that it was beyond him too. He was in a boat, in a rough sea, with no one at the helm.
“Can you think of anything?” he asked the girl. She was the only strand of the mystery that was still in his hands. His last hope.
She looked over Corso’s shoulder at the traffic and the nearby railings of the Palais Royal. She had taken off her rucksack and put it down by her feet. She was frowning, silent as usual, absorbed in her thoughts. She looked obstinate, like a little boy refusing to do what he’s told.
Corso smiled like a tired wolf. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.
He saw her nod slowly, possibly as a conclusion to some line of reasoning. Or maybe she was just agreeing that, indeed, he didn’t know what to do.
“You’re your own worst enemy,” she said at last, distantly. She looked tired too, as she had the night before when they returned to the hotel. “Your imagination.” She tapped her forehead. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”
La Ponte grunted. “Let’s leave the botany for later, shall we?” He was becoming increasingly worried about the possibility of gendarmes appearing. “We should get out of here. I can hire a car. If we hurry, we can be across the border by tomorrow. Which is April first, by the way.”
“Shut up, Flavio.” Corso was looking into the girl’s eyes, searching for an answer. All he saw were reflections—the light of the square, the passing traffic, his own image, misshapen and grotesque. The defeated soldier. But defeat was no longer heroic. It hadn’t been for a long time.
The girl’s expression changed. She stared at La Ponte now, as if for the first time he was worth looking at.
“Say that again,” she said.
La Ponte stuttered, surprised. “You mean, about hiring a car?” His mouth was open. “It’s obvious. On planes they have passenger lists. And on the train they can look at your passport....”
“I didn’t mean that. Tell us what date it is tomorrow.”
“The first of April. Monday.” La Ponte fiddled with his tie, confused. “My birthday.”
But she was no longer paying attention. She was bending over her rucksack, searching for something inside it. When she straightened up, she held
“You haven’t paid enough attention to your reading,” she said to Corso, handing it to him. “Chapter one, first line.”
Corso, surprised, took the book and glanced at it. “The Three Gifts of Monsieur d’Artagnan the Elder.” As soon as he read the first line, he knew where they had to go to find Milady.
XIV. THE CELLARS OF MEUNG
It was a dismal night. The Loire, turbulent, was rising, threatening to flood the old dikes in the small town of Meung. The storm had been raging since late afternoon. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated the black mass of the castle, and bright zigzags cracked like whips on the deserted wet pavements of the medieval town. Across the river, in the distance, amid the wind, rain, and leaves torn from the trees, as if the gale had drawn a line between the recent past and a distant present, the headlights of cars could be seen moving silently along the highway from Tours to Orleans.
At the Auberge Saint-Jacques, the only hotel in Meung, a window was lit. It gave onto a small terrace which could be reached from the street. Inside the room, a tall, attractive blonde, her hair tied back, was dressing in front of the mirror. She had just zipped up her skirt, covering the small tattoo of a fleur-de-lis on her hip. She stood up
