The Club Dumas

straight, her hands be­hind her back to fasten the bra supporting her white, volumi­nous bust, which shook gently as she moved. Then she put on a silk blouse. As she buttoned it, she smiled to herself in the mirror, no doubt finding herself beautiful. She must have been preparing for a date, because nobody dresses at eleven at night unless they’re going to meet someone. Although maybe her smile, with its hint of cruelty, was due to the new leather folder that lay on the bed, containing the pages of the manuscript of “The Anjou Wine” by Alexandre Dumas, pere.

A flash of lightning lit up the small terrace outside. There, under the dripping eaves, Lucas Corso finished his damp ciga­rette and threw it on the ground. He turned up his collar against the wind and rain. During the next bolt of lightning, as intense as a giant camera flash, he saw Flavio La Ponte’s deathly-pale face, drawn in light and dark, his hair and beard dripping wet. La Ponte resembled a tormented monk, or maybe Athos, taciturn as desperation, somber as punishment. There were no more flashes for a time, but Corso could distinguish, in the third shadow crouching beside them beneath the eaves, the slender shape of Irene Adler wrapped in her duffel coat. When at last another flash of lightning tore diagonally across the night sky, and thunder rolled across the slate roofs, her bright green eyes were suddenly lit up beneath the hood of her coat.

The journey to Meung had been short and tense. An interval of appalling visibility, in a car hired by La Ponte: the highway from Paris to Orleans, then sixteen kilometers toward Tours. La Ponte sat in the passenger seat and by the flame of a cigarette lighter studied the Michelin map they’d bought at a gas station. La Ponte was fuddled. Not far to go now, I think we’re on the right road. Yes, I’m sure we are. The girl was in the back, silent. She watched Corso intently, and he met her eyes in the mirror every time they were passed by the dazzling lights of an on­ coming car. La Ponte got it wrong, of course. They missed the turn and went in the direction of Blois. When they realized their mistake, they had to go back, driving in the wrong direc­tion on the highway to get off it. Corso gripped the steering wheel, praying that the storm was keeping all the gendarmes indoors. Beaugency. La Ponte insisted they cross the river and turn left, but luckily they ignored him. They retraced their steps, this time on the Nationale 152—the same route d’Artag-nan took in chapter one—amid gusts of wind and rain, the black, roaring expanse of the Loire to their right, the wind­shield wipers working furiously, and hundreds of little black dots, the shadows of raindrops, dancing in front of Corso’s eyes as they passed other cars. At last they were driving through deserted streets, an old district of medieval rooftops, facades with thick beams in the shape of crosses: Meung- sur-Loire. Journey’s end.

“She’s about to leave,” whispered La Ponte. He was soaked through, and his voice trembled from the cold. “Why don’t we go in now?”

Corso leaned over to take another look. Liana Taillefer had put on a tight-fitting sweater over her blouse, emphasizing her spectacular figure, and from the closet she took a long, dark cape fit for a masked ball. She hesitated a moment, looked around, then put the cape over her shoulders and picked up the folder with the manuscript from the bed. At that instant she noticed the open window and went to close it.

Corso put out his hand to stop her. There was a flash of light­ning almost above his head, and his dripping face was lit up. He was framed in the window, his hand held out as if accusingly at the woman who stood paralyzed with surprise. Milady screamed in wild terror, as if she had just seen the devil himself.

Corso jumped over the ledge and hit her so hard with the back of his hand that she stopped screaming and fell on the bed, scattering the pages of “The Anjou Wine.” The change in temperature made his glasses steam up, so he took them off quickly, threw them on the bedside table, and flung himself at Liana Taillefer, who was trying to get up and reach the door. He grabbed her first by her leg and then pinned her to the bed by the waist while she struggled and kicked. She was strong, and he wondered where the hell La Ponte and the girl were. While he waited for them to help, he tried to hold the woman down by the wrists, keeping his face away from her clawing nails. Entwined, they rolled on the bedcover, and Corso ended up with his leg between hers and his face buried in her breasts. Up so close, feeling them through her fine wool sweater, he thought again how incredibly resilient they were. He felt an unmistakable erection and cursed in exasperation while he struggled with this Milady with the physique of a champion swimmer. Where are you when I need you, he thought bitterly. Then La Ponte arrived, shaking himself like a wet dog, seeking revenge for his wounded pride and, above all, for the hotel bill burning a hole in his wallet. The battle was beginning to re­semble a lynching.

“I presume you’re not going to rape her,” said the girl. She was sitting on the window ledge, still wearing her hood, watching the scene. Liana Taillefer had stopped struggling and was now motionless. Corso was on top of her, and La Ponte was holding her down by one arm and one leg. “Pigs,” she said loudly and clearly.

“Whore,” grunted La Ponte, out of breath from the struggle. After this brief exchange they all calmed down. Certain that she could not escape, they let her sit up. She flashed venomous looks at both Corso and La Ponte as she rubbed her wrists. Corso stood between her and the door. The girl was still at the window, now closed. She had lowered her hood and was re­garding Liana Taillefer with curiosity. La Ponte, after toweling his hair and beard on the bedcover, started to gather the pages of the manuscript scattered about the room.

“We need to have a little talk,” said Corso. “Like reasonable people.”

Liana Taillefer glared at him. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, beautiful lady. Now that we’ve got you, I don’t mind going to the police. Either you talk to us or you’ll have to explain things to them. Your choice.”

She frowned. She looked around like a hunted animal searching for any way out of a trap.

“Careful,” said La Ponte. “She’s up to something.” Her eyes shot glances as sharp as needles. Corso twisted his mouth theatrically. “Liana Taillefer,” he said. “Or maybe we should call you Anne de Breuil, Comtesse de la Fere. You also go by the names of Charlotte Backson, Baroness Sheffield, and Lady de Winter. You betray your husbands and your lovers. A murderess and poisoner, as well as Richelieu’s agent. Better known by your alias”—he paused dramatically—”Milady.”

He stopped, because he’d just tripped on the strap of his bag, which was protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out, not taking his eyes off Liana Taillefer or the door. She obviously intended to escape at the first opportunity. He checked the con­tents of the bag, and his sigh of relief made all of them, in­cluding Liana Taillefer, look at him with surprise. Varo Borja’s copy of The Nine Doors was there, intact.

“Bingo,” he said, holding it up. La Ponte looked triumphant, as if Queequeg had just harpooned the whale. But the girl showed no emotion, an indifferent spectator. Corso returned the book to the bag. The wind whistled at the window, where the girl still stood. At intervals she was silhouetted by a flash of lightning, which was followed by a rumble of thunder, dull and muffled, that made the rain-spattered glass vibrate.

“Fitting weather,” he said. “As you can see, Milady, we didn’t want to miss our appointment.... We’ve come prepared to do justice.”

“In a group and at night, like cowards,” she answered, spit­ting out the words. “Just as they did to the other Milady. The only one missing is the executioner of Lille.”

“All in good time,” said La Ponte.

The woman was gradually recovering her confidence. Her own mention of the executioner didn’t seem to have cowed her. She stared back at La Ponte defiantly. “I see that you’ve all got into your respective parts,” she added.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” answered Corso. “You and your accomplices have made sure of that.” His face twisted into a wolflike smile that held neither humor nor pity. “We’ve all had such fun.”

The woman tensed her lips. She slid one of her blood-red nails across the bedcover. Corso followed it with his eyes, fas­cinated, as if it were a blade, and he shuddered at the thought of how close it had come to his face during their struggle.

“You have no right to do this,” she said. “You’re intruders.”

“You’re wrong. We’re part of the game, just as you are.”

“But you don’t know the rules.”

“Wrong again, Milady, The proof is, we’re here.” Corso took his glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and pushed them up with his finger. “That’s what was so tricky—accepting the nature of the game. Accepting the fiction by entering the story and following the logic of the text, not of the outside world... After that, it’s easy. In the real world, many things happen by chance, but in fiction nearly everything is logical.”

Liana Taillefer’s red fingernail stopped moving. “In novels?”

“Especially in novels. If the protagonist follows the internal logic of the criminal, he’ll arrive at the criminal. That’s why hero and villain, detective and murderer always meet in the end.” He smiled, pleased with his reasoning. “What do you think?”