The Club Dumas

Milady nodded sullenly. She’d obviously imagined herself playing a different part that evening. But like her fictional namesake, she was a disciplined hired assassin. In exchange for the weapon she gave Rochefort the Dumas manuscript. She scrutinized Corso. “I hope he doesn’t give you any trouble.” Rochefort smiled confidently. He took a large switchblade from his pocket and stared at it thoughtfully, as if he’d only just remembered it was there. His white teeth were bright against his dark, scarred face. “I don’t think he will,” he an­swered, putting back the knife unopened and gesturing to Corso

in a way that was both friendly and sinister. He took his hat from the bed, turned the key in the lock, and motioned toward the corridor with an exaggerated bow, as if he were holding a large plumed hat.

“His Eminence awaits, sir,” he said, and gave a short, dry laugh that perfectly befitted a skilled henchman.

Before leaving the room, Corso looked at the girl. Milady was pointing the gun at her and La Ponte, but the girl had turned her back and was paying no attention. She was leaning against the window, looking out at the wind and rain, silhou­etted against a night sky illuminated by flashes of lightning.

they went out into the storm. Rochefort held the folder with the Dumas manuscript under his raincoat to protect it from the rain. He led Corso through narrow streets to the old part of town. Blasts of rain shook the branches of the trees and splashed noisily in the puddles and on the paving stones. Large drops poured through Corso’s hair and down his face. He turned up his collar. The town was in darkness, and there was not a soul to be seen. Only the brightness of the storm lit up the streets now and then, showing the medieval roofs, Roche-fort’s dark profile beneath his dripping hat, the shadows of the two men on the wet ground. The electrical discharges, like thunder from hell, struck the turbulent current of the Loire with a sound like the cracking of whips.

“Wonderful evening,” said Rochefort, inclining his head to Corso to make himself heard above the roar.

He seemed to know his way. He walked confidently, turning occasionally to make sure his companion was still there. He didn’t need to, because at that moment Corso would have fol­lowed him to the very gates of hell. And Corso didn’t rule out the possibility that this in fact might be their ultimate desti­nation. With each successive flash of lightning he saw a me­dieval archway, a bridge over an ancient moat, a sign saying BOULANGERIE-PATISSERIE, a deserted square, a conical tower, and finally an iron gate with the sign CHATEAU DE MEUNG-SUR-LOIRE. XIIIEME-XIIIIEME SIECLE.

A window was lit up in the distance, beyond the gate, but Rochefort went right, and Corso followed. They walked along a stretch of ivy-clad wall until they reached a half-hidden door in the wall. Rochefort took out a huge, ancient iron key and put it in the lock.

“Joan of Arc came through this door,” he told Corso as he turned the key. One final flash of lightning revealed steps de­scending into darkness. In the momentary brightness Corso also saw Rochefort’s smile, his dark eyes shining beneath the hat, the livid scar on his cheek. At least the man was a worthy opponent, he thought. Nobody could complain about the stag­ing; it was impeccable. In spite of himself he was beginning to feel a kind of twisted sympathy for this Rochefort—whoever he was—playing the villain so conscientiously. Alexandre Du­mas would have approved.

Rochefort now held a small flashlight that lit up the long, narrow staircase disappearing into the cellar.

“You first,” he said.

Their steps echoed around the turns of the passageway. Corso was soon shivering inside his wet coat. Cold, musty air, smelling of the damp of centuries, rose to meet them. The beam of light showed worn steps, water stains on the vaulted ceiling. The staircase ended in a narrow corridor with rusty railings. For a moment Rochefort shone the flashlight on a circular pit to their left.

“These are the ancient dungeons of Bishop Thibault D’Aussigny,” he told Corso. “From there they threw the corpses into the Loire. Francois Villon was a prisoner here.” And he muttered the following line melodramatically: Ayez pitie, ayez pita de moi... Definitely a well-educated villain. Self-assured and with a hint of didacticism. Corso couldn’t decide whether this made the situation better or worse. But a thought had been going through his head since they entered the passageway: If all is lost, we may as well jump in the river. But he didn’t find his joke funny.

The passageway now rose beneath the dripping arches. The bright eyes of a rat glittered at the end of the gallery, and the animal disappeared with a cry. The passageway widened into a circular room whose ceiling, supported by pointed ribs, rested on a thick central column.

“The crypt,” said Rochefort, moving the flashlight beam around. He was becoming talkative. “Twelfth century. The women and children hid here when the castle was attacked.”

Very interesting. But Corso wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the information provided by his outlandish guide. He was tense and alert, waiting for the right moment. They now climbed a spiral staircase, the storm still flashing and booming beyond the castle walls, filtered through the slot windows.

“Only a few meters more and we’re there,” said Rochefort from behind and below. He sounded quite conciliatory. The flashlight shone between Corso’s legs. “Now that this business is nearly over,” he added, “I must tell you something. In spite of everything, you did well. The proof is that you got this far.... I hope you aren’t too sore about what happened by the Seine and at the Hotel Crillon. Occupational hazards.”

He didn’t say which occupation, but it didn’t matter. Corso turned casually and stopped, as if to answer or ask him a ques­tion. The movement wasn’t in the least suspicious, so Rochefort didn’t object and wasn’t at all ready when Corso, in the same motion, fell on him, his arms and legs braced against the wall so he wouldn’t be dragged down the stairs. Rochefort’s position was different—the steps were narrow, the wall smooth and without handholds, and in addition he had been caught off guard. The flashlight, miraculously intact, illuminated the scene for several moments as it rolled down the staircase: Rochefort with his eyes wide and a stunned look on his face, flailing wildly, trying desperately to grab something, falling down the spiral staircase, his hat rolling until it stopped on one of the steps... Then, six or seven meters farther down, a muffled sound, something like thump or maybe thud, Corso, still grip­ping the walls with his arms and legs so he wouldn’t accompany his opponent on his uncomfortable journey, now sprang into action. His heart pounded uncontrollably as he ran down the stairs, taking three steps at a time. He picked up the flashlight on his way. At the bottom lay Rochefort rolled into a ball, moving weakly, in pain.

“Occupational hazard,” said Corso, shining the flashlight on his own face so that, from the floor, Rochefort could see his friendly smile. Then he kicked him in the head and heard it slam hard against the bottom step. He raised his foot to kick again, just to make sure, but one look told him it wasn’t nec­essary: Rochefort was lying with his mouth open and blood was trickling from his ear. Corso leaned over to see if the man was breathing and saw that he was. Then he opened his raincoat and rifled through his pockets. He took the switchblade, a wal­let full of money, a French ID, and the folder with the Dumas manuscript, which he put under his coat, between his belt and shirt. Then he pointed the flashlight beam at the staircase and went back up, to the top this time, where there was a landing with a door that had thick iron hinges and hexagonal nailheads. A crack of light filtered from beneath it. He stood motionless for some thirty seconds, trying to catch his breath and calm the beating of his heart. The solution to the mystery lay on the other side of the door, and he prepared to face it with his teeth clenched, the flashlight in one hand and Rochefort’s knife, which opened with a menacing click, in the other.

Knife in hand, hair soaked and disheveled, and eyes shining with homicidal determination—that’s how I saw Corso enter the library.

 XV. CORSO AND RICHELIEU

And I, who had created a short novel around him,

had been completely mistaken.

—Souvestre et Allain, FANTOMAS

The time has come to reveal the narrator. Faithful to the tradition that the reader of a mys­tery novel must possess the same information as the protagonist, I have presented the events only from Lucas Corso’s perspective, except on two occasions: chapters 1 and 5 of this story, when I had no choice but to appear myself. In both these cases, and as now for the third and final time, I used the first person for the sake of coherence. It would have been absurd to refer to myself as “he,” a publicity stunt that may have yielded dividends for Julius Caesar in his campaign in Gaul but would have been judged, in my case, and quite rightly, as unpardonable pedantry. There is another, more perverse reason: telling the story as if I were Dr. Sheppard