The Club Dumas

Liana Taillefer decided to grant Corso a little more attention. His prospects took another little leap. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with his crumpled handkerchief. Without them he looked more vulnerable, and he knew it. When he squinted like a shortsighted rabbit, everybody felt they just had to help him cross the road.

“Is this your job?” she asked. “Authenticating manuscripts?”

He nodded vaguely. The widow was slightly blurred and, strangely, closer.

“Sometimes. I also look for rare books, prints, things like that. I get paid for it.”

“How much?”

“It depends.” He put his glasses back on, and her image was sharp again. “Sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. The market has its ups and downs.”

“You’re a kind of detective, aren’t you?” she said, amused. “A book detective.”

This was the moment to smile. He did so, showing his in­cisors, with a modesty calculated to the millimeter. Adopt me, said his smile.

“Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”

“And your client asked you to come and see me...”

“That’s right.” He could now allow himself to look more confident, so he tapped the manuscript with his knuckles. “After all, this came from here. From your house.”

She nodded slowly, looking at the folder. She seemed to be thinking something over. “It’s strange,” she said. “I can’t imag­ine Enrique selling this Dumas manuscript. Although he was acting strangely those last few days... What did you say the name of the bookseller was? The new owner.”

“I didn’t.”

She looked him up and down, with calm surprise. It seemed she was unused to waiting for more than three seconds for any man to do as she said.

“Well, tell me then.”

Corso waited a moment, just long enough for Liana Taillefer to start tapping her nails impatiently on the arm of the sofa.

“His name’s La Ponte,” he said at last. This was another one of his tricks: he made only small concessions but allowed others to feel they’d won. “Do you know him?”

“Of course I know him. He supplied my husband with books.” She frowned. “He’d come around every so often to bring him those stupid serials. I suppose he has a receipt. I’d like a copy of it, if he doesn’t mind.”

Corso nodded vaguely and leaned toward her slightly. “Was your husband a great fan of Alexandre Dumas?”

“Of Dumas?” Liana Taillefer smiled. She had shaken back her hair, and now her eyes shone, mocking. “Come with me.”

She stood up, taking her time, smoothing down her skirt, glancing around as if she had suddenly forgotten why she had got up. She was much taller than Corso, even though she was not wearing high heels. She led him into the adjoining study. Following her, he noticed her broad back, a swimmer’s back, and her cinched-in waist. He guessed she must be about thirty. She would probably become one of those Nordic matrons on whose hips the sun never sets, made to give birth effortlessly to blond Eriks and Siegfrieds.

“I wish it had only been Dumas,” she said, gesturing at the contents of the study. “Look at this.”

Corso looked. The walls were covered with shelves bowing under the weight of thick volumes. Professional instinct made his mouth water. He took a few steps toward the shelves, ad­justing his glasses. The Countess de Charny, A. Dumas, eight volumes, the Illustrated Novel collection, editor Vicente Blasco Ibanez. The Two Dianas, A. Dumas, three volumes. The Mus­keteers, A. Dumas, Miguel Guijarro publisher, engravings by Ortega, four volumes. The Count of Monte Cristo, A. Dumas, four volumes in the Juan Ros edition, engravings by A. Gil. Also forty volumes of Rocambole, by Ponson du Terrail. The complete edition of the Pardellanes by Zevaco. More Dumas, together with nine volumes of Victor Hugo and the same num­ber by Paul Feval, with an edition of The Hunchback luxu­riously bound in red morocco and edged with gold. And Dickens’s Pickwick Papers, translated into Spanish by Benito Perez Galdos, alongside several volumes by Barbey d’Aurevilly and The Mysteries of Paris by Eugene Sue. And yet more Dumas—The Forty-Five, The Queen’s Necklace, The Compan­ions of Jehu— and Corsican Revenge by Merimee. Fifteen vol­umes of Sabatini, several by Ortega y Frias, Conan Doyle, Manuel Fernandez y Gonzalez, Mayne Reid, Patricio de la Escosura...

“Very impressive,” commented Corso. “How many books are there here?”

“I don’t know. About two thousand. Almost all of them first editions of serials, as they were bound after being published in installments. Some of them are illustrated editions. My husband was an avid collector, he’d pay whatever the asking price was.”

“A true enthusiast, from what I can see.”

“Enthusiast?” Liana Taillefer gave an indefinable smile. “It was a real passion.”

“I thought gastronomy ...”

“The cookbooks were just a way of making money. Enrique had the Midas touch: in his hands any cheap recipe book turned into a bestseller. But this was what he really loved. He liked to shut himself in here and leaf through these old serials. They were often printed on poor-quality paper, and he was obsessed with preserving them. Do you see that thermometer and hu­midity gauge? He could recite whole pages from his favorite books. He’d sometimes even say ‘gadzooks,’ ‘ye gods,’ things like that. He spent his last months writing.”

“A historical novel?”

“A serial. Keeping to all the cliches of the genre, of course.” She went to a shelf and took down a heavy manuscript with hand-stitched pages. The handwriting was large and round. “What do you think of the title?”

“The Dead Man’s Hand, or Anne of Austria’s Page” read Corso. “Well, it’s certainly...” He ran a finger over his eyebrow, searching for the right word. “Suggestive.”

“And dull,” she added, putting the manuscript back. “Full of anachronisms. Completely idiotic, I assure you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. At the end of each writing session he’d read it to me page by page, from beginning to end.” She tapped bitterly on the title, handwritten in capitals. “God, I really hated that stupid queen and her page.” “Was he intending to publish it?”

“Yes, of course. Under a pseudonym: He probably would have chosen something like Tristan de Longueville or Paulo Florentini. It would have been so typical of him.”

“What about hanging himself? Was that typical of him?” Liana Taillefer stared intently at the book-lined walls and said nothing. An uncomfortable silence, Corso thought, even a little forced. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, like an actress who pauses before going on with her speech in a convincing manner. “I’ll never know what happened,” she answered at last, her composure once again perfect. “During his last week he was hostile and depressed. He hardly left this study. Then, one af­ternoon, he went out and slammed the door. He came back in the early hours. I was in bed and heard the door close. In the morning I was woken by the maid screaming. Enrique had hanged himself from the light fixture.”

Now she was looking at Corso, to see the effect of her words. She didn’t seem too upset, he thought, remembering the pho­tograph with the apron and the suckling pig. He even saw her blink once, as if to hold back a tear, but her eyes were perfectly dry. Of course that didn’t mean anything. Centuries of makeup that can be smudged by emotion have taught women to control their feelings. And Liana Taillefer’s makeup—light shading to accentuate her eyes—was perfect.

“Did he leave a note?” asked Corso. “People who commit suicide often do.”

“He decided to spare himself the effort. No explanation, not even a few words. Nothing. Because of his selfishness I’ve had to answer a lot of questions from an examining magistrate and several policemen. Very unpleasant, believe me.”

“I understand.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do.”

Liana Taillefer made it obvious that their meeting was now at an end. She saw him to the door and held out her hand to him. With the folder under his arm and his bag on his shoulder, Corso shook hands with her and felt her firm grip. Inwardly he gave her a good mark for her performance. Not the happy widow, yet not devastated by grief; no cold “I’m glad that idiot’s gone” or “Alone at last” or “You can come out of the wardrobe now, darling.” If there