movement tipped me so much off balance that I almost toppled off altogether. I yelped, gulped, hung on for dear life, and decided not to try it again. I had never felt more helpless. I couldn't even see; the twin spotlights above the window were blinding.
I shouted again for help, more loudly, but let me tell you, the mind under stress is a peculiar thing. I dreaded being found almost as much as I did letting go. I felt like a complete idiot. I mean, there I was, in my tuxedo, hanging by my hands and feet outside Vachey's window like some bizarre, blind tree sloth, yelling 'Au secours! Au secours!' It was going to take some considerable explaining.
As it was, the need didn't arise. No one came. I could hear the continuing babble in the gallery, but they couldn't hear me. I was going to fall, then, and I didn't want to do it on my head. While I still had some strength in my fingers I twisted some more and managed to extricate both feet from the balustrade, my arms shaking with the strain. Now I was dangling by my hands, feet down. I thought about trying to swing up and over the balustrade, but I knew I didn't have the strength left. All I could do was hang there, and I couldn't do very much more of that. When I let go it might mean a couple of broken legs, maybe a broken pelvis, but not a broken head. An improvement, but nothing to look forward to.
I tried to remember everything I'd heard about jumping from a height: Keep the muscles loose, bend the knees when you hit the ground
…
There were footsteps, several sets of them, in the study, and excited voices.
'But there's no one here,' someone said in French. 'I thought-'
'I'm out here!' I croaked. 'I'm-'
'It's coming from outside,' another voice said. 'Downstairs, the courtyard.'
'Let's go,' somebody said.
'No, wait!' I tried to call, but they were already running for the stairs, and I couldn't suck in enough air to do it anyway. I knew that I wasn't going to last until they got outside. I couldn't breathe, my arms felt as if they were being dragged out of their sockets, muscles were jumping everywhere, and I couldn't feel my fingers at all. Still, I managed to hang on for another few seconds, or rather my fingers did it on their own, and then, just as I heard my would-be rescuers burst through the doorway below, my grip came undone, and down I plummeted.
No, I didn't land on anyone, although I suppose I might have aimed for them if they'd been within reach. I don't know whether I remembered to stay relaxed (between you and me, I rather doubt it) or to flex my knees. What I do remember is a totally unexpected whump as my feet hit, followed by a ponderous, elastic bounce, along the lines of what a 747 does when it hits the runway. My knees flexed-without any instructions from me, thank you-my feet shot out from under me, and I wound up, with another, lesser whump, on my behind, there to rock gradually to a stop.
At this stage my mind was far from its most acute, but I was pretty sure that, whatever else might happen when you fell out of a second-story window, you weren't supposed to bounce. Under my thighs I could feel a smooth, cold surface-definitely not cobblestones, but what? I opened my eyes (when had I shut them?), and although still a little dazzled from the spotlights, I saw well enough to realize what had happened.
Those cars. Those two glossy, gray, beautiful Renaults parked in a corner of the courtyard. I'd actually landed on the hood of one-an admirable, wonderful automobile with lovely, well-maintained shock absorbers. No broken legs, no broken pelvis, nothing but a couple of still-quivering arms that felt like tapioca pudding. I started to laugh, not without a shrill tinge of hysterical relief, but pulled myself up short when I remembered the people who had run down to the courtyard to rescue me.
I gathered myself together and turned to look at them. They stood frozen, half-a-dozen of them, arranged along the steps as if in a tableau, all of them staring mutely at me. In the strong, shadowed light of the courtyard, their expressions were easy enough to read: Incredulity. Amazement. Stupefaction. Perplexity.
'Good evening,' I said. I slid gingerly off the hood and onto my feet. More distingue, don't you know.
Several people blinked. 'What the hell is going on here?' one of them asked gruffly, but for the most part they continued to regard me with bewilderment.
And no wonder. They had heard shouts for help from the courtyard. They had rushed downstairs and arrived just in time to hear a couple of resounding whumps and to find me sitting on the hood of a car, tittering away to myself while the vehicle rocked slowly to a halt.
I didn't think any of them could have seen the fall itself, because the two side wings of Vachey's house-his study was in the right one-were recessed, some ten feet behind the central part, where the entrance was. I would have been behind them when they burst out, and they would have had to get a few feet out onto the stoop, or even down one or two of the steps, before they could see around the corner and into the recess.
'I thought I heard someone shout for help,' I told them. 'I came downstairs, but no one was here.'
You can imagine how believable that was, but it was all I could think of.
Fortunately, no one asked me why I was bouncing on the Renault. 'Maybe it was someone on the street?' a woman suggested doubtfully after a moment. Someone went to the gatehouse, unlatched the wide door, and went out into the Rue de la Prefecture. He came back shaking his head, looking at me oddly. 'No, nothing.'
They milled around a while, then drifted back inside, muttering to each other and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. Calvin had arrived with the last of them, and stayed behind, coming up to me when the others had gone in.
'Christ, what happened, Chris?'
'You didn't find my explanation convincing?'
He reached toward my shoulder and tugged on a loose suspender strap. I glanced down. Both clasps had come loose, and the straps were up around my neck. My jacket had popped its buttons, my shirttails hung loose, and my new patent leather shoes looked as if they'd been run over by a tractor. My bow tie was hanging from a shirt stud about halfway down my chest.
'Not real convincing, no,' Calvin said. 'What the hell happened to you?'
I gave him a brief account.
His eyes, always a bit protuberant, bugged out a little more. 'Who pushed you, Vachey?'
'I wish I knew, Calvin.'
He looked up at the balcony. 'Out of that window?'
I looked up too, and cringed.
'Jeez, Chris, are you sure you're okay?'
'I think so. Sort of.'
Gently, I tried out my moving parts. Everything worked, even my fingers, although they felt more like claws. I was far from tiptop; my arms were still trembling and flaccid, my shoulders ached and burned, my insteps felt as if they'd been flayed, and my palms had deep, painful, red grooves in them. There was a taste of blood in my mouth from when I'd bitten my cheek as I hit the Renault. Minor, all of it, considering the way it could have turned out, but I felt like hell.
'That book could still be up there,' I said. 'I'm-'
'You just stay there,' Calvin said masterfully. 'I'll go.'
I didn't argue. 'Big blue looseleaf, like a scrapbook,' I called after him. 'Old.'
While he was gone I leaned against the car hood again. There weren't even any dents in it. I patted the metal affectionately. Nice cars, Renaults. Dependable. Trustworthy.
Calvin was back in a minute, shaking his head as he came down the stairs.
'Not there?' I said.
'Nothing. What now?'
'I guess the first thing is to talk to Vachey. Whether he pushed me or not, he knows what's in the book.'
'Well, he's still up in the gallery.'
I shook my head. 'Not tonight. All I want to do right now is crawl into bed. Tomorrow morning I'll tackle Vachey first thing.' Cautiously I rotated a shoulder, trying to work out the kinks. 'Ow. Assuming I can get out of bed.'
'What about the cops?'
'What about them?'
'Well, somebody just tried to murder you. I always thought you were supposed to mention it to the police
