That’s how it was. But now, standing outside room 206, Corso couldn’t feel the anger of one about to confront another with his treachery. Maybe because, deep down, he believed that in politics, business, and sex, betrayal was only a question of timing. Ruling out politics, he didn’t know whether his friend was in Paris for business or sex. Maybe it was both, because even Corso, in his cynicism, couldn’t imagine La Ponte getting into trouble for money alone. He remembered Liana Taillefer during their brief skirmish at his apartment, beautiful and sensual, wide hips, smooth pale skin, a wholesome Kim Novak playing the femme fatale. He arched an eyebrow—friendship consisted of that kind of detail—he could well understand La Ponte’s motives. Maybe this was why, when La Ponte opened the door, he found no hostility in Corso’s expression. He was barefoot and in pajamas. He just had time to open his mouth before Corso gave him a punch that sent him staggering across the room.
In other circumstances Corso might have relished the scene. A luxury suite with a view of the obelisk in the Place Concorde, a thick pile carpet, and a huge bathroom. La Ponte on the floor, rubbing his jaw, trying to focus after the punch. A huge bed, with two breakfast trays. And Liana Taillefer sitting, blond and stunned, holding a half-eaten piece of toast, one voluminous white breast peeping out of the plunging neckline of her silk nightdress. With a nipple two inches wide, Corso noted dispassionately as he shut the door behind him. Better late than never.
“Good morning,” he said.
He walked to the bed. Liana Taillefer, motionless, still holding her toast, stared as he sat next to her. Putting the canvas bag on the floor and glancing at the breakfast tray, he poured himself a cup of coffee. For half a minute nobody said a word. At last Corso took a sip and smiled at Liana Taillefer.
“I seem to remember that the last time we met, I was somewhat abrupt....” The stubble on his chin emphasized his features. His smile was as sharp as a razor blade.
She didn’t answer. She put the toast on the tray and covered her generous figure with her nightgown. In her stare there was no fear, arrogance, or rancor. She seemed almost indifferent. After the scene at his apartment, Corso would have expected hatred in her eyes. “They’ll kill you for this,” etc.... And they nearly had. But Liana Taillefer’s steely blue eyes had the same expression as a puddle of icy water, and this worried Corso more than an explosion of fury. He pictured her looking impassively at her husband’s corpse hanging from the light fixture in his room. He remembered the photograph of the poor bastard in his leather apron holding a plate, about to dismember a roast suckling pig. This was some serial they’d all written for him. “Bastard,” muttered La Ponte from the floor, still dazed but managing to focus on Corso at last. He started to get up, hanging on to the furniture. Corso watched him with interest. “You don’t seem pleased to see me, Flavio.”
“Pleased?” La Ponte was rubbing his beard and looking at the palm of his hand from time to time, as if worried that he would find a tooth there. “You’ve gone nuts. Completely nuts.”
“Not yet. But you’ve been trying to drive me there, you and your henchmen.” He pointed at Liana Taillefer. “Including the grieving widow.”
La Ponte moved closer, but kept a cautious distance. “Would you mind explaining what on earth you’re talking about?”
Corso raised his hand and began counting on fingers.
“I’m talking about the Dumas manuscript and The Nine Doors. About Victor Fargas drowned in Sintra. About Rochefort, who’s my shadow. He attacked me a week ago in Toledo, and last night here in Paris.” He pointed at Liana Taillefer again. “And about Milady. And about you, whatever your part is in all this.”
La Ponte, watching Corso count, blinked five times, once for each finger. He rubbed his beard again, this time not from pain but with confusion. He started to say something but thought better of it. When at last he made up his mind to speak, he addressed Liana Taillefer.
“What have we got to do with all this?”
She shrugged contemptuously. She wasn’t interested in explanations, wasn’t going to cooperate. Still reclining against the pillows, with the breakfast tray beside her, she was tearing apart one of the pieces of toast with her red polished nails. Her only other movement was her breathing, which made her ample bosom move up and down inside her plunging nightgown. She stared at Corso like a cardplayer waiting for an opponent to show his hand, as unmoved as a sirloin steak.
La Ponte scratched his bald spot. He wasn’t too dignified, standing in the middle of the room in crumpled striped pajamas, his cheek swollen from the punch. He looked at Corso, at Liana Taillefer, and back again. “I’d like an explanation,” he said.
“That’s a coincidence. An explanation is what I came here to get from you.”
With another anxious glance at Liana Taillefer, La Ponte gestured toward the bathroom. “Let’s go in there.” He was trying to sound dignified, but his swollen cheek made his speech slurred. “You and me.”
She remained inscrutable, calm, looking at them with the bored expression of someone watching a quiz show on TV. Corso thought to himself that he’d have to do1 something about her, but at the moment he couldn’t think what. He picked up his canvas bag and went into the bathroom with La Ponte. La Ponte shut the door behind them.
“Can you tell me why you hit me?”
He spoke quietly, so the widow wouldn’t hear. Corso put his bag on the bidet, noticed the whiteness of the towels, and rummaged around on the bathroom shelf before turning to La Ponte.
“Because you’re a liar and a traitor,” he answered. “You didn’t tell me you were mixed up in all this. You’ve let them trick me, follow me, attack me.”
“I’m not mixed up in anything. And I’m the only one who’s been attacked here.” La Ponte was examining his face in the mirror. “God! Look what you’ve done to me! I’m disfigured.”
“I’ll disfigure you even more if you don’t tell what this is all about.”
La Ponte prodded his swollen cheek and looked at Corso sideways. “It’s no secret. Liana and I have ...” He searched for the appropriate words. “Hm. We’ve ... Well, you saw yourself.”
“You’ve become intimate.”
“That’s right.”
“When?”
“The day you left for Portugal.”
“Who approached whom?”
“I did. In effect.”
“What do you mean, in effect?”
“More or less. I went to see her.”
“Why?”
“To make an offer for her husband’s collection.” “The idea just suddenly popped into your head, did it?” “Well, no. She phoned me first. I told you about it at the time.”
“That’s true.”
“She wanted the manuscript her late husband sold me.” “Did she give any reason?” “Sentimental value.” “And you believed her.” “Yes.”
“Or rather, you didn’t care.” “Really...”
“I know. What you really wanted was to screw her.” “That too.”
“And she fell into your arms.” “Like a stone.”
“Of course. And you came to Paris on your honeymoon.” “Not exactly. She had things to do here.” “And she asked you to come with her.”
“That’s right.”
“Quite casually? All expenses paid, so you could continue the romance.”
“Something like that.”
Corso frowned. “Love is a beautiful thing, Flavio. When you really are in love.”
“Don’t be such a cynic. She’s extraordinary. You can’t imagine ...”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I said I can.”
“I’d bet you’d like to. She’s quite a woman.”
“We’re getting off the subject, Flavio. We were here, in Paris.”
“Yes.”
“What were you two planning to do about me?”
“We weren’t planning to do anything. We were thinking of finding you today or tomo
rrow. To get the manuscript back.”
“Just like that.”
“Of course. How else?”
“You didn’t think I might refuse?”
“Liana had her doubts.”
“What about you?”
“I didn’t think it would be a problem. We’re friends, after all. And ‘The Anjou Wine’ is mine.”
“I see. You were her second choice.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Liana’s wonderful. And she adores me.”
“Yes. She seems very much in love.”
“Do you think so?”
“You’re a fool, Flavio. They’ve pulled the wool over your eyes as well as mine.”
Corso had a sudden intuition, as piercing as a fire alarm. He pushed La Ponte aside and ran into the bedroom to find Liana Taillefer out of bed, half dressed and packing a suitcase. He saw her icy eyes—the eyes of Milady de Winter—and realized that while he was shooting his mouth off like an idiot, she’d been waiting for something, a sound or a signal. Waiting like a spider in its web.
“Good-bye, Mr. Corso.”
He heard the words, her deep, husky voice. But he didn’t know what she meant, other than that she was about to leave. He took another step toward her, not knowing what he would do when he reached her, before realizing that there was someone else in the room. A shadow behind him, to his left, by the door. He turned to face the danger. He knew he’d made another mistake, but it was too late. He heard Liana Taillefer laughing, like a wicked blond vamp in a movie, and felt the blow—his second in less than twelve hours—in the same spot as before, behind the ear. He just had time to see Rochefort fading, blurring. He was out cold before he hit the floor.
XIII. THE PLOT THICKENS
At this moment you’re trembling because of the situation and the prospect of the hunt
Where would the tremor be if I were as precise as a railway timetable?
—A. Conan Doyle, THE VALLEY OF FEAR
-L irst he heard a voice in the
distance, an unintelligible murmur. He made an effort, sensing that he was being spoken to. Something about his appearance. Corso had no idea what he looked like at that moment and couldn’t have cared less. He was comfortable wherever he was, lying on his back. He didn’t want to open his eyes and make his head hurt even more.
Somebody was gently slapping his face, so he reluctantly opened one eye. La Ponte was leaning over him, looking worried. He was still in pajamas.
“Get your hands off me,” Corso said grumpily.
La Ponte sighed with relief. “I thought you were dead,” he said.
Corso opened the other eye and started to sit up. He immediately felt his brain moving inside his skull like jelly on a plate.
“They really gave it to you,” La Ponte informed him unnecessarily as he helped him up. Corso leaned on his shoulder and looked around the room. Liana Taillefer and Rochefort were gone.
“Did you see who hit me?”
“Of course I did. A tall, dark guy with a scar on his face.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“No.” La Ponte frowned indignantly. “Seemed like she knew him well enough, though.... She must have let him in while we were arguing in the bathroom. He had a split lip, too, it was all swollen. He’d had a couple of stitches.” He felt his own cheek. The swelling was going down. He gave a spiteful little laugh. “Seems like everyone around here is getting what he deserves.”
Corso, searching unsuccessfully for his glasses, gave him a resentful look. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why they didn’t clobber you too.”
“They wanted too. But I told them it wasn’t necessary. They could just go about their business. I was an accidental tourist.”
“You could have done something.”
“Me? You must be joking. That punch you gave me was quite enough. I held up my hands like this.... Peace signs. I just sat on the toilet seat nice and quiet until they left.”
“My hero.”
“Better safe than sorry. Look at this.” He handed Corso a folded piece of paper. “They left this behind, under an ashtray with a Montecristo cigar end in it.”
Corso had trouble focusing on the handwriting. The note was written in ink, in an attractive copperplate hand with complicated flourishes on the capitals:
It is by my order and for the benefit of the State that the bearer of this note has done what he has done.
3rd of December 1627 Richelieu
Despite the situation, he almost burst out laughing. It was the safe-conduct granted at the siege of La Rochelle when Milady demanded d’Artagnan’s head, later stolen at gunpoint by Athos (Bite if you can, viper) and used to justify the woman’s execution to Richelieu at the end of the novel.... In short, too much for a single chapter. Corso staggered to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and put his head under the stream of cold water. Then he looked at himself: puffy eyes, unshaven, and dripping with water. Not a pretty sight. And his head was buzzing like a wasps’ nest. What a way to start the day.
La Ponte appeared in the mirror beside him, handing him a towel and his glasses.
“By the way,” he said, “they took your bag.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Hey, I don’t know why you’re taking it out on me. All I did was get laid.”
ANXIOUS, CORSO CROSSED THE hotel lobby, trying to think quickly. But with every passing minute it became more unlikely that he would catch the fugitives. All was lost except for a single link in the chain, book number three. They still had to get hold of it, and that offered, at least, the possibility of getting to them, provided he moved quickly. While La Ponte paid for the room, Corso went to the phone and dialed Frieda Ungern’s number. But the line was busy. He called the Louvre Concorde and asked for Irene Adler’s room. He wasn’t sure how things stood on that front, but he calmed down a little when he heard the girl’s voice. He let her know the situation in a few words and asked her to meet him at the Ungern Foundation. He hung up as La Ponte was coming toward him, very depressed, putting his credit card back in his wallet.
“The bitch. She left without paying the bill.”
“Serves you right.”
“I’ll kill her, with my own hands, I swear.”
The hotel was extremely expensive and La Ponte was outraged at her treachery. He had a clearer idea now what was going on, and was gloomy as Ahab bent on revenge. They climbed into a taxi, and Corso gave the driver Baroness Ungern’s address. En route he told La Ponte the rest of the story—the train, the girl, Sintra, Paris, the three copies of The Nine Doors, Fargas’s death, the incident by the river... La Ponte listened and nodded, incredulous at first and then stunned.
“I’ve been living with a viper,” he moaned, shuddering.
Corso was in a bad mood. He remarked that vipers very rarely bit cretins. La Ponte thought about that. He didn’t seem offended.
“She’s a determined woman,” he said. “And what a body!”
In spite of his resentment at the recent dent in his finances, his eyes shone lecherously as he stroked his beard.
“What a body,” he repeated with a silly little smile.
Corso was staring out the window. “That’s exactly what the Duke of Buckingham said.”
“Who’s the Duke of Buckingham?”
“In The Three Musketeers. After the episode with the diamond tags, Richelieu entrusts Milady with the duke’s murder. But the duke imprisons her when she returns to London. There she seduces her jailer, Felton, an idiot like you but in a more puritanical, fanatical guise. She persuades him to help her escape, and while they’re at it, to murder the duke.”
“I don’t remember that episode. So what happened to Felton?”
“He stabs the duke. He’s executed later. I don’t know whether for the murder or just for being stupid.”
“At least he didn’t have to pay the hotel bill.” They were driving along the Quai de Conti, near where Corso had had his next-to-last encounter wi
th Rochefort. Just then La Ponte remembered something.
“Doesn’t Milady have a mark on her shoulder?”
Corso nodded. They were passing the stone steps he’d fallen down the night before.
“Yes,” he answered. “Branded by the executioner with a red-hot iron. The mark of criminals. She already has it when she’s married to Athos. D’Artagnan discovers it when he sleeps with her, and the discovery almost gets him killed.”
“It’s odd. Liana has a mark too, you know.”
“On her shoulder?”
“No, on her hip. A small tattoo. Very pretty, in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I swear.”
Corso didn’t remember seeing a tattoo. But he’d hardly had time to notice that kind of thing during the brief encounter with Liana Taillefer at his apartment. It seemed like years ago. One way or another, things were getting out of control. This was more than a matter of quaint coincidences. It was a premeditated plan, too complex and dangerous for the performances of Liana Taillefer and her henchman to be dismissed as mere parody. Here was a plot with all the classic ingredients of the genre, and somebody—aptly, an Eminence Grise—must be pulling the strings. He felt Richelieu’s note in his pocket. It was too much. And yet, the key to the mystery had to lie in its very strangeness and novelistic nature. He remembered something he’d read once, in Edgar Allan Poe or Conan Doyle: “This mystery seems insoluble for the very reasons that make it soluble: the excessive, outre nature of the circumstances.”
“I’m still not sure whether this is one big hoax or an elaborate plot,” he said aloud.
La Ponte had found a hole in the plastic seat and was nervously tugging at it. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it.” He whispered even though there was a pane of safety glass between them and the driver. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”