The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure.”

  “Why don’t we go to the police?”

  “And say what? That Milady and Rochefort, Cardinal Richelieu’s agents, have stolen from us a chapter of The Three Musketeers and a book for summoning Lucifer? That the devil has fallen in love with me and been incarnated as a twenty-year-old girl who now acts as my bodyguard? What would you do if you were Inspector Maigret and I came and told you all that.”

  “I’d assume you were drunk.”

  “There you are.”

  “What about Varo Borja?”

  “That’s another thing.” Corso groaned anxiously. “I don’t even want to think about it. When he finds out that I’ve lost his book....”

  The taxi was making its way slowly through the morning traffic. Corso looked at his watch impatiently. At last they reached the bar where he’d sat the night before. There were people hanging around on the pavement and NO ENTRY signs on the corner. As he got out of the taxi, Corso saw a police van and a fire engine. He clenched his teeth and swore loudly, making La Ponte start. Book number three had got away too.

  THE GIRL CAME TOWARD them through the crowd, the small rucksack on her back and her hands in her coat pockets. There were still faint traces of smoke rising from the roofs.

  “The fire started at three A.M.,” she said, taking no notice of La Ponte, as if he didn’t exist. “The firemen are still inside.”

  “What about Baroness Ungern?”

  She made a vague gesture, not exactly indifferent, but resigned, fatalistic. As if it had been preordained. “Her charred remains were found in the study. That’s where the fire started. The neighbors say it must have been an accident. A cigarette not properly put out.”

  “The baroness didn’t smoke,” said Corso.

  “She did last night.”

  Corso glanced over the heads of the crowd gathered at the police cordon. He couldn’t see much—the top of a ladder leaning against the building, intermittent flashes from the ambulance at the door, and the tops of numerous helmets, policemen’s and firemen’s. The air smelled of burned wood and plastic. Among the onlookers, a couple of American tourists were photographing each other posing next to the policemen by the cordon. A siren sounded and then stopped. Somebody in the crowd said they were bringing out the corpse, but it was impossible to see anything. Not that there would be much to see anyway, thought Corso.

  He met the girl’s gaze fixed on him. There was no sign of the night before. Her expression was attentive, practical, that of a soldier approaching the battlefield. “What happened?” she asked. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “I don’t mean this.” She seemed to notice La Ponte for the first time. “Who’s he?”

  Corso told her. After a moment’s hesitation, wondering whether La Ponte would catch on, he said, “The girl I told you about. Irene Adler.”

  La Ponte didn’t catch on. He gave a disconcerted look and put out his hand. She didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She was facing Corso.

  “You don’t have your bag,” she said.

  “No. Rochefort got it at last. He went off with Liana Taillefer.”

  “Who’s Liana Taillefer?”

  Corso gave her a hard look, but she returned it calmly. “You don’t know the grieving widow?” “No.”

  She was unruffled, showing no anxiety or surprise. In spite of himself, Corso believed her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “The fact is, they’ve gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I have no idea.” He grimaced with desperation and suspicion, showing his teeth. “I thought you’d know something.”

  “I don’t know anything about Rochefort. Or that woman.”

  Her indifference said that it was none of her business. This confused Corso even more. He’d expected some emotion from her. Among other things, she had set herself up as his protector. He thought she’d at least reproach him, something like, Serves you right for thinking you’re so clever. But she said nothing. She looked around, as if searching for a familiar face in the crowd. He had no idea whether she was thinking about what had just happened or whether her mind was on other things.

  “What can we do?” he asked no one in particular. He was bewildered. The attacks aside, he’d seen the three copies of The Nine Doors and the Dumas manuscript disappear one after the other. He had three corpses in his wake, if he counted Enrique Taillefer, and he’d spent a huge amount of money that was Varo Borja’s, not his.... Varus, Varus, give me back my legions. Damn his luck. At that instant he wished he was thirty-five years younger so he could sit down on the curb and burst into tears.

  “We could go and have a coffee,” La Ponte suggested, jokingly, as if to say, “Come on, guys, things aren’t that bad,” and Corso realized that the poor dope had no idea of the enormous mess they were in. Still, coffee didn’t seem such a bad idea. Under the circumstances he couldn’t think of anything better.

  “LET’S SEE IF I’VE understood.” Some coffee ran down La Ponte’s beard as he dunked his croissant in his cup. “In 1666 Aristide Torchia hid a special book. A kind of safety copy distributed over three copies. Is that it? With differences in eight of the nine engravings. And the three original copies have to be brought together for the spell to work.” He took a bite of croissant and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “How am I doing?”

  The three of them were sitting at a terrace opposite Saint Germain des Pres. La Ponte was making up for his interrupted breakfast at the Crillon. The girl, still aloof, was sipping an orangeade through a straw and listening in silence. She had The Three Musketeers open in front of her on the table and was reading distractedly, turning a page from time to time, then looking up and listening again. As for Corso, events had knotted his stomach and he couldn’t swallow a thing.

  “Pretty good,” he told La Ponte. He was leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets, and staring blankly at the church tower. “Although it’s possible that the complete work, the one burned by the Holy Office, also consisted of three books with illustrations altered so that only those who were truly expert on the subject, the initiated, would be able to combine the three copies correctly.” He arched his eyebrows, frowning wearily. “But now we’ll never know.”

  “Who says there were only three? Maybe he printed four, or nine different versions.”

  “In that case all this would be pointless. There are only three known copies.”

  “So somebody wants to piece together the original book. A_nd is collecting the authentic engravings ...” La Ponte spoke with his mouth full. He ate his breakfast with a hearty appetite. “But he doesn’t give a damn about the market value. Once he has the engravings, he destroys the rest. And murders the owner. Victor Fargas in Sintra. Baroness Ungern here in Paris. And Varo Borja in Toledo ...” He broke off and looked at Corso with disappointment. “This theory doesn’t work. Varo Borja’s still alive.”

  “I have his copy. Had. And they certainly tried to take care of me, setting me up first last night and then this morning.”

  La Ponte didn’t seem convinced. “If they set you up, why didn’t Rochefort kill you?”

  “I don’t know.” Corso shrugged. He’d asked himself the same question. “He had the chance twice but didn’t do it... As for Varo Borja’s still being alive, I don’t know what to say. He hasn’t answered my calls.”

  “That makes him another potential corpse. Or a suspect.”

  “Varo Borja is a suspect by definition, and he has the means to have organized the whole thing.” He pointed at the girl. She was reading and appeared not to be following the conversation. “I’m sure she could shed some light on all this, if she wanted to.”

  “And she doesn’t?”

  “No.”

  “So turn her in. When people are getting murdered, there’s a name for it: accomplice.”

  “How can I turn her in? I’m up to my neck in this, Flavio. And so are you.”

  The girl stopped reading
. She said nothing, just sipped her drink. Her eyes went from Corso to La Ponte, reflecting each in turn. Finally they rested on Corso.

  “Do you really trust her?” asked La Ponte.

  “Depends what for. Last night she fought off Rochefort and did a pretty good job of it.”

  La Ponte frowned, perplexed, and stared at the girl. He must have been trying to imagine her as a bodyguard. He must also have been wondering how far things had gone between Corso and her. Corso saw him stroke his beard and cast an expert eye over the parts of her body that were visible beneath the duffel coat. Even if La Ponte did suspect her, there was no doubt how far he would go himself if the girl gave him the chance. Even at times like these, the ex-chairman of the Brotherhood of Nantucket Harpooners was willing to return to the womb. Any womb.

  “She’s too pretty.” La Ponte shook his head. “And too young. Too young for you, that is.”

  Corso smiled. “You’d be surprised how old she seems sometimes.”

  La Ponte tutted dubiously. “Gifts like that don’t just fall from heaven.”

  The girl had followed the conversation in silence. Now they saw her smile for the first time that day, as if she’d just heard a funny joke.

  “You talk too much, Flavio Whatever-your-name-is,” she said to La Ponte, who blinked nervously. She grinned like a naughty child. “And whatever there is between Corso and me is none of your business.”

  It was the first time she’d said anything to La Ponte. Embarrassed, he turned to his friend for support. But Corso just smiled.

  “I think I’m in the way here.” La Ponte made as if to stand up but he didn’t. He stayed like that until Corso tapped him on the arm. A dry, friendly tap.

  “Don’t be stupid. She’s on our side.”

  La Ponte relaxed slightly, but he still wasn’t entirely convinced. “Well, let her prove it. Let her tell us what she knows.”

  Corso turned to the girl and looked at her half-open mouth, her warm, comfortable neck. Wondering if she still smelled of heat and fever, he became lost in the memory for a moment. Her limpid green eyes, full of the morning light, as always met his gaze, unflinching, lazy, and calm. Her smile, sardonic a second before, now changed. Once again it was like an imperceptible breath, an unspoken, conspiratorial word.

  “We were talking about Varo Borja,” said Corso. “Do you know him?”

  She stopped smiling and again was a tired, indifferent soldier. Corso thought he saw a glint of contempt in her expression. He rested his hand on the marble-topped table.

  “He may have been using me,” he added. “And put you on my trail.” But it seemed absurd. He couldn’t picture the millionaire book collector resorting to a young girl to set a trap for him. “Or maybe Rochefort and Milady are working for him.”

  She went back to reading The Three Musketeers and didn’t answer. But the mention of Milady reminded La Ponte of his wounded pride. He finished his coffee and raised a finger.

  “That’s the part I don’t understand,” he said. “The link with Dumas... What’s my ‘Anjou Wine’ got to do with any of this?”

  “ The Anjou Wine’ is yours only by accident.” Corso had taken off his glasses and was peering at them against the light, wondering if the cracked lens would hold up with all the activity. “It’s what I find most puzzling. But there are several intriguing coincidences. Cardinal Richelieu, the villain in the novel, is interested in books on the occult. Pacts with the devil give power, and Richelieu is the most powerful man in France. And to complete the cast, it turns out that the cardinal has two faithful agents who carry out his orders—the Count of Rochefort and Milady de Winter. She is blond, evil, and has been branded by the executioner with a fleur-de-lis. Rochefort is dark and has a scar on his face.... Do you see what I’m saying? They both have some sort of mark. According to Revelations, the servants of the devil can be recognized by the mark of the Beast.”

  The girl took another sip of her orangeade but didn’t look up from her book. La Ponte shuddered, as if a ghost had just walked over his grave. He clearly felt it was one thing to get involved with a statuesque blonde and quite another to take part in a witches’ sabbath. He fidgeted.

  “Shit. I hope it’s not contagious.”

  Corso looked at him unsympathetically. “There are too many coincidences, aren’t there? Well, there’s more.” Breathing on his lenses, he wiped them on a napkin. “In The Three Musketeers it turns out that Milady has been married to Athos, d’Artagnan’s friend. When Athos discovers that his wife bears the executioner’s mark, he decides to carry out the sentence himself. He hangs her and leaves her for dead, but she survives, etc.” He put his glasses back on. “Somebody must be having a lot of fun with all this.”

  “I can sympathize with Athos hanging his wife,” said La Ponte, no doubt thinking of the hotel bill. “I’d like to get my hands on her and do the same myself.”

  “Or as Liana Taillefer did to her husband. I’m sorry to hurt your pride, Flavio, but she was never interested in you, not in the slightest. She just wanted the manuscript her late husband sold you.”

  “The bitch,” muttered La Ponte bitterly. “I bet she did him in. Helped by our friend with the mustache and the scar.”

  “What I still don’t understand,” Corso went on, “is the link between The Three Musketeers and The Nine Doors. All I can think of is that Alexandre Dumas was on top of the world. He had success and the kind of power he wanted—fame, wealth, and women. Everything went swimmingly for him, as if he was privileged or had made some special pact. And when he died, his son, the other Dumas, wrote a strange epitaph for him: ‘He died as he lived—unaware.’ “

  La Ponte sniffed. “Are you suggesting that Dumas sold his soul to the devil?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to work out the serial that somebody’s writing at my expense. It obviously all started when Enrique Taillefer decided to sell the Dumas manuscript. The mystery began there. His presumed suicide, my visit to his widow, my first encounter with Rochefort... And the job Varo Borja gave me.”

  “What’s so special about the manuscript? Why is it important and to whom?”

  “I have no idea.” Corso glanced at the girl. “Unless she can tell us something.”

  She shrugged, not looking up from her book. “This is your story, Corso,” she said. “I understand you’re getting paid for it.”

  “You’re involved too.”

  “Up to a certain point.” She made a vague, noncommittal gesture and turned the page. “Only up to a certain point.”

  Annoyed, La Ponte leaned over toward Corso. “Have you tried giving her a couple of slaps?”

  “Shut up, Flavio.”

  “Yes, shut up,” echoed the girl.

  “This is ridiculous,” complained La Ponte. “Who does she think she is, talking like that? And instead of giving her the third degree, you leave her alone. This isn’t like you, Corso. However cute she is, I don’t think...” He searched for the words. “How did she get so uppity?”

  “She once wrestled with an angel,” explained Corso. “And last night I saw her kick Rochefort’s teeth in, remember? The same guy who clobbered me this morning while you sat safely out of the way on the bidet.”

  “On the toilet.”

  “Makes no difference. You, in your pajamas, looking like Prince Danilo in Imperial Violets. I didn’t know you wore pajamas when you slept with your conquests.”

  “What do you care?” La Ponte glanced at the girl, embarrassed, annoyed. “I get cold at night, if you must know. Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “we were talking about ‘The Anjou Wine.’ How’s the report going?”

  “We know that it’s authentic, and in two different hands— Dumas’s and his collaborator’s, Auguste Maquet.”

  “What have you found out about him?”

  “Maquet? There’s not much to find out. He ended up on bad terms with Dumas with all sorts of lawsuits and claims for money. There is one strange thing—Dumas spen
t everything during his lifetime, he died without a penny. But Maquet was wealthy in his old age and even owned a castle. Things went well for each in his own way.”

  “What about the half-written chapter?”

  “Maquet wrote the original story, a simple first draft, and Dumas added to it, giving it style and quality. You’re familiar with the subject: Milady trying to poison d’Artagnan.”

  La Ponte peered anxiously into his empty coffee cup. “To conclude...”

  “Well, I’d say that someone who believes he’s Richelieu’s reincarnation has managed to collect all the original engravings from the Delomelanicon. Also the Dumas chapter. Somehow those things hold the key to what’s going on. This person may be trying to summon Lucifer as we speak. Meanwhile, you no longer have your manuscript and Varo Borja doesn’t have his book. I’ve really screwed up.”

  He took Richelieu’s note out of his pocket and read it again. La Ponte seemed to agree with him. “The loss of the manuscript isn’t serious,” he said. “I paid Taillefer for it, but not that much.” He gave a cunning little laugh. “At least with Liana I got paid in kind. But you really are in a mess.”

  Corso looked at the girl, who was still reading in silence. “Maybe she could tell us what kind of mess I’m in.”

  He frowned, then rapped the table with his knuckles like a cardplayer throwing in the towel. But she didn’t respond to that either.

  La Ponte grunted reprovingly. “I still don’t understand why you trust her.”

  “He’s already told you,” the girl answered at last. She put the straw from her drink in between the pages of her book as a marker. “I look after him.”

  Corso nodded, amused, although there wasn’t much in his situation to be amused about. “She’s my guardian angel,” he said.

  “Really? Well, she should take better care of you. Where was she when Rochefort stole your bag?”

  “You were there.”

  “That’s different. I’m just a cowardly bookseller. Peace-loving. The exact opposite of a man of action. If I entered a coward competition, I’m sure I’d be disqualified for being too cowardly.”