The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Corso wasn’t listening because he’d just made a discovery. The shadow of the church tower was being thrown on the ground near them. The wide, dark shape had been gradually moving away from the sun. He noticed that the cross on the top was at the girl’s feet, very near but not actually touching her. The shadow of the cross maintained a prudent distance.

  HE PHONED LISBON FROM a post office to find out how the investigation into Victor Fargas’s death was going. The news wasn’t encouraging. Pinto had seen the forensic report: death by forced immersion in the pond. The police in Sintra believed that robbery was the motive. Perpetrator or perpetrators unknown. The good news was that for the time being nobody had linked Corso with the murder. Pinto added that he had put out the description of the man with the scar, just in case. Corso told him to forget about Rochefort, the bird had flown.

  It didn’t seem that the situation could get any worse. But at midday it got more complicated. As soon as Corso entered the hotel lobby with La Ponte and the girl, he knew something was wrong. Gruber was at the reception desk, and beneath his usual imperturbable expression there was a warning. As they approached, Corso saw the concierge turn casually to the pigeonhole with Corso’s key and give his lapel a slight tug, a gesture recognized throughout the world.

  “Keep going,” Corso told the others.

  He almost had to drag away the perplexed La Ponte. The girl walked ahead of them down the narrow corridor that led to the restaurant-bar, which looked out onto the Place du Palais Royal. Looking back at Gruber, Corso saw him place his hand on the telephone.

  When they were outside on the street, La Ponte glanced nervously behind him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Police,” explained Corso. “In my room.”

  “How do you know?”

  The girl didn’t ask any questions. She just looked at Corso, waiting for instructions. He took out the envelope that Gruber had handed him the night before, removed the note informing him of La Ponte’s and Liana Taillefer’s whereabouts, and replaced it with a five-hundred-franc bill. He did it slowly, so the others wouldn’t notice that his hands were trembling. He sealed the envelope, crossed out his own name, and wrote Grub-er’s on it, then handed it to the girl.

  “Give this to one of the waiters in the restaurant.” The palms of his hands were sweating. He wiped them on the in-sides of his pockets. He pointed at a phone booth across the square. “Meet me over there.”

  “What about me?” asked La Ponte.

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Corso almost laughed. “You can do what you like. Although I think you might have just gone underground, Flavio.”

  He crossed the square through the traffic, heading for the phone booth without waiting to see whether La Ponte was following. When he closed the door and inserted the card in the slot, he saw La Ponte a few meters away, looking around, anxious and defenseless.

  Corso dialed the hotel number and asked for Reception.

  “What’s going on, Gruber?”

  “Two policemen came, Mr. Corso,” said the former SS officer in a low voice. “They’re still up in your room.”

  “Did they give any explanation?”

  “No. They wanted to know the date you checked in and asked if we knew what your movements had been up till two A.M. I said I didn’t and passed them on to my colleague, who was on night duty. They also wanted a description, not knowing what you look like. I told them I would get in touch with them when you returned. I’m about to do so now.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  “The truth, of course. That you came into the lobby for a moment and went straight out again. That you were accompanied by a bearded man. As for the young lady, they didn’t ask about her, so I see no reason to mention her.”

  “Thanks, Gruber.” He paused and added with a smile. “I’m innocent.”

  “Of course you are, Mr. Corso. All the guests at this hotel are innocent.” There was a sound of paper being torn. “Ah. I’ve just been handed your envelope.”

  “Be seeing you, Gruber. Keep my room for a couple of days. I’m hoping to come back for my things. If there’s any problem, charge it to my credit card. And thanks again.”

  “At your service.”

  Corso hung up. The girl was back, standing next to La Ponte. Corso went to them. “The police have my name. Somebody gave it to them.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said La Ponte. “This whole thing has been beyond me for some time.”

  Corso thought bitterly that it was beyond him too. He was in a boat, in a rough sea, with no one at the helm.

  “Can you think of anything?” he asked the girl. She was the only strand of the mystery that was still in his hands. His last hope.

  She looked over Corso’s shoulder at the traffic and the nearby railings of the Palais Royal. She had taken off her rucksack and put it down by her feet. She was frowning, silent as usual, absorbed in her thoughts. She looked obstinate, like a little boy refusing to do what he’s told.

  Corso smiled like a tired wolf. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  He saw her nod slowly, possibly as a conclusion to some line of reasoning. Or maybe she was just agreeing that, indeed, he didn’t know what to do.

  “You’re your own worst enemy,” she said at last, distantly. She looked tired too, as she had the night before when they returned to the hotel. “Your imagination.” She tapped her forehead. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  La Ponte grunted. “Let’s leave the botany for later, shall we?” He was becoming increasingly worried about the possibility of gendarmes appearing. “We should get out of here. I can hire a car. If we hurry, we can be across the border by tomorrow. Which is April first, by the way.”

  “Shut up, Flavio.” Corso was looking into the girl’s eyes, searching for an answer. All he saw were reflections—the light of the square, the passing traffic, his own image, misshapen and grotesque. The defeated soldier. But defeat was no longer heroic. It hadn’t been for a long time.

  The girl’s expression changed. She stared at La Ponte now, as if for the first time he was worth looking at.

  “Say that again,” she said.

  La Ponte stuttered, surprised. “You mean, about hiring a car?” His mouth was open. “It’s obvious. On planes they have passenger lists. And on the train they can look at your passport....”

  “I didn’t mean that. Tell us what date it is tomorrow.”

  “The first of April. Monday.” La Ponte fiddled with his tie, confused. “My birthday.”

  But she was no longer paying attention. She was bending over her rucksack, searching for something inside it. When she straightened up, she held The Three Musketeers.

  “You haven’t paid enough attention to your reading,” she said to Corso, handing it to him. “Chapter one, first line.”

  Corso, surprised, took the book and glanced at it. “The Three Gifts of Monsieur d’Artagnan the Elder.” As soon as he read the first line, he knew where they had to go to find Milady.

  XIV. THE CELLARS OF MEUNG

  It was a dismal night.

  —P. du Terrail, ROCAMBOLE

  It was a dismal night. The Loire, turbulent, was rising, threatening to flood the old dikes in the small town of Meung. The storm had been raging since late afternoon. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated the black mass of the castle, and bright zigzags cracked like whips on the deserted wet pavements of the medieval town. Across the river, in the distance, amid the wind, rain, and leaves torn from the trees, as if the gale had drawn a line between the recent past and a distant present, the headlights of cars could be seen moving silently along the highway from Tours to Orleans.

  At the Auberge Saint-Jacques, the only hotel in Meung, a window was lit. It gave onto a small terrace which could be reached from the street. Inside the room, a tall, attractive blonde, her hair tied back, was dressing in front of the mirror. She had just zipped up her skirt, covering the small tattoo of a fleur-de-lis on
her hip. She stood up straight, her hands behind her back to fasten the bra supporting her white, voluminous bust, which shook gently as she moved. Then she put on a silk blouse. As she buttoned it, she smiled to herself in the mirror, no doubt finding herself beautiful. She must have been preparing for a date, because nobody dresses at eleven at night unless they’re going to meet someone. Although maybe her smile, with its hint of cruelty, was due to the new leather folder that lay on the bed, containing the pages of the manuscript of “The Anjou Wine” by Alexandre Dumas, pere.

  A flash of lightning lit up the small terrace outside. There, under the dripping eaves, Lucas Corso finished his damp cigarette and threw it on the ground. He turned up his collar against the wind and rain. During the next bolt of lightning, as intense as a giant camera flash, he saw Flavio La Ponte’s deathly-pale face, drawn in light and dark, his hair and beard dripping wet. La Ponte resembled a tormented monk, or maybe Athos, taciturn as desperation, somber as punishment. There were no more flashes for a time, but Corso could distinguish, in the third shadow crouching beside them beneath the eaves, the slender shape of Irene Adler wrapped in her duffel coat. When at last another flash of lightning tore diagonally across the night sky, and thunder rolled across the slate roofs, her bright green eyes were suddenly lit up beneath the hood of her coat.

  The journey to Meung had been short and tense. An interval of appalling visibility, in a car hired by La Ponte: the highway from Paris to Orleans, then sixteen kilometers toward Tours. La Ponte sat in the passenger seat and by the flame of a cigarette lighter studied the Michelin map they’d bought at a gas station. La Ponte was fuddled. Not far to go now, I think we’re on the right road. Yes, I’m sure we are. The girl was in the back, silent. She watched Corso intently, and he met her eyes in the mirror every time they were passed by the dazzling lights of an oncoming car. La Ponte got it wrong, of course. They missed the turn and went in the direction of Blois. When they realized their mistake, they had to go back, driving in the wrong direction on the highway to get off it. Corso gripped the steering wheel, praying that the storm was keeping all the gendarmes indoors. Beaugency. La Ponte insisted they cross the river and turn left, but luckily they ignored him. They retraced their steps, this time on the Nationale 152—the same route d’Artag-nan took in chapter one—amid gusts of wind and rain, the black, roaring expanse of the Loire to their right, the windshield wipers working furiously, and hundreds of little black dots, the shadows of raindrops, dancing in front of Corso’s eyes as they passed other cars. At last they were driving through deserted streets, an old district of medieval rooftops, facades with thick beams in the shape of crosses: Meung-sur-Loire. Journey’s end.

  “She’s about to leave,” whispered La Ponte. He was soaked through, and his voice trembled from the cold. “Why don’t we go in now?”

  Corso leaned over to take another look. Liana Taillefer had put on a tight-fitting sweater over her blouse, emphasizing her spectacular figure, and from the closet she took a long, dark cape fit for a masked ball. She hesitated a moment, looked around, then put the cape over her shoulders and picked up the folder with the manuscript from the bed. At that instant she noticed the open window and went to close it.

  Corso put out his hand to stop her. There was a flash of lightning almost above his head, and his dripping face was lit up. He was framed in the window, his hand held out as if accusingly at the woman who stood paralyzed with surprise. Milady screamed in wild terror, as if she had just seen the devil himself.

  Corso jumped over the ledge and hit her so hard with the back of his hand that she stopped screaming and fell on the bed, scattering the pages of “The Anjou Wine.” The change in temperature made his glasses steam up, so he took them off quickly, threw them on the bedside table, and flung himself at Liana Taillefer, who was trying to get up and reach the door. He grabbed her first by her leg and then pinned her to the bed by the waist while she struggled and kicked. She was strong, and he wondered where the hell La Ponte and the girl were. While he waited for them to help, he tried to hold the woman down by the wrists, keeping his face away from her clawing nails. Entwined, they rolled on the bedcover, and Corso ended up with his leg between hers and his face buried in her breasts. Up so close, feeling them through her fine wool sweater, he thought again how incredibly resilient they were. He felt an unmistakable erection and cursed in exasperation while he struggled with this Milady with the physique of a champion swimmer. Where are you when I need you, he thought bitterly. Then La Ponte arrived, shaking himself like a wet dog, seeking revenge for his wounded pride and, above all, for the hotel bill burning a hole in his wallet. The battle was beginning to resemble a lynching.

  “I presume you’re not going to rape her,” said the girl. She was sitting on the window ledge, still wearing her hood, watching the scene. Liana Taillefer had stopped struggling and was now motionless. Corso was on top of her, and La Ponte was holding her down by one arm and one leg. “Pigs,” she said loudly and clearly.

  “Whore,” grunted La Ponte, out of breath from the struggle. After this brief exchange they all calmed down. Certain that she could not escape, they let her sit up. She flashed venomous looks at both Corso and La Ponte as she rubbed her wrists. Corso stood between her and the door. The girl was still at the window, now closed. She had lowered her hood and was regarding Liana Taillefer with curiosity. La Ponte, after toweling his hair and beard on the bedcover, started to gather the pages of the manuscript scattered about the room.

  “We need to have a little talk,” said Corso. “Like reasonable people.”

  Liana Taillefer glared at him. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, beautiful lady. Now that we’ve got you, I don’t mind going to the police. Either you talk to us or you’ll have to explain things to them. Your choice.”

  She frowned. She looked around like a hunted animal searching for any way out of a trap.

  “Careful,” said La Ponte. “She’s up to something.” Her eyes shot glances as sharp as needles. Corso twisted his mouth theatrically. “Liana Taillefer,” he said. “Or maybe we should call you Anne de Breuil, Comtesse de la Fere. You also go by the names of Charlotte Backson, Baroness Sheffield, and Lady de Winter. You betray your husbands and your lovers. A murderess and poisoner, as well as Richelieu’s agent. Better known by your alias”—he paused dramatically—”Milady.”

  He stopped, because he’d just tripped on the strap of his bag, which was protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out, not taking his eyes off Liana Taillefer or the door. She obviously intended to escape at the first opportunity. He checked the contents of the bag, and his sigh of relief made all of them, including Liana Taillefer, look at him with surprise. Varo Borja’s copy of The Nine Doors was there, intact.

  “Bingo,” he said, holding it up. La Ponte looked triumphant, as if Queequeg had just harpooned the whale. But the girl showed no emotion, an indifferent spectator. Corso returned the book to the bag. The wind whistled at the window, where the girl still stood. At intervals she was silhouetted by a flash of lightning, which was followed by a rumble of thunder, dull and muffled, that made the rain-spattered glass vibrate.

  “Fitting weather,” he said. “As you can see, Milady, we didn’t want to miss our appointment.... We’ve come prepared to do justice.”

  “In a group and at night, like cowards,” she answered, spitting out the words. “Just as they did to the other Milady. The only one missing is the executioner of Lille.”

  “All in good time,” said La Ponte.

  The woman was gradually recovering her confidence. Her own mention of the executioner didn’t seem to have cowed her. She stared back at La Ponte defiantly. “I see that you’ve all got into your respective parts,” she added.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised,” answered Corso. “You and your accomplices have made sure of that.” His face twisted into a wolflike smile that held neither humor nor pity. “We’ve all had such fun.”

 
The woman tensed her lips. She slid one of her blood-red nails across the bedcover. Corso followed it with his eyes, fascinated, as if it were a blade, and he shuddered at the thought of how close it had come to his face during their struggle.

  “You have no right to do this,” she said. “You’re intruders.”

  “You’re wrong. We’re part of the game, just as you are.”

  “But you don’t know the rules.”

  “Wrong again, Milady, The proof is, we’re here.” Corso took his glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and pushed them up with his finger. “That’s what was so tricky—accepting the nature of the game. Accepting the fiction by entering the story and following the logic of the text, not of the outside world... After that, it’s easy. In the real world, many things happen by chance, but in fiction nearly everything is logical.”

  Liana Taillefer’s red fingernail stopped moving. “In novels?”

  “Especially in novels. If the protagonist follows the internal logic of the criminal, he’ll arrive at the criminal. That’s why hero and villain, detective and murderer always meet in the end.” He smiled, pleased with his reasoning. “What do you think?”

  “Brilliant,” said Liana Taillefer sarcastically while La Ponte stared at Corso with openmouthed admiration. “Brother William Baskerville, I presume,” she sneered.

  “Don’t be superficial, Milady. You’re forgetting Edgar Allan Poe. And Dumas himself... I thought you were better read.”

  “As you can see, you’re wasting your talent on me,” she said. “I’m not the right audience.”

  “I know. That’s exactly why I’ve come here—for you to take us to him.” He looked at his watch. “In a little over an hour, it’ll be the first Monday in April.”

  “I’d like to know how you guessed that too.” “I didn’t guess.” He turned to the girl who was at the window. “She put the book under my nose. And in an investigation like this, a book is more helpful than the outside world. It’s a self-contained world, with no annoying interruptions. Like Sherlock Holmes’s laboratory.”