The Club Dumas

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  The burning tip of his cigarette lit up his fingers in the darkness. He kept the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, then exhaled, watching the patterns it made in the segment of light above the bed. He felt the girl's breathing falter for a moment, and he looked at her sharply. She was frowning and moaning quietly, like a child having a nightmare. Then, still asleep, she half turned toward him, her arm under her bare breasts and her hand under her face. Who the hell are you, he asked her soundlessly once again, bad-temperedly, although he next leaned over to kiss her. He stroked her short hair, the curve of her waist and hips now sharply silhouetted against the light. There was more beauty in that gentle line than in a melody, a sculpture, a poem, or a painting. He moved closer and smelled her neck, and at that instant his own pulse started to hammer more strongly, awakening his flesh. Keep calm now, he said to himself. Don't panic this time. Let's continue. He didn't know how long he could keep it up, so he hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and pressed himself against the girl. His body seemed to respond in a satisfactory manner. Then he parted her legs and at last, bewildered, entered a moist, welcoming paradise of warm milk and honey. He felt the girl shift sleepily and put her arms around him, although she wasn't quite awake. He kissed her on the neck, the mouth. She was moaning gently, and he realized that she was moving her hips in time with him. And when he sank right to the root of the flesh and himself, making his way easily to a place lost in his memory, she opened her eyes and looked at him surprised and happy, green reflections through her long damp lashes. I love you, Corso. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. I love you. Later he had to bite his tongue in order not to say something equally stupid. Amazed and incredulous, he watched from a distance and did not know himself. He was attentive to her, watching her beats, movements, anticipating her desires and discovering her secret springs, the intimate key to the soft yet tense body wound firmly around his own. They went on like that for about an hour. Afterward Corso asked her if there was any risk of pregnancy, and she told him not to worry, she had everything under control. Then he put it all away deep inside him, next to her heart.

  HE WOKE AT DAYBREAK. The girl was sleeping pressed against him. For some time he didn't move in order not to wake her. He made himself stop thinking about what had happened or might happen. He closed his eyes and drifted, enjoying the peace of the moment. He could feel her breath on his skin. Irene Adler, 223B Baker Street. The devil in love. The outline in the mist confronting Rochefort. The blue duffel coat falling slowly, unfolding, onto the quayside. And Corso's shadow in her eyes. She slept, relaxed and tranquil, aware of nothing. He couldn't link the images in his mind logically. At that moment, logic had no appeal. He felt lazy and content. He put his hand between her warm thighs and kept it there, very still. Her naked body, at least, was real.

  Later, he got out of bed carefully and went to the bathroom. In the mirror he saw that he still had traces of dried blood on his face, and also, as the result of his encounter with Rochefort and the stone steps, a bluish bruise on his left shoulder, and another across a couple of ribs, which hurt when he pressed it. He had a quick wash and went to look for a cigarette. As he was searching in his coat, he found the note Gruber had handed him.

  He cursed under his breath for having forgotten it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. So he opened the envelope and went back to the light in the bathroom to read the note. It was brief and its contents—two names, a number, and an address—made him smile malevolently. He glanced at himself again in the mirror. His hair was matted, and he needed a shave. He put on his glasses as if arming himself, a mean wolf off to hunt. He picked up his clothes and canvas bag quietly, and gave the sleeping girl a last glance. Maybe it was going to be a beautiful day after all. Buckingham and Milady were about to choke on their breakfast.

  THE HOTEL CRILLON WAS too expensive for Flavio La Ponte. Enrique Taillefer's widow must have been paying the bill. Corso reflected on this as he paid his taxi on the Place Concorde and crossed the marble lobby to the stairs and room 206. There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and no sound when he rapped loudly three times. Three punctures were made in the heathen flesh, and the White Whales barbs were then tempered. The Brotherhood of Nantucket Harpooners was about to be dissolved Corso didn't know if he was sorry or not. He and La Ponte had once imagined an alternative version of Moby-Dick Ishmael writes the story places the manuscript in the caulked coffin and drowns with the rest of the crew of the Pequod. Queequeg is the only survivor the wild harpooner with no intellectual pretensions In time he learns to read One day he reads his friend's novel and discovers that Ishmael's account and his own memories of what happened are completely different So he writes his own version of the story Call me Queequeg the story begins, and he titles it A Whale. From the harpooner's point of view, Ishmael was a pedantic scholar who blew things out of proportion. Moby Dick wasn't to blame, he was a whale like any other. It was all a matter of an incompetent captain wanting to settle a personal score instead of filling barrels with oil. "What does it matter who tore his leg off?" writes Queequeg. Corso could remember the scene around the table in Makarova's bar. Makarova, with her masculine, Nordic reserve, listening carefully as La Ponte explained the use of the caulking on the carpenter's coffin while Zizi looked on jealously from the other side of the bar. In those days, if Corso dialed his own number, Nikon would answer—he always pictured her emerging from the darkroom, her hands wet with fixative. That's what happened the night they rewrote Moby-Dick. They all ended up at Corso's place, emptied more bottles, and watched a John Huston movie on the VCR. They drank a toast to old Melville when the Rachel, searching the seas for her lost sons, at last finds another orphan.

  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 do 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 tomorrow. 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

  First 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 pa
jamas.

  "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."