The Club Dumas

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "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 spent 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."

  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 Gruber'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 insides 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 forme
r 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, père.

  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 ram. 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 Pans 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'Artagnan 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.