The Club Dumas

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.”