The Club Dumas

“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.”