The Club Dumas

“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.”