The Club Dumas

She lifted her gaze from “The Anjou Wine” and glanced around calmly at the books covering the walls and piled up all over the room. Corso knew she was looking for photographs, mementos, clues to the personality of the occupant. She arched an arrogant eyebrow, irritated at not finding any. At last she saw the saber of the Old Guard.

“Do you collect swords?”

This was a logical inference. Of an inductive nature. At least, Corso thought with relief, Liana Taillefer’s ability to smooth over embarrassing situations didn’t match her appearance. Un­less she was teasing him. He smiled warily, feeling cornered.

“I collect that one. It’s called a saber.”

She nodded, expressionless. Impossible to tell whether she was simple or a good actress.

“A family heirloom?”

“An acquisition,” lied Corso. “I thought it would look nice on the wall. Books on their own can get a bit boring.”

“How come you have no pictures or photographs?”

“There’s no one I particularly want to remember.” He thought of the photograph in the silver frame, the late Taillefer in an apron carving the suckling pig. “In your case it’s different, of course.”

She looked at him intently, perhaps trying to decide how rude his comment had been. There was steel in her blue eyes, steel so cold that it chilled you. She paced the room, stopping to look at some of his books, at the view from the window, then returned to the desk. She ran a blood-red fingernail over the folder with the Dumas manuscript. Maybe she was expect­ing Corso to say something, but he remained silent. He waited patiently. If she was after something—and it was pretty obvi­ous that she was—he’d let her do all the work. He wasn’t going to make it easier for her. “May I sit down?”

The slightly husky voice. The echo of a heavy night, thought Corso again. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, waiting. Liana Taillefer took off her hat and raincoat. She looked around with her interminable slowness and chose an old sofa. She went over to it and sat down slowly, her skirt riding up high. She crossed her legs with an effect that anyone, even Corso with half a gin less in him, would have found dev­astating.

“I’ve come on business.”

That was plain. She must be after something, to put on such a display. Corso had as much self-esteem as the next person, but he was no fool.

“Fine,” he said. “Have you had dinner with Flavio La Ponte yet?”

No reaction. For a few seconds she continued looking at him, unperturbed, with the same air of contemptuous confidence.

“Not yet,” she answered at last, without anger. “I wanted to see you first.”

“Well, here I am.”

Liana Taillefer leaned back a little more against the sofa. One of her hands was resting on a split in the shabby leather upholstery, where the horsehair stuffing poked through.

“You work for money,” she said.

“I do.”

“You sell yourself to the highest bidder.”

“Sometimes.” Corso showed one of his eyeteeth. He was on his own territory, so he could allow himself his friendly rabbit expression. “Generally what I do is hire myself out. Like Humphrey Bogart in the movies. Or like a whore.”

For a widow who’d spent her schooldays doing needlework, Liana Taillefer didn’t seem shocked by his language.

“I want to offer you a job.”

“How nice. Everybody’s offering me jobs these days.”

“I’ll pay you well.”

“Wonderful. They all want to pay me well too.”

She pulled at some of the horsehair poking from the sofa arm and twisted it absentmindedly around her index finger.

“What are you charging your friend La Ponte?”

“Flavio? Nothing. You couldn’t get a penny out of him.”

“Why are you working for him, then?”

“As you put it yourself, he’s my friend.”

“Friend,” she repeated thoughtfully. “It sounds strange to hear you say that word,” she said. A slight smile, with curious disdain. “Do you have girlfriends as well?”

Corso looked at her legs unhurriedly, from ankles to thighs. Shamelessly.

“I have memories of some. The memory of you tonight might not be bad.”

She took the crude remark without blinking. Maybe, Corso thought, she hadn’t understood it.

“Name a price,” she said coldly. “I want my husband’s manuscript.”

Things were looking good. Corso went and sat in an arm­chair opposite Liana Taillefer. From there he could get a better view. She had taken off her shoes and was resting her feet on the rug.

“You didn’t seem that interested last time.”

“I’ve thought it over. That manuscript has...”

“Sentimental value?” mocked Corso.

“Something like that.” Her voice now sounded defiant. “But not in the way you think.”

“What would you be prepared to do to get it?”

“I’ve told you. Pay you.”

Corso leered. “You offend me. I’m a professional.”

“You’re a professional mercenary, Mr. Corso. And merce­naries change sides. I’ve read books too, you know.”

“I have as much money as I need.”

“I’m not talking about money.”