The Club Dumas

Lucas Corso ordered a second gin and settled back comfortably in the wicker chair. It was pleasant in the sun. He was sitting on the terrace of the Cafe Atlas on the Rue de Buci, in a rectangle of light that framed the tables. It was one of those cold, luminous mornings when the  left bank  of the  Seine  crawls  with  people:  disoriented Japanese, Anglo-Saxons in sneakers with metro tickets marking their place in a Hemingway novel, ladies with baskets full of lettuces and baguettes, and slender gallery owners who’ve had their noses fixed, all heading for a cafe during their lunch break. An attractive young woman was looking in the window of a luxury charcuterie, on the arm of a middle-aged, well-dressed man who might have been an antique dealer or a scoun­drel, or both. There was also a Harley Davidson with all its shiny chrome, a bad-tempered fox terrier tied up at the door of an expensive wine shop, a young man with braids playing the flute outside a boutique. And at the table next to Corso’s, a couple of very elegant Africans kissing on the mouth in a leisurely way, as if they had all the time in the world and as if the arms race, AIDS, and the hole in the ozone layer were all insignificant on that sunny Parisian morning.

He saw her at the end of the Rue Mazarin, turning the corner toward the cafe where he waited. With her boyish looks, her duffel coat open over her jeans, her eyes like two points of light against her suntan, visible from a distance in the crowd, in the street overflowing with dazzling sunlight. Devilishly pretty, La Ponte would no doubt have said, clearing his throat and turning his best side—where his beard was a little thicker and curlier—to her. But Corso wasn’t La Ponte, so he didn’t say or think anything. He just gave a hostile glance at the waiter, who was putting a glass of gin on his table—”Pas d’Bols, m’sieu”—and handed him the exact amount on the bill—”Ser­vice compris, young man”—before looking back at the ap­proaching girl. As far as love went, Nikon had left him a hole in the stomach the size of a clipful of bullets. That was enough love. Nor was Corso sure whether he had, now or ever, a good profile. And he was damned if he cared, anyway.

He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handker­chief. The street was a series of vague outlines, of shapes with blurred faces. One stood out and became clearer as it drew nearer, although it never grew completely sharp: short hair, long legs, and white sneakers acquired definition as he focused on her with difficulty. She sat down in the empty chair.

“I found the shop. It’s a couple of blocks away.”

He put his glasses back on and looked at her without an­swering. They had traveled together from Lisbon, leaving Sintra for the airport posthaste, as old Dumas would have said. Twenty minutes before departure, Corso phoned Amilcar Pinto to tell him that Fargas’s torment as a book collector was over and that the plan was canceled. Pinto would still be paid the sum agreed, for his trouble. Apart from being surprised—the call had woken him—Pinto reacted fairly well. All he said was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Corso, you and I didn’t see each other last night in Sintra.” But he promised he’d make some discreet inquiries into Fargas’s death. After he heard about it officially, of course. For the time being, he knew nothing and didn’t want to, and as for the autopsy, Corso should hope that the forensic report would give the cause of death as suicide. Just in case, Pinto would pass the description of the individual with the scar on to the relevant departments as a possible sus­pect. He’d keep in touch by phone. He urged Corso not to come back to Portugal for a while. “Oh, and one last thing,” added Pinto as the departure of the Paris flight was being announced. Next time, before he thought of involving a friend in murder, Corso should think twice. Corso hurriedly protested his inno­cence as the phone swallowed his last escudo. Yeah, yeah, said Pinto, that’s what they all say.