The Club Dumas

XIII. THE PLOT THICKENS

First he heard a voice in the distance, an unintelligible murmur. He made an effort, sensing that he was being spoken to. Something about his appearance. Corso had no idea what he looked like at that moment and couldn't have cared less. He was comfortable wherever he was, lying on his back. He didn't want to open his eyes and make his head hurt even more.

Somebody was gently slapping his face, so he reluctantly opened one eye. La Ponte was leaning over him, looking worried. He was still in pajamas.

"Get your hands off me," Corso said grumpily.

La Ponte sighed with relief. "I thought you were dead," he said.

Corso opened the other eye and started to sit up. He immediately felt his brain moving inside his skull like jelly on a plate.

"They really gave it to you," La Ponte informed him unnecessarily as he helped him up. Corso leaned on his shoulder and looked around the room. Liana Taillefer and Rochefort were gone.

"Did you see who hit me?"

"Of course I did. A tall, dark guy with a scar on his face."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"No." La Ponte frowned indignantly. "Seemed like she knew him well enough, though.... She must have let him in while we were arguing in the bathroom. He had a split lip, too, it was all swollen. He'd had a couple of stitches." He felt his own cheek. The swelling was going down. He gave a spiteful little laugh. "Seems like everyone around here is getting what he deserves."

Corso, searching unsuccessfully for his glasses, gave him a resentful look. "What I don't understand," he said, "is why they didn't clobber you too."

"They wanted too. But I told them it wasn't necessary. They could just go about their business. I was an accidental tourist."

"You could have done something."

"Me? You must be joking. That punch you gave me was quite enough. I held up my hands like this.... Peace signs. I just sat on the toilet seat nice and quiet until they left."

"My hero."

"Better safe than sorry. Look at this." He handed Corso a folded piece of paper. "They left this behind, under an ashtray with a Montecristo cigar end in it."

Corso had trouble focusing on the handwriting. The note was written in ink, in an attractive copperplate hand with complicated flourishes on the capitals:

It is by my order and for the benefit of the State that the bearer of this note has done what he has done.

3rd of December 1627

Richelieu

Despite the situation, he almost burst out laughing. It was the safe-conduct granted at the siege of La Rochelle when Milady demanded d'Artagnan's head, later stolen at gunpoint by Athos (Bite if you can, viper) and used to justify the woman's execution to Richelieu at the end of the novel.... In short, too much for a single chapter. Corso staggered to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and put his head under the stream of cold water. Then he looked at himself: puffy eyes, unshaven, and dripping with water. Not a pretty sight. And his head was buzzing like a wasps' nest. What a way to start the day.

La Ponte appeared in the mirror beside him, handing him a towel and his glasses.

"By the way," he said, "they took your bag."

"Son of a bitch."

"Hey, I don't know why you're taking it out on me. All I did was get laid."

ANXIOUS, CORSO CROSSED THE hotel lobby, trying to think quickly. But with every passing minute it became more unlikely that he would catch the fugitives. All was lost except for a single link in the chain, book number three. They still had to get hold of it, and that offered, at least, the possibility of getting to them, provided he moved quickly. While La Ponte paid for the room, Corso went to the phone and dialed Frieda Ungern's number. But the line was busy. He called the Louvre Concorde and asked for Irene Adler's room. He wasn't sure how things stood on that front, but he calmed down a little when he heard the girl's voice. He let her know the situation in a few words and asked her to meet him at the Ungern Foundation. He hung up as La Ponte was coming toward him, very depressed, putting his credit card back in his wallet.

"The bitch. She left without paying the bill."

"Serves you right."

"I'll kill her, with my own hands, I swear."

The hotel was extremely expensive and La Ponte was outraged at her treachery. He had a clearer idea now what was going on, and was gloomy as Ahab bent on revenge. They climbed into a taxi, and Corso gave the driver Baroness Ungern's address. En route he told La Ponte the rest of the story—the train, the girl, Sintra, Paris, the three copies of The Nine Doors, Fargas's death, the incident by the river ... La Ponte listened and nodded, incredulous at first and then stunned.

"I've been living with a viper," he moaned, shuddering.

Corso was in a bad mood. He remarked that vipers very rarely bit cretins. La Ponte thought about that. He didn't seem offended.

"She's a determined woman," he said. "And what a body!"

In spite of his resentment at the recent dent in his finances, his eyes shone lecherously as he stroked his beard.

"What a body," he repeated with a silly little smile.

Corso was staring out the window. "That's exactly what the Duke of Buckingham said."

"Who's the Duke of Buckingham?"

"In The Three Musketeers. After the episode with the diamond tags, Richelieu entrusts Milady with the duke's murder. But the duke imprisons her when she returns to London. There she seduces her jailer, Felton, an idiot like you but in a more puritanical, fanatical guise. She persuades him to help her escape, and while they're at it, to murder the duke."

"I don't remember that episode. So what happened to Felton?"

"He stabs the duke. He's executed later. I don't know whether for the murder or just for being stupid."

"At least he didn't have to pay the hotel bill."

They were driving along the Quai de Conti, near where Corso had had his next-to-last encounter with Rochefort. Just then La Ponte remembered something.

"Doesn't Milady have a mark on her shoulder?"

Corso nodded. They were passing the stone steps he'd fallen down the night before. "Yes," he answered. "Branded by the executioner with a red-hot iron. The mark of criminals. She already has it when she's married to Athos. D'Artagnan discovers it when he sleeps with her, and the discovery almost gets him killed."

"It's odd. Liana has a mark too, you know."

"On her shoulder?"

"No, on her hip. A small tattoo. Very pretty, in the shape of a fleur-de-lis."

"I don't believe it."

"I swear."

Corso didn't remember seeing a tattoo. But he'd hardly had time to notice that kind of thing during the brief encounter with Liana Taillefer at his apartment. It seemed like years ago. One way or another, things were getting out of control. This was more than a matter of quaint coincidences. It was a premeditated plan, too complex and dangerous for the performances of Liana Taillefer and her henchman to be dismissed as mere parody. Here was a plot with all the classic ingredients of the genre, and somebody—aptly, an Eminence Grise—must be pulling the strings. He felt Richelieu's note in his pocket. It was too much. And yet, the key to the mystery had to lie in its very strangeness and novelistic nature. He remembered something he'd read once in Edgar Allan Poe or Conan Doyle: "This mystery seems insoluble for the very reasons that make it soluble: the excessive, outré nature of the circumstances."

"I'm still not sure whether this is one big hoax or an elaborate plot," he said aloud.

La Ponte had found a hole in the plastic seat and was nervously tugging at it. "Whatever it is, I don't like it." He whispered even though there was a pane of safety glass between them and the driver. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"That's the problem. I'm not sure."

"Why don't we go to the police?"

"And say what? That Milady and Rochefort, Cardinal Richelieu's agents, have stolen from us a chapter of The Three Musketeers and a book for summoning Lucifer? That the devil has fallen in love with me and been incarnated as a twenty-year-old girl who now acts as my bodyguard? What would you do if you were Inspector Maigret and I came and told you all that."

"I'd assume you were drunk."

"There you are."

"What about Varo Borja?"

"That's another thing." Corso groaned anxiously. "I don't even want to think about it. When he finds out that I've lost his book...."

The taxi was making its way slowly through the morning traffic. Corso looked at his watch impatiently. At last they reached the bar where he'd sat the night before. There were people hanging around on the pavement and NO ENTRY signs on the corner. As he got out of the taxi, Corso saw a police van and a fire engine. He clenched his teeth and swore loudly, making La Ponte start. Book number three had got away too.

THE GIRL CAME TOWARD them through the crowd, the small rucksack on her back and her hands in her coat pockets. There were still faint traces of smoke rising from the roofs.

"The fire started at three A.M.," she said, taking no notice of La Ponte, as if he didn't exist. "The firemen are still inside."

"What about Baroness Ungern?"

She made a vague gesture, not exactly indifferent, but resigned, fatalistic. As if it had been preordained. "Her charred remains were found in the study. That's where the fire started. The neighbors say it must have been an accident. A cigarette not properly put out."

"The baroness didn't smoke," said Corso.

"She did last night."

Corso glanced over the heads of the crowd gathered at the police cordon. He couldn't see much—the top of a ladder leaning against the building, intermittent flashes from the ambulance at the door, and the tops of numerous helmets, policemen's and firemen's. The air smelled of burned wood and plastic. Among the onlookers, a couple of American tourists were photographing each other posing next to the policemen by the cordon. A siren sounded and then stopped. Somebody in the crowd said they were bringing out the corpse, but it was impossible to see anything. Not that there would be much to see anyway, thought Corso.

He met the girl's gaze fixed on him. There was no sign of the night before. Her expression was attentive, practical, that of a soldier approaching the battlefield.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

"I don't mean this." She seemed to notice La Ponte for the first time. "Who's he?"

Corso told her. After a moment's hesitation, wondering whether La Ponte would catch on, he said, "The girl I told you about. Irene Adler."

La Ponte didn't catch on. He gave a disconcerted look and put out his hand. She didn't notice, or pretended not to. She was facing Corso.

"You don't have your bag," she said.

"No. Rochefort got it at last. He went off with Liana Taillefer."

"Who's Liana Taillefer?"

Corso gave her a hard look, but she returned it calmly.

"You don't know the grieving widow?"

"No."

She was unruffled, showing no anxiety or surprise. In spite of himself, Corso believed her.

"It doesn't matter," he said at last. "The fact is, they've gone."

"Where?"

"I have no idea." He grimaced with desperation and suspicion, showing his teeth. "I thought you'd know something."

"I don't know anything about Rochefort. Or that woman." Her indifference said that it was none of her business. This confused Corso even more. He'd expected some emotion from her. Among other things, she had set herself up as his protector. He thought she'd at least reproach him, something like, Serves you right for thinking you're so clever. But she said nothing. She looked around, as if searching for a familiar face in the crowd. He had no idea whether she was thinking about what had just happened or whether her mind was on other things.

"What can we do?" he asked no one in particular. He was bewildered. The attacks aside, he'd seen the three copies of The Nine Doors and the Dumas manuscript disappear one after the other. He had three corpses in his wake, if he counted Enrique Taillefer, and he'd spent a huge amount of money that was Varo Borja's, not his.... Varus, Varus, give me back my legions. Damn his luck. At that instant he wished he was thirty-five years younger so he could sit down on the curb and burst into tears.

"We could go and have a coffee," La Ponte suggested, jokingly, as if to say, "Come on, guys, things aren't that bad," and Corso realized that the poor dope had no idea of the enormous mess they were in. Still, coffee didn't seem such a bad idea. Under the circumstances he couldn't think of anything better.

"LET'S SEE IF I'VE understood." Some coffee ran down La Ponte's beard as he dunked his croissant in his cup. "In 1666 Aristide Torchia hid a special book. A kind of safety copy distributed over three copies. Is that it? With differences in eight of the nine engravings. And the three original copies have to be brought together for the spell to work." He took a bite of croissant and wiped his mouth on his napkin. "How am I doing?"

The three of them were sitting at a terrace opposite Saint Germain des Prés. La Ponte was making up for his interrupted breakfast at the Crillon. The girl, still aloof, was sipping an orangeade through a straw and listening in silence. She had The Three Musketeers open in front of her on the table and was reading distractedly, turning a page from time to time, then looking up and listening again. As for Corso, events had knotted his stomach and he couldn't swallow a thing.

"Pretty good," he told La Ponte. He was leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets, and staring blankly at the church tower. "Although it's possible that the complete work, the one burned by the Holy Office, also consisted of three books with illustrations altered so that only those who were truly expert on the subject, the initiated, would be able to combine the three copies correctly." He arched his eyebrows, frowning wearily. "But now we'll never know."

"Who says there were only three? Maybe he printed four, or nine different versions."

"In that case all this would be pointless. There are only three known copies."

"So somebody wants to piece together the original book. And is collecting the authentic engravings..." La Ponte spoke with his mouth full. He ate his breakfast with a hearty appetite. "But he doesn't give a damn about the market value. Once he has the engravings, he destroys the rest. And murders the owner. Victor Fargas in Sintra. Baroness Ungern here in Paris. And Varo Borja in Toledo..." He broke off and looked at Corso with disappointment. "This theory doesn't work. Varo Borja's still alive."

"I have his copy. Had. And they certainly tried to take care of me, setting me up first last night and then this morning."

La Ponte didn't seem convinced. "If they set you up, why didn't Rochefort kill you?"

"I don't know." Corso shrugged. He'd asked himself the same question. "He had the chance twice but didn't do it.... As for Varo Borja's still being alive, I don't know what to say. He hasn't answered my calls."

"That makes him another potential corpse. Or a suspect."

"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."

Corso looked at him unsympathetically. "There are too many coincidences, aren't there? Well, there's more." Breathing on his lenses, he wiped them on a napkin. "In The Three Musketeers it turns out that Milady has been married to Athos, d'Artagnan's friend. When Athos discovers that his wife bears the executioner's mark, he decides to carry out the sentence himself. He hangs her and leaves her for dead, but she survives, etc." He put his glasses back on. "Somebody must be having a lot of fun with all this."

"I can sympathize with Athos hanging his wife," said La Ponte, no doubt thinking of the hotel bill. "I'd like to get my hands on her and do the same myself."

"Or as Liana Taillefer did to her husband. I'm sorry to hurt your pride, Flavio, but she was never interested in you, not in the slightest. She just wanted the manuscript her late husband sold you."

"The bitch," muttered La Ponte bitterly. "I bet she did him in. Helped by our friend with the mustache and the scar."

"What I still don't understand," Corso went on, "is the link between The Three Musketeers and The Nine Doors. All I can think of is that Alexandre Dumas was on top of the world. He had success and the kind of power he wanted—fame, wealth, and women. Everything went swimmingly for him, as if he was privileged or had made some special pact. And when he died, his son, the other Dumas, wrote a strange epitaph for him: 'He died as he lived—unaware.'"

La Ponte sniffed. "Are you suggesting that Dumas sold his soul to the devil?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just trying to work out the serial that somebody's writing at my expense. It obviously all started when Enrique Taillefer decided to sell the Dumas manuscript. The mystery began there. His presumed suicide, my visit to his widow, my first encounter with Rochefort ... And the job Varo Borja gave me."

"What's so special about the manuscript? Why is it important and to whom?"

"I have no idea." Corso glanced at the girl. "Unless she can tell us something."

She shrugged, not looking up from her book. "This is your story, Corso," she said. "I understand you're getting paid for it."

"You're involved too."

"Up to a certain point." She made a vague, noncommittal gesture and turned the page. "Only up to a certain point."

Annoyed, La Ponte leaned over toward Corso. "Have you tried giving her a couple of slaps?"

"Shut up, Flavio."

"Yes, shut up," echoed the girl.

"This is ridiculous," complained La Ponte. "Who does she think she is, talking like that? And instead of giving her the third degree, you leave her alone. This isn't like you, Corso. However cute she is, I don't think..." He searched for the words. "How did she get so uppity?"

"She once wrestled with an angel," explained Corso. "And last night I saw her kick Rochefort's teeth in, remember? The same guy who clobbered me this morning while you sat safely out of the way on the bidet."

"On the toilet."

"Makes no difference. You, in your pajamas, looking like Prince Danilo in Imperial Violets. I didn't know you wore pajamas when you slept with your conquests."

"What do you care?" La Ponte glanced at the girl, embarrassed, annoyed. "I get cold at night, if you must know. Anyway," he said, changing the subject, "we were talking about 'The Anjou Wine.' How's the report going?"

"We know that it's authentic, and in two different hands—Dumas's and his collaborator's, Auguste Maquet."

"What have you found out about him?"

"Maquet? There's not much to find out. He ended up on bad terms with Dumas with all sorts of lawsuits and claims for money. There is one strange thing—Dumas spent everything during his lifetime, he died without a penny. But Maquet was wealthy in his old age and even owned a castle. Things went well for each in his own way."

"What about the half-written chapter?"

"Maquet wrote the original story, a simple first draft, and Dumas added to it, giving it style and quality. You're familiar with the subject: Milady trying to poison d'Artagnan."

La Ponte peered anxiously into his empty coffee cup. "To conclude..."

"Well, I'd say that someone who believes he's Richelieu's reincarnation has managed to collect all the original engravings from the Delomelanicon. Also the Dumas chapter. Somehow those things hold the key to what's going on. This person may be trying to summon Lucifer as we speak. Meanwhile, you no longer have your manuscript and Varo Borja doesn't have his book. I've really screwed up."

He took Richelieu's note out of his pocket and read it again. La Ponte seemed to agree with him. "The loss of the manuscript isn't serious," he said. "I paid Taillefer for it, but not that much." He gave a cunning little laugh. "At least with Liana I got paid in kind. But you really are in a mess."

Corso looked at the girl, who was still reading in silence. "Maybe she could tell us what kind of mess I'm in."

He frowned, then rapped the table with his knuckles like a cardplayer throwing in the towel. But she didn't respond to that either.

La Ponte grunted reprovingly. "I still don't understand why you trust her."

"He's already told you," the girl answered at last. She put the straw from her drink in between the pages of her book as a marker. "I look after him."

Corso nodded, amused, although there wasn't much in his situation to be amused about. "She's my guardian angel," he said.

"Really? Well, she should take better care of you. Where was she when Rochefort stole your bag?"

"You were there."

"That's different. I'm just a cowardly bookseller. Peace-loving. The exact opposite of a man of action. If I entered a coward competition, I'm sure I'd be disqualified for being too cowardly."

Corso wasn't listening because he'd just made a discovery. The shadow of the church tower was being thrown on the ground near them. The wide, dark shape had been gradually moving away from the sun. He noticed that the cross on the top was at the girl's feet, very near but not actually touching her. The shadow of the cross maintained a prudent distance.

HE PHONED LISBON FROM a post office to find out how the investigation into Victor Fargas's death was going. The news wasn't encouraging. Pinto had seen the forensic report: death by forced immersion in the pond. The police in Sintra believed that robbery was the motive. Perpetrator or perpetrators unknown. The good news was that for the time being nobody had linked Corso with the murder. Pinto added that he had put out the description of the man with the scar, just in case. Corso told him to forget about Rochefort, the bird had flown.

It didn't seem that the situation could get any worse. But at midday it got more complicated. As soon as Corso entered the hotel lobby with La Ponte and the girl, he knew something was wrong. Gruber was at the reception desk, and beneath his usual imperturbable expression there was a warning. As they approached, Corso saw the concierge turn casually to the pigeonhole with Corso's key and give his lapel a slight tug, a gesture recognized throughout the world.

"Keep going," Corso told the others.

He almost had to drag away the perplexed La Ponte. The girl walked ahead of them down the narrow corridor that led to the restaurant-bar, which looked out onto the Place du Palais Royal. Looking back at Gruber, Corso saw him place his hand on the telephone.

When they were outside on the street, La Ponte glanced nervously behind him. "What's the matter?"

"Police," explained Corso. "In my room."

"How do you know?"

The girl didn't ask any questions. She just looked at Corso, waiting for instructions. He took out the envelope that Gruber had handed him the night before, removed the note informing him of La Ponte's and Liana Taillefer's whereabouts, and replaced it with a five-hundred-franc bill. He did it slowly, so the others wouldn't notice that his hands were trembling. He sealed the envelope, crossed out his own name, and wrote Gruber's on it, then handed it to the girl.

"Give this to one of the waiters in the restaurant." The palms of his hands were sweating. He wiped them on the insides of his pockets. He pointed at a phone booth across the square. "Meet me over there."

"What about me?" asked La Ponte.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Corso almost laughed. "You can do what you like. Although I think you might have just gone underground, Flavio."

He crossed the square through the traffic, heading for the phone booth without waiting to see whether La Ponte was following. When he closed the door and inserted the card in the slot, he saw La Ponte a few meters away, looking around, anxious and defenseless.

Corso dialed the hotel number and asked for Reception.

"What's going on, Gruber?"

"Two policemen came, Mr. Corso," said the former SS officer in a low voice. "They're still up in your room."

"Did they give any explanation?"

"No. They wanted to know the date you checked in and asked if we knew what your movements had been up till two A.M. I said I didn't and passed them on to my colleague, who was on night duty. They also wanted a description, not knowing what you look like. I told them I would get in touch with them when you returned. I'm about to do so now."

"What will you tell them?"

"The truth, of course. That you came into the lobby for a moment and went straight out again. That you were accompanied by a bearded man. As for the young lady, they didn't ask about her, so I see no reason to mention her."

"Thanks, Gruber." He paused and added with a smile. "I'm innocent."

"Of course you are, Mr. Corso. All the guests at this hotel are innocent." There was a sound of paper being torn. "Ah. I've just been handed your envelope."

"Be seeing you, Gruber. Keep my room for a couple of days. I'm hoping to come back for my things. If there's any problem, charge it to my credit card. And thanks again."

"At your service."

Corso hung up. The girl was back, standing next to La Ponte. Corso went to them. "The police have my name. Somebody gave it to them."

"Don't look at me," said La Ponte. "This whole thing has been beyond me for some time."

Corso thought bitterly that it was beyond him too. He was in a boat, in a rough sea, with no one at the helm.

"Can you think of anything?" he asked the girl. She was the only strand of the mystery that was still in his hands. His last hope.

She looked over Corso's shoulder at the traffic and the nearby railings of the Palais Royal. She had taken off her rucksack and put it down by her feet. She was frowning, silent as usual, absorbed in her thoughts. She looked obstinate, like a little boy refusing to do what he's told.

Corso smiled like a tired wolf. "I don't know what to do," he said.

He saw her nod slowly, possibly as a conclusion to some line of reasoning. Or maybe she was just agreeing that, indeed, he didn't know what to do.

"You're your own worst enemy," she said at last, distantly. She looked tired too, as she had the night before when they returned to the hotel. "Your imagination." She tapped her forehead. "You can't see the forest for the trees."

La Ponte grunted. "Let's leave the botany for later, shall we?" He was becoming increasingly worried about the possibility of gendarmes appearing. "We should get out of here. I can hire a car. If we hurry, we can be across the border by tomorrow. Which is April first, by the way."

"Shut up, Flavio." Corso was looking into the girl's eyes, searching for an answer. All he saw were reflections—the light of the square, the passing traffic, his own image, misshapen and grotesque. The defeated soldier. But defeat was no longer heroic. It hadn't been for a long time.

The girl's expression changed. She stared at La Ponte now, as if for the first time he was worth looking at.

"Say that again," she said.

La Ponte stuttered, surprised. "You mean, about hiring a car?" His mouth was open. "It's obvious. On planes they have passenger lists. And on the train they can look at your passport...."

"I didn't mean that. Tell us what date it is tomorrow."

"The first of April. Monday." La Ponte fiddled with his tie, confused. "My birthday."

But she was no longer paying attention. She was bending over her rucksack, searching for something inside it. When she straightened up, she held The Three Musketeers.

"You haven't paid enough attention to your reading," she said to Corso, handing it to him. "Chapter one, first line."

Corso, surprised, took the book and glanced at it. "The Three Gifts of Monsieur d'Artagnan the Elder." As soon as he read the first line, he knew where they had to go to find Milady.