The wrong Venus Page 15

  Voivin gestured crisply toward the house. “Paul-Jacques, cover the back.” One man trotted back along the side of the house toward the rear door. “Let’s go,” Voivin said to the others. “Maurice will remain inside the front door and Auguste and I will start with the attic.”

  They had taken two or three strides up the walk when Voivin stopped with a sort of frowning double take and looked back at the van. He waved the others on and came back. Stepping off the curb just behind Colby and Roberto, he glanced inside. “What are you men doing here?” he asked.

  Roberto swallowed but managed an uncertain smile. “Well—”

  “Uh—just moving stuff,” Colby said. “We’re in the moving business—like it says—the sign—” He couldn’t seem to get himself turned off.

  The gray eyes probed. “Foreigner, aren’t you?”

  Colby nodded. “Czech.”

  “Let’s see your identity card.”

  “Well, wait a minute,” Colby said. “Who are you?”

  “Police Judiciaire.” Voivin reached in his coat pocket and flashed identification in the palm of his hand. It was only an art study of a markedly uninhibited young lady, but Colby looked properly impressed. He produced his driver’s license. Voivin glanced at it and handed it back.

  “What’s in that box?” he asked.

  “Books,” Colby said.

  “Dishes,” Roberto replied at the same instant.

  “Just stuff—” Henri began, but stopped. Almost in time.

  “Oh?” Voivin stepped closer, and studied the box with a speculative eye, obviously gauging its length. “And you just brought it out of that house?”

  “Oh—no,” Colby said. “It didn’t come out of this house. We picked it up over in—in—”

  “Well, what are you doing here?”

  “We’re—uh—that is, we’re delivering it here.”

  “Oh.” Voivin gave him a suspicious glance, but shrugged. “I thought you were putting it on the truck.”

  “Oh, no,” Colby said. “Taking it off.”

  “Okay.” Voivin turned away indifferently and started up the walk again. He turned. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take it in. It’s all right.”

  “Sure. Thanks,” Colby said. “We’ve got some other stuff—we’ll take in first—”

  “Why don’t you turn off your engine?”

  “It’s hard to start,” Roberto said. “Weak battery—”

  Voivin was still staring at them suspiciously. Henri began shoving the other things toward the rear. Roberto and Colby grabbed up random pieces of the bedstead and started up the walk, followed by Henri. Voivin turned again and went on toward the front door. When he disappeared inside they all turned and looked longingly back at the truck, but Colby jerked his head and they went on. Not yet; wait’ll he gets upstairs.

  Decaux should have it now. They’d had to get her out because the police had finally learned who Bougie was and were coming to search the place. Bougie was in the box, and in about five minutes or less Inspector Voivin of the Police Judiciaire was going to figure it out for himself.

  He and Roberto went through the door. Voivin and the two men were standing to one side out of the way. Colby ran to the drape to peer out. Decaux was still calmly painting. And he’d heard every word; he’d simply seen through it, and it wasn’t going to work. But Henri was still on the walk. He came in. The door closed. Colby’s hands clenched. Come on—come on—!

  Decaux waved an arm and ran for the door of the cab. The man who was in the parked car leaped out of it, slammed the rear doors of the van, and ran around to the other side, making it onto the running board with a flying leap as Decaux gunned it ahead. Colby felt all the breath ooze out of him at once and he wanted to slump down. As the truck roared ahead into the next block another car fell in behind it. Colby turned and nodded.

  All the tension in the room snapped at once and there was pandemonium. Martine fell in his arms. “Darling! We did it, we did it!” She pulled his head down and kissed him.

  Voivin had headed for the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned to Colby, “Now?”

  “Yes,” Colby said. “Don’t try to stay close. Just watch for a traffic jam.”

  He and the other men ran out. Roberto was throwing off his denim coverall. He kicked it aside and shot for the door. “Go down the Rue Mon Coeur,” Martine said. “It’s nearer.”

  “Back in three minutes.” He ran out. Colby was unbuttoning his own coverall. He stepped out of it and handed it to Kendall. While she was pulling it on, Martine worked the beret over her pinned-up hair, poking loose strands up inside. Colby drew the drapes and looked out. Except for the one the man had abandoned to get on the van, there wasn’t a car in sight.

  Kendall kissed Madame Buffet and said goodbye to Dudley and Georges. The pickup came into view and slid to the curb. “Here he is,” Colby said. “I’ll take your bag.”

  “Adieu, mes enfants. Don’t let the bastards wear you down.” Kendall grabbed Martine and kissed her, the reckless gray eyes moist with tears, and then kissed Colby. They threw two pillows and a folded blanket onto her shoulder. The arm she put up to hold them shielded the other side of her face. Colby grabbed up the suitcase and they went down the walk. He opened the rear door and she climbed in, not turning until she was hidden inside, seated on one of the bunks. He set the bag on the other. She smiled, while tears still overflowed her eyes. “Thanks, Trooper Colby. For this and that.”

  “Pas de quoi.”

  “Maybe sometime in another country.”

  “With luck. Goodbye, Champ.” He closed the door, hit it once with his fist, and Roberto shoved it in gear. He watched it out of sight. Three blocks ahead it turned right, still alone. Nobody was following it.

  He went back inside. Martine was on the phone at a stand on one side of the salon, and Madame Buffet and Georges were tidying up, carrying out the things they’d brought in from the van. Dudley had a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. He poured two jolts, handed one to Colby, and downed his with a gulp. He sputtered, and then, for the first time since he’d known him, Colby saw him smile.

  “Wow! I needed that. All I can say is, you and Martine—oh, brother! It’s finished!”

  “. . . not there! Oh, no!” Martine waved to Colby, her face enraptured, and returned to the phone. “Perfect. . . . But they’ve got Decaux? . . . And you’ve already called? Good. And thanks for everything.” She hung up.

  Colby had started to take his drink, but he put it down. He was too tired and too limp with reaction to swallow it. “Voivin?” he asked.

  She nodded, with something like awe. “Colby, they ran out of gas in the Etoile, right in front of the east-bound lanes of the Champs Élysées—”

  “Good God!”

  “He says it’s an absolute madhouse. The other man managed to sneak off and make it to the sidewalk, but two agents were bawling Decaux out for blocking traffic, and when he panicked and tried to run, they grabbed him. He started to put up a fight, so they really clobbered him. They may not realize yet the truck’s on the stolen car list, but they will by the time they get him to the station and book him, and of course the tow-away crew will see the jumpered ignition switch. Voivin’s already made an anonymous call to the Police Judiciaire and told ‘em to look in that crate for one of the gang that killed Torreon.” She sat down, the awed look still on her face. “You just wonder. Where will poor Decaux start, to find answers to all those questions?”

  “You don’t suppose he’ll tell ‘em what happened?” Dudley asked. “I mean, about this place—?”

  “This place? Merriman, torture couldn’t get it out of him. Don’t you see, she might be still here, and the police’d find her. Or at least pick up her trail.”

  “All I can say is, you two. Oh, brother!” Dudley poured another drink and knocked it back. He did a couple of steps of a little jig. “And this afternoon I’ll be on my way to New York!”

  Colby had turned to the window again, just to sav
or the sheer joy of not seeing Decaux over there. At the same moment, a sleek but road-stained Ferrari swooped in to the curb with the grace of a diving falcon, and a leggy and vital-looking woman of about thirty-five with windblown dark hair bounced out of the driver’s seat and came around in front of it before her escort could open his own door. She had on a suede car coat, and one end of the silk scarf about her throat was blown back over the shoulder of it with a sort of Dawn Patrol insouciance. He frowned. She seemed to be coming here. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  The man in the other seat was getting out now. He appeared to be about twenty, and could have just stepped out of a commercial for one of the more virile cigarettes, all wedge shoulders, flashing Latin eyes, and self-conscious masculinity. The woman laughed, brushed a playful hand through his hair, gestured toward the luggage in back, and came up the walk carrying a large manila folder. Her face was deeply tanned, giving her teeth that look of gleaming perfection of those of eighteen-year-old cannibals and aging screen and television personalities. Colby became aware that Dudley was standing beside him, making some kind of strangling noise. Behind him, Martine said, “No! Oh, no, it couldn’t be!”

  Sabine Manning came through the door, tossed the manila folder onto a table, and threw her arms wide. “Merriman! Aren’t you glad to see me? Come kiss me.”

  Dudley, with the hue of a cadaver under fluorescent light, seemed unable to move but did make a croaking sound that could have been interpreted as a welcome. She kissed him and stepped back, still holding his arms. “Merriman, you look positively ghastly. You should get out of this mausoleum and live a little. Cooped up in here with your slide rules and stock market reports making capital gains for me—you make me feel guilty. . . . And Martine, darling, how wonderful to see you again. . . . Carlito, sweet, just toss the bags there anywhere. . . .”

  Carlito put the bags down and was soundly kissed and then programmed for the rest of the day while Colby was still trying to fight his way out of shock. “. . . go on to the Crillon—you can keep the car . . . and try to get a little rest, that is a long ride from Nice. I’ll be busy all day with the publicity people, so don’t bother to call me. Find out which discothèque is the one now, and pick me up here around nine. That’s a dear, and bye for now. . . .”

  Carlito departed. Sabine Manning turned to Colby. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m sorry,” Martine said. It was as near as Colby had ever seen her dazed by anything. “This is Lawrence Colby. Miss Manning.”

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Colby.” She took his hand, held it warmly for a moment, and whirled to pick up the folder. “And it’s so utterly sweet of you to meet me here. We won’t have to lose a minute; we can get right to work on it—”

  “But—”

  “—first let me show you what I’m doing so you will understand why we have to give me a whole new image. You’re familiar, of course, with the horrible sexy slush I used to write—I shudder when I think of it—”

  Colby tried again to edge in a word, but saw Martine nodding and making frantic gestures behind her. She wanted him to accept the nomination for some reason, though he couldn’t see why she insisted on prolonging the peril. Their only hope was flight. Miss Manning had the folder open now, and out onto the table cascaded a great pile of photographs, mostly eight-by-ten glossies, a size and type ideally suited for reproduction. She scattered and spread them. He had a blurred impression of sun-drenched seascapes and underwater scenes, the deck of a sailing yacht repeated over and over, barnacle-encrusted skeletons of ancient wrecks, aqualungs, amphorae of every description, recovered artifacts, and people. It was on the people, strangely, that his attention suddenly came to focus, and he had just started back through the photographs for a further study when he was caught up again and swept along with the Manning vitality and enthusiasm. She was addressing him.

  “. . . submarine archaeology. The invention of the aqualung, Mr. Colby—or may I call you Lawrence?—has opened up a whole new world of archaeological investigation. Try to imagine it, five thousand years of the history of this cradle of civilization just lying there covered by nothing but a shallow mantle of water, waiting for the man with the aqualung to explore it. Merriman, would you ask somebody to take the bags back to my room? That’s a dear. Biremes, triremes, galleys, ships of war, whole cargoes of works of art lost on the way to Imperial Rome, and who knows, maybe whole lost cities inundated before the dawn of history—”

  Colby noted that Martine was sorting through the photographs, and he had an idea she was struck by the same curious aspect of the yacht’s personnel that had attracted his attention. Aside from Sabine Manning herself, the entire membership of the expedition seemed to consist of only slightly different versions of Carlito—all Latin, sunburned, beautiful as Greek gods, of a median age of nineteen, and—thanks to the scantiness of their swim trunks—quite demonstrably and abundantly male.

  There appeared to be eight or ten different ones, but then this was a six-months’ supply. No doubt the membership was fluid; only the expedition went on as an established and continuous entity.

  He made another attempt to break in. “Yes, I know. I’ve read quite a bit about it, and it’s fascinating. But I’m not sure I understand why you want to change your image, just to do a book about it—”

  “Lawrence, I’m surprised at you. Of course I have to change it! It’s because this is so vital, so important, so fantastically wonderful, I want people to know about it—and nobody would believe a word of it!” She threw her arms wide in a gesture of heroic despair. “ ‘Oh, hell, it’s just Sabine Manning—what does she know about anything but that dreary sex junk of hers?’ ” They simply wouldn’t believe I could write about something important, something that really mattered. . . . But I’d like to freshen up a little after that drive from Nice. Bring the photographs, Lawrence, and come on back to my room. We can go on with it while I’m having a bath; we haven’t got a minute to lose. . . .” She had started to turn away when she saw the hesitant look on his face, and laughed. “Heavens, I mean through the door, dear boy. I don’t expect you to scrub my back.” She smiled at Martine. “Anglo-Saxons are so adorably shy.”

  “Yes,” Martine said, with a smile he could have shaved with. “Aren’t they?”

  Sabine Manning disappeared into the corridor. As he gathered up the photographs and followed her, Martine leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry. Just hang on, help should be here any minute.”

  She was apparently trying to buy time, but he was too confused and tired by now to figure out for what. After over forty-eight hours without sleep and living in a more or less continuous state of crisis, everything was beginning to blur and run together, Moffatt and Jean-Jacques and Gabrielle and Decaux and Sabine Manning all going around in a slow whirl in his head. He went through the study and into the white-carpeted bedroom. He heard water running into a tub, and Sabine Manning emerged from the bath. She smiled. “Please sit down,” she said, indicating an armchair near the bed.

  He sat down and put the photographs on a small table beside him. She threw off the car coat, tossing it and the scarf onto another chair, and opened one of her bags to take out a nylon dressing gown and some toilet articles, talking all the while.

  “The whole trouble with Anglo-Saxons, or at least Americans, Lawrence, is our obsession with sex. Our lives are ruined by it, we’re short-changed, we’re robbed, mulcted, deprived, we’re culturally and intellectually disinherited by this continuous stewing over something that’s simply not that important at all—how old are you, dear?”

  “Thirty,” he said.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought you were anywhere near that. You’re very attractive, you know.”

  She sat on the side of the bed, hiked the hem of the pale silk sheath halfway up her thighs, and began to unclip the tabs from her stockings. Her legs were as deeply tanned as her face, Colby noted, and very nice they were too. If this bombshell of vitality and hormonal fallout
had ever really been the desiccated old maid he’d imagined and felt sorry for, no wonder Martine and Dudley had been stunned. As though she’d read his thoughts, she reached over to the night table, picked up a book, and tossed it to him. It was a copy of These Tormented.

  “Take a look at that,” she said, sliding her stockings down and tossing them aside. “The photograph on the jacket, I mean. There’s the generic victim of this sex-preoccupation of ours, s woman not even half alive, shy, futile, plain, ineffectual, because she has no interest in anything, no curiosity, no desire for intellectual challenge, no capacity for total and utter absorption in anything—would you get this zipper for me, darling?”

  She stepped over in front of him. He stood up and unzipped the dress. She turned, threw her arms wide, and cried out, “Look at me now! Look at my complexion, my eyes! I’m alive! I’m alive all over—”

  “You are that,” Colby agreed.

  “—thrillingly, vibrantly alive right out to my fingertips. You see what archaeology has done for me? And why I have to tell people, make them see—”

  She threw both arms around his neck and kissed him. He felt like a fly falling into a whirlpool of molten taffy, and tried to retreat, with about the same success. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy working with you, you dear boy. And I don’t think you’re thirty at all—”

  They were suddenly interrupted by running footsteps and outcries from the salon. Colby ran out, and the sight that greeted him was enough to make him consider running back and throwing himself into the arena again with Sabine Manning, except that she had come out too. It was the end.

  As well as he could piece it together afterward, with some help from Martine in regard to the cast, everybody must have landed at Orly at once. And now the wrath of Holton Press and the Thomhill Literary Agency descended on Dudley in the forms of Chadwick Holton, Senior, Ernest Thornhill, four attorneys complete with briefcases and forged and violated contracts, and one Parisian taxi driver shouting into the impervious and unheeding maelstrom of charge and countercharge and denunciation and denial that hell would freeze before he would take his pay in lire. In his mental state at the moment, Colby saw nothing unusual in the fact that the United States had abandoned the dollar; it was only afterward he remembered Thornhill had been in Rome.