And we’ve got good old Roberto to help us, Colby
thought; that was all the situation had lacked,
having your friendly neighborhood pickpocket to
hold your coat during the fight. He looked around at
Roberto, however, saw the way the latter was eying
Kendall, and realized he might have jumped to the
wrong conclusion about those two cracks back there
beside the stream. Roberto hadn’t been trying to
knife him with Martine. He’d only been trying to cut
his throat with Kendall.
It wasn’t that they weren’t good friends and boon
companions. They were, and had been for a long
time. Roberto was amusing company, undeniably
talented as a painter—he turned out the best Utrillos
since Utrillo—and a prince of a guy who’d give you
his last hundred francs. Except that while you were
in the bank to see if it was counterfeit he’d
disappear with your girl. He respected no right of
ownership or prior claim. They were all, in his view,
simply part of the public domain, like National
Parks, and any old friend zeroing in on a really
outstanding girl with Roberto around had only to
drop his guard for a few minutes to go home on his
shield. But here, apparently, it was Kendall he was
after.
He suddenly remembered Miss Manning. Roberto
had never answered his question. “Hey, Roberto,”
he began, and noted, too late, that Martine was
violently shaking her head, “where’s Sabine
Manning?”
The Wrong Venus — 121
The other’s head jerked around, the good-looking,
normally pleasant face set in a defiant scowl. “How
would I know?” he asked. “I’m supposed to be her
mother?”
“Okay, okay,” Colby said, heeding Martine’s signal
at last. “I just asked.”
“Don’t bother. I haven’t seen her for six months.”
“I came off without a rostrum, but you can use this
box if you want to.”
“You think I’m going to marry some woman fortythree
years old?”
Colby was beginning to be a little burned himself.
“Why don’t we just drop it? Consider I didn’t ask.”
Roberto muttered something else, while both
Martine and Kendall looked at him curiously. Colby
shrugged. What was the matter with the sorehead?
It wasn’t like the old sunny Roberto at all. Of course,
it was possible he might have considered Colby was
mounting a little guerrilla attack of his own, but he
wouldn’t have reacted that way. He’d been around
too long to needle that easily.
And now that he thought about it, Martine had
tried to head him off before, too. She’d abruptly
changed the subject. So she had asked the same
question and been snapped at herself. Roberto?
Acting like a high-school kid or somebody with a
guilty conscience? The mystery of Sabine Manning
seemed to be growing murkier all the time. She’d
been gone only seven months, and if Roberto hadn’t
seen her for the past six, where was she and what
was she doing?
* * *
Colby finished shaving with the cordless electric
razor Martine had brought in her handbag. It was
apparent from their stop-and-go progress and the
sounds of traffic around them that they were well
into the city now. He and Roberto stripped down to
their shirts and shorts, to the accompaniment of
Kendall's hushed contralto behind them (“. . . she
The Wrong Venus — 122
will leave you, and then . . .”) and put on the blue
denim trousers and jumpers.
Martine studied them appraisingly and buttoned
the top button of Colby’s jumper to hide his tie.
“You’ll do,” she said.
They put on caps. Kendall corked the bottle of
wine and got into the crate; it was long enough for
her to lie flat on the bedding of excelsior. Colby
dropped his clothing and the briefcase in on her feet
and gave her her handbag. Roberto produced a
hammer from a toolbox in the forward end of the
van, and they began to nail on the short planks
forming the top of the crate, leaving enough space
between them for good circulation of air. As they put
the last one in place, she winked, and closed her
eyes. In five minutes, Colby thought, she’d be
asleep.
The truck stopped. Henri came back and opened
the doors. Martine got out, followed by Roberto, who
would ride in the cab the rest of the way. The doors
closed and they rumbled ahead in traffic once more.
Colby was aware of increasing tension, and tried to
reassure himself. The weeping gorilla was the only
one of the mob who’d recognize him, and there was
slight chance he’d still be around now that he was
known to the people inside the house.
Fifteen or twenty minutes went by. Then he felt
the truck swing in to the curb, stop, and reverse a
few feet. Cab doors slammed, and there was the
sound of footsteps. The rear doors opened. It was
Roberto. They were in front of the Manning house,
and directly behind them at the curb was Martine’s
Jaguar.
“We’re surrounded,” Roberto said softly. “Four
men at least. Henri’s gone to the door first, so it’ll
look right.”
“How close are they?” Colby asked.
Two in the next block, pretending to have
something wrong with their car. One in a car just
ahead of us, and one right across from us, painting.
Easel set up on the sidewalk.”
The Wrong Venus — 123
“Maybe it’s Braque,” Colby said bitterly.
“This is the place. Commence,” Henri called out
from the house. He came down the walk.
“The sofa,” Colby said. Taking the box first might
attract too much attention. He hopped down, not
even glancing across the street, and helped Roberto
slide it out. They went up the walk with it, and in the
front door.
The salon looked like a back room during the
closing hours of a political convention. Dudley,
throwing off clouds of cigar smoke, was pacing up
and down through a litter of newspapers with a
haunted expression on his face, while Martine was
snarled in a cocoon of tape as she tried to set up and
test a recorder at a table on one side of the room. In
front of a phono-radio console tuned to a news
broadcast, Madame Buffet and the cook were
ecstatically waving their arms and crying out,
“Ooooh lala! . . . incroyable . . . formidable . . .” into
the torrential delivery of the announcer. As they put
the sofa down and started to go back, Dudley
blundered into it and sat down. He ground a hand
across his face and muttered, “Oh, Jesus Christ!”
“Relax,” Colby said. “Everything’s under control.”
“No savvy, no savvy!” Dudley waved him off and
started to pace again. Colby was congratulating
himself on his disguise until he realized Dudley had
also failed to recognize the English language.
“Testing,” Martine said, “one, two, three—”
“... materializing out of nowhere aboard a
truckload of sheep,” the voice from the radio ran on,
charged with lyricism and an awed awareness of
history, “like some ravishing Valkyrie from a
Teutonic legend, to descend on this sleepy little
village that will never be the same again. . . .” Colby
closed the door and they went back down the walk.
As casually as he could he shot a glance along the
street. Roberto had called it with chilling accuracy.
On the opposite side in the next block the two men
were still standing beside the raised hood of their
car, pretending to be interested in its vitals. Just
The Wrong Venus — 124
ahead of the truck one man alone in another car
didn’t appear to be doing anything, but was
probably watching them in the mirror. On the
opposite sidewalk under the chestnuts, the painter,
clad in a smock and beret, appeared to be sketching
the house, oblivious to all else. All four would have
guns, and they weren’t playing—not with this much
muscle deployed around the place just on the
chance Bougie might try to come back.
Henri was up in the truck, pushing out the crate.
Just as they reached it, the painter left his easel and
strolled across the street toward them, a tall,
cadaverous figure with a hatchet face and the
coldest eyes Colby had ever seen. Except once
before, he thought, and they belonged to the same
man. It was Pascal Decaux.
The Wrong Venus — 125
11
He tried to still the panic within him; there was little
or no chance the man would remember the
interview or the drink they’d had together. It was
over a year ago, and Decaux had been distraught
with grief, anyway, over the matter the police were
investigating, the rather grisly suicide of a colleague
who had shot himself and then jumped into the
Seine with a Peugeot transmission. He couldn't
remember all the reporters who interviewed him on
these somewhat frequent occasions.
“Anybody got a light?” Decaux asked. Henri
snapped his lighter and held it out. Decaux inhaled
deeply and swept the interior of the van with an idle
glance. “Nice day.”
“Very nice,” Henri agreed. Roberto and Colby
nodded. They gave a tug at the crate, and then
wished they hadn’t. It was only seven feet long, and
maybe he wouldn’t notice it.
Decaux looked at it. “Pretty heavy, eh?”
Henri shrugged. “Not too bad. Just books.”
“Anybody happen to have the time?”
Colby waited, but apparently he was the only one
with a watch. He glanced at it. “Eleven-ten,” he said.
The Wrong Venus — 126
“Thanks. . . . Nice watch.” Decaux shifted his gaze
from the gold-cased Omega Constellation to the
threadbare blue denims and then down to the
expensive English brogues. Colby wondered if he
were dripping blood into them or if it was only
sweat. The chill eyes returned to his face. “You’re
not French?”
“No,” Colby said. “Czech.”
“I thought so. The accent. But I keep thinking I’ve
seen you somewhere before.”
“In Prague, maybe,” Colby said. “Czrncrjk’s Bar
and Grill? Across from the station—”
“Could be. . . . Well, careful of the books.” With a
wintry smile at his little joke, Decaux nodded to the
FRAGILE sign on the side of the crate and went
back across the street.
They staggered up the walk with it, every step an
agony of suspense. Then they were inside and the
door was closed. The confusion seemed to be worse.
Either the cook or Madame Buffet had turned up the
gain on the news broadcast, apparently on the
theory that if it were loud enough Dudley could
understand it.
Madame Buffet was attempting to translate. With
a heave like Mays cutting off the runner at second,
she spread her arms into wings, and cried out,
“Voilà!”—this police—with great astonished he flies
into the beaujolais of Monsieur le Maire—!”
“All right, all right!” Dudley clapped his hands to
his temples. “Never mind!”
Colby began ripping off the jumper. The cook was
near enough his height, only an inch or so under six
feet. “Bring in the rest of it,” he said to Roberto.
“And don’t stay together, space it out.”
Martine had already hurried over. “What’s
wrong?”
“That’s Decaux across the street.”
“Oh, no!”
The Wrong Venus — 127
“And he’s spotted me. Or knows he’s seen me
before. So we can’t fast-shuffle him now. Hell
count.”
“Georges—the cook.”
“Right.” Roberto and Henri had already gone out,
and he’d forgotten to bring in the hammer. He
called out to Madame Buffet, “Bring something to
open the box with.” She hurried toward the kitchen.
Colby cut back the gain on the radio so he could
hear himself think. He sat down on the sofa, called
Georges over, and began to remove his shoes. He
explained what he wanted. “There’s not much
danger.”
“Danger—hah!” Georges snapped his fingers.
Gascons were without fear. “But what does it pay?”
“Five hundred francs and a new suit. You’ll have
to have something to come back in. Make it tonight,
take the rest of the day off.”
“What’d he say, what’d he say, what is it?” Dudley
implored of Martine. Georges and Colby began to
undress. Dudley stared at them, his face twitching,
and cried out, “For the love of God, will somebody
tell me—?”
Martine started to explain. At the same moment
Roberto and Henri came in with the overstuffed
chair and the rug, while Madame Buffet trotted in
from the kitchen with a cleaver. Georges was
putting on the blue denims and Colby’s brogues.
Colby, clad only in shirt and shorts, began prying
planks off the top of the case with the cleaver.
“Wrong end,” Kendall said from inside, “unless
you want me to come out feet first.”
“Get to you in a minute,” Colby said. “I’m after my
pants and some money.” He reached in for the
briefcase, zipped it open, and took out a sheaf of
one-hundred-franc notes. Stripping off ten of them,
he handed them to Georges. Dudley’s mouth
dropped open, and it occurred to Colby this was
probably the first he knew that they had recovered
the ransom money. “Kendall saved it for you,” he
The Wrong Venus — 128
said, tossing the briefcase aside. He put the cap on
Georges’ head and studied the effect. He’d pass,
unless Decaux came across the street again.
Roberto and Henri came in with the lamps. Colby
slipped up to the front window and parted the
drapes an inch to peer out. Decaux was still on the
opposite walk, busy at his easel. He shook hands
with the two, and said, “Thanks a million. Cover
Georges as much as you can till he gets in. Then
take it away.”
They went out. Colby continued to watch. Decaux
appeared to glance at them once as they came down
the walk, but remained where he was. Georges got
in back. They closed the doors and climbed in the
cab. The truck pulled away. Neither of the cars
followed it. That could be either good or bad. Maybe
they’d suspected nothing at all, but neither would
they have any further interest in the truck if they’d
guessed what was in the box.
“What do you think?” Martine asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But this is another ball
game now, with that guy out there.”
“Well, it’s only for one day. When the book’s
finished, we smuggle her out—”
“How?”
“I’m working on it. . . . But let’s get her uncrated.
She’ll want a bath and change before she starts.”
Colby whirled and began prying planks off the
upper end of the box with the cleaver, forgetting for
the moment that he still had no pants on. “What’s
bugging Roberto?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Martine said. “But when I asked
him about Miss Manning I thought he was going to
bite my head off.”
Colby tore off another plank and tossed it aside.
One more would do it. “You suppose he stole
something from her?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Martine said. “She’d give
him anything he wanted—”
The doorbell chimed.
The Wrong Venus — 129
Colby started to swing around, his nerves taut, but
Kendall was just raising up in the box. He pushed
her down and then turned. He was too late. Madame
Buffet was already at the door, with Martine right
behind her, trying to head her off. She swung it
open. Directly in front of them was a man in a postal
uniform with a telegram in has right hand, holding it
out.
Colby lunged between them. He still had the
cleaver in one hand, but he caught the outstretched
arm in the other and twisted it down and away from
Martine at the same time as he yanked inward. The
man shot through the doorway on top of him. He
staggered backward and they crashed to the floor
beside the box. They hit the briefcase, which fell
over, spilling bundles of francs out on the rug. Colby
dropped the cleaver and got both hands around the
other’s forearm, searching for the cylinder and
trying to clamp the triggering mechanism. He
couldn’t feel it. It must be further up. The thing to
do was go down the sleeve from inside and get it
from the back.
The man, strangely, was offering little resistance,
merely making some kind of hiccupping sound.
Colby got his hand inside the sleeve of his coat at
the shoulder and ran it all the way down until his
fingers protruded from the cuff. Nothing.
He withdrew his arm. The man rolled over,
removing his face from the pile of banknotes, stared
at Colby’s untrousered legs and the cleaver lying on
the rug just beyond them, and began to slide
backward, still making the hiccupping sound. Colby
let go and sat up. “Maybe he was just delivering a
telegram.”
Martine nodded. “I wouldn’t rule it out entirely.”
The man was still inching backward, white-faced,
watching Colby with great staring eyes. He nodded
eagerly. Telegram,” he whispered. He set it on the
rug between them and backed away from it some
more, careful not to make any sudden moves. “Nice
telegram . . . all for you. . . .” He felt the box behind
The Wrong Venus — 130
him and put a hand up on it to push himself erect. As
he did so he was looking down inside it, at Kendall’s
bare feet stretched out on their bedding of excelsior.
With a hoarse cry he whirled and lunged for the
door, slamming into Madame Buffet and spilling her
on the rug as he went past. He was gone.
Colby slammed the door and locked it, and helped
Madame Buffet to her feet. Kendall sat up and
began to climb out of the box. Martine turned away
from the window, where she’d been watching
through the parted drape. “He’s on his bicycle and
out of sight.”
“You suppose he’ll tell anybody?” Colby asked,
pulling on his trousers and Georges’ shoes.
“And be committed for observation? What was the
point of trying to get into his coat with him?”
“That was the way they killed Pepe,” Kendall
explained. “A postman with a gadget up his sleeve.”
“Oh.”
Kendall turned to Colby. “That man you were
talking to out there, that asked for the time—”
“Pascal Decaux. Hoodlum, professional triggerman,
sort of French version of Murder,
Incorporated.” He felt the hair begin to lift on his
neck. “The voice?”
She nodded. “It could be. Ax-blade for a face, and
looks like the terminal stage of something?”
He gestured toward the drapes. “The Sunday
painter across the street.”
She peered out. So instead of just a consultant
called in to remove witnesses, Colby thought weakly,
Decaux was the murderer himself. Kendall looked
around and nodded. “He’s the one.”
For a moment there was silence. They all looked at
each other. Then Martine said, “Well, he still doesn’t
know you’re in here. He’s just waiting for you to
come back.”
Madame Buffet hadn’t been able to follow all this
English. She appealed to Colby. “L’homme qui a tué
le petit Pepe—le— le swingaire?” He nodded.
The Wrong Venus — 131
Dudley was leaning numbly against the wall,
staring at nothing. His lips moved. “And all I
wanted,” he whispered, “was to get a book written.”
“Cheer up, Merriman.” Martine had recovered a
little of her old bubbling confidence. “We’ll be in
production in twenty minutes, and you’ll have your
book by tomorrow morning. . . “ She caught sight of
the telegram then, still lying on the rug, and stooped
to pick it up. “After what the poor man went through
to deliver it, we could at least look at it. It’s for you.
From Nice.”
Dudley shook his head. “I don’t know anybody in
Nice.”
She tore it open and unfolded it. It seemed to be
several pages. She turned back to the last one.
“Hey! It’s from Miss Manning.”
Oh-oh, Colby thought. There was utter silence for
a moment as she flipped the sheets back and began
to scan the first. “Merriman,” she said gently, “you’d
better sit down.”
“Go ahead,” Dudley said. “Nothing else can
happen to me.”
“Monsieur Merriman Dudley, Seven Rue et cetera,
et cetera, et cetera,” she said. “The text reads:
Urgent you retain services best available public
relations firm to commence immediate task of
complete eradication my unfortunate image as
writer of sexy drivel, and simultaneous promotion of
emergence new Sabine Manning, historian,
submarine archaeologist, and student of ancient
Mediterranean cultures Stop After six months
intensive work, research now essentially complete
for my new book, an exploration in depth of
mysterious and hitherto unexplained similarities
between bronze metalwork of Phoenician galleys
circa one hundred and fifty B.C. And those of latterperiod
Roman republic, hinting strongly at cartels or
industrial espionage transcending national loyalties
before and during Third Punic War Stop—”
Dudley collapsed on the sofa with his face in his
hands. Martine looked at him with concern, but
The Wrong Venus — 132
went on: “—Stop You can readily understand that in
view of great importance of this work it is
imperative that its appearance be unstigmatized by
even any residual impression in public mind linking
name Sabine Manning with previously published sex
rubbish—”
She broke off. Dudley had been quietly sobbing,
but now he began to giggle. “Punic Wars,” he
tittered. “Writing a book about the Punic Wars.”
With a great howl of laughter, he dropped to his
knees on the rug in front of the couch.
“Get some water,” Colby snapped to Madame
Buffet and lunged for him. Hauling him up, he
dropped him back on the sofa and slapped him
across both sides of the face. “Snap out of it!” The
laughter cut off, and Dudley stared at him without
comprehension. “Haul ass,” he muttered. “Call Air
France—” His eyes closed and he slumped back.
“Poor Merriman,” Martine said.
“And he almost had it made.” Kendall spread her
hands. “Where do we go from here?”
“Maybe I’m a masochist,” Colby said, “but is there
any more?”
“Yes,” Martine said. She continued reading.
“Cannot emphasize too strongly that all publicity
releases must, repeat must, deplore present shoddy
state of writing and publishing worlds in their
pandering to and promotion of unhealthy
preoccupation with sex Stop Yacht now undergoing
repairs and refitting here, so will be personally
available coming week or ten days for cocktail
parties, interviews and/or press conferences as
arranged by chosen public relations firm Stop—”
There was a sudden outcry somewhere in the rear
of the house, followed by a crash and a volley of
indignant French. Colby whirled. Madame Buffet
had gone to the kitchen after water, but the
footsteps pounding up the hallway toward them
were too heavy to be hers. “Down, get out of sight!”
he snapped to Martine and Kendall as he jumped
back against the wall beside the door. They dropped
The Wrong Venus — 133
behind the sofa and box. The man shot into the
room, drawn automatic thrust out before him, saw
nobody but the unconscious Dudley, and started to
turn. Colby pushed off the wall and hit him from
behind with the hardest diving tackle he had ever
made.
The man’s head snapped back with a whiplash
motion and then banged against the floor as they
came down. The gun came to rest on the rug in front
of them. Colby grabbed it up by the butt, rapped him
on the head with it and then once more for
insurance, and sprang up. Kendall and Martine
emerged from their hiding places. “If he comes to,”
he said to Kendall, “bounce him off the wall.”
Gun in hand, he ran down the hallway. In the
kitchen, Madame Buffet was just getting off the
floor, making too much forceful and bitter comment
to be seriously hurt. He shot past her, locked the
door leading into the alley, and threw the bolt.
Turning, he helped her up. “You all right?”
“. . . littérature . . . merde . . . !”
“Is there another outside door?”
She shook her head. “. . . maison de fous. . . .”
Colby yanked open drawers and closets, grabbed
up an extension cord and a handful of dish towels,
and ran back to the salon. The man was still out,
with Kendall standing over him. He tied his legs
together with the electrical cord and used the dish
towels to bind his hands and gag him. Dudley stirred
and sat up.
Colby reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table
beside the recorder and lighted one, conscious of
exhaustion and utter defeat. For twenty-four hours
they had been plugging successive and ever-bigger
holes in a dike that had been doomed to begin with,
and now they were finished. Decaux knew Kendall
was in here, and there was no way to get her out.
The novel was worthless. So was their agreement
with Dudley, and the six-thousand-dollar check they
already had.
The Wrong Venus — 134
Martine still had the telegram. As calmly as
though there had been no interruption, she flipped
over to the last page and read it: “Already have
photographic coverage of expedition yacht and
personnel adequate for all publicity purposes Signed
Sabine Manning.”
For a moment no one moved. Then Dudley
dropped to the floor and began stuffing the money
back in the briefcase. He zipped it and headed for
the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Martine demanded.
“Brazil,” he said. “For a start.”
“Merriman!” Her eyes flashed. “Come back here.”
“You may be crazy—”
“You’d go off and leave Kendall here to be killed?”
“What can I do about it?”
“Carry out the terms of your agreement. We need
help to get her out of France, and it takes money.”
He stared at her. “You expect me to pay out more
money for that goddam manuscript—now? After that
telegram?”
“Merriman Dudley, we’ve been friends a long
time, but if you go out that door we’re finished. We
got that reporter out of your hair, then Lawrence got
Kendall back, and the two of them saved your thirty
thousand francs. So now it’s all for nothing because
you want to chicken out and run. After all, what
have we done for you lately?”
“Sauve qui peut,” Colby said bitterly.
“What does that mean?”
“Take up the ladder, mate, I’m aboard.”
“Look—” Dudley protested.
“Never mind,” Martine said to Colby, “let him go.”
She reached for her purse. Taking out her
checkbook, she addressed Dudley with icy disdain,
“But before you do, I want to buy that manuscript.”
“What?”
The Wrong Venus — 135
“Get your records and tell me exactly what you
paid Sanborn and Kendall for writing it. I’ll give you
a check payable to Sabine Manning for the full
amount, and it’s mine.”
“Why?”
“Never mind why. Either honor your agreement or
sell me the manuscript and get out of my way.”
Colby watched with awe. She was fantastic—not
only as an actress, but as a gambler. This was the
coldest bluff he had ever seen.
“Listen!” Dudley shouted. “You read the telegram!
She’s not only gone nuts, but she’s in Nice! She
could walk in here any minute!”
“We could still have it finished before she gets
here.”
“What the hell good is it? We’ve run out of time.
There’s no way we can keep her from finding out
about it—”
Martine interrupted. “Then you will sell it?”
“Martine—if we delivered it to Holton Press in the
next five minutes.” Dudley took a deep breath and
tried again, desperation written on his face. “Look—
they’ve got a sex novel we say she just finished, and
in every newspaper in the Western hemisphere she’s
on her soapbox trying to have it outlawed. They just
might wonder—”
“Could you just give me a simple yes or no?”
“How do you expect to sell it?” Dudley cried out.
“Without Sabine Manning’s name on it you won’t get
your money back.”
“I’m waiting, Merriman.”
Up against the unanswerable, Dudley broke at
last. “All right.” He slumped down on the sofa. “I’ll
stay.”
“That’s better.” She smiled. “I appreciate your
vote of confidence.”
“But let’s be sure we understand the agreement. I
pay for the smuggling operation now, but the twenty
thousand is no-cure-no-pay. You don’t get a dollar of
The Wrong Venus — 136
it unless that manuscript goes to Holton Press with
Miss Manning’s name on it.”
“Fair enough. We wouldn’t have taken the job
unless we thought we could do it.” Her voice was
confident, but the face thoughtful as she glanced at
the man on the floor, and then toward Colby. Their
eyes met, the knowledge unspoken between them.
Now that Decaux knew Kendall was in here, getting
her out alive was going to take something
approximating a miracle.
And there was the further matter of keeping him
and his mob from getting in. They had a gun—two of
them, in fact—and both outside doors were locked.
But there still remained the windows.
As though she’d been following his line of thought
word for word, Martine asked Dudley, “Do all the
windows have shutters?”
“Yes,” he said. “But anybody could tear one off.”
“Not without noise. Close and fasten all of them
except that one.” She nodded to the one looking on
the street. They won’t try to break in there with a
street light in front of the house, and we want to be
able to see out.”
“Okay.” Dudley went out.
She turned to Kendall. “Now, where would you
like to work?”
“My same room. Second floor, just down the hall
from the office.”
“Good. The recorder’s ready to go. Will you need
any help running it?”
“I hope not. I’m going to dictate the first four
hours from a hot bath.”
Martine opened her purse again. “Here’s a
Dexedrine so you won’t fall asleep.” Kendall took the
tablet, picked up the recorder, and hurried up the
stairs.
Colby reached for another cigarette. “Remind me
never to play poker with you.”
The Wrong Venus — 137
Martine’s face was still overlaid with that slightly
frowning, thoughtful expression. “It wasn’t entirely
bluff. I would have bought it.”
Colby stared, with a feeling he was lost. He and
this girl had an ability to communicate without
speech, up to a point, but now she was ahead of him.
They’d had to hold Dudley to his agreement because
they couldn’t abandon Kendall. In addition to the
fact they both liked her, they were the ones who’d
brought her into this death trap. But the
manuscript?
“If you want to start a fire,” he said, “lighter fluid
is cheaper.”
“No,” she said musingly. “You’re falling into
Merriman’s trap, the canalized line of reasoning.
The key to the whole thing, of course, is still Miss
Manning, but no longer in the same way. The
question is who is she now? What is she?”
“Instant Suetonius. We know that. Schliemann
with fins.”
“No. I mean, precisely what happened to her?”
The crusade against sex? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me,” she said.
“Look . . . she’s a plain, very shy woman, the
eternal wallflower, rejected by everybody. She gets
hurt, sure, but never really clobbered because she
stays in her shell where they can’t reach her. Then
Roberto rolls her in the hay, she loves it, falls for
him like a ton of bricks, begins to open up and come
out, as vulnerable as a shucked oyster, and bang—
she gets it right between the eyes. That bastard, as
many women as he’s left, you’d think he could do it
with a little grace.”
“I’m not sure you’re right.” She smiled. “But I’m
interested to hear you’re an authority on how to
leave women.”
“I’m just a good listener. I was in Korea with a guy
who was going to write a book on it.”
“Did he?”
The Wrong Venus — 138
“I don’t know, he could never seem to sharpen his
timing. The last I heard, he’d left four, and his
alimony bill was six thousand dollars a month. But
why don’t you agree with it?”
“I’m not sure. Just a hunch. It’s too pat, anyway, a
cliché.”
“Sure. But what’s a cliché except something that
happens all the time? It’s standard situation nine-D
right out of the stock bin, but it’s still true. She was
probably pleading with him when he walked out on
her and he got bugged and said something cruel,
and the human race goes down swinging. She was
right back where she started, only now it was a
thousand times worse because she’d begun to think
that somebody could care for her—”
“When do we get to the snowstorm, when her
father won’t let her in the house with the baby?”
“Well, what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still lost in thought. “But
Roberto doesn’t quite ring true, and neither does
her telegram.” She stood up. “Give me about half an
hour. I’ll be up in the office.”
The Wrong Venus — 139
12
No comments:
Post a Comment