Colby checked the man on the floor. He was heavyshouldered,
dark, about thirty, still unconscious but
breathing all right. Colby pulled him over against
the wall out of the way, looked at him again,
shrugged, and put a sofa pillow under his head. He
was just an instrument, one of the workmen.
Decaux was still across the street, along with one
of the cars, deadly, inevitable, as impervious to
annulment or modification as planetary motion.
Colby let the drape fall back in place. Answer?
Where was it? Smuggling Kendall out of France had
sounded like an impossible project, but that was the
good old days. Try smuggling her into the next
block. Dudley came back. Colby gave him the
automatic.
“Yell, if you hear anything,” he said. He went in
search of Madame Buffet, retrieved his bag, and had
a shower and a change of clothing. When he got to
the office Martine had the Michelin road map of
France spread out on the desk, along with her
address book and a scratchpad covered with figures
and what looked like several names with telephone
numbers. She was just putting down the phone.
The Wrong Venus — 140
He perched on a corner of the desk and reached
for a cigarette. “Ogden Nash was right. You can’t
get there from here.”
“Sure you can.” She leaned back in the chair,
tapping her teeth with the end of a pencil. “But to
dispose of the easy part first, let’s start a half-mile
from here. North Africa’s the best bet. It’s far
enough away, and she can catch a plane or ship to
the States with no trouble. D’accord?”
“Sure. But how does she get there?”
“The same way you get in the Social Register or a
floating crap game—money and connections.” She
shuffled through her notes. “Here’s a number to call
in Nice, a man named Jules Clavel. He has a finger
in all kinds of rackets there and in Marseille. He
made a fortune smuggling out of Tangier just after
the war, and still has some good fast boats and
contacts all along the African coast. His mistress is a
friend of mine, and she’s already called him to
establish our credentials. But before we phone,
maybe you’d better knock on Kendall’s door and see
if she can give us an approximate time she’ll be
through.”
“Which is hers?”
“The next one on the right.”
The door was closed, but he could hear the
murmur of her voice inside. He knocked twice
before she heard him. “Come in,” she called. He
pushed open the door. The black dress and her slip
were on the bed, and an open suitcase on a stand at
the foot of it. There was a typewriter on a stand near
the dresser. The drapes were tightly drawn across
the window, but the bathroom door was ajar.
Through it he could hear the splash of water and her
voice.
“. . . the immemorial dark tide of ecstasy and
desire and the wild sweet singing in the blood
period paragraph—who is it?”
“Colby. Can you give us a rough idea when you’ll
be finished? We’ve got to set up a timetable.”
The Wrong Venus — 141
“Hmmmmm—let’s see—forty-six pages to go.
Seven tomorrow morning at the latest. Quote Oh,
Greg, Greg, Greg, unquote she whispered comma
delirious with rapture comma—”
Thanks,” he said. He started out.
“—melting under the touch of hands that left their
tracery of fire—oh, Colby.”
He turned. “What?”
“In my bag there’s another bottle of bath salts,
Prince Matchabelli, I think it is. Will you hand it to
me? Quote Oh, God, darling, unquote she gasped,
quote I love it, I love it—”
He rooted through a welter of nylon and lace and
located it while she went on dictating. “Here you
go.” He reached it in around the door.
“—darling, darling, darling—you’ll have to come a
little closer.”
“You mean me,” he asked, “or Greg?”
“You . . . down a little . . . not quite yet . . . oh, go
ahead and dump it in, I’m submerged.”
He went in. She was up to her shoulders in foam,
the microphone held in one hand. The recorder was
on a chair beside the tub, the clipboard with the rest
of Sanborn’s manuscript propped up against it. She
tore off a page and let it fall among the half dozen
already scattered around the floor.
“—comma unquote the words squeezed and
ragged with passion comma torn from her—about a
third of it, Colby—”
He uncapped the bottle and shook it over the tub.
“You want me to stir it?”
“No, that’s all right.” A satiny and foam-bejeweled
leg emerged, swishing the surface. “—by his
inexorably mounting cadence and that final
swamping of all her senses under the onrushing
flood of desire that was like torment demanding
release—could I have a puff on that?”
“Sure.” He perched on the side of the tub and held
the cigarette between her lips. “Does writing that
The Wrong Venus — 142
stuff have any aphrodisiac effect? I’d be off sex
forever.”
“No.” She smiled and exhaled smoke. “After
awhile you don’t even hear it.” She took another
puff, pressed the microphone button, and went on,
“—comma aflame with that age-old exultation in the
terrible urgency of his need for her—thanks, Colby.”
“Not at all.” He set the bottle on the chair and got
up.
“—Period With a gibbering little cry of unbearable
ecstasy comma she thrust her hips upward against
him comma—”
He went back to the office. He dialed the number
in Nice, and in a few minutes was through to Clavel.
He introduced himself and said he was a friend of
Martine Randall.
“I know,” Clavel broke in. ‘”What do you need?”
Transportation, Colby replied. For himself? No, for
a young lady whose doctor had prescribed a change
of scene; she’d developed a strange allergy to
crowds and to people wearing blue, and he thought
perhaps North Africa—
“I’ve got a hunch I know who you mean,” Clavel
said. “We have newspapers here too. Any particular
place?”
“Anywhere she could catch a ship or plane to the
United States without a stop in France. She’d need
an entry stamp—and visa if it’s called for—to clear
her on the way out.”
“We’ve got one of the top men. Passport, UN
credentials—you name it.”
“She can use her own passport once she’s out of
France.”
“We’ve got a boat leaving for Rabat Saturday
night. How about that?”
This was Thursday; Saturday would be perfect,
with plenty of leeway for getting there. “Good.
Where could you pick her up?”
The Wrong Venus — 143
“There’s a cove west of Cannes. You’d better write
this down.” He gave directions and exact mileage.
Colby jotted it down. “Have her there at nine p.m.”
“Check,” Colby said. “And what’s the tab?”
‘Twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Okay. Now, there’s one more thing; there may be
a price being offered around to take her somewhere
else—”
“If we’re talking about the same girl, there is.”
“If the twenty-five thousand doesn’t top it, say so
now. I want to pay her fare all the way across.”
“Forget it. I know the guy that’s after her, and we
don’t do business with him. Have her there, the
captain’ll wait five minutes, and that’s it.”
“He won’t have to wait at all. If she’s not there it’ll
be in the papers.”
He hung up and repeated the conversation to
Martine. “Good so far. Now, from here to Cannes?”
“That’s the easiest part of it.” She went on to
explain. Roberto would take her; she’d already
talked to him. He was out now looking for the
vehicle, one of those pickup trucks with the camper
body on it. She thought he could get a good used
one for around six thousand francs.
Colby nodded. “Still good.”
“So. . . .” She smiled. “We’ve solved everything but
the problem. Any ideas?”
“No. You couldn’t smuggle a hamster out of here
as long as he’s there, and you can’t move him.”
“We have to move him, that’s the only solution. So
approach it from there. What would induce him to
go away?”
“Nothing on earth. Till he gets her. God knows
how many people he’s killed, but this is the first time
there’s ever been a witness—”
“Wait a minute!” she interrupted. She leaned back
in the chair. Seconds stretched out as she continued
to stare straight ahead of her, biting her lip. Then
she sat up abruptly. “Colby! We’ve got it!”
The Wrong Venus — 144
She explained. It took five minutes, while he
listened with increasing awe.
He whistled. “Mother, dear. But can we cast a
production like that?”
“Why not? All we need is Henri, Roberto, the
moving van, and four plain-clothes cops. I can do it
on the phone in twenty minutes.”
* * *
Colby made a complete tour of the house from the
attic downward to be sure there was no place they
could get in after it was dark. When he came to the
salon, he peered out. Decaux was still there, as well
as one of the cars.
Dudley indicated the bound man lying against the
wall. I think he wants to say something. Keeps trying
to make a noise.”
Colby removed the gag and was greeted by a
geyser of abuse in a Marseille accent.
“What’d he say?” Dudley asked.
“The only thing printable is that he wants to go to
the john.”
“The hell with him.”
“Oh, I’ll take him. Give me the gun and you untie
him. Just his arms, he can hop.”
Dudley loosed the bonds and stepped back.
“Nearest one’s Miss Manning’s bathroom. Through
that door and down the hall.”
Colby followed the man’s kangaroo progress with
the gun centered on his back. Miss Manning’s rooms
consisted of a book-lined study, a large bedroom
carpeted with a shaggy white rug, and a bathroom
that had been modernized and done over in coral
and black. He looked around the study and bedroom,
thinking of the unhappy spinster now completely
withdrawn and made bitter by the final rejection. It
was a shame.
They came back. “You are kidnapers,” the man
said angrily as Dudley tied his hands again.
The Wrong Venus — 145
“That we are,” Colby agreed. “But who knows,
perhaps you will return to your friends tomorrow.”
“You are dirty—” A mouthful of dish towel cut off
the rest of his comment.
* * *
Madame Buffet made sandwiches and opened some
bottles of wine. Kendall took hers in her room while
she went on dictating. Colby and Martine ate at the
desk in the office. She gave him a report. Everything
was falling into place for H-hour, eight tomorrow
morning.
She’d located four friends, three of them bit
players in films, who were willing to impersonate
inspectors from the Quai des Orfèvres for a halfhour
for five hundred francs. Two of them looked a
little like Jean Gabin, and it was one of these, Émile
Voivin, who would have the speaking part. She’d
rehearsed him in it. Roberto had called. He’d found
a used pickup camper that could be had for fifty-two
hundred francs. A cruise ship named the Heraldic
was calling at Rabat a week from Saturday, bound
for New York by way of Gibraltar, the West Indies,
and Nassau. She’d made a reservation for first-class
passage in Kendall’s name.
Roberto arrived in a taxi shortly after four P.M.
They gave him the money for the truck, for the
provisions he would need, and for Kendall’s
steamship ticket, which he would pick up after he
was certain he wasn’t being followed.
“They won’t follow anybody now,” Colby said.
“They know where she is.”
They brought out the map of Paris and briefed
him. “You’ll rendezvous at this point on the Rue
Céleste at eight a.m.,” Martine went on. “That’s only
four blocks from here and you don’t have to go
through any traffic lights or cross any arterials to
get here, which could wreck the timing. You park
the pickup truck and get in the van with Henri.
Voivin and the other three men will be in another
car.
The Wrong Venus — 146
“Lawrence will arrive at the same time in my car.
He’ll get in the back of the van. Henri will have an
extra-large coverall he can put on over his suit, and
a beret, the same things you’ll be wearing. As soon
as he’s gone over it once more with Voivin, Henri
will drive the van around here, going very fast once
you’ve turned into this street and you’re visible to
Decaux and his men. Voivin will leave exactly two
minutes later. The timing has to be very precise. If
Voivin gets here too soon we won’t fool him, and if
he’s too late it could be very dangerous. Everything
clear?”
“Yes,” Roberto said.
“Good. Here are the instructions for finding the
cove after you get to Cannes. You can keep the
truck, or sell it, whichever you wish. See you in the
morning.”
Roberto left. Martine had found another recorder,
one with a foot switch, and she began to transcribe
the first of Kendall’s tapes. It seemed a waste of
effort to Colby, typing a worthless manuscript, but
they couldn’t sit and do nothing. The suspense of
waiting for eight A.M. Would have them going up
the wall.
* * *
Decaux disappeared from in front of the house, but
there were two cars on station and the state of siege
went on as night began. Madame Buffet made
coffee. Dudley continued to watch in the nowdarkened
salon, alert for the first warning sounds of
attempted entry. The house was silent except for the
clatter of Martine's typewriter in the office. Colby
took over. He was dead tired, now close to forty
hours without sleep. He took one of Martine's
Dexedrine tablets and came to life again.
Shortly after eleven the cook arrived in a taxi,
identified himself, and was let in, carrying an armful
of newspapers. Voilà!
WHO IS BOUGIE? The headlines cried. WHERE IS
BOUGIE? DID BOUGIE KILL PEPE? Was Bougie
The Wrong Venus — 147
protecting her lover, the real assassin? Was Bougie
a Russian spy, a Magyar princess, a reincarnated
Viking, a publicity stunt by some American cereal
manufacturer? At various times and places Bougie
had spoken French with an American accent,
English accent, German accent, Balkan accent,
Vaudois accent, and the accents of four different
provinces of France. The photograph was
emblazoned on the front pages of most of them, and
two carried a picture of Colby drawn by a police
artist from the descriptions of eyewitnesses in the
café at St.-Médard. He looked like the man who is
always questioned by police after a series of
mysterious stranglings. There was a picture of the
café, with a dotted line showing the trajectory of the
gendarme, and several photographs of Pepe
Torreon, one without a blonde.
The briefcase now contained two million francs
and bore an indecipherable coat of arms. Little
credence was given in most circles, however, to the
theory that Colby might have been implicated in the
assassination of Rasputin.
An arrest was expected momentarily.
* * *
The night wore on. The cook relieved Dudley,
patrolling the downstairs areas. Martine typed.
Colby took over again, mechanically pounding out
words that had lost all meaning. Martine was dozing
in a chair and he had just rolled page three hundred
and eighty-one into the machine when Kendall came
down the hall, dressed in blue pajamas and carrying
the other recorder. She set it on the desk in front of
him and reached for a cigarette.
“The baby’s born,” she said. It was six forty-five
A.M.
Martine was instantly alert. She went to the head
of the stairs and called out to Dudley, who came
running up, followed almost immediately by
Madame Buffet and Georges with a bottle of
champagne and six glasses.
The Wrong Venus — 148
Martine indicated the pile of manuscript. “Three
hundred and eighty pages typed, and one more roll
of tape on Kendall’s machine. We’ll have it ready by
noon.”
Dudley looked dazed. He gave a wondering shake
of the head. “Oh, boy,” he whispered, “if she’ll only
stay away a little longer.”
Kendall raised her glass. “To biogenesis.”
They drank several toasts. Dudley and Georges
went back downstairs. Colby and Martine explained
the proposed escape route to Kendall, and gave her
the folder containing her passport and the twentyfive
thousand francs for Clavel’s boat captain.
“Get your bag packed,” Martine said, “but stay in
those pajamas—it’ll be easier to put on the coverall.
There’s nothing to it the rest of the way, if we can
just get you out of here. It all depends on whether
we can move Decaux. Be downstairs and ready to go
by ten till eight.”
Kendall left. Colby thought of something else. “You
wouldn’t have any sleeping pills in that pharmacy of
yours, would you?” he asked Martine.
“Sure. Why?”
“Give me three of ‘em. For our friend downstairs.”
They went down to the salon. Colby sent Madame
Buffet to the kitchen for a glass of water, a hammer,
and a screwdriver. He asked Dudley to hold the gun
on the man while he unbound his hands and then relashed
them against his body so he could lie on his
back.
“Okay, in with him,” Colby said. They lifted him
into Kendall’s crate. Colby removed the gag.
“What’s that for?” Dudley asked.
Colby indicated the pills in Martine’s hand.
“There’s no way to tie him in there so he can’t kick
around and make a lot of noise. So we just put him
to sleep.”
“It’ll be interesting to see how you get him to
swallow them,” Martine said.
The Wrong Venus — 149
“He’ll swallow or drown,” Colby replied in French.
“But how are you going to get ‘em in his mouth?”
she asked. The man’s string of curses had cut off
and he’d clenched his jaw as soon as he saw the
pills.
“Easy,” Colby said. He knelt beside the box and
took the hammer and screwdriver from Madame
Buffet. He inserted the screwdriver blade between
the man’s lips, selected an incisor, and drew “Back
the hammer. “Just knock out a tooth,” he went on in
French, “and drop ‘em in. If he swallows the tooth
too it won’t hurt him.” The man’s mouth opened in a
great hippo yawn, the pills fell in, and were washed
down with a swallow of water.
Colby retied the gag, and began to nail the lid on.
* * *
It was seven thirty-five. “Time to go,” he said. He
took a last look through the window drapes. Decaux
was nowhere in sight yet, but a car with one man in
it was parked across the street. Martine gave Colby
the car keys, and silently held up crossed fingers. He
went out and got in the Jaguar.
A block away he met Decaux coming along the
opposite sidewalk with his easel and box of paints.
He sighed with relief. Decaux was infinitely the most
dangerous of them, but he was probably the only
one with the intelligence and daring to see the
opportunity and seize it. He went on two more
blocks and turned toward the Bois de Bologne.
There was probably less than one chance in a
hundred he was being followed, but he had to
eliminate that one.
It was a beautiful morning, crisp and clear with
pockets of opalescent mist that reminded him of
Turner and flashes of crimson and gold on every
side. His own personal choice for Heaven, he
thought, would be an eternity of successive handpicked
October days in Paris. After, of course, the
last automobile in it had been hunted down and
beaten to death with flails. He doubled back and
The Wrong Venus — 150
forth across the Bois at different speeds for ten
minutes, and stopped to smoke a cigarette. Nobody
was following him. He drove back to the Rue
Celéste. The van was already parked at the
rendezvous point, and Roberto was just pulling in
with the pickup. It was five of eight.
They greeted him warmly and with suppressed but
still evident excitement. “Take a look,” Roberto said
proudly, opening the rear door of the camper body.
It held two bunks with mattresses and pillows, and
a shelf at the forward end supported a radio and
reading lamp. There were small windows on each
side, well-covered with dark green curtains. Most of
the floor space between the bunks was taken up
with boxes of food and a small icebox. Once she was
in there she was out of sight all the way to the boat.
“Good,” Colby said.
Henri sighed. “Lucky Roberto.”
“Well, I offered to cut cards, didn’t I?” Roberto
said. “If it was all right with your wife—”
“The gambler!”
Roberto locked the door. They went back to the
van. Colby opened the doors, hopped up inside, and
began to pull on the big blue denim coverall. He put
on the beret. A Peugeot pulled in to the curb behind
them and four men got out. Colby knelt on the
tailgate and asked, “Which one is Monsieur Voivin?”
“Me,” said the one who’d been driving. He was a
heavy-set man in early middle age with wiry gray
hair and a totally masculine but still somehow gentle
face. He looked like a cop, all right, and a good one,
Colby thought. He introduced himself and brought
out an envelope containing two thousand francs. He
passed it out to them, and spoke to Voivin.
“Let’s run through it once, the way Martine
explained it on the phone. You pull up right behind
us. Take it from there.”
Voivin ran through his part without hesitation.
“Perfect,” Colby said. “In two minutes exactly.” They
got back in the Peugeot.
The Wrong Venus — 151
He spoke to Henri. “And the gasoline?”
“Less than a liter. Four kilometers at the most.”
“Good. And it’s already been reported stolen?”
“An hour ago. Driven off from an address on the
Boulevard Montparnasse.” He grinned. “The ignition
switch is jumpered.”
Colby nodded. “Leave the engine running, the
wires twisted together but out of sight under the
dash.”
“D’accord.”
Colby looked at his watch. It was three minutes
after eight. He felt the stirring of butterfly wings.
“Take it away.”
The doors closed. They began to move.
They turned right. They were on the Avenue Victor
Hugo. He looked around the dim interior of the van.
It contained a disassembled bedstead, a chest of
drawers, an old trunk, and a couple of small rugs.
Traffic snarled around them. They swung right
again, into the Rue des Feuilles Mortes, and began
to gather speed. Decaux would have seen them by
now and recognized the van. Brakes squealed and
they swerved in to the curb.
Cab doors banged and there was the sound of
running footsteps. The rear doors opened. Colby
jumped down, not even looking toward Decaux, and
the three of them strode up the walk. The front door
opened as they hit the steps, and closed behind
them. Everybody was in the salon. Martine was
peering through a tiny opening in the drapes. They
grabbed up the crate.
Madame Buffet swung the door open again. They
squeezed through and she closed it.
They hurried down the walk, trying to keep stride.
Decaux merely glanced toward them once, held up
his thumb for perspective, and went on sketching.
Wondering what kind of collection of damned fools
he’s dealing with, Colby thought, believing they
could draw him away with as obvious a decoy as
The Wrong Venus — 152
this. Bougie wouldn’t be in the box. But still—why
the hurry?
They set it on the tailgate and shoved. It slid on.
This was where it had to be when the carload of
detectives swung into the street, merely sitting
there, with only Decaux knowing it had come from
the house. Henri hopped up inside to help slide it
back. He was out of sight of Decaux now, and facing
back toward the avenue. He nodded. Voivin was
coming.
The Wrong Venus — 153
13
The Peugeot swerved into the curb and stopped
some six feet behind them. Colby and Roberto, still
shoving on the box, turned at the sound. They
exchanged a quick glance and assumed attitudes of
studied nonchalance. The four men piled out of the
car and onto the sidewalk.
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?”
The Wrong Venus — 154
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
The Wrong Venus — 155
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
The Wrong Venus — 156
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
The Wrong Venus — 157
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 eastbound
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
savor 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.
The Wrong Venus — 158
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
The Wrong Venus — 159
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?—
The Wrong Venus — 160
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.
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