The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 15)

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—”

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 14)

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

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 11)

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.

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 10)

She turned and looked. “My God!” Her elbow
knocked over the briefcase, and several packets of
one-hundred-franc notes spilled out on the table just
as the waiter arrived with the champagne. He
stopped, rooted, his mouth hanging open. Then
Colby’s gears meshed at last. He began scooping up
the bundles of francs and cramming them back into
the briefcase. Stripping a note from the last one, he
threw it on the table, zipped the briefcase, and they
headed for the entrance just as the gendarme
trotted in.
“One moment, Mademoiselle!” he said, and made
what was probably the greatest mistake of his
career up to that time. He put out a hand. Colby
groaned.
The Wrong Venus — 100
9
He went up, wheeling, came off the shoulder, and
headed rearward in a spectacular flash of blue. In
some corner of his mind not completely numb with
horror, Colby noted that she didn't seem to be
getting quite the distance she had earlier in the
morning. It might have been because he was a
bigger man, mature and solid and heavier all
around, and perhaps a little out of balance for
perfect flight trim with the gun attached to one side
of his belt, but more likely it was simply because she
hadn't had breakfast.

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 9)

“Actually, she can imitate any style of writing, and
this stuff of Manning’s was a cinch for her. She did a
The Wrong Venus — 79
page of it in Faulkner one day, just to bug
Merriman, and it was perfect. She could write as
fast as Sanborn, too, but she’s just not overwhelmed
with the seriousness of it all. The reason he got
ahead of her is he slept nights.
“Sometimes she wouldn’t get home till ten a.m.,
long after he’d gone to work. For breakfast she’d
have a split of champagne, six cups of coffee, and
three or four eggs, and then sit down at the
typewriter and start banging away. Vitality galore.”
“I can see how she and Dudley might get on each
other’s nerves,” Colby said. “Oh, she never paid any
attention to him. She just laughed at him or brushed
him off like a gnat—except that morning they had
the argument, I mean. She was apparently upset
about something, and when he started complaining
about her late hours, she blew up and told him off.”
“And that was the day she was kidnapped.”

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 8)

And then with a shy little smile she was
fumbling with the straps and buckles. The
negligee slipped from her body and she
stood before him completely nude, glossy,
deep-chested, clean-limbed, her
conformation impossible to fault. His
heart leaped. . . .
He ought to get a bet down on her before the
windows closed, Colby thought. There wasn’t much
doubt it needed the Flanagan touch to whip it into
final shape. After four o’clock he began to check the
time every few minutes. It was four-twenty . . . fourthirty-
five. ... At four-forty Dudley came in carrying
the two maps and a briefcase bulging with francs.
Colby checked the money. It was all right. As he was
closing the briefcase they heard the tapping of heels
in the hallway. Martine came in. She had changed
into a severe dark suit that looked like Balenciaga,
and in place of the mink was wearing a cloth coat
that was probably easier to drive in. It was obvious
from her expression that she had news.

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 7)

She shrugged. Happy prisoners were probably
rare anywhere. Colby gathered she had work of her
own to do without getting involved in American
activities like trapping each other, and in any event
nothing that happened in this household would ever
surprise her in the slightest. When, however, he
outlined just how the prisoner was to be allowed to
escape, her interest quickened. Yes, of course she
could understand one hundred francs spoken in
English. Also two hundred. Who knows, maybe he
would bring five hundred, if allowed to age a little
more.
No, Colby said, the essential was to harvest him as
quickly as possible; price was secondary. While he
wouldn’t dream of subjecting her to the humiliation
of taking the first offer, she must limit the
negotiations to a maximum of three minutes. She
agreed, though somewhat reluctantly. And now—
about splitting the take? It was all hers, Colby said,
and realized at once this was probably a tactical
error.

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 6)

“That’s right.”
The Wrong Venus — 41
“If they’re going to kidnap Americans, why the hell
don’t they learn English?”
“Look at the rest of it. Are there any figures?”
“Yeah. Here’s something that looks like one
hundred thousand. I guess that’s a one in front.”
“The European one. Dollars or francs?”
“Dollars—” Dudley did a double take, and gasped.
“A hundred thousand dollars? Are they nuts?”
“They think they’ve got Miss Manning.”
“I don’t care if they’ve got the Lido floor show. I
haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Okay,” Colby said crisply. “You need help, and
you need it bad. But one thing at a time. We’ve got
to get to Paris.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll see
what we can do about that reporter, and then try to
be at the house when your friend calls again. We
should be able to make it before five p.m. If he calls
before we get there, keep saying rappelez à cinq
heures—rappelez à cinq heures. Can you do that?”
“Rappley a sank ur. I can remember it.”