The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams 1966(page 5)

“Beautifully—until four days ago.”
The Wrong Venus — 33
In July, Dudley had gone to New York and located
a couple of writers, and brought them back to Paris
as a security measure. Naturally, the whole thing
had to be kept secret. Miss Manning’s literary agent
and publisher didn’t know she had disappeared, and
would go up like Krakatoa if they found out what
was going on. Dudley forged her signature on
correspondence and contracts.
As a team, the two writers clicked from the first
minute. Neither could have written it alone—one
hadn’t written anything in fifteen years and the
other had never written fiction at all—but together
they rolled it out like toothpaste, and it was pure
Manning. In two months they had half of it done.
Dudley sent that much of it off to New York, and her
agent and publisher raved about it. They said it was
the best thing she’d ever done.

The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams 1966(page 4)

3
It was one of those mornings Colby loved best in
London— that rare October day when miraculously
it was cursed with neither the Automobile Show nor
rain. Pale lemon sunlight slanted in on the carpet at
the other end of the room where her window
overlooked the traffic on the Thames. A breakfast
cart draped with a white cloth was parked near an
armchair, on it a silver coffee pot and a covered
chafing dish.
“Please sit down,” she said, indicating another
armchair near the writing desk. The dark hair was
rumpled, and she wore no make-up except a touch of
lipstick. Her uniform of the day, at least up to this
point, seemed to consist of nylon briefs, bra, a sheer
peignoir that wasn’t even very carefully belted, and
one fur-trimmed mule. In her left hand was a plate
containing the herring, or what was left of it. She sat
down crosswise in the armchair with a flash of long
bare legs, kicked off the other mule, and stretched
like a cat. She grinned at Colby. “A little stiff after
that workout yesterday. How about a kipper?”
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Coffee?”

The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams 1966(page 3)

The man in the seat glanced up. “I say, you don’t
happen to have the time?” He gave an apologetic
little smile. “My watch appears to have stopped.”
Colby stared down at him wordlessly, held out his
watch so the man could see it, and lunged forward
to his seat. His topcoat was lying in it. He grabbed it
up, sat down, and fastened his belt. The plane was
already dropping toward the end of the runway.
He leaned toward Martine, and whispered, “I’d
better leave ‘em. Ditch ‘em under a seat—”
“Don’t be silly. I said I’d get you through Customs,
didn’t I?” She was smiling, her eyes bright with
excitement. “We’ll muffle them, to start with. Roll
the vest in your topcoat, and then in this.” He
noticed then that she had a fur coat across her lap.
Apparently the stewardess had just returned it to
her.

The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams 1966(page 2)

The Wrong Venus — 9
The malevolent pulsing of the mainsprings died with
the first contact, like spiders in cyanide. They looked
at each other and winked. Then the plane dropped
from under them.
They were against the door in a frozen and
exaggerated tango step, the girl leaning backward
under him with her face against his chest, looking
upward. His clothing, which had flown off the hook,
began to settle. The shirt fell across his head like a
white burnoose. She grinned, and began to hum
“The Sheik of Araby.”
The plane was shooting upward now and he
couldn’t straighten against the pull of gravity.
Something was digging into his shoulder, and he
realized that it was the watch movement she still
had in her hand. He looked around on the floor for
the other.