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.”