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.

The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams 1966(page 1)

1
Lawrence Colby by the age of thirty had been a
Korean paratrooper, art student, PR man, scriptwriter,
a dealer in art forgeries, and newspaperman,
and had once ghost-written the autobiography of a
homicidal maniac; he had been married twice, once
to an Italian actress with kleptomania and once to a
wealthy middle-aged woman who stoned embassies
and slugged cops with protest signs at
demonstrations; he had been beaten up in riots, shot
through the leg in Houston, Texas, by a woman who
was trying to kill her husband, and had been down
the Cresta Run at St. Moritz three times; but
afterward he was prone to look back on all this part
of his life before he met Martine Randall as a time
when nothing ever happened.

The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams 1960(page 13)

13
I was on him before it came clear. His chair went over
backward under the two of us. I felt the tug of the wires
connecting me to the lie-detector as I came out to the end of
their slack, and I heard it crash to the floor behind us,
bringing the table with it. Flowers gave a shrill cry, whether
of outrage or terror I couldn’t tell, and ran past us toward
the door.
Slidell and I were in a hopeless tangle, still propped
against the upended chair as we fought for the gun. He had
it out of his pocket now. I grabbed it by the cylinder and
barrel with my left hand, forcing it away from me, and tried
to hit him with a right, but the wire connected to my arm was
fouled somewhere in the mess now and it brought me up
short. Then Bonner was standing over us. The blackjack
sliced down, missing my head and cutting across my
shoulder. I heaved, rolling Slidell over on top of me. For an
instant I could see the couch where she had been sitting. She
was gone. Thank God, she’d run the second I’d lunged at
him. If she had enough lead, she might get away.