The Wrong Venus (5 page)

“What do you do now?” Colby asked.

“I play a small part in a film now and then, and do an odd job occasionally for a friend of mine who runs a detective agency.”

They were down at Orly and cleared through Customs at twelve-thirty P.M. They located an unoccupied telephone
cabine.
While Colby searched for a
jeton
among the Swiss, French, and English coins in his pockets, she dug a small address book from her purse. He dialed.

“Hello, hello!” Dudley barked.

“This is Colby. Has he called again?”

“Yeah. About twenty minutes ago. I gave him the
rappley a sank ur
business, and I think he understood. But why in hell didn’t they get her to call, if they couldn’t speak English?”

“They’re calling from a public phone. But let’s get to the first job. You’ve still got him?”

“Yeah. He’s quiet now; he’s broken all the chairs on the door and given up. His name’s Moffatt, and he’s staying at the George V.”

“The George V? He’s not a newspaperman, he’s a journalist.”

“He’s a no-good bastard. Okay, what else?”

“Go up to the office where he can hear you,” Colby said. “Pretend to call Air France, and make a reservation on the next flight to Brazil or Outer Mongolia or anywhere there’s no extradition for fraud. Make it good, you’re taking it on the lam—”

“What’s all this for?”

Colby cut him off. “Don’t argue, and don’t ask questions. We haven’t got time for explanations. We’ll take a cab from here. Watch for us. When we go past the house we’ll wave. Then I want you to let him escape.”

“Escape?
Are you nuts? Hell—?

“Stop interrupting. And when I say escape, I mean escape. He’ll bribe his way out. Tell the housekeeper to go up there and stooge around the outer office with a carpet sweeper or something so he’ll know it’s not you.”

“I’m not sure I can explain all that to her.”

“Then just tell her to come to the door when we get there.”

“Okay. What else?”

“As soon as he’s out of the house, start calling the George V at about five-minute intervals with messages for a Miss Nadja Loring. She’s due there for lunch. Have her paged.”

“What kind of messages, and who from?”

“From anybody. The Coast is trying to get her, London’s been on the horn all morning, don’t forget the appointment at Balmain, call Liz and Dick—you know the drill, break out the rubber boots and shovels.”

“Anything else?”

“Just a description.”

“His mother’s probably cut her throat because they didn’t get the pills on the market in time—”

“No, I mean, what does he look like?”

“Big beefy bastard about fifty or fifty-five, lot of grayish-red hair, and a nose like a neon pineapple.”

“Right. Watch for us.”

He hung up and turned to Martine. “Have you got any sunglasses?”

“For a trip to London? I’ll pick up a pair at one of the shops while you’re calling the dog man. Here’s some more
jetons.”

She left. Colby looked up the number in his address book. André Michod, who ran a small bookshop in the Boulevard Baspail, owned a pair of borzois he rented to studios. Madame answered. Yes, Sacha and Dmitri were at liberty and could be engaged for the afternoon. She would have them brushed and ready. In about twenty minutes, Colby said. He hung up and dialed Bill Elkins.

Bill was an old friend, an ex-newspaper photographer turned free lance. There was no answer at his apartment. Colby tried his alternate business address, the café across the street. Monsieur Elkins?
Mais oui. Ne quittez pas. . . .
Bill came on. He sounded sober, and wasn’t doing anything at the moment.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Colby said. “A hundred francs, and it’ll take about an hour.”

“What’s the average prison term if I get caught?”

“It’s perfectly legal.”

“I suppose it could happen. Okay, what do I photograph?”

“Nothing. I just want somebody who looks like a photographer.”

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“Show up in front of the George V in about thirty minutes loaded down with gear—couple of cameras, lens cases, tripod, flash-holders, the works. Just wait there. Pretty soon you’ll see me go in the entrance, and right behind me a very pretty girl will get out of a taxi. You come in with her—”

“Then the lights go out, and when they come back on, I’m dancing with Fidel Castro and you’ve got the babe. I’ve been through this before.”

“No. You make the entrance with her, and stay with her. You’ve been with her all morning. Catch?”

“Okay. How do I recognize her?”

“Watch carefully for a tall, beautiful brunette wearing dark glasses and a natural mink coat and leading a pair of Russian wolfhounds.”

“What color wolfhounds?”

“Shut up and listen, I haven’t got much time. You’ll join me inside—in the bar, I hope. Take your cues from us, and play it off the board. You won’t have to say much.”

“Who’s all this for?”

“A newspaperman named Moffatt, a big guy with a red nose. You don’t know him.”

“No. But I probably will. I hope he dances a slow foxtrot.”

“See you in forty minutes to an hour.” Colby hung up. Martine was hurrying toward him. They ran for the exits.

It was one of those afternoons Colby loved best in Paris, that rare October day when it wasn't raining and the Automobile Show had already closed. In autumn's golden haze there was an Impressionist softening of form and line, and the chestnut trees were beginning to turn.

Number 7 Rue des Feuilles Mortes was a block and a half from the Avenue Victor Hugo, just beyond the Rue Ciel Bleu, a massive gray stone house with a slate roof. The taxi, with Colby alone in the back seat, slid to the curb and stopped. Colby looked back. The other taxi, which they’d picked up in the Boulevard Raspail, was just turning into the street. It came on past with Martine sharing the rear seat with Sacha and Dmitri, who looked out at the sixteenth
arrondissement
with patrician calm, appreciative but not overawed. It turned right at the next corner and disappeared.

Colby took the two bags, told the driver to wait, and went up the steps. He rang the bell. Almost immediately, the heavy carved door jerked open, and he was face to face with a woman who seemed to be violently in motion while standing still, like a hummingbird. She would have been hard pushed to weigh eighty pounds, even with the Disque Bleu dangling from the corner of her mouth, and might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years of age. Brown eyes regarded him with the Parisienne’s compound of warmth and humor and total lack of illusion about anything whatever.

But of course, she said in a husky voice, Monsieur Colby’s arrival had been awaited. She was Madame Buffet. Colby smiled and said he was enchanted. She threw the bags behind her into the doorway, and he touched on the affair of the prisoner.

Oh, yes, one hears the outcries, and one senses he is a prisoner strongly discontented with all aspects of the situation, but. . . .

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.

Her eyes narrowed and she was instantly on guard. Why would the Americans go to all the trouble to trap the pigeon and then toss the profits away? Colby hastened to explain. This was merely the opening move in a more complicated affair; the pigeon had to be allowed to escape in order that the further developments could unroll themselves. Aaaah! One comprehends. Then the thing to do was get him out forthwith, and perhaps they would set the trap again. Exactly, Colby said.

Writing books seemed to be an interesting field in America, she observed; one had a little difficulty at times in following the process, but it was lively. It was no wonder the Serie Noire published so many of them. Well, if Monsieur Colby was ready, she would throw out the first pigeon.

Colby thanked her and went back to the taxi. He directed the chauffeur to go on to the next corner and turn right. Here, in the Rue Mon Coeur, Martine’s taxi was parked at the opposite curb, just back from the corner so as to be out of sight of anyone emerging from the house. They made a U-turn and parked behind it. He got out and walked forward.

“From Dudley’s description,” he said, “the chances are he’ll head for the bar to write it. A nose like that takes a lot of maintenance.”

She winked and nodded. He walked up to the corner and looked down along the Rue des Feuilles Mortes toward the taxi stand on the opposite side of the Avenue Victor Hugo. There were two taxis in it at the moment. Nothing stirred along the street. He lighted a cigarette and waited several minutes.

Then suddenly the door of Number 7 burst open, and a big, rumpled-looking man lunged down the steps and turned toward the avenue with the shambling run of a bear. He looked around once, but Colby ducked back out of sight. Colby held up circled thumb and forefinger to Martine behind him, and looked again. Moffatt was crossing the avenue. He got into the Citroën at the head of the taxi station. Colby was already gesturing for his. It came up abreast of him, and he got in just as the Citroën disappeared from view.

When they emerged on the avenue, the Citroën was a couple of blocks ahead. Colby leaned forward and pointed it out to the driver. They settled in behind it, not getting too close, and Colby turned to look back. Martine’s taxi was turning in behind them.

They closed up a little as they entered the great interweaving whirlpool of traffic in the Etoile. There were a half-dozen Citroën taxis in sight now, but Colby kept his eyes riveted on the one Moffatt was in. It turned down the Champs Élysées, taking the extreme right lane. There was no doubt now Moffatt was headed for the hotel, just as he had gambled. When they turned into the Avenue George V, Martine’s taxi was the second car behind them.

Moffatt’s taxi pulled up before the hotel entrance and he leaped out before the doorman could even reach it. Colby leaned forward and paid the driver as his taxi came to a stop, and was out and crossing the sidewalk by the time Moffatt had disappeared inside. Bill Elkins, draped with photographic equipment, was off to his right, boredly watching traffic. He glanced at Colby with no sign of recognition, a large young man with a broken nose and an air of ageless disillusion.

Colby hurried in the entrance. Moffatt was at the concierge’s desk, picking up telegraph blanks. Which way would he go, toward the elevators or the bar? Colby glanced behind him. Martine and the wolfhounds were being assisted from the taxi by the doorman and a chasseur, and Bill had already converged on her. They were right on cue. Moffatt turned away from the concierge’s desk, toward the bar. Somewhere toward the dining room a chasseur was paging Mademoiselle Loring.

The bar was about half full. Moffatt had taken a table near the far corner and was in conversation with a waiter. The waiter departed. He undipped a pen, bent over the telegraph blanks, and began furiously writing. Colby sat down two tables away, facing the entrance with his back to the reporter. Moffatt paid no attention.

Martine slipped in with the quiet unobtrusiveness of an ice-show finale, preceded by the wolfhounds and followed by the camera-laden Elkins, turning to call “Here,
garsong”
to the chasseur paging Mademoiselle Loring, and then back to wave and shriek a greeting to Colby. “There’s Lawrence now. Are we late, darling?”

Colby stood up, leaned in over the wolfhounds to kiss her, and asked, “Nadja, honey. How’d it go this morning?” By now a waiter was hovering on the perimeter of all this confusion, and the chasseur was holding out the telephone slip. Colby took it, tossed him a franc, glanced at it, and went on without even a pause: “It’s Stillman, in London. I’ll call him myself, after lunch. It’s about the Manning tie-in. What’ll you have? And how about you, Bill baby?”

They sat down, Martine opposite him, facing Moffatt’s table, and ordered Scotch. Martine took out a cigarette. Colby lighted it for her. “Paris is a doll,” she said. “I’ve looked at so many statues I feel like a caretaker at Forest Lawn.”

“You get some pretty good stuff?” Colby asked Elkins.

The latter shrugged. “The usual—the eternal wonder of Paris, youth, innocence, dewy-eyed enchantment—”

“You’d have died!” Martine laughed and tugged the ears of one of the wolfhounds. “I was posing in front of this kooky statue, and Dmitri wanted to lay a dachshund. Talk about on water skis!”

“Now, this afternoon—” Colby began.

Martine interrupted. “I’m dying to hear about the Manning thing.”

Colby shot a quick glance around the bar and spoke in a lower tone, but one that could still be overheard from Moffatt’s table. “We’re in, baby. It’s so perfect I get gooseflesh.”

The tip of her shoe found his and pressed. They had the Moffatt ear. She had removed her glasses, and now she gazed at him wide-eyed. “She really fell for it?”

“She? Oh, that bubble-headed girl from the Tulsa paper.” Colby dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “Honey, you’ve been out of touch all morning, you haven’t heard the word. We did even better. Before she could show up, we hooked a real man-sized chump with circulation.”

“Who?”

“Some joker named Muffett or Moffatt, from the
Los Angeles Chronicle
. He just walked in on the setup, cold, and went for it like some kid from the
Pleasanton Weekly Argus.”

“Oooooh, wonderful! And he’s already sent in the story?”

“No, no, of course not. Dudley’s got him locked in the house—”

“But why?” She shook her head in baffled wonder. “Lawrence, it’s so complicated.”

He sighed. “Look, baby, honey, Nadja darling—the
Chronicle’s
an afternoon paper, and there’s the difference in time—”

“Doll,” Elkins said. “See? You’ve got this orange here, and over here’s a candle, and the orange is turning—”

“Oh, I know about that,” she said. “It gets late earlier in Los Angeles than it does here. Or is it early later?”

“That’s it! You’ve got it,” Elkins approved. “Astronomers call it the Yogi Berra Effect.”

“Dudley’s selling him the clincher,” Colby explained. “He’s pretending to hold him there so he can make it onto a plane for Brazil before the story breaks. Actually, of course, the idea is to keep him from filing the story until just before deadline of today’s final, so they won’t have time to check with the embassy in Athens to see if some American named Manning did die in the Cyclades. So they’ll run the story without the check, because if Dudley’s taking it on the lam it’s bound to be true.

“The wire services will pick it up, and the morning papers can’t check with the embassy either, because it’ll be closed. So the wire services and all the papers that have Paris bureaus will be calling the house here and sending men around. No answer. Nothing. So it’s true, and Dudley’s flown the coop. So the morning papers will run it. Boy, the headlines!
Best-selling Author Dead. Fraud Suspected.

“Then about this time tomorrow, when somebody finally does get in the house, here’s Manning typing away to beat hell on another door-stopper, laying ‘em three to a page. What’s all the uproar? Of course she didn’t answer the phone, she never does when she’s working. And her secretary was off last night.

“Other writers? Here? Dudley? What drunk poured that one out of a bottle? Dudley’s not even in Paris; he’s in New York.

“So all the papers that ran the original story will run a retraction, and there’ll be fifty to a hundred that didn’t run it the first time that will now because they can’t resist the temptation to quote Mark Twain—”

“Isn’t that the living end?” Martine caught Elkins’ arm and cooed with admiration. “Who’s Mark Twain?”

“The book goes on sale day after tomorrow,” Colby went on, “right in the middle of it, with a big ad campaign. And in our shy little way we break down and admit that Rumford Productions has bought the motion-picture rights and that it’s going to be your first starring vehicle, and it just happens we have all those stills of you and Manning discussing the role in the old book-lined study around the famous typewriter—” He paused, shaking his head with wonder. “Brother. It gets you, right in here.”

Martine’s eyes were suddenly filled with bathos. “But, Lawrence, what about this poor Mr. Muffett? He might have kiddies. Won’t he lose his job?”

“So we’ll send him a Christmas basket, Colby said. “Look, he’ll get another job. . . .”

A chair scraped behind him, and then a shoe. I hope the waiter didn’t leave a bottle on his table, he thought. Then he was looking up into a beefy face dominated by its landmark of a nose and very nasty expression. Moffatt was standing at his left, leaning over the table with the telegraph forms in his hand.

“I was just wondering if I couldn’t buy you charming people a drink,” he said. “I’m Moffatt of the
Pleasanton Weekly Argus.”

Colby stared in confusion. “What? Moffatt? Now wait a minute, let’s don’t get excited—”

Moffatt grinned evilly. “Aw, come on, let me sweeten your drink for you, Lawrence baby.”

He ripped the telegraph forms to shreds, wadded them, and shoved them into Colby’s glass. One strip still dangled over the side. He lifted it between thumb and forefinger, dropped it in, and poked it down carefully into the whiskey and ice.

“Now, look—!” Colby protested.

“And I’ll tell you about the
Chronicle?
Moffatt rasped. “Sabine Manning and your friend Dewy-Eyes wouldn’t get two lines back in the truss ads if they jumped off the Eiffel Tower with Mao Tse-tung. See you around, Lawrence baby.”

He went out. Martine and Colby looked at each other, and she closed one eye in a solemn wink.

“I knew I should have had my silicone injection,” Elkins said. “He didn’t ask me to dance.”

They paid off Elkins and returned the wolfhounds to the Boulevard Raspail. It was three-ten P.M. when they entered the office on the second floor of the house at 7 Rue des Feuilles Mortes. Dudley was on the phone, talking to his stockbroker in New York. He covered the mouthpiece and looked up with the expression of a prisoner watching the jury file in. Martine held up circled thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes for a second, sighed, and spoke into the telephone again, a man running eternally across a river in desperate leaps from one sinking ice-floe to the next.

“. . . all right, sell that fifty shares of DuPont and one hundred of Eastern Airlines, and deposit the proceeds to her account at Chase Manhattan. She seems to like the color of their checks this week, or she’s used up the Irving Trust checkbook—”