Dudley was leaning numbly against the wall, staring at nothing. His lips moved. “And all I wanted,” he whispered, “was to get a book written.”
“Cheer up, Merriman.” Martine had recovered a little of her old bubbling confidence. “We’ll be in production in twenty minutes, and you’ll have your book by tomorrow morning. . . “ She caught sight of the telegram then, still lying on the rug, and stooped to pick it up. “After what the poor man went through to deliver it, we could at least look at it. It’s for you. From Nice.”
Dudley shook his head. “I don’t know anybody in Nice.”
She tore it open and unfolded it. It seemed to be several pages. She turned back to the last one. “Hey! It’s from Miss Manning.”
Oh-oh, Colby thought. There was utter silence for a moment as she flipped the sheets back and began to scan the first. “Merriman,” she said gently, “you’d better sit down.”
“Go ahead,” Dudley said. “Nothing else can happen to me.”
“Monsieur Merriman Dudley, Seven Rue et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” she said. “The text reads: Urgent you retain services best available public relations firm to commence immediate task of complete eradication my unfortunate image as writer of sexy drivel, and simultaneous promotion of emergence new Sabine Manning, historian, submarine archaeologist, and student of ancient Mediterranean cultures Stop After six months intensive work, research now essentially complete for my new book, an exploration in depth of mysterious and hitherto unexplained similarities between bronze metalwork of Phoenician galleys circa one hundred and fifty B.C. And those of latter-period Roman republic, hinting strongly at cartels or industrial espionage transcending national loyalties before and during Third Punic War Stop—”
Dudley collapsed on the sofa with his face in his hands. Martine looked at him with concern, but went on: “—Stop You can readily understand that in view of great importance of this work it is imperative that its appearance be unstigmatized by even any residual impression in public mind linking name Sabine Manning with previously published sex rubbish—”
She broke off. Dudley had been quietly sobbing, but now he began to giggle. “Punic Wars,” he tittered. “Writing a book about the Punic Wars.” With a great howl of laughter, he dropped to his knees on the rug in front of the couch.
“Get some water,” Colby snapped to Madame Buffet and lunged for him. Hauling him up, he dropped him back on the sofa and slapped him across both sides of the face. “Snap out of it!” The laughter cut off, and Dudley stared at him without comprehension. “Haul ass,” he muttered. “Call Air France—” His eyes closed and he slumped back.
“Poor Merriman,” Martine said.
“And he almost had it made.” Kendall spread her hands. “Where do we go from here?”
“Maybe I’m a masochist,” Colby said, “but is there any more?”
“Yes,” Martine said. She continued reading. “Cannot emphasize too strongly that all publicity releases must, repeat must, deplore present shoddy state of writing and publishing worlds in their pandering to and promotion of unhealthy preoccupation with sex Stop Yacht now undergoing repairs and refitting here, so will be personally available coming week or ten days for cocktail parties, interviews and/or press conferences as arranged by chosen public relations firm Stop—”
There was a sudden outcry somewhere in the rear of the house, followed by a crash and a volley of indignant French. Colby whirled. Madame Buffet had gone to the kitchen after water, but the footsteps pounding up the hallway toward them were too heavy to be hers. “Down, get out of sight!” he snapped to Martine and Kendall as he jumped back against the wall beside the door. They dropped behind the sofa and box. The man shot into the room, drawn automatic thrust out before him, saw nobody but the unconscious Dudley, and started to turn. Colby pushed off the wall and hit him from behind with the hardest diving tackle he had ever made.
The man’s head snapped back with a whiplash motion and then banged against the floor as they came down. The gun came to rest on the rug in front of them. Colby grabbed it up by the butt, rapped him on the head with it and then once more for insurance, and sprang up. Kendall and Martine emerged from their hiding places. “If he comes to,” he said to Kendall, “bounce him off the wall.”
Gun in hand, he ran down the hallway. In the kitchen, Madame Buffet was just getting off the floor, making too much forceful and bitter comment to be seriously hurt. He shot past her, locked the door leading into the alley, and threw the bolt. Turning, he helped her up. “You all right?”
“. . . littérature . . . merde . . . !”
“Is there another outside door?”
She shook her head. “. . . maison de fous. . . .”
Colby yanked open drawers and closets, grabbed up an extension cord and a handful of dish towels, and ran back to the salon. The man was still out, with Kendall standing over him. He tied his legs together with the electrical cord and used the dish towels to bind his hands and gag him. Dudley stirred and sat up.
Colby reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table beside the recorder and lighted one, conscious of exhaustion and utter defeat. For twenty-four hours they had been plugging successive and ever-bigger holes in a dike that had been doomed to begin with, and now they were finished. Decaux knew Kendall was in here, and there was no way to get her out. The novel was worthless. So was their agreement with Dudley, and the six-thousand-dollar check they already had.
Martine still had the telegram. As calmly as though there had been no interruption, she flipped over to the last page and read it: “Already have photographic coverage of expedition yacht and personnel adequate for all publicity purposes Signed Sabine Manning.”
For a moment no one moved. Then Dudley dropped to the floor and began stuffing the money back in the briefcase. He zipped it and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Martine demanded.
“Brazil,” he said. “For a start.”
“Merriman!” Her eyes flashed. “Come back here.”
“You may be crazy—”
“You’d go off and leave Kendall here to be killed?”
“What can I do about it?”
“Carry out the terms of your agreement. We need help to get her out of France, and it takes money.”
He stared at her. “You expect me to pay out more money for that goddam manuscript—now? After that telegram?”
“Merriman Dudley, we’ve been friends a long time, but if you go out that door we’re finished. We got that reporter out of your hair, then Lawrence got Kendall back, and the two of them saved your thirty thousand francs. So now it’s all for nothing because you want to chicken out and run. After all, what have we done for you lately?”
“Sauve qui peut,” Colby said bitterly.
“What does that mean?”
“Take up the ladder, mate, I’m aboard.”
“Look—” Dudley protested.
“Never mind,” Martine said to Colby, “let him go.” She reached for her purse. Taking out her checkbook, she addressed Dudley with icy disdain, “But before you do, I want to buy that manuscript.”
“What?”
“Get your records and tell me exactly what you paid Sanborn and Kendall for writing it. I’ll give you a check payable to Sabine Manning for the full amount, and it’s mine.”
“Why?”
“Never mind why. Either honor your agreement or sell me the manuscript and get out of my way.”
Colby watched with awe. She was fantastic—not only as an actress, but as a gambler. This was the coldest bluff he had ever seen.
“Listen!” Dudley shouted. “You read the telegram! She’s not only gone nuts, but she’s in Nice! She could walk in here any minute!”
“We could still have it finished before she gets here.”
“What the hell good is it? We’ve run out of time. There’s no way we can keep her from finding out about it—”
Martine interrupted. “Then you will sell it?”
“Martine—if we delivered it to Holton Press in the next five minutes.” Dudley took a deep breath and tried again, desperation written on his face. “Look—they’ve got a sex novel we say she just finished, and in every newspaper in the Western hemisphere she’s on her soapbox trying to have it outlawed. They just might wonder—”
“Could you just give me a simple yes or no?”
“How do you expect to sell it?” Dudley cried out. “Without Sabine Manning’s name on it you won’t get your money back.”
“I’m waiting, Merriman.”
Up against the unanswerable, Dudley broke at last. “All right.” He slumped down on the sofa. “I’ll stay.”
“That’s better.” She smiled. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
“But let’s be sure we understand the agreement. I pay for the smuggling operation now, but the twenty thousand is no-cure-no-pay. You don’t get a dollar of it unless that manuscript goes to Holton Press with Miss Manning’s name on it.”
“Fair enough. We wouldn’t have taken the job unless we thought we could do it.” Her voice was confident, but the face thoughtful as she glanced at the man on the floor, and then toward Colby. Their eyes met, the knowledge unspoken between them. Now that Decaux knew Kendall was in here, getting her out alive was going to take something approximating a miracle.
And there was the further matter of keeping him and his mob from getting in. They had a gun—two of them, in fact—and both outside doors were locked. But there still remained the windows.
As though she’d been following his line of thought word for word, Martine asked Dudley, “Do all the windows have shutters?”
“Yes,” he said. “But anybody could tear one off.”
“Not without noise. Close and fasten all of them except that one.” She nodded to the one looking on the street. They won’t try to break in there with a street light in front of the house, and we want to be able to see out.”
“Okay.” Dudley went out.
She turned to Kendall. “Now, where would you like to work?”
“My same room. Second floor, just down the hall from the office.”
“Good. The recorder’s ready to go. Will you need any help running it?”
“I hope not. I’m going to dictate the first four hours from a hot bath.”
Martine opened her purse again. “Here’s a Dexedrine so you won’t fall asleep.” Kendall took the tablet, picked up the recorder, and hurried up the stairs.
Colby reached for another cigarette. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
Martine’s face was still overlaid with that slightly frowning, thoughtful expression. “It wasn’t entirely bluff. I would have bought it.”
Colby stared, with a feeling he was lost. He and this girl had an ability to communicate without speech, up to a point, but now she was ahead of him. They’d had to hold Dudley to his agreement because they couldn’t abandon Kendall. In addition to the fact they both liked her, they were the ones who’d brought her into this death trap. But the manuscript?
“If you want to start a fire,” he said, “lighter fluid is cheaper.”
“No,” she said musingly. “You’re falling into Merriman’s trap, the canalized line of reasoning. The key to the whole thing, of course, is still Miss Manning, but no longer in the same way. The question is who is she now? What is she?”
“Instant Suetonius. We know that. Schliemann with fins.”
“No. I mean, precisely what happened to her?”
The crusade against sex? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me,” she said.
“Look . . . she’s a plain, very shy woman, the eternal wallflower, rejected by everybody. She gets hurt, sure, but never really clobbered because she stays in her shell where they can’t reach her. Then Roberto rolls her in the hay, she loves it, falls for him like a ton of bricks, begins to open up and come out, as vulnerable as a shucked oyster, and bang—she gets it right between the eyes. That bastard, as many women as he’s left, you’d think he could do it with a little grace.”
“I’m not sure you’re right.” She smiled. “But I’m interested to hear you’re an authority on how to leave women.”
“I’m just a good listener. I was in Korea with a guy who was going to write a book on it.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know, he could never seem to sharpen his timing. The last I heard, he’d left four, and his alimony bill was six thousand dollars a month. But why don’t you agree with it?”
“I’m not sure. Just a hunch. It’s too pat, anyway, a cliché.”
“Sure. But what’s a cliché except something that happens all the time? It’s standard situation nine-D right out of the stock bin, but it’s still true. She was probably pleading with him when he walked out on her and he got bugged and said something cruel, and the human race goes down swinging. She was right back where she started, only now it was a thousand times worse because she’d begun to think that somebody could care for her—”
“When do we get to the snowstorm, when her father won’t let her in the house with the baby?”
“Well, what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still lost in thought. “But Roberto doesn’t quite ring true, and neither does her telegram.” She stood up. “Give me about half an hour. I’ll be up in the office.”
12
Colby checked the man on the floor. He was heavy-shouldered, 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.
He perched on a corner of the desk and reached for a cigarette. “Ogden Nash was right. You can’t get there from here.”
“Sure you can.” She leaned back in the chair, tapping her teeth with the end of a pencil. “But to dispose of the easy part first, let’s start a half-mile from here. North Africa’s the best bet. It’s far enough away, and she can catch a plane or ship to the States with no trouble. D’accord?”
“Sure. But how does she get there?”
“The same way you get in the Social Register or a floating crap game—money and connections.” She shuffled through her notes. “Here’s a number to call in Nice, a man named Jules Clavel. He has a finger in all kinds of rackets there and in Marseille. He made a fortune smuggling out of Tangier just after the war, and still has some good fast boats and contacts all along the African coast. His mistress is a friend of mine, and she’s already called him to establish our credentials. But before we phone, maybe you’d better knock on Kendall’s door and see if she can give us an approximate time she’ll be through.”
“Which is hers?”
“The next one on the right.”
The door was closed, but he could hear the murmur of her voice inside. He knocked twice before she heard him. “Come in,” she called. He pushed open the door. The black dress and her slip were on the bed, and an open suitcase on a stand at the foot of it. There was a typewriter on a stand near the dresser. The drapes were tightly drawn across the window, but the bathroom door was ajar. Through it he could hear the splash of water and her voice.
“
. . . the immemorial dark tide of ecstasy and desire and the wild sweet singing in the blood period paragraph—who is it?”
“Colby. Can you give us a rough idea when you’ll be finished? We’ve got to set up a timetable.”
“Hmmmmm—let’s see—forty-six pages to go. Seven tomorrow morning at the latest. Quote Oh, Greg, Greg, Greg, unquote she whispered comma delirious with rapture comma—”
Thanks,” he said. He started out.
“—melting under the touch of hands that left their tracery of fire—oh, Colby.”
He turned. “What?”
“In my bag there’s another bottle of bath salts, Prince Matchabelli, I think it is. Will you hand it to me? Quote Oh, God, darling, unquote she gasped, quote I love it, I love it—”
He rooted through a welter of nylon and lace and located it while she went on dictating. “Here you go.” He reached it in around the door.
“—darling, darling, darling—you’ll have to come a little closer.”
“You mean me,” he asked, “or Greg?”
“You . . . down a little . . . not quite yet . . . oh, go ahead and dump it in, I’m submerged.”
He went in. She was up to her shoulders in foam, the microphone held in one hand. The recorder was on a chair beside the tub, the clipboard with the rest of Sanborn’s manuscript propped up against it. She tore off a page and let it fall among the half dozen already scattered around the floor.
“—comma unquote the words squeezed and ragged with passion comma torn from her—about a third of it, Colby—”
He uncapped the bottle and shook it over the tub. “You want me to stir it?”
“No, that’s all right.” A satiny and foam-bejeweled leg emerged, swishing the surface. “—by his inexorably mounting cadence and that final swamping of all her senses under the onrushing flood of desire that was like torment demanding release—could I have a puff on that?”
“Sure.” He perched on the side of the tub and held the cigarette between her lips. “Does writing that stuff have any aphrodisiac effect? I’d be off sex forever.”