The Club Dumas полностью

“The cookbooks were just a way of making money. Enrique had the Midas touch: in his hands any cheap recipe book turned into a bestseller. But this was what he really loved. He liked to shut himself in here and leaf through these old serials. They were often printed on poor-quality paper, and he was obsessed with preserving them. Do you see that thermometer and hu­midity gauge? He could recite whole pages from his favorite books. He’d sometimes even say ‘gadzooks,’ ‘ye gods,’ things like that. He spent his last months writing.”

“A historical novel?”

“A serial. Keeping to all the cliches of the genre, of course.” She went to a shelf and took down a heavy manuscript with hand-stitched pages. The handwriting was large and round. “What do you think of the title?”

“The Dead Man’s Hand, or Anne of Austria’s Page” read Corso. “Well, it’s certainly...” He ran a finger over his eyebrow, searching for the right word. “Suggestive.”

“And dull,” she added, putting the manuscript back. “Full of anachronisms. Completely idiotic, I assure you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. At the end of each writing session he’d read it to me page by page, from beginning to end.” She tapped bitterly on the title, handwritten in capitals. “God, I really hated that stupid queen and her page.” “Was he intending to publish it?”

“Yes, of course. Under a pseudonym: He probably would have chosen something like Tristan de Longueville or Paulo Florentini. It would have been so typical of him.”

“What about hanging himself? Was that typical of him?” Liana Taillefer stared intently at the book-lined walls and said nothing. An uncomfortable silence, Corso thought, even a little forced. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, like an actress who pauses before going on with her speech in a convincing manner. “I’ll never know what happened,” she answered at last, her composure once again perfect. “During his last week he was hostile and depressed. He hardly left this study. Then, one af­ternoon, he went out and slammed the door. He came back in the early hours. I was in bed and heard the door close. In the morning I was woken by the maid screaming. Enrique had hanged himself from the light fixture.”

Now she was looking at Corso, to see the effect of her words. She didn’t seem too upset, he thought, remembering the pho­tograph with the apron and the suckling pig. He even saw her blink once, as if to hold back a tear, but her eyes were perfectly dry. Of course that didn’t mean anything. Centuries of makeup that can be smudged by emotion have taught women to control their feelings. And Liana Taillefer’s makeup—light shading to accentuate her eyes—was perfect.

“Did he leave a note?” asked Corso. “People who commit suicide often do.”

“He decided to spare himself the effort. No explanation, not even a few words. Nothing. Because of his selfishness I’ve had to answer a lot of questions from an examining magistrate and several policemen. Very unpleasant, believe me.”

“I understand.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do.”

Liana Taillefer made it obvious that their meeting was now at an end. She saw him to the door and held out her hand to him. With the folder under his arm and his bag on his shoulder, Corso shook hands with her and felt her firm grip. Inwardly he gave her a good mark for her performance. Not the happy widow, yet not devastated by grief; no cold “I’m glad that idiot’s gone” or “Alone at last” or “You can come out of the wardrobe now, darling.” If there was anyone in the wardrobe, it was none of Corso’s business. Nor was Enrique Taillefer’s suicide, however strange—and it was mighty strange, gadzooks, with all that business of the queen’s page and the disappearing manuscript. But neither the suicide nor the beautiful widow were any con­cern of his. For now.

He looked at her. I’d love to know who’s having you, he thought with cool technical curiosity. He drew a mental picture of the man: handsome, mature, cultured, wealthy. He was al­most a hundred percent sure it must be a friend of her deceased husband. He wondered if the publisher’s suicide had anything to do with it, then stopped himself in disgust. Professional quirk or not, he sometimes had the absurd habit of thinking like a policeman. He shivered at the thought. Who knows what depths of depravity, or stupidity, lie hidden in our soul?

“I must thank you for taking the time to see me,” he said, choosing the most touching smile from his repertoire, the one that made him resemble a friendly rabbit.

It was met with a blank. She was looking at the Dumas manuscript.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just naturally interested to know how all this will end.”

“I’ll let you know how it’s going... Oh, and there’s some­thing else. Do you intend to keep your husband’s collection, or are you thinking of selling it?”