Free The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams Page A

Balenciaga, and in place of the mink was wearing a cloth coat that was probably easier to drive in. It was obvious from her expression that she had news.
    “I just saw Roberto,” she said.
    Dudley whirled. “What?’
    “I’m sorry. But it was Roberto. I was going up the Champs Élysées in a taxi, and he was on the curb waiting to cross. He saw me, too, and we waved, but I couldn’t stop.”
    “She wasn’t—?” Dudley swallowed and tried again. “You didn’t see—?”
    “No. There was a woman with him, but it wasn’t Miss Manning. Much younger. But if she’s not with him, where is she?”
    Colby frowned. Maybe she was dead. Could somebody be forging the checks? “Are you sure it’s her signature?” he asked Dudley, and then realized it was a superfluous question. If Dudley was forging it himself he must know it when he saw it.
    “Oh, it’s hers. Nobody could fool a bank with that many.”
    “And they’re all cashed in the Aegean area?”
    “Aegean and eastern Mediterranean. And always in seaports. That’s why we thought she was still on that yacht with Roberto.” His eyes had taken on a haunted look. “God, she might walk in here any minute.”
    “We haven’t got time to dream up new disasters,” Colby broke in. “We’re going to get plenty of argument over the identification, so I’ll need Kendall Flanagan’s passport and something with Manning’s picture on it. How about book jackets?”
    “There’s a couple that have it.”
    “And she and Flanagan don’t look anything alike?”
    “That doesn’t scratch the surface,” Martine said. “Kendall’s fifteen years younger and a blonde.”
    “Okay. Let’s clear this desk.”
    They cleaned it off and unfolded the maps. Colby set a scratchpad and pencil within reach, and sat down. “No English,” he said to Dudley. “If he hears things going on in a language he doesn’t understand, he may spook.”
    “Is your French as good as Martine’s?” Dudley asked. “Maybe she ought to do the talking.”
    “Hers is too good; she has no accent at all. He’ll know I’m an American, which is just what I want. We need leverage.”
    Dudley looked questioning, but said nothing further. Martine pulled over the armchair and sat down at Colby’s right. All three were looking at their watches. It was five to five . . . two minutes to five. . . . Colby could feel the old tightness in his chest the way it was over Korea just before the jump, and didn’t like it. Everything depended on his getting the upper hand, and he had to keep any trace of nervousness out of his voice.
    The telephone rang. They all started. He took out a cigarette, and let it ring twice more before he picked it up. “Allo.”
    “Allo! Allo! Do you speak French?” It was a young man’s voice, and sounded excited and angry.
    “Yes.” Colby leaned back casually in the swivel chair. It squeaked. He clicked the cigarette lighter near the mouthpiece and fired up the cigarette. “I speak French.”
    “Well, at last. Who are you?”
    “My name is Colby. I work for a friend of Sabine Manning, in Chicago.”
    “Aha! But if you’re from Cheek-ago, how do you speak French so well?”
    “I speak French with an accent. You know that.”
    “Yes, truly, an accent. But not so bad. Not like Cheek-ago.”
    “I lived in France for many years,” Colby said. “I was the agent for my—ah—company, in Marseille.”
    “What company?”
    “You ask too many questions,” he said, suddenly brusque. “We’re wasting time, and you’ve already made enough mistakes.” He saw Martine, at the end of the desk, smile and hold up crossed fingers.
    “What do you mean, mistakes?” This sounded like bluster. Good.
    “You snatched an American, and not one of your mob speaks English. You didn’t half case the job, so you got the wrong woman—”
    “She’s not the wrong woman. Don’t try—”
    “Suppose you let me finish,” he broke in curtly. “And then on top of everything else, you