Даргер и Довесок - [11]

One such discussion was occasioned by Surplus’s discovery that Madame d’Etranger had employed the services of several of Paris’s finest book scouts.

“For what purpose?” Darger asked negligently. Mignonette had left not half an hour previously, and he was uncharacteristically relaxed.

“That I have not been able to determine. These book scouts are a notoriously close-mouthed lot.”

“The acquisition of rare texts is an honorable hobby for many haut-bourgeois.”

“Then it is one she has acquired on short notice. She was unknown in the Parisian book world a week ago. Today she is one of its best patrons. Think, Darger — think! Abrupt changes of behavior are always dangerous signs. Why will you not take this seriously?”

“Mignonette is, as they say here, une chatte sérieuse, and I un homme galant.” Darger shrugged. “It is inevitable that I should be besotted with her. Why cannot you, in your turn, simply accept this fact?”

Surplus chewed on a knuckle of one paw. “Very well — I will tell you what I fear. There is only one work of literature she could possibly be looking for, and that is the chapbook proving that the Eiffel Tower does not lie beneath the Seine.”

“But, my dear fellow, how could she possibly know of its existence?”

“That I cannot say.”

“Then your fears are groundless.” Darger smiled complacently. Then he stroked his chin and frowned. “Nevertheless, I will have a word with her.” 

* * *

The very next day he did so.

The morning had been spent, as usual, in another round of the interminable negotiations with Monsieur’s business agents, three men of such negligible personality that Surplus privately referred to them as Ci, Ça, and l’Autre. They were drab and lifeless creatures who existed, it sometimes seemed, purely for the purpose of preventing an agreement of any sort from coming to fruition. “They are waiting to be bribed,” Darger explained when Surplus took him aside to complain of their recalcitrance.

“Then they will wait forever. Before we can begin distributing banknotes, we must first receive our earnest money. The pump must be primed. Surely even such dullards as Ci, Ça, and l’Autre can understand that much.”

“Greed has rendered them impotent. Just as a heart can be made to beat so fast that it will seize up, so too here. Still, with patience I believe they can be made to see reason.”

“Your patience, I suspect, is born of long afternoons and rumpled bed sheets.”

Darger merely looked tolerant.

Yet it was not patience that broke the logjam, but its opposite. For that very morning, Monsieur burst into the conference room, carried in a chair by his apes and accompanied by his Dedicated Doctor. “It has been weeks,” he said without preamble. “Why are the papers not ready?”

Ci, Ça, and l’Autre threw up their hands in dismay.

“The terms they require are absurd, to say the…”

“No sensible businessman would…”

“They have yet to provide any solid proof of their…”

“No, and in their position, neither would I. Popotin —” he addressed one of his apes — “the pouch.”

Popotin slipped a leather pouch from his shoulder and clumsily held it open. Monsieur drew out three handwritten sheets of paper and threw them down on the table. “Here are my notes,” he said. “Look them over and then draw them up in legal form.” The cries of dismay from Ci, Ça, and l’Autre were quelled with one stern glare. “I expect them to be complete within the week.”

Surplus, who had quickly scanned the papers, said, “You are most generous, Monsieur. The sum on completion is nothing short of breathtaking.” Neither he nor Darger expected to collect that closing sum, of course. But they were careful to draw attention away from the start-up monies (a fraction of the closing sum, though by their standards enormous), that were their true objective.

Monsieur snorted. “What matter? I will be dead by then.”

“I see that the Tour d’Etranger is to be given to the City of Paris,” Darger said. “That is very generous of you, Monsieur. Many a man in your position would prefer to keep such a valuable property in their family.”

“Eh? What family?”

“I speak, sir, of your wife.”

“She will be taken care of.”

“Sir?” Darger, who was sensitive to verbal nuance, felt a cold tingling at the back of his neck, a premonition of something significant being left unspoken. “What does that mean?”

“It means just what I said.” Monsieur snapped his fingers to catch his apes’ attention. “Take me away from here.” 

* * *

When Darger got back to his rooms, Mignonette was already waiting there. She lounged naked atop his bed, playing with the chrome revolver she had sent him before ever they had met. First she cuddled it between her breasts. Then she brought it to her mouth, ran her pink tongue up the barrel, and briefly closed her lips about its very tip. He found the sight disturbingly arousing.

“You should be careful,” Darger said. “That’s a dangerous device.”

“Pooh! Monsieur had it programmed to defend me as well as himself.” She placed the muzzle against her heart, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “See? It will not fire at either of us.” She handed it to him. “Try it for yourself.”