Read Online The Wrong Venus by Charles Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Williams
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you do it?” he repeated.
“Shall I?” Martine asked.
“Sure,” Colby said. He perched on the corner of the table again, lighted a cigarette, and found an ashtray among the mass of letters. Martine told the story, and went on, “—at the moment, the only way Sabine Manning could get her name in the Los Angeles Chronicle would be to buy it. So now if you’ll write out a check for one thousand thirty-six dollars and fifty cents, we’ll get on to your real trouble.”
“For a job that took a little over an hour,” Dudley said bitterly. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“We’re all in the wrong line of work,” she replied, “except Sabine Manning. Shell out, Merriman.”
Colby had been staring at the two piles of manuscript on the desk. He could resist it no longer. He stepped over, and asked Dudley, “Do you mind if I look at it?”
“No, go ahead. The thick one. The other’s Sanborn’s draft.”
“He’s already finished?” Martine asked.
“About an hour ago. He just left for Orly.”
Colby picked up the big stack of sheets, hefted it, and turned it wonderingly in his hands. “I always wanted to feel a million dollars.”
Martine smiled and gestured with the cigarette. “A million dollars less fifty pages. At the moment it’s not worth ten.”
The sheets were blank side up. Colby turned over the top one and looked at the number in the upper right corner. Three hundred and forty-seven.
“Call it four hundred when it’s finished,” he said, and did a rapid calculation. “Twenty-five hundred dollars a page.” Glancing down, he read the last two or three lines.
She gave a little moan of ecstasy under the pressure of his lips and the age-old feel of the weight, the sweet, smooth, hard, nipple-pressing, thigh-clasped, thrusting male weight of him that. . . .
He balanced the page in his fingers and then put it carefully down on top of the pile. “Two thousand five hundred dollars,” he said reverently. And tonight he might get himself killed for two pages of it.
6
Dudley located the letter among the papers on his desk. It was written in longhand on cheap stationery, and contained little they didn't already know. Madame Manning had been kidnapped, they wanted one hundred thousand dollars, and she would be killed if the police were called in. They would telephone again, and there had better be someone who spoke French.
“Not much to go on, is there?” Martine said.
“No,” Colby replied. “Except it’s in longhand.”
“Plus the fact they got the wrong woman. Probably new at it?”
“Looks that way. Not that that makes ‘em any less dangerous.” There was more chance his idea would work, but greenhorns were also more likely to panic than professionals. If one of them hit the button, he and Kendall Flanagan would probably be dead.
“What do we do?” Dudley asked.
“The only thing we can do. Negotiate.”
“She hasn’t got—”
Colby interrupted. “That’s what I mean. Neither side has what he’s supposed to have. Sabine Manning hasn’t got a hundred thousand dollars, and they haven’t got Sabine Manning. So it’d be a standoff, except for the fact that the easiest way out for them is to kill her. She might identify them.”
“But we’re not going to the police,” Dudley put in. “We can’t.”
They don’t know that. I may be able to convince ‘em, but don’t bet on it. If we get her back, she can finish the novel—in how long?”
“Five days. Maybe less.”
“Your manuscript’s worth nothing the way it is, and it’s also worth nothing if any of this ever gets in the papers. So potentially she’s worth a million dollars to you if we can get her back alive and without any publicity. What’s Sabine Manning worth at the moment?”
Dudley gave a short, bitter laugh, and dropped into the chair behind the desk. He grabbed up and slammed down the bale of canceled checks, and waved the cablegrams. “If you find out, tell me. It’s my job to know
“Shall I?” Martine asked.
“Sure,” Colby said. He perched on the corner of the table again, lighted a cigarette, and found an ashtray among the mass of letters. Martine told the story, and went on, “—at the moment, the only way Sabine Manning could get her name in the Los Angeles Chronicle would be to buy it. So now if you’ll write out a check for one thousand thirty-six dollars and fifty cents, we’ll get on to your real trouble.”
“For a job that took a little over an hour,” Dudley said bitterly. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“We’re all in the wrong line of work,” she replied, “except Sabine Manning. Shell out, Merriman.”
Colby had been staring at the two piles of manuscript on the desk. He could resist it no longer. He stepped over, and asked Dudley, “Do you mind if I look at it?”
“No, go ahead. The thick one. The other’s Sanborn’s draft.”
“He’s already finished?” Martine asked.
“About an hour ago. He just left for Orly.”
Colby picked up the big stack of sheets, hefted it, and turned it wonderingly in his hands. “I always wanted to feel a million dollars.”
Martine smiled and gestured with the cigarette. “A million dollars less fifty pages. At the moment it’s not worth ten.”
The sheets were blank side up. Colby turned over the top one and looked at the number in the upper right corner. Three hundred and forty-seven.
“Call it four hundred when it’s finished,” he said, and did a rapid calculation. “Twenty-five hundred dollars a page.” Glancing down, he read the last two or three lines.
She gave a little moan of ecstasy under the pressure of his lips and the age-old feel of the weight, the sweet, smooth, hard, nipple-pressing, thigh-clasped, thrusting male weight of him that. . . .
He balanced the page in his fingers and then put it carefully down on top of the pile. “Two thousand five hundred dollars,” he said reverently. And tonight he might get himself killed for two pages of it.
6
Dudley located the letter among the papers on his desk. It was written in longhand on cheap stationery, and contained little they didn't already know. Madame Manning had been kidnapped, they wanted one hundred thousand dollars, and she would be killed if the police were called in. They would telephone again, and there had better be someone who spoke French.
“Not much to go on, is there?” Martine said.
“No,” Colby replied. “Except it’s in longhand.”
“Plus the fact they got the wrong woman. Probably new at it?”
“Looks that way. Not that that makes ‘em any less dangerous.” There was more chance his idea would work, but greenhorns were also more likely to panic than professionals. If one of them hit the button, he and Kendall Flanagan would probably be dead.
“What do we do?” Dudley asked.
“The only thing we can do. Negotiate.”
“She hasn’t got—”
Colby interrupted. “That’s what I mean. Neither side has what he’s supposed to have. Sabine Manning hasn’t got a hundred thousand dollars, and they haven’t got Sabine Manning. So it’d be a standoff, except for the fact that the easiest way out for them is to kill her. She might identify them.”
“But we’re not going to the police,” Dudley put in. “We can’t.”
They don’t know that. I may be able to convince ‘em, but don’t bet on it. If we get her back, she can finish the novel—in how long?”
“Five days. Maybe less.”
“Your manuscript’s worth nothing the way it is, and it’s also worth nothing if any of this ever gets in the papers. So potentially she’s worth a million dollars to you if we can get her back alive and without any publicity. What’s Sabine Manning worth at the moment?”
Dudley gave a short, bitter laugh, and dropped into the chair behind the desk. He grabbed up and slammed down the bale of canceled checks, and waved the cablegrams. “If you find out, tell me. It’s my job to know
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