The Dog Said Bow-Wow (24 page)

He was getting closer now. Up a terra-cotta-tiled rooftop he ran. At the ridge-line, he saw with horror his prey extend herself in a low flying leap across a gap of at least fifteen feet. She hit the far roof with a tuck, rolled, and sprang to her feet.

Darger knew his limitations. He could not leap that gap.

In a panic, he tried to stop, tripped, fell, and found himself sliding feet-first on his back down the tiled roof. The edge sped toward him. It was a fall of he-knew-not-how-many floors to the ground. Perhaps six.

Frantically, Darger flung out his arms to either side, grabbing at the tiles, trying to slow his descent by friction. The tiles bumped painfully beneath him as he skidded downward. Then the heels of his bare feet slammed into the gutter at the edge of the eaves. The guttering groaned, lurched outward — and held.

Darger lay motionless, breathing heavily, afraid to move.

He heard a thump, and then the soft sound of feet traversing the rooftop. A woman’s head popped into view, upside down in his vision. She smiled.

He knew who she was, then. There were, after all, only so many cat-women in Paris. “M-madame d’Etra —”

“Shhh.” She put a finger against his lips. “No names.”

Nimbly, she slipped around and crouched over him. He saw now that she was clad only in a pelt of fine black fur. Her nipples were pale and naked. “So afraid!” she marveled. Then, brushing a hand lightly over him. “Yet still aroused.”

Darger felt the guttering sway slightly under him and, thinking how easily this woman could send him flying downward, he shivered. It was best he did not offend her. “Can you wonder, madame? The sight of you…”

“How gallant!” Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his trousers, and undid his belt. “You do know how to pay a lady a compliment.”

“What are you doing?” Darger cried in alarm.

She tugged the belt free, tossed it lightly over the side of the building. “Surely your friend has explained to you that cats are amoral?” Then, when Darger nodded, she ran her fingers up under his blouse, claws extended, drawing blood. “So you will understand that I mean nothing personal by this.”

Surplus was waiting when Darger climbed back in the window. “Dear God, look at you,” he cried. “Your clothes are dirty and disordered, your hair is in disarray — and what has happened to your belt?”

“Some mudlark of the streets has it, I should imagine.” Darger sank down into a chair. “At any rate, there’s no point looking for it.”

“What in heaven’s name has happened to you?”

“I fear I’ve fallen in love,” Darger said sadly, and could be compelled to say no more.

So began an affair that seriously tried the friendship of the two partners in crime. For Madame d’Etranger thenceforth appeared in their rooms, veiled yet unmistakable, every afternoon. Invariably, Darger would plant upon her hand the chastest of kisses, and then discretely lead her to the secrecy of his bedroom, where their activities could only be guessed at. Invariably, Surplus would scowl, snatch up his walking stick, and retire to the hallway, there to pace back and forth until the lady finally departed. Only rarely did they speak of their discord.

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.”

With a small shudder of distaste, Darger placed the gun on a table at some distance from the bed. “I have a question to ask you,” he said.

Mignonette smiled in an amused way. She rolled over on her stomach, and rose up on her knees and elbows. Her long tail moved languidly. Her cat’s eyes were green as grass. “Do you want your answer now,” she asked, “or later?”

Put that way, the question answered itself.

So filled with passion was Darger that he had no memory of divesting himself of his clothing, or joining Mignonette on the bed. He only knew that he was deep inside her, and that that was where he wanted to be. Her fur was soft and sleek against his skin. It tickled him ever so slightly—just enough to be perverse, but not enough to be undesirable. Fleetingly, he felt like a zoophile, and then, even more fleetingly, realized that this must be very much like what Surplus’s lady-friends experienced. But he abandoned that line of thought quickly.

Like any properly educated man of his era, Darger was capable of achieving orgasm three or four times in succession without awkward periods of detumescence in between. With Mignonette, he could routinely bring that number up to five. Today, for the first time, he reached seven.

“You wanted to ask me a question?” Mignonette said, when they were done. She lay within the crook of his arm, her cold nose snuggled up against his neck. Playfully, she put her two hands, claws sheathed, against his side and kneaded him, as if she were a true, unmodified cat.

“Hmm? Ah! Yes.” Darger felt wonderfully, gloriously relaxed. He doubted he would ever move again. It took an effort for him to focus his thoughts. “I was wondering…exactly what your husband meant when he said that he would have you ‘taken care of,’ after his death.”

“Oh.” She drew away from him, and sat up upon her knees. “That. I thought you were going to ask about the pamphlet.”

Again, a terrible sense of danger overcame Darger. He was extremely sensitive to such influences. It was an essential element of his personality. “Pamphlet?” he said lightly.

“Yes, that silly little thing about a man in a rowboat.
Vingt Ans…
something like that. I’ve had my book scouts scouring the stalls and garrets for it since I-forget-when.”

“I had no idea you were looking for such a thing.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I was looking for it. And I have found it too.”

“You have what?”

The outer doors of their apartments slammed open, and the front room filled with voices. Somebody — it could only be Monsieur — was shouting at the top of his weak voice. Surplus was clearly trying to soothe him. The Dedicated Doctor was there as well, urging his client to calm himself.

Darger leapt from the bed, and hastily threw on his clothes. “Wait here,” he told Mignonette. Having some experience in matters of love, he deftly slipped between the doors without opening them wide enough to reveal her presence.

He stepped into absolute chaos.

Monsieur stood in the middle of the room waving a copy of an ancient pamphlet titled
Vingt Ans dans un Bateau à Rames
in the air. On its cover was a crude drawing of a man in a rowboat holding a magnet from a fishing pole. He shook it until it rattled. “Swindlers!” he cried. “Confidence tricksters! Deceivers! Oh, you foul creatures!”

“Please, sir, consider your leucine aminopeptidases,” the Dedicated Doctor murmured. He wiped the little man’s forehead with a medicated cloth. “You’ll put your inverse troponin ratio all out of balance. Please sit down again.”

“I am betrayed!”

“Sir, consider your blood pressure.”

“The Tour d’Etranger was to be my immortality!” Monsieur howled. “What can such false cozeners as you know of immortality?”

“I am certain there has been a misunderstanding,” Surplus said.

“Consider your fluoroimmunohistochemical systems. Consider your mitochondrial refresh rate.”

The two apes, released from their chair-carrying chore, were running in panicked circles. One of them brushed against a lamp and sent it crashing to the floor.

It was exactly the sort of situation that Darger was best in. Thinking swiftly, he took two steps into the room and in an authoritative voice cried, “
If you please!
”

Silence. Every eye was upon him.

Smiling sternly, Darger said. “I will not ask for explanations. I think it is obvious to all of us what has happened. How Monsieur has come to misunderstand the import of the chapbook I cannot understand. But if, sir, you will be patient for the briefest moment, all will be made clear to you.” He had the man! Monsieur was so perfectly confused (and anxious to be proved wrong, to boot) that he would accept anything Darger told him. Even the Dedicated Doctor was listening. Now he had but to invent some plausible story — for him a trifle — and the operation was on track again. “You see, there is —”

Behind him, the doors opened quietly. He put a hand over his eyes.

Mignonette d’Etranger entered the room, fully dressed, and carrying the chrome revolver. In her black silks, she was every inch the imperious widow. (Paradoxically, the fact that she obviously wore nothing beneath those silks only made her all the more imposing.) But she had thrown her veils back to reveal her face: cold, regal, and scornful.

“
You!
” She advanced wrathfully on her husband. “How dare you object to my taking a lover? How dare you!”

“You…you were…” The little man looked bewildered by her presence.

“I couldn’t get what I need at home. It was only natural that I should look for it elsewhere. So it costs you a day of your life every time we make love! Aren’t I worth it? So it costs you three days to tie me up and whip me! So what? Most men would
die
for the privilege.”