The Ninth Gate

CORSO: Do you have any doubts about its authenticity?

BARONESS KESSLER (glances at him suspiciously): None whatever.

CORSO: You’re sure?

BARONESS KESSLER: My knowledge of this book is profound. 1 wrote a biography of its author.

CORSO: Aristide Torchia?

BARONESS KESSLER: A courageous man. He died for the sake of this very book in 1623. He had spent many years in Prague, a centre of the occult. While there he studied the black arts and acquired a copy of the dread ‘Delomelanicon’. This is his adaptation of that work, which was written by Lucifer himself. After they burned him at the stake, a secret society was founded to perpetuate its memory and preserve its secrets: the Brotherhood.

CORSO: The Brotherhood?

BARONESS KESSLER: Yes, a kind of witches’ coven. For centuries they have met to read from this book and worship the Prince of Darkness. Today they’ve degenerated into a social club for bored millionaires. I myself belonged to the Brotherhood many years ago, but time is too precious at my age. I told them to go to the Devil. She titters at her own little joke.

CORSO: They still meet?

BARONESS CORSO: Every year.

CORSO: And you say they read from this book?

He stares from the book to BARONESS KESSLER.

BARONESS KESSLER: No, I took mine back when Liana Telfer acquired the one in Toledo. Victor Fargas is an unbeliever – he has always refused to participate, so naturally they use the Telfer copy. Not that it has ever worked. (pause) They never do, to be honest.

CORSO: So Andrew Telfer never took part?

BARONESS KESSLER: Never. He knew nothing of these activities until that creature Liana de Saint-Damien married him for money. She used his dollars to buy the book and renovate her chateau. An old and aristocratic family, the Saint-Damiens, but penniless. They have dabbled in witchcraft for hundreds of years.

CORSO: Telfer hanged himself last week.

A brief silence. She looks stunned for a moment.

BARONESS KESSLER: I see. And Fargas?

CORSO looks at her impassively.

CORSO: He was alive the last time we spoke.

BARONESS KESSLER: When was that?

CORSO Two days ago.

BARONESS KESSLER digests this, looks at him keenly.

BARONESS KESSLER: Who exactly are you working for, Mr. Corso?

CORSO: My client’s name is irrelevant, Baroness. I’m simply trying to authenticate his copy – the one Telfer sold him before he died.

BARONESS KESSLER (catches on): How stupid of me! I should have guessed!

Angry now, she swings her wheelchair around to face him full on.

BARONESS KESSLER (cont.): You’ve outstayed your welcome, Mr. Corso.

CORSO: I was hoping to examine your copy in detail.

BARONESS KESSLER: Certainly not. Tell your client, who can only be Boris Balkan, to come and examine it himself – if he dares. Tell him not to send any more wolves in sheeps’ clothing. And now, kindly leave.

Sternly, she points to the door with her stump. Her wheelchair hums as she shepherds CORSO out through the office. He opens the door to the corridor.

BARONESS KESSLER (cont.) You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Corso. Get out before it’s too late.

CORSO: I’m afraid it already is, Baroness.

BARONESS KESSLER: Some books are dangerous, and this is one.

CORSO (smiles wryly): So people keep telling me. Thanks s for your time.

BARONESS KESSLER watches him exit. He’s hardly out the door when she picks up the phone.

61. KESSLER BUILDING: LOBBY INT/EVENING

CORSO walks back along the corridor. The SECRETARY, who has been peeling an orange, unsuccessfully hides it below desk level and gives him a curt nod as he passes.

62. KESSLER BUILDING, RIVERSIDE STREET EXT/EVENING

CORSO emerges from the building. As he does so he catches sight of the MUSTACHE leaning against the parapet of the riverside promenade across the way.

The MUSTACHE stiffens and straightens up. CORSO, with one eye on him, starts walking. The MUSTACHE starts walking too, keeps level with him on the other side of the street.

CORSO comes to a cafe. For want of a better idea, he goes inside.

63. CAFE/RIVERSIDE STREET INT/EXT/EVENING

CORSO sits down at a table, orders a drink. Looking out the caf& window, he sees the MUSTACHE leaning against the parapet in his former pose, watching.

The MUSTACHE lights a small cigar without taking his eyes off CORSO.

64. CAFE/RIVERSIDE STREET INT/EXT/NIGHT

CORSO is still sitting at his table, which now has several checks on it. The lights come on, blotting out his view of the street through the window. All he can now see is a reflection of the c’fe’s interior, including his own seated figure. He drums on the table irresolutely, glances at his watch, deliberates.

He can’t postpone the moment of decision any longer. He adds up his checks and puts some money on the table. Then, settling his bag on his shoulder, he makes for the door. He peers across the street, sees no sign of the Mustache, and exits.

65. RIVERSIDE STREET, SEINE QUAYSIDE EXT/NIGHT

CORSO emerges from the cafe. Still no sign of the Mustache. He sets of falong the sidewalk, glancing across the street as he does so. Then, over his shoulder, he catches sight of a car with dipped headlights – a dark-colored sedan – crawling along the curb some twenty yards behind him.

On impulse, he darts across the street to the riverside promenade and dashes down the flight of steps that leads to the quay.

The car’s headlights blaze up. it accelerates, tires squealing, and swerves across the one-way street in pursuit.

66. SEINE QUAYSIDE, PROMENADE EXT/NIGHT

CORSO races down the steps, hears the car skid to a halt, and sprints off along the quay with his overcoat flapping and the shoulder bag bumping against his flank. it’s misty down on the quayside, and the streetlights cast a yellowish glow that hinders visibility rather than helps it.

A couple of hundred yards along the quay he runs out of steam and slows, turns to look: no sign of the Mustache, no sound of pursuing footsteps. Relieved but still wary, he leans against the embankment wall to catch his breath and light a cigarette. Then, with a final backward look, he walks on to the next flight of steps.

He’s halfway up them when the MUSTACHE, a tall, menacing figure, appears at the top. He turns to flee, but the MUSTACHE is too quick for him. He darts down the steps and punches his retreating figure behind the ear. CORSO misses the last couple of steps and lands face down on the quayside.

The MUSTACHE is on him in a flash. He bends down and yanks the strap of the bag off his shoulder. CORSO resists, hugs the bag protectively, gets kicked in the stomach, doubles up and hangs on for dear life.

As he lies there with the MUSTACHE kicking him repeatedly and tugging at the strap, he sees, silhouetted against the yellowish, misty glow of the nearest streetlight, a ghostly figure flying down the steps: It’s THE GIRL, with her duffel coat streaming out behind her like Superman’s cape.

The MUSTACHE has finally gotten the bag away from CORSO. Just as he straightens up and turns to go, THE GIRL performs a flying leap and kicks him in the solar plexus. He grunts and goes sprawling on his back, dropping the bag.

THE GIRL is stooping to retrieve the bag when the MUSTACHE scrambles to his feet and lunges at her. He throws a punch at her head. Although she neutralizes most of its force by riding it, he catches her a glancing blow on the nose.

THE GIRL reacts like lightning, kicks him in the balls. He yelps and goes into a crouch. Then, with a spin kick, she floors him once more. He lies there, spitting blood and glaring up at her. She seems to have knocked the fight out of him at last.

With one wary eye on the MUSTACHE, THE GIRL picks up the shoulder bag and turns to CORSO, who’s struggling to his feet.

Beyond her, he sees the MUSTACHE get up and make for the steps.

CORSO: Hey, he’s getting away!

THE GIRL merely turns to look. CORSO sets off after the MUSTACHE, who has already started up the steps, and just manages to grab one of his legs. The MUSTACHE kicks @ self free and continues up the steps with CORSO clumsily following a few feet behind.

Waiting at the top of the steps, engine idling and passenger door open, is the dark sedan, a Mercedes. CORSO reaches street level in time to catch a glimpse of the glamorous blonde behind the wheel: it’s LIANA TELFER. The MUSTACHE jumps in and slams the door. The car burns rubber as it accelerates away.

THE GIRL calmly climbs the last few steps with CORSO, a beg in one hand and his glasses in the other. She hands them to him.

THE GIRL They’re broken. You should be more careful.

CORSO, leaning back against the promenade wall and breathing heavily, stares at her with his mouth open. He slides down the wall and subsides into a sitting position on the sidewalk.

67. RIVERSIDE STREET EXT/NIGHT

CORSO, one lens of his glasses cracked, is still sitting on the sidewalk with his back against the wall. THE GIRL is sitting beside him.

He produces a crumpled Lucky and lights it. it takes him quite a while, his hands are shaking so badly.

THE GIRL’s nose is bleeding. She wipes it on her sleeve. CORSO produces a handkerchief as crumpled as his cigarette and hands it to her.

CORSO: When did you learn all that?

THE GIRL What?

CORSO aims a feeble kick in the air.

CORSO: That stuff.

THE GIRL (casually): Oh, ages ago.

CORSO: No shit.

THE GIRL gets up and holds out her hand. CORSO takes it and rises with an effort. He flicks his cigarette over the parapet.

They walk off along the promenade side by side.