The Ninth Gate
CORSO: Of course. Start with the five-stars. They’re the best bet.
GRUBER: Very good, sir. (pause) Are you feeling all right?
CORSO: I’ve felt better. Thanks, Gruber. Let me know if you locate them.
GRUBER watches CORSO and THE GIRL walk to the elevators.
69. PARIS HOTEL: BEDROOM INT/NIGHT
CORSO is filling a plastic laundry bag with ice from a tray in the minibar.
THE GIRL is sitting on the bed with her head tilted back and a bloodstained handkerchief to her nose. The bedside light bathes the room in a subdued glow.
CORSO: Here, hold this against your neck and lie back.
He sits down beside her and hands her the improvised ice pack. She applies it to the nape of her neck, lies back and shuts her eyes.
CORSO (cont.): You were great down there by the river. I haven’t really thanked you.
She opens her eyes and smiles at him.
CORSO (cont.): Like to tell me what’s going on?
THE GIRL (shrugs faintly): Someone’s after your book.
CORSO: They didn’t have to kill Fargas to get it. They didn’t have to mutilate his copy, either. They tore out the engravings and ditched the rest. There’s got to be more to it than that.
Her nose has stopped bleeding.
THE GIRL Do you believe in the Devil, Corso?
CORSO: I’m being paid to. Do you?
THE GIRL (smiles): I’m a bit of a devil myself-
She reaches up, removes his glasses, and puts them on the bedside table. CORSO eyes her uncertainly. Then the spell is broken: her nose starts to bleed again.
She puts her fingertips to it and inspects the blood on them. Very deliberately, she dabbles them in the blood some more, reaches up, and gently draws four vertical lines down his face from his forehead to his mouth, where her fingertips linger.
CORSO’s face approaches hers. They melt into a passionate kiss, Then she pushes W= away, rolls him over on his back, unbuttons his shirt, and rests her palms on his chest. Playfully, she runs her forefinger over the imprint of Liana’s teeth.
THE GIRL (smiles mischievously): Would you know a devil if you saw one?
70. PARIS HOTEL: STAIRS, LOBBY, RECEPTION DESK INT/DAWN
CORSO, tieless and unshaven, descends the stairs to the lobby carrying his beg. The JUNIOR DESK CLERK, a spotty youth, is dozing on a chair behind the reception desk. CORSO goes over and reps on the desk. The JUNIOR DESK CLERK springs to his feet like a jack-in-a-box. CORSO jerks his chin at the door behind him.
CORSO: Do you have a photocopier back there?
JUNIOR DESK CLERK: Er, yes, monsieur.
CORSO: May I use it?
JUNIOR DESK CLERK: Are you a guest, monsieur?
CORSO: You mean I don’t look like one?
JUNIOR DESK CLERK: Of course, monsieur. This way, monsieur.
He lifts a flap and shows CORSO into the back office.
CORSO: Room 35. And get them to send up breakfast for two.
71. PARIS HOTEL: OFFICE INT/DAWN
CORSO has deposited his bag beside the photocopier and taken out Balkan’s ‘Nine Gates’. He opens it at the first engraving – THE KNIGHT WITH A FINGER TO HIS LIPS – and inverts it. Positioning it on the photocopier, he shuts the flap and presses the start button.
The photocopy glides out into the tray.
72. PARIS HOTEL: CORSO’S ROOM INT/DAWN
CORSO enters, quietly closing the door behind him. THE GIRL is lying sprawled among the rumpled sheets, fast asleep. Her clothes are draped over a chair with her backpack alongside.
Stealthily, CORSO takes Balkan’s ‘Nine Gates’ from his bag and secretes it behind the minibar, then goes into the bathroom.
73. PARIS HOTEL: BATHROOM, BEDROOM, CORRIDOR INT/DAY
CORSO, with his hair damp from the shower and a towel around his waist, is halfway through shaving when there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
One cheek daubed with foam, he opens it to find himself confronted by a FLOOR WAITER, check pad and ballpoint in hand.
FLOOR WAITER: Bonjour, monsieur. Votre petit dajeuner.
CORSO: Oh. Sure.
Taking the pad, he emerges into the bedroom and scribbles his signature, then stops short: there’s a breakfast cart in the middle of the room, but the bed in empty and The Girl’s clothes and backpack have disappeared.
CORSO (cont.): Where is she?
WAITER: Pardon?
CORSO: Madame, ou elle est?
FLOOR WAITER: Je ne sais pas, m’sieur.
He makes for the door and exits.
CORSO catches hold of the door just as it’s closing, puts his head out into the corridor, looks right and left.
No one in sight but the FLOOR WAITER, who casts a puzzled glance over his shoulder as he walks off.
CORSO steps back into the bedroom and shuts the door. He stands there for a moment, frowning at the empty bed. Then, abruptly galvanized, he dashes over to the minibar and looks behind it. His fears are groundless: ‘The Nine Gates’ is still there.
Just then the phone rings. He picks up the receiver and puts it to his ear on the clean-shaven side of his face.
CORSO: Yes?
BALKAN (V.O.): Come down. I’m in the cafe across the street.
74. PARIS HOTEL, CAFE. EXT/INT/DAY
CORSO, wearing his crumpled overcoat and carrying his bag, emerges from the hotel and crosses the street to a cafe opposite. He enters and looks around, catches sight of BALKAN’s sleek gray head at a table in the corner. He goes over to him.
CORSO: You sure as hell get around.
He sits down with the shoulder bag between his feet. A WAITER appears at his elbow.
CORSO (cont.): (to the WAITER): Un cafe noir, s’il vous plait.
The WAITER nods and withdraws. BALKAN studies CORSO’s face through his hornrims, notes the glasses with the cracked lens.
BALKAN: Problems?
CORSO: Yeah, like someone tried to total me a couple times. Aside from that, three people have died on me since I took this job. (thinks for a moment) Well, two. Telfer was dead already.
BALKAN 1 don’t follow you.
CORSO: It’s simple enough. You give me ‘The Nine Gates’ and they start dropping like flies. I’m thinking of giving it back.
BALKAN: Who are you talking about?
CORSO: My pal Bernie Feldman, for one.
BALKAN: The book dealer? He’s dead?
CORSO: Murdered. He was holding your book for me. Someone was after it. He wouldn’t give it to them.
A moment is silence. Then BALKAN emits a wholly incongruous chuckle. The chuckle becomes a guffaw, the guffaw gives way to peal after peal of uproarious laughter. He slaps his thighs and rocks back and forth, his face turns puce, his eyes fill with tears.
His hilarity is so deafening that the cafe’s other CUSTOMERS turn to stare. CORSO, too, stares at BALKAN as if he’s gone crazy.
BALKAN’s mirth gradually subsides. He removes his hornrims and mops his eyes. Eventually, still chuckling:
BALKAN: Poor fellow. Very creditable of him.
COP.SO refrains from commenting on this outburst.
CORSO: Then there’s Fargas.
The WAITER brings CORSO’S coffee. BALKAN waits for him to put it on the table and retire.
BALKAN: What about Fargas?
CORSO: Dead too.
BALKAN: How do you know?
CORSO: I saw him – and his copy, or what was left of it. Someone had snitched the engravings and tried to burn the rest.
BALKAN stares at him for a moment. Then:
BALKAN: How tragic. What about the Kessler copy?
CORSO: The old woman says it’s authentic, but I didn’t get a chance to look at it closely. As soon as she guessed you were behind my visit she threw me out. You aren’t her flavor of the month.
BALKAN: You must see her again. You must get me that copy – or examine it, at least.
CORSO (derisively): Are you kidding? I’d have to be the Invisible Man.
BALKAN reaches into his black briefcase and produces a big manilla envelope.
BALKAN: Try this.
CORSO takes the envelope and looks at it. it’s addressed to ‘Baroness Friede Kessler’.
75. KESSLER BUILDING: LOBBY iNT/DAY
CORSO, canvas bag on shoulder, hands the envelope to the SECRETARY, who takes it and walks off down the corridor.
