48. QUINTA FARGAS: DRIVEWAY, HOUSE EXT/DAY
CORSO and THE GIRL are walking in silence up the driveway, with
its carpet of dead leaves and avenue of crumbling statues. He
eyes her, mystified, as she strides briskly along with a blue
duffel coat over her usual attire. The early morning mist is
dispersing.
With another look at THE GIRL, who remains standing at the foot
of the steps, CORSO goes up to the front door and yanks at the
bellpull, producing the same muffled jangling sound as before.
THE GIRL: Don’t bother. He isn’t there.
CORSO (sarcastically): Really. So where is he?
THE GIRL: Over there.
She points in the direction of the ornamental pond. CORSO stares
at her, then walks over to it and freezes: VICTOR FARGAS’s corpse
is floating face up among the dead leaves and lily pads. An empty
brandy bottle is floating alongside.
CORSO (mutters): God Almighty!
He emerges from his stupor and walks back to THE GIRL, who’s
still standing outside the front door. Ignoring her, he tries the
handle, but it’s bolted.
THE GIRL: You want to get inside?
CORSO nods wordlessly, too shocked to bandy words with her.
THE GIRL looks up at the facade. Then, with unsuspected agility,
she shins up a drainpipe beside the door and climbs onto the
balcony above it. One of the French windows is broken. She
reaches inside, releases the catch, and disappears from view.
CORSO waits, casting occasional glances at the ornamental pond
and its occupant.
There’s the rattle of a bolt being withdrawn, and THE GIRL opens
the front door from the inside.
CORSO: Wait here.
He enters the house.
49. QUINTA FARGAS: RECEPTION ROOMS, DRAWING ROOM INT/DAY
CORSO traverses the empty reception rooms and reaches the drawing
room. His foot crunches on something as he crosses it on his way
to the rug on which the occult books were stacked: it’s the
remains of one of Fargas’s treasured brandy glasses. He pauses
for long enough to identify it, then walks on.
The books are lying scattered across the rug: no sign of ‘The
Nine Gates’.
CORSO: Shit! Shit, shit!!!
He looks around helplessly. Then he sees it: the last of the fire
is still smoldering on the hearth, and lying open among the
ashes, charred around the edges, is Fargas’s ‘Nine Gates’.
He picks up,the mutilated volume, looks at it for a moment,
ruefully shaking his head, and stows it in his canvas bag.
50. QUINTA FARGAS EXT/DAY
CORSO emerges from the house.
THE GIRL: Well, did you find it?
CORSO: You know too damned much. More than I do. Why do you keep
following me around? What are you, a groupie or something? IRS,
CIA, Interpol? Who are you working for?
THE GIRL: You’re wasting time, asking all these questions. We’d
better get out of here. There’s a flight from Lisbon to Paris at
noon. We should just make it.
CORSO: What’s with the ‘we’?
THE GIRL: There are two of us, aren’t there?
51. AIRLINER CABIN INT/DAY
A sunlit mountainscape of dazzling white cloud glides past the
window beside which THE GIRL is drowsing with her head on CORSO’s
shoulder. The cabin is bathed in milky radiance, the atmosphere
is tranquil and soothing.
CORSO looks down at THE GIRL.
CORSO: Somebody’s playing a game with me.
THE GIRL (drowsily): Of course. You’re a part of it.
CORSO: What exactly happened back there?
THE GIRL: Fargas caught someone stealing, I guess.
CORSO: And what do you guess happened to him?
THE GIRL simply): He drowned.
CORSO: With a little help from who?
THE GIRL (shrugs): He’s dead. Who cares?
CORSO: I care. I could wind up the same way.
THE GIRL: Not with me around to take care of you.
CORSO: I see. You’re my guardian angel.
THE GIRL: Something like that.
She removes her head from his shoulder, turns away, and snuggles
up against the window instead.
52. PARIS AIRPORT ARRIVALS HALL INT/DAY
CORSO makes his way across the bustling arrivals hall. THE GIRL,
now with a backpack slung over her blue duffel coat, is trailing
along in his wake. He glances back at her occasionally.
The PASSENGERS slow as they reach the bottleneck at immigration
control. CORSO, shuffling along in line, takes out his US
passport in readiness to show it. He looks around for THE GIRL,
but there’s no sign of her.
53. PARIS HOTEL EXT/DAY
A taxi drops CORSO in front of a modest but respectable three-
star hotel. He hands some money through the driver’s window and
heads for the entrance.
54. PARIS HOTEL: LOBBY, RECEPTION DESK INT/DAY
CORSO walks up to the reception desk, which is presided over by a
desk clerk (GRUBER). A short, squat reincarnation of Erich von
Stroheim, he wears his uniform like a Prussian grenadier.
CORSO: Hello, Gruber.
GRUBER looks up, acknowledges CORSO’s presence with a curt,
faintly military inclination of the head.
GRUBER: Welcome, Mr. Corso. Delighted to see you again. (consults
his computer screen) We don’t have any vacancies, but I’m sure
I’ll be able to organize something.
CORSO: Thank you, Gruber.
Discreetly, he slides a 100 franc bill across the desk. GRUBER
makes it vanish with elegant alacrity and smiles – almost.
GRUBER Thank you, sir.
55. PARIS HOTEL: CORSO’S ROOM INT/DAY
A bottle of Scotch and a glass repose on a small desk, likewise
Balkan’s ‘Nine Gates’ and Fargas’s charred copy. A Lucky is
smouldering in the ashtray beside them.
CORSO is turning the pages of what remains of Fargas’s copy. He
pauses at a page of text bearing a distinctive ornamental
capital, peers at the gutter, and detects that the page facing it
has been torn out. Thoughtfully, he runs his finger along the
rough edge. Then he opens Balkan’s copy at the same place.
What is missing from the charred copy is the engraving of THE
HERMIT WITH THE KEYS, DOG, AND LANTERN.
CORSO takes a pull at his Scotch and leans back with the Lucky
between his lips, thinking hard. Then he glances at his watch and
stands up.
56. PONT DES ARTS EXT/DAY
It’s a fine day. CORSO, canvas bag on shoulder as usual, is
striding across the bridge toward the Left Bank.
57. KESSLER BUILDING EXT/DAY
CORSO walks up to the entrance of a tall, well-preserved old
building overlooking the Seine.
58. KESSLER BUILDING INT/DAY
A grim-faced CONCIERGE is sitting in her cubby-hole. She eyes
CORSO inquiringly.
CONCIERGE: Monsieur?
CORSO: The Kessler Foundation.
CONCIERGE Dernia re astage.
She jerks her head in the direction of an old-fashioned elevator
like a gilded cage.
59. KESSLER BUILDING: LOBBY INT/DAY
The SECRETARY is a big-bosomed, middle-aged woman with hornrims
and scraped-back hair. She looks up at CORSO with an
inquisitorial air.
CORSO: Bob Corso. I have an appointment with Baroness Kessler.
Having consulted her appointments book and her watch, the
SECRETARY rises. She speaks with a French accent.
SECRETARY: This way.
She walks ahead of CORSO down a panelled corridor and stops
outside a heavy wooden door.
SECRETARY (cont.): You have thirty minutes.
She knocks on the door and opens it.
60. KESSLER BUILDING: OFFICE, LIBRARY INT/DAY
A spacious room filled with luxuriant potted plants. Beside the
window, a large desk. covered with papers and books, some of them
open. CORSO follows the SECRETARY in. BARONESS KESSLER, an
elegant little white-haired old lady with a Hermes scarf draped
around her shoulders, turns her electric wheelchair to face him.
She speaks with a pronounced German accent.
BARONESS KESSLER: Mr. Corso? Come in. I’ve heard a great deal
about you.
She approaches with her left hand extended. We see that her right
arm has been amputated at the elbow.,
CORSO: Nothing good, I hope.
They shake hands.
BARONESS KESSLER (to the SECRETARY): Merci, Simone (to CORSO):
You hope right.
The SECRETARY exits, closing the door behind her.
CORSO (dryly.): I’m reassured, Baroness. In my trade, to be
spoken well of can be professionally disastrous.
He surveys the room. Visible through some open double doors on
the right is a vast library. He focuses on it. BARONESS KESSLER
follows the direction of his gaze.
BARONESS KESSLER: Yes, there it is: the Kessler Collection.
CORSO: Very impressive too. I know your catalog almost by heart.
BARONESS KESSLER: Strange we haven’t met before. Your name is a
byword among dealers and collectors but I imagine you know your
own reputation better than I do.
CORSO: It keeps the wolf from the door. (smiles to change the
subject) Were you in the middle of something?
BARONESS KESSLER beckons him over to the desk. CORSO looks at the
array of books and papers. An elegant fountain pen lies on top of
some handwritten notes.
BARONESS KESSLER: My latest work: ‘The Devil: History and Myth’ –
a kind of biography. It will be published early next year.
CORSO: Why the Devil?
BARONESS KESSLER (laughs): I saw him one day. I was fifteen years
old, and I saw him as plain as I see you now: cutaway, top hat,
cane. Very elegant, very handsome. It was love at first sight.
COP.SO chuckles, doing his best to charm the old lady.
CORSO: Three hundred years ago they’d have burned you at the
stake for saying that.
BARONESS KESSLER: Three hundred years ago I wouldn’t have said
it.
They both laugh.
BARONESS KESSLER (cont.) Nor would I have made a million by
writing about it. (abruptly businesslike) What is it you wish to
discuss, Mr. Corso?
COP.SO (adjusts his glasses): There’s a book in your collection
I’d like to examine.
She smiles as if that were already obvious.
COP.SO (cont.): It’s ‘The Book of the Nine Gates of the Kingdom
of Shadows’.
BARONESS KESSLER (unsurprised): The Nine Gates? An interesting
work. Everyone’s been asking about it lately.
CORSO (stiffens almost imperceptibly): Really?
BARONESS KESSLER eyes him for a moment.
BARONESS KESSLER: Come with me.
Swinging her wheelchair around, she steers it toward the double
doors and into the library beyond them. CORSO follows.
CORSO (cont.): You really believe in the Devil, Baroness?
BARONESS KESSLER: Enough to devote my life and my library to him,
not to mention many years of work. Don’t you?
CORSO: Everyone’s been asking me that lately.
BARONESS KESSLER looks mildly amused. She sends her wheelchair
gliding over to a bookshelf and removes the third copy of ‘The
Nine Gates’.
BARONESS KESSLER: This book demands a certain amount of faith.
CORSO: My faith is in short supply.
They both go over to a small table in the centre of the room.
BARONESS KESSLER opens the book and turns a few pages. There are
handwritten slips of paper inserted throughout.
BARONESS KESSLER: I know this book extremely well. I studied it
for years.
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.
68. PARIS HOTEL: LOBBY, RECEPTION DESK INT/NIGHT
CORSO goes up to the reception desk, where GRUBER is on duty.
CORSO: I need a favor, Gruber.
GRUBER looks up, registers his broken glasses and dishevelled
condition. THE GIRL is standing in the background.
GRUBER: Certainly, Mr. Corso.
CORSO: Liana Telfer, maiden name Saint-Damien. Thirtyish, blond,
dishy. Probably accompanied by a big man with a Clark Gable
mustache.
Impassive as ever, GRUBER make some notes on a pad.
CORSO (cont.): I want to know if they’re staying at some hotel
here in Paris.
GRUBER: It could take a little time.
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.
76. KESSLER BUILDING: OFFICE iNT/DAY
A black and white photo fills the screen: it shows a young and
beautiful BARONESS KESSLER flanked by two men in SS uniform. One
of them is Heinrich Himmler.
BARONESS KESSLER is scowling down at a wartime number of
‘Signal’, the Nazi propaganda magazine. It’s lying open on her
desk with Balkan’s envelope beside it.
The SECRETARY shows CORSO in. The BARONESS addresses her crisply.
BARONESS KESSLER: Merci, Simone.
The SECRETARY nods and exits. Fixing CORSO with a cold,
challenging stare, BARONESS KESSLER feeds the magazine into a
shredder beside her desk. She no longer looks such a dear little
old lady.
77. KESSLER BUILDING: LIBRARY, OFFICE iNT/DAY
CORSO is seated at a library table on which reposes the Kessler
copy of ‘The Nine Gates’. Beside it lies his notebook and the
photocopies of Balkan’s engravings. His shoulder bag is hanging
on the chairback, his overcoat draped over it. He reaches into
his pocket and produces a Lucky, takes out his lighter.
BARONESS KESSLER: Blackmail doesn’t entitle you to smoke in my
library, Mr. Corso.
CORSO stops short and looks back through the double doors into
her office: she’s seated behind her desk like a graven image,
watching him intently. He reinserts the Lucky in its pack and
pockets his lighter. Getting down to work, he opens ‘The Nine
Gates’ and extracts one of the Baroness’s handwritten slips,
reads it to himself in a low voice.
CORSO: ‘I will recognize your servants, my brethren, by the sign
that adorns some part of their body, a scar or mark of your
making- ‘
He replaces the slip. BARONESS KESSLER cranes her body largely
obscures her view of the table.
CORSO turns some pages and comes to the engraving of THE KNIGHT
WITH A FINGER TO HIS LIPS. He compares it with the photocopy: the
castle has three towers instead of four. He examines the margin
of the engraving through his magnifying glass to ascertain the
presence of something he already knows will be there: an ‘L.F.’
He turns to the chart in his notebook, which has already acquired
a third row of nine boxes. He writes ‘Kessler’ beside it and
enters an ‘L.F’ in the first box.
The second engraving – THE HERMIT WITH THE KEYS – appears to be
identical and the signature is ‘A.T.’ An ‘A.T.’ goes down in the
second box.
The third engraving is different: THE ANGELIC ARCHER has an arrow
in his quiver, whereas the photocopy of Balkan’ s counterpart
does not. This one, too, is signed ‘L.F.’ CORSO enters an ‘L.F.’
in the third box.
We MOVE IN until the chart FILLS THE SCREEN.
78. KESSLER BUILDING: LIBRARY, OFFICE
LONG SHOT of CORSO from behind. He leans back and stretches,
glances in the direction of the office: Baroness Kessler is no
longer at her desk. Absolute silence reigns.
He resumes work, turns to the ninth engraving: THE NAKED WOMAN
RIDING THE DRAGON WITH A CASTLE ABLAZE IN THE BACKGROUND.
There’s a loud thud, and the engraving sways and blurs. THE
SCREEN GOES BLACK.
79. KESSLER BUILDING: LIBRARY, OFFICE
FADE IN. An electrical hum, punctuated by a strange, rhythmical
series of clicks and thuds: click-thud, click-thud, click-thud-
CORSO, sitting slumped over the table, comes to. He groans and
laboriously straightens up, feels his head and winces. The
strange sound impinges on his consciousness: he looks around
vaguely for its source and discovers it:
BARONESS KESSLER’s wheelchair has been left in forward gear.
Complete with occupant, it’s colliding again and again with the
wall beneath a window on the other side of the room. CORSO, who
can just glimpse the top of the old lady’s head from behind, sees
it jerk forward at each impact. He struggles to his feet.
CORSO: Baroness?
No answer. Unsteadily, he makes his way over to the wheelchair
and swivels it around, starts back with a muffled exclamation.
BARONESS KESSLER has been strangled with her Hermes scarf: her
cheeks are blue, her eyes and tongue are protruding.
Unobstructed, the laden wheelchair takes off across the library
and heads for the double doors, which are now closed. it runs
into them full tilt, bursts them open, and continues on its way.
Instantly, smoke comes billowing into the library, accompanied by
a crackle of flames. The wheelchair disappears into the murk.
CORSO wildly scans the table for Baroness Kessler’s ‘Nine Gates’,
but it’s gone. Snatching up his notebook and abandoning his
shoulder bag and overcoat, he makes for the office at a run.
The office is thick with smoke and illumined by a fiery glow.
CORSO pauses in the doorway, shielding his face from the heat
with one hand, and surveys the scene.
BARONESS KESSLER and her wheelchair have come to rest in the
midst of a bonfire of books and papers. CORSO can just make out
her copy of ‘The Nine Gates’ on top. The flames are already
engulfing it.
CORSO takes a last look, then dashes through the smoke to the
door and exits.
80. KESSLER BUILDING: CORRIDOR, LOBBY, LANDING INT/DAY
With smoke billowing after him, CORSO dashes along the corridor,
through the lobby, which is deserted, and out onto the landing.
81. KESSLER BUILDING: LANDING, STAIRS, HALLWAY INT/DAY
On the landing CORSO bumps into the SECRETARY, who has just
emerged from the elevator. She gives a little shriek and drops a
paper bag. Half a dozen oranges go bouncing ahead of CORSO as he
races down the stairs.
In the hallway he almost upends the CONCIERGE, who’s wielding a
broom in her curlers. Leaping aside with a startled yell, she
speeds him on his way with some choice imprecations, then peers
up the stairwell: the upper stories are already wreathed in
smoke, and sundry TENANTS have debauched onto the landings. The
SECRETARY comes pelting down the stairs, screaming at the top of
her lungs.
82. SMALL PARIS SQUARE EXT/DAY
CORSO douses his head in the basin of a fountain, shakes off the
drips and massages his face. Then he leans against the basin and
looks around. He’s all alone in the little square.
He takes out a crumpled cigarette and inserts it between his lips
with dripping fingers, gropes for his lighter, and vainly tries
to light it. Wearily, he removes the cigarette from his lips and
tosses it away. All at once, he spots a huge Great Dane watching
him from the mouth of an alleyway. CORSO and the Great Dane stare
at each other.
Then the silence is broken by a fire engine’s siren, faint at
first but growing louder.
83. RIVERSIDE STREET CORNER EXT/DAY
CORSO reaches an intersection and looks around the corner.
The Kessler building is ablaze. Tongues of flame and clouds of
smoke are issuing from the windows of the upper stories. Fire
engines and squad cars are drawn up outside, FIREMEN are
directing their hoses onto the flames, GENDARMES cordoning off
the street and keeping curious SPECTATORS at bay.
84. PARIS STREET, HOTEL LOBBY EXT/INTIDAY
CORSO, looking wrung out, crosses the street and makes for the
hotel entrance.
He’s just going through the revolving doors into the lobby when
THE GIRL appears on the inside. Hooking her arm through his, she
steers him around and back outside again in one continuous
movement. As she does so:
THE GIRL (mutters): Just keep going.
Still firmly gripping his arm, she Propels him out onto the
sidewalk.
CORSO (baffled): What are you playing at?
THE GIRL: See those men talking with your friend Gruber?
CORSO turns to look. inside the lobby, TWO MEN IN TRENCHCOATS are
standing at the reception desk in conversation with GRUBER.
THE GIRL (cont.): Police.
At that moment, GRUBER looks past them at CORSO. He briefly locks
eyes with him but shows no sign of recognition.
CORSO: Shit.
He turns and walks off with THE GIRL at his side.
85. PHONE BOOTH EXT/INT/DAY
CORSO is in the act of entering a glass phone booth.
THE GIRL: You look better without that old bag and coat of yours.
They didn’t do anything for you.
CORSO shuts the door in her face. He picks up the receiver,
inserts a coin, punches out a number. THE GIRL pulls a funny face
at him through the glass. CORSO’s only response is to turn away
and cup his hand around the receiver.
CORSO (into phone): Gruber? it’s me, Corso. Can you talk?
GRUBER (V.0): No, sir.
CORSO: But you can listen?
GRUBER (V.O.): Certainly, sir.
CORSO: I’d like you to do something for me.
From outside we see. THE GIRL, arms folded, casually watching
him.
86. PARIS BRASSERIE INT/DAY
GRUBER enters a brasserie crowded with lunchtime CUSTOMERS. He’s
looking distinctly Prussian in spite of the civilian overcoat
over his uniform. He spots CORSO at the far end of the bar with
THE GIRL beside him. She’s sucking up some colorful beverage
through a straw. GRUBER acknowledges her presence with a formal
nod.
CORSO: You don’t have it?
GRUBER: There was nothing in the place you described, sir. I’m
sorry.
CORSO: Goddamit!
He turns to THE GIRL.
CORSO (cont.): I suppose you didn’t take it?
THE GIRL: You still don’t trust me, do you?
GRUBER clears his throat.
GRUBER: I think I may have the answer, sir. Someone visited your
room earlier on, while my young colleague was on duty: your wife.
CORSO: My wife? I.don’t have any wife.
GRUBER: That’s what I told him .
CORSO: Could he describe her?
GRUBER (nods): Thirtyish, blond, dishy.
CORSO Liana-
GRUBER: Which reminds me, sir: the lady and gentleman you
mentioned – they’re staying at the Hotel Crillon, Suite 236-238.
CORSO: Good for you, Gruber. Thanks a lot.
GRUBER: Always glad to be of service, Mr. Corso.
CORSO: I owe you one for those cops, too.
GRUBER: Ah yes, sir. Interpol.
CORSO: Interpol! What exactly did they want?
GRUBER: They expressed an interest in your whereabouts.
CORSO: And? What did you tell them?
GRUBER: That you were out.
CORSO: Anything else?
GRUBER: They asked if I knew whether you had recently visited
Portugal.
CORSO: And?
GRUBER: I said that our guests do not make a habit of providing
us with their itineraries.
CORSO extracts a 500 franc bill from his billfold and slips it
into GRUBER’s hand. GRUBER acknowledges this largesse with a
gracious inclination of the head.
CORSO: For what it’s worth, Gruber: I don’t know what they think
I’ve done, but I’m innocent.
GRUBER (impassively): Naturally, Mr. Corso. All our guests are.
87. HOTEL CRILLON: FORECOURT EXT/DAY
We OPEN on the luxury hotel’s facade, which bears the inscription
‘HOTEL DE CRILLON’, then PAN DOWN to the entrance and the
forecourt, which is accessible from the main road but separated
from it by a long, narrow island with a cab rank at one end.
A hive of activity: HOTEL GUESTS come and go, the DOORMAN, a
majestic figure in his gold-braided uniform, deferentially closes
the door of a departing Rolls, a BELLHOP backs a guest’s car into
a gap in the already overcrowded forecourt.
A cab drives up to the entrance. The DOORMAN opens the door,
CORSO and THE GIRL get out. CORSO turns to pay the CABBY, the
DOORMAN twitches an eyebrow at THE GIRL’s jeans and sneakers.
CORSO and THE GIRL enter.
