The wrong Venus - By Charles Williams Page 0,4

hell did she have to be passing the John at that particular moment?

The knob rattled again. “Open the door immediately, or I shall have to call the First Officer!”

The plane steadied for a moment. “I’ll get rid of her,” Martine whispered in his ear. Snatching up the vest, she shoved it in his hand and motioned for him to drop it behind the chemical toilet. As he straightened and turned, facing her and the door again, she winked,’ opened her mouth wide, and put her hand on her stomach with a grimace of pain. Then she reached around in back and unlatched the door, which flew open. It was the short, red-haired stewardess, the one who looked Scottish, bristling with Presbyterian outrage. Colby opened his mouth and groaned. It was happening a little fast for him, but that seemed to be what she’d meant.

The stewardess gasped again, staring at his naked chest, or as much of it as was visible past Martine Randall.

“Wider,” Martine ordered, peering intently into the back of his mouth. Colby repeated the groan, with his hand pressed to his lower abdomen. He hoped this was where the pain was supposed to be. She tilted his head a little, as though for better light. “Strange . . . very strange. . . .”

“Really!”

“. . . certainly no evidence of Barker’s syndrome,” Martine went on. Then, as though aware of the stewardess for the first time, she snapped, “Yes, yes, what is it? Must you stand there yammering?”

“This gentleman cannot be in here with his clothes off!”

Martine turned with a withering glance. “Do you expect him to take them off out in the cabin? Don’t just stand there, bring me an electric torch and a spoon.”

“What—? What for?”

Martine sighed. “My dear girl, I asked for a torch and a spoon on the assumption that you do not have a laryngoscope aboard your aircraft. In the event that I have underestimated its facilities, please accept my apologies, and bring the laryngoscope instead. And quickly—”

The stewardess began to look uncertain. “You’re a physician?”

“Bravo, that’s a good girl. . . . Smartly, now—”

“But what’s wrong with him? He looks all right.”

“My dear, I’m sure the airline wouldn’t want to add the burden of medical diagnosis to your other—”

The plane lurched. The stewardess shot inward and the door slammed shut behind her. Colby was against the outer wall, now with two girls suspended from his neck. Somewhere under him, in the vest hidden behind the toilet, a watch buzzed its rattlesnake warning, and the stewardess spoke with Britannic firmness into his throat. “Really, I must insist that you return to your seats.” There would always be an England, Colby thought. Not to mention Switzerland.

The plane shot upward. Martine peeled off and sat down on the toilet seat. Colby and his new partner came over against the door, and then upright again. The door flew open. It was the Frenchwoman from the seat behind them. She took in Colby’s naked shoulders and the stewardess clasped in his arms. Her eyes rolled to heaven. “Alors . . . les anglais!”

The Sikh appeared in the passageway behind her. Oh, no, Colby thought, not two more! “Ne restez pas—” he began, when the plane staggered to port and the door scooped them in. It was like a valve, he thought, or the entrance to a lobster pot. His face was full of beard now like a burst carton of shredded wheat, and upward through this foliage came cries of, “Lâchez-moi! Lâchez-moi!” and another fateful buzzing from the vest. He closed his eyes. There was no longer any hope.

2

The plane lurched, but there was no danger now of being thrown from side to side; they were too tightly wedged.

“Lâchez-moi! Ouvrez la porte, espèce de chameau—!

“Ouvrez-la vous-même,” Colby said. “Vous êtes plus près.”

The Sikh had somehow taken a phrase book from the breast pocket of his jacket and was holding it over his head. “Pouvez-vous me dire,” he asked, “où se trouve le cabinet de toilette?”

“Just follow the crowds,” Colby said into the beard. “You can’t miss it.”

“Oh, you are English.”

“American. . . . Can anybody reach the doorknob?”

“Au secours! Au secours!”

“Really, you must return to your seats—”

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz—!

“I can feel it,” the Sikh replied. “It is in the middle of my back. ... It is urgent that I find the W.C.”

“Well, hang on, for Christ’s sake. . . . Try to reach the knob—”

“I cannot—”

“You cannot reach the knob, or you cannot hang on?”

“To the rescue!” It was