The tale of the body thief - By Anne Rice Page 0,134

into that bed together again. For surely we should do it.”

“Yes, we should do that, I think,” she answered.

IT WAS almost dark when I left her quietly to take the phone by its long cord into the little bath and call my New York agent. Once again, the number rang and rang. I was just about to give up, and turn again to my man in Paris, when a voice came on the line, and slowly let me know in halting awkward terms that my New York representative was indeed no longer alive. He had died by violence several nights ago in his office high above Madison Avenue. Robbery had now been affirmed as the motive for the attack; his computer and all his files had been stolen.

I was so stunned that I could make no answer to the helpful voice on the phone. At last I managed to collect myself sufficiently to put a few questions.

On Wednesday night, about eight o’clock, the crime had occurred. No, no one knew the extent of damage done by the theft of the files. Yes, unfortunately the poor man had suffered.

“Awful, awful situation,” said the voice. “If you were in New York, you couldn’t avoid knowing about it. Every paper in town had the story. They were calling it a vampire killing. The man’s body was entirely drained of blood.”

I hung up the phone, and for a long moment sat there in rigid silence. Then I rang Paris. My man there answered after only a small delay.

Thank God I had called, said my man. But please, I must identify myself. No, the code words weren’t enough. What about conversations which had taken place between us in the past? Ah, yes, yes, that was it. Talk, talk, he said. I at once poured out a litany of secrets known only to me and this man, and I could hear his great relief as he at last unburdened himself.

The strangest things had been happening, he said. He’d been contacted twice by someone claiming to be me, who obviously wasn’t. This individual even knew two of our code words used in the past, and gave an elaborate story as to why he did not know the latest ones. Meantime, several electronic orders had come in for shifts of funds, but in every case, the codes were wrong. But not entirely wrong. Indeed, there was every indication that this person was in the process of cracking our system.

“But, Monsieur, let me tell you the simplest part. This man does not speak the same French that you do! I don’t mean to insult you, Monsieur, but your French is rather … how shall I say, unusual? You speak old-fashioned words. And you put words in unusual order. I know when it is you.”

“I understand exactly,” I said. “Now believe me when I say this. You must not talk to this person anymore. He is capable of reading your mind. He is trying to get the code words from you telepathically. We are going to set up a system, you and I. You will make one transfer to me now … to my bank in New Orleans. But everything must be locked up tight after that. And when I contact you again, I shall use three old-fashioned words. We won’t agree on them … but they will be words you’ve heard me use before and you will know them.”

Of course this was risky. But the point was, this man knew me! I went on to tell him that the thief in question was most dangerous, that he had done violence to my man in New York, and every conceivable personal protection must be taken. I should pay for all this—guards of any number, round the clock. He must err on the side of excess. “You’ll hear from me again, very soon. Remember, old-fashioned words. You’ll know me when you speak to me.”

I put down the phone. I was trembling with rage, unsupportable rage! Ah, the little monster! It is not enough for him to have the body of the god, he must ransack the god’s storehouses. The little fiend, the little imp! And I had been so foolish not to realize that this would happen!

“Oh, you are human all right,” I said to myself. “You are a human idiot!” And oh, to think of the denunciations Louis would heap upon my head before he consented to help me!

And what if Marius knew! Oh, that was too awful to contemplate.