The Wrong Venus Read Online Free

I’ll claim it, along with mine, and you won’t have to get close to the Customs counter at all. You just carry the coats for us. Is there any chance they know you and may be watching for you?”
    “No,” he said. “This is the first time.”
    “Good. . . . The only two places that’ll be a little tricky will be going through passport control and past the guard at the exit from Customs.” She grinned, and held out a hand. “Good luck.”
    “Thanks a million. . . . But why are you doing it?”
    The excitement showed in her eyes again. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
    The plane came to rest. The engines died, and with them the rushing sound of the ventilating system. In the sudden silence, Colby held the bundled coats up across his chest, inclined his head, and listened. The ticking was well muffled, and sounded faint and far away. Their eyes met, and he was on the point of winking when one of the alarms went off with a buzz that would have been audible for ten feet. Sweat broke out on his face. Passengers were already pouring out into the aisle and going past them. There was no possibility of unwrapping the bundle now and disposing of the watches without being seen.
    “Relax,” Martine said out of the corner of her mouth. “We can always create a diversion.”
    He stepped out into the aisle, feeling the sides of the funnel close in around him again. Just in front of them was the Frenchwoman, laden with a fur coat and an armful of packages. As they passed the washroom, she tapped on the door, and said, “Dépêche-toi, mon chéri.”
    The boy emerged, the one who’d been reading the Tintin book. He was plucking at shreds of paper towel that appeared to be stuck to his fingers.
    “England is a crazy country,” he said in French. “The water’s sticky, and smells like peppermint.”
    “Quoi encore?” The Frenchwoman snatched at his hand and sniffed. “Alors . . . les anglais!”
    Colby sighed. He’d forgotten to drain the crème de menthe from the basin, but it didn’t matter anyway. He’d either make it through the gauntlet ahead or he wouldn’t. They came down the ramp and started toward the entrance to the terminal building. There was still silence from inside the coats. The woman handed the boy one of the things she’d been carrying; Martine and Colby saw and recognized it at the same instant. It was a transistor radio. They looked at each other.
    Colby turned to the boy with a beaming smile. “Connais-tu les Beatles?” He did a couple of bodily contortions he hoped approximated the writhings of Beatle fans, and snapped out a lively, “Yeah . . . yeah!”
    “Attention! C’est le fou!” the Frenchwoman warned, apparently on the point of clutching her son to her and running for police protection, but the seed had been planted. The boy had already switched on the radio and was turning the dial. The first station was a BBC program.
    “... of course, this is merely one of the many ecological factors to be considered in any study of the distribution patterns of the bearded titmouse. . . .”
    Sensing that this might not take him by the throat, Colby was on the point of springing forward to help him find something else when the boy turned the dial again and the radio erupted with guitar and voice.
    “Ah!” Colby sighed with ecstasy and turned to Martine. “The Beatles!”
    The boy looked at him with contempt. “Johnny Hallyday.”
    “J’aime Johnny Hallyday,” Colby said.
    They were inside the terminal now, in the long line stretching up to the passport counter, Martine first, then Colby, the boy with his blaring radio, and his mother. More passengers entered the line behind them. They moved slowly ahead.
    One of the watches chimed inside the coats— ding . . . ding . . . ding— but the sound was lost and all but inaudible under that from the radio. Colby turned and smiled at the boy, and beat time to the music with his hand.
    Come on, Johnny, he prayed, keep laying it in