The Wheel of Darkness (10 page)

“I’ll concede the point.”

The finger moved down the sheet. “For these same reasons, we can bracket the age: over twenty, under sixty-five. On a ship like this, that latter fact is most useful. In addition, he’s not traveling with a wife: the messy murder, cab ride, disguise, boarding ship with the Agozyen—all these are the actions of a man unencumbered by a wife. The psychopathology of the murder, the keen pleasure taken in the violence, also points strongly toward a single man. A single male, of a certain age: one thousand and twelve more names removed. Which gives us two hundred and twelve left.”

The finger moved again. “All the evidence shows that Ambrose contacted a known collector, perhaps not of Asian antiquities per se, but a collector nonetheless. And a man whose face might be recognizable to members of the general public. Which leaves us with twenty-six.”

He glanced up at Constance. “The murderer is clever. Put yourself in his shoes. He has to get this awkward box on board ship without being conspicuous. He would not have boarded immediately, carrying the box—that would be remembered. And besides, he was covered with blood from the murder; he’d have to change his clothes and wash up in a secure place. So what would he do?”

“Go to a hotel room, wash, repack the Agozyen in a larger steamer trunk, and then board at the height of the final crush.”

“Precisely. And that would be around nine this morning.”

Constance smiled wryly.

The finger lifted from the paper. “Which leaves us with just eight suspects—right here. You’ll note a curious coincidence: two were at our table.” He pushed the paper over. She read the names:

Lionel Brock. Owner of Brock Galleries, West 57th Street, New York City. Age 52. Prominent dealer of impressionist and post- impressionist paintings.

Scott Blackburn, former President and CEO, Gramnet, Inc. Age 41. Silicon Valley billionaire. Collects Asian art and 20th-century painting.

Jason Lambe, CEO, Agamemnon.com. Age 42. Technology mogul, Blackburn a major investor in his company. Collects Chinese porcelain and Japanese woodcuts and paintings.

Terrence Calderón, CEO, TeleMobileX Solutions. Age 34. Technology mogul, friend of Blackburn. Collects French antiques.

Edward Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh, reputed cat burglar. Age 24. Collects antique jewelry, silver and gold plate, reliquaries, and objets d’art.

Claude Dallas, movie star. Age 31. Collects Pop art.

Felix Strage, chairman of the Department of Greek and Roman Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. Collects Greek and Roman antiquities.

Victor Delacroix, author and bon vivant. Age 36. Eclectic art collector.

Pendergast reached over with a pen and drew a line through the last name. “This one we can eliminate right away.”

“How?”

“I noticed at dinner he was left-handed. The killer is right-handed.”

She looked at him. “You’ve eliminated two thousand six hundred and ninety-three suspects—and you haven’t even resorted to cleverness yet.”

“Eliminating the last seven might prove more challenging. This is where we must divide if we are to conquer.” He glanced at her. “I will undertake the investigation abovedecks, among the passengers and ship’s officers. I’d like you to handle the belowdecks portion of our search.”

“Belowdecks? If it’s not a member of the crew, then why bother?”

“The best place to hear gossip and rumor on the passengers is belowdecks.”

“But why me?”

“You have a better chance of convincing crew members to talk than I do.”

“And what am I looking for, exactly?”

“Generally, anything your instincts tell you would be helpful. Specifically, a box. A long, awkward box.”

She paused. “How am I to get belowdecks?”

“You’ll find a way.” He placed a cautionary hand on her elbow. “But I must warn you, Constance—I don’t understand this killer. And that worries me. As it should you.”

She nodded.

“Make no moves on your own. Observe, then come to me. Agreed?”

“Yes, Aloysius.”

“In that case, the
game
, as they say, is afoot. Shall we toast the hunt with a fine old port?” Pendergast once again picked up the wine list. “The ’55 Taylor is drinking exceptionally well right now, I understand.”

She waved her hand. “I’m not in the mood for port, thank you, but please yourself.”

J
UANITA
S
ANTAMARIA WHEELED HER MAID’S TROLLEY DOWN THE
elegant gold carpeting of Deck 12, her lips pursed in a slight frown, her eyes locked straight ahead. The trolley, piled high with fresh linens and scented soap, squeaked as it moved over the plush nap.

As she rounded a bend in the corridor, a passenger approached: a well-preserved woman of about sixty with a violet rinse. “Excuse me, my dear,” the woman said to Juanita. “Is this the way to the SunSpa?”

“Yes,” the maid replied.

“Oh, and another thing. I’d like to send the captain a note of thanks. What’s his name again?”

“Yes,” said Juanita, without stopping.

Ahead, the hall ended in a plain brown door. Juanita pushed the trolley through and into a service area that lay beyond. Large canvas bags of soiled laundry lay to one side, along with stacks of gray plastic tubs full of dirty room-service dishes, all waiting to be transported to the bowels of the ship. To the right lay a bank of service elevators. Wheeling the trolley up to the nearest elevator, Juanita extended her arm and pressed the down button.

As she did so, her finger trembled ever so slightly.

The elevator doors whispered open. Juanita pushed the trolley inside, then turned to face the control panel. Once again, she reached out to press a button. This time, however, she hesitated, staring at the panel, her face slack. She waited so long that the doors slid shut again and the elevator hung in its shaft, motionless, waiting. At last—very slowly, as if zombified—she pressed the button for Deck C. With a hum, the car began to descend.

The main starboard corridor of Deck C was cramped, low-ceilinged, and stuffy. It was as crowded as Deck 12 had been empty: busboys, maids, croupiers, hostesses, technicians, stewards, manicurists, electricians, and a host of others scurried past, intent on the innumerable errands and assignments required to keep a grand ocean liner running. Juanita pushed her trolley out into the ant-farm bustle, then stopped, staring back and forth as if lost. More than one person glared at her as they passed: the corridor was not wide, and the trolley, parked in the middle, quickly created a jam.

“Hey!” A frowsy woman wearing a supervisor’s uniform came bustling up. “No carts allowed down here, get that up to housekeeping right away.”

Juanita had her back to the woman and did not respond. The supervisor grabbed her by the shoulder and wheeled her around. “I said, get that—” Recognizing Juanita, she stopped.

“Santamaria?” she said. “What the
hell
are you doing down here? Your shift doesn’t end for another five hours. Get your ass back up to Deck 12.”

Juanita said nothing, made no eye contact.

“You hear me? Get back abovedecks before I have you written up and docked a day’s pay. You—”

The supervisor stopped. Something in Juanita’s vacant expression, the dark hollows of her eyes, made her fall silent.

Abandoning the maid’s trolley in the middle of the corridor, Juanita walked past the woman and made her way unsteadily through the crowds. The supervisor, spooked, simply watched her go.

Juanita’s quarters were in a cramped, oppressive warren of cabins near the ship’s stern. Although the turbine/diesel power plant was three decks beneath, the thrumming vibration and smell of fuel haunted the air like a drifting infection. As she approached the cabin, her step grew slower still. As crew members passed by, they frequently turned back to look at her, shocked by her unfocused eyes and the drawn, spectral look on her face.

She stopped outside her door, hesitant. A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, the door opened from within and a dark, black-haired woman began to step out. She wore the uniform of the waitstaff for Hyde Park, the informal restaurant on Deck 7. Seeing Juanita, she stopped abruptly.

“Juanita, girl!” she said in a Haitian accent. “You surprised me.”

Again, Juanita said nothing. She stared past the woman as if she weren’t there.

“Juanita, what’s wrong? You’re all staring, like you saw a ghost.”

There was a splatter as Juanita’s bladder gave way. Yellow coils of urine trickled down her legs and puddled on the linoleum of the corridor.

The woman in the waitress uniform jumped back. “Hey!”

The loud voice seemed to rouse Juanita. Her glassy eyes focused. They swiveled toward the woman in the doorway. Then, very slowly, they moved down her face, to her throat, where a gold medallion hung from a simple chain. It depicted a many-headed snake, crouched below the rays of a stylized sun.

Suddenly, Juanita’s eyes widened. Thrusting out her hands as if to ward something off, she half staggered, half fell back into the hallway. Her mouth yawned open, showing an alarming cavern of pink.

That was when the screams began.

R
OGER
M
AYLES WALKED ACROSS THE PLUSHLY CARPETED FLOOR OF
the Mayfair Casino, nodding and smiling as he went. The
Britannia
had been in international waters for less than five hours, but already the casino was buzzing: the din of slot machines, blackjack and roulette dealers, and craps players drowned out the floor show currently playing in the Royal Court, just forward in the bow of Deck 4. Almost everybody was wearing a tux or a black evening gown: most had rushed straight down here after the First Night dinner without bothering to change.

A cocktail waitress carrying a salver laden with champagne stopped him. “Hello, Mr. Mayles,” she said over the noise. “Care for a glass?”

“No thank you, darling.”

A Dixieland band was wailing almost at their elbows, adding to the sensation of frantic merriment. The Mayfair was the most boisterous of the
Britannia
’s three casinos, and, Mayles thought, was a giddy spectacle to greed and Mammon. The first night at sea was always the most gleefully chaotic: nobody had yet been sobered by large casino losses. Mayles winked at the waitress and continued on, glancing from table to table. A small dome of smoked glass had been discreetly set into the ceiling over each one, almost invisible among the dazzling crystal chandeliers. The decor was fin de siècle London, all crushed velvet and rich wood and antique brass. In the center of the vast room rose a bizarre sculpture carved out of pale pink ice: Lord Nelson, clad rather perversely in a toga.

Reaching the casino’s bar, Mayles took a right and stopped before an unmarked door. Pulling a passcard from his pocket, he swiped it through an adjoining reader and the lock popped open. He glanced from left to right, then slipped quickly inside, away from the noise and bustle.

The room beyond had no overhead lights. Instead, it was illuminated by a hundred small CCTV monitors set into all four walls, each displaying a different perspective of the casino: bird’s-eye views of tables, banks of slot machines, cashiers. This was the “pit” of the Mayfair Casino, where the casino staff vigilantly monitored gamblers, croupiers, dealers, and money handlers alike.

Two technicians in chairs with rollers studied the displays, their faces spectral in the wash of blue light. Victor Hentoff, the casino manager, stood behind them, also frowning at the monitors. He would spend most of the next six days shuttling between the ship’s casinos, and he had spent so many years staring at screens that his face had acquired a kind of perpetual squint. At the sound of Mayles’s entrance, he turned.

“Roger,” he said in a gruff voice, holding out his hand.

Mayles reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope.

“Thanks,” Hentoff said. He slit open the envelope with a fat finger and pulled out several sheets. “My God,” he said, flipping through them.

“Lots of low-hanging fruit,” Mayles said. “Ripe for the picking.”

“Care to give me an executive summary?”

“Sure.” Along with everything else Mayles had to do, the casino staff expected him to provide them, discreetly, with a list of potential high rollers—or easy marks—for special cultivation and buttering up. “The Countess of Westleigh is back for another fleecing. Remember what happened on the maiden voyage of the
Oceania
?”

Hentoff rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe she’d return after that.”

“She has a weakness for maiden voyages. And baccarat dealers. Then there’s—”

Suddenly, Hentoff wasn’t looking at Mayles anymore. He was looking over the cruise director’s shoulder. At the same moment, Mayles noticed that the noise level in the room had gone up tremendously. He turned to follow Hentoff’s gaze and with a thrill of dismay saw that his dinner guest, Pendergast, had somehow let himself into the pit and was now closing the door behind him.

“Ah, Mr. Mayles,” Pendergast said. “Here you are.”

The feeling of dismay deepened. The cruise director rarely made poor choices for his dining companions, but selecting Pendergast and his “ward” had been a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.

Pendergast swept his gaze around the walls of monitors. “Charming view you have in here.”

“How did you get in?” Hentoff demanded.

“Just a little parlor trick.” Pendergast gave a dismissive wave.

“Well, you can’t stay here, sir. This area is off-limits to passengers.”

“I just have a request or two to make of Mr. Mayles, then I’ll be on my way.”

The casino manager turned to Mayles. “Roger, you know this passenger?”

“We dined together. How can I help you, Mr. Pendergast?” Mayles asked, with an ingratiating smile.

“What I’m about to tell you all is confidential,” Pendergast said.

Oh no
, Mayles thought, feeling his sensitive nerves tense up. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a continuation of Pendergast’s morbid dinner conversation.

“I’m not just aboard the
Britannia
to relax and take the air.”