The Wheel of Darkness (11 page)

“Indeed?”

“I’m here as a favor to a friend. You see, gentlemen, my friend has had something stolen from him—something of great value. That object is currently in the possession of a passenger on this ship. It is my intention to retrieve the object and return it to the rightful owner.”

“Are you a private investigator?” Hentoff asked.

Pendergast considered this a moment, his pale eyes reflecting the light of the monitors. “You could certainly say that my investigations are private.”

“So you’re a freelancer,” Hentoff said. The casino manager was unable to keep a note of disdain from his voice. “Sir, once again I must ask you to leave.”

Pendergast glanced around at the screens, then returned his attention to Mayles. “It’s your job, isn’t it, Mr. Mayles, to know about the individual passengers?”

“That’s one of my pleasures,” Mayles replied.

“Excellent. Then you are just the person to provide me with information that can help me track down the thief.”

“I’m afraid we can’t share passenger information,” Mayles said, his voice edging into winter.

“But this man could be dangerous. He committed murder to obtain the object.”

“Then our security staff would handle the matter,” said Hentoff. “I’d be happy to direct you to a security officer who could take down the information and keep it on file.”

Pendergast shook his head. “Alas, I can’t involve low-level staff in my investigation. Discretion is paramount.”

“What
is
this object?” Hentoff asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t be specific. It is an Asian antique of great value.”

“And how do you know it’s on board ship?”

In response, Pendergast’s lips merely twitched in what might have been a faint smile.

“Mr. Pendergast,” Mayles said in the voice he reserved for humoring the most truculent of passengers. “You won’t tell us what you’re looking for. You won’t tell us how you’re sure it’s aboard the
Britannia
. You aren’t here in any official capacity—and in any case we are now in international waters. Our own security staff is the law—U.S. and British law no longer applies. I’m sorry, but we simply can’t sanction your investigation or help you in any way. On the contrary, we will take it seriously amiss if your investigation disturbs any of our guests.” To ease the sting of this refusal, he gave Pendergast his most winning smile. “I’m sure you understand.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “I understand.” He gave a little bow, then turned to go. And then, hand on the doorframe, he stopped.

“I suppose,” he said casually, “you’re aware that a group of card counters is active on your floor?” And he nodded his head vaguely toward a cluster of screens.

Mayles glanced over, but he wasn’t trained in pit observation and all he saw were swarms of men and women at the blackjack tables.

“What are you talking about?” Hentoff asked sharply.

“Card counters. Highly professional and well organized, too, based on how successful they’ve been at not drawing, ah,
heat
.”

“What rot,” Hentoff said. “We’ve seen nothing of the sort. What is this, some kind of game?”

“It’s not a game to them,” Pendergast said. “At least, not in the sense you’d like it to be.”

For a moment, Pendergast and the casino manager looked at each other. Then, with a hiss of irritation, Hentoff turned to one of his technicians. “What’s the running take?”

The technician picked up the phone, made a quick call. Then he glanced up at Hentoff. “Mayfair’s down two hundred thousand pounds, sir.”

“Where—across the board?”

“At the blackjack tables, sir.”

Quickly, Hentoff looked back at the screens and stared for a moment. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “Which ones are they?”

Pendergast smiled. “Ah! I’m afraid they’ve just left.”

“How convenient. And just how, exactly, were they counting cards?”

“They appeared to be running a variant of the ‘Red-7’ or the ‘K-O.’ It’s hard to be certain, given that I wasn’t really studying the screens. And their cover is good enough that they obviously haven’t been caught before: if they had been, you’d have had mug shots in your database and your facial recognition scanners would have picked them up.”

As he listened, Hentoff’s face grew increasingly red. “How in the world would you know something like this?”

“As you said yourself, Mr.—Hentoff, is it? I’m a
freelancer
.”

For a long moment, nobody spoke. The two technicians sat as if frozen, not daring to look away from their screens.

“It’s clear you could use some assistance in this matter, Mr. Hentoff. I’d be happy to provide it.”

“In exchange for our help with your little problem,” Hentoff said sarcastically.

“Precisely.”

There was another strained silence. At last, Hentoff sighed. “Jesus. What exactly is it you want?”

“I have great faith in Mr. Mayles’s abilities. He has access to all the passenger files. His job is socializing with everyone on board, asking questions, soliciting information. He’s in an excellent position to help. Please don’t worry, Mr. Mayles, about disturbing the passengers—I’m interested in a handful of passengers only. I’d like to know, for example, if any of this handful consigned items to the central safe, if their cabins are on the ‘no entry’ list for housekeeping . . . that sort of thing.” Then he turned to Hentoff. “And I might need your help as well.”

“With what?”

“With—let’s see, what is the expression?—greasing the wheels.”

Hentoff glanced from Pendergast to Mayles.

“I’ll consider it,” Mayles muttered.

“For your sakes,” said Pendergast, “I hope you don’t take too long. Down two hundred thousand pounds in five hours—that’s a rather nasty trend.” He rose with a smile and slipped out of the pit without another word.

C
ONSTANCE
G
REENE DRIFTED DOWN THE BROAD THOROUGHFARE
of boutiques and upscale shops on Deck 6 known as St. James’s. Although it was past midnight, the
Britannia
showed no signs of settling down for the night: beautifully dressed couples strolled along, gazing at the window displays or chatting in low tones. Large vases of fresh flowers lined the passages, and a string quartet could be heard sawing learnedly over the chatter and laughter. The air smelled of lilac, and lavender, and champagne.

Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miró, Klee, and Dalí at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.

Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears.

It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse consumption and anxious attachment to the things of the world, from her life in the monastery. She longed to return.

Be in the world but not of it.

Turning away from the railing, she walked over to a nearby elevator bank and ascended to Deck 12. This deck was almost entirely given over to passenger accommodations; while still a picture of elegance, with its thick oriental carpets and gilt-framed landscapes in oils, its atmosphere was much more sedate. She moved forward. Ahead, the corridor ended, making a ninety-degree turn to the left. Straight ahead was the door to her suite, the Tudor, situated at the aft port corner of the ship. Constance began to reach for her passcard, then froze.

The door to the suite was ajar.

Instantly, her heart began to beat furiously, as if it had been waiting for just such an event. Her guardian would never have been so careless—it had to be somebody else.
It can’t be him
, she thought.
It can’t. I saw him fall. I saw him die
. A part of her knew that her fears were irrational. Yet she could not ease the sudden racing of her heart.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slender box, snapped it open, and removed a gleaming scalpel from its plush nest. The scalpel
he
had given her.

Holding the blade before her, she advanced silently into the stateroom. The main salon of the suite was oval in shape, ending in a large two-story plate-glass window overlooking the black Atlantic roiling far below. One door to the left led to a convenience pantry, another to the right opened onto the room she and Aloysius used as a study. The room was lit by a dim courtesy light. Beyond she could see moonlight painting a glittering trail across the heaving ocean, throwing jewels into the ship’s wake. It illuminated a sofa, two wing chairs, the dining area, a baby grand piano. Twin staircases curved up the walls to the left and right. The left led to Pendergast’s bedroom; the right to Constance’s. Taking another silent step forward, she craned her neck, looking upward.

The door to her room was ajar. Pale yellow light streamed out from beneath it.

She took a fresh grip on the knife. Then—slowly, and in complete silence—she crossed the room and began ascending the stairs.

During the course of the evening, the seas had steadily grown stronger. The slow roll of the ship, once barely perceptible, was becoming distinct. From above and far forward came the long, mournful cry of the ship’s whistle. Sliding one hand up the banister, Constance took slow, careful steps.

She gained the landing, stepped toward the door. There was no sound from beyond. She paused. Then she violently pushed the door open and darted inside.

There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.

It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.

“What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.

The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.

Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.

“
No
!” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”

Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.

Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled
Poems of Akhmatova
.

Constance was not quite sure why she had brought this book along. Its history—and its legacy—was painful to her. Just to look upon it now was difficult. Perhaps she’d carried it as a penitent carries a cilice, hoping to atone for her misjudgment through pain.

“You like Akhmatova?” she said.

The woman nodded. “When I came here, I could bring no books. I have missed them. And then, turning down your bed, I saw—I saw yours.” She swallowed.

Constance continued to gaze at her speculatively. “
I have lit my treasured candles
,” she quoted Akhmatova. “
One by one, to hallow this night
.”

Without taking her eyes from Constance, the woman replied, “
With you, who do not come, I wait the birth of the year
.”

Constance stepped back from the phone.

“Back home, in Belarus, I taught the poetry of Akhmatova,” the woman said.

“High school?”

The woman shook her head. “University. In Russian, of course.”

“You’re a professor?” Constance asked, surprised.

“I was. I lost my job—as did many others.”

“And now you work on board . . . as a
maid
?”

The woman smiled sadly. “It is the same for a lot of us here. We lose many jobs. Or our countries have few jobs. Everything is corrupt.”

“Your family?”

“My parents had a farm, but it was taken away by the government because of the fallout. From Chernobyl. The plume drifted west, you see. For ten years I taught Russian literature at university. But then I lost my position. Later I heard of work on the big boats. So I come here to work, send money home.” She shook her head bitterly.

Constance took a seat in a nearby chair. “What’s your name?”

“Marya Kazulin.”

“Marya, I am willing to forget this breach of privacy. But in return, I would like your help.”

The woman’s expression grew guarded. “How can I possibly help you?”

“I would like to be able to go belowdecks from time to time, chat with the workers, the stewards, the various members of the crew. Ask a few questions. You could introduce me, vouch for me.”

“Questions?” the woman became alarmed. “You work for the shipping line?”

Constance shook her head. “No. I have my reasons, personal reasons. Nothing involving the company or the ship. Forgive me if I’m not more specific at this point.”