The Wheel of Darkness

Up and down the corridor, doors were flung open. People crowded out, some dressed, others in nightgowns or T-shirts. It was remarkable, Kemper thought, how quickly they reacted; it was almost as if they’d all been waiting for something.

“What’s happening?” somebody asked. “What is it?”

“Fire?” came another voice, breathless, close to panic. “Where?” “Folks!” cried Kemper, hustling down the hall. “There is no need for alarm! Please leave your staterooms and move forward! Gather in the forward lounge! There is nothing to worry about, no reason to panic, everybody please head forward . . .”

“. . .

Attention: this is a fire alarm . . .”

A large woman in a billowing nightgown came charging out of a stateroom and clutched at him with hammy arms. “Fire? Oh my God,

where

?”

“It’s all right, ma’am. Please proceed to the forward lounge. Everything’s going to be fine.”

More people crowded around him. “Where do we go? Where’s the fire?”

“Move forward to the end of the corridor and gather in the lounge!” Kemper forced his way past. Nobody had yet emerged from Blackburn’s triplex. He saw Hentoff and the security guard hustling down the hall, pushing past people.

“Pepys! My Pepys!” A woman, jiggling against the flow of the crowd, careened off Kemper and disappeared back into her suite. The guard began to stop her but Kemper shook his head. The woman popped out a moment later with a dog.

“Pepys! Thank goodness!”

Kemper glanced at the casino manager. “The Penshurst Triplex,” he murmured. “We have to make sure it’s empty.”

Hentoff took position on one side of the door while the security guard pounded on the gleaming wood. “Fire evacuation! Everyone get out!”

Nothing. Hentoff glanced to Kemper, who nodded. The guard whipped out a master key card and swiped it. The door popped open and the two went inside.

Kemper waited by the door. A moment later, he heard raised voices from inside. A woman in a maid’s uniform ran out of the triplex and down the hall. Then Blackburn appeared at the door, handled bodily by the security guard.

“Get your greasy hands off me, you bastard!” he cried.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s the rules,” said the guard.

“There’s no bloody fire! I don’t even smell smoke!”

“It’s the rules, sir,” Kemper echoed.

“At least lock my door, for chrissakes!”

“Fire regulations state that all doors must remain open in a fire emergency. Now, could you please move to the forward lounge, where the other passengers are gathered?”

“I won’t leave my stateroom unlocked!” Blackburn wrenched free and tried to push back toward his room.

“Sir,” said Hentoff, seizing him by the coat, “if you don’t come with us, we’ll have to detain you.”

“Detain me, my ass!” Blackburn took a swing at Hentoff, who ducked aside. He lunged for the door and Hentoff instinctively tackled him, and they rolled on the floor, two men in suits, grappling. There was the sound of tearing fabric.

Kemper rushed over. “Cuff him!”

The security guard whipped out a pair of PlastiCuffs and, as Blackburn rolled on top of Hentoff and tried to rise, skillfully threw him to the floor, pi

Blackburn jerked and quivered with rage. “Do you know who I am? You’ll pay for this—!” He struggled to sit up.

Kemper moved in. “Mr. Blackburn, we’re well aware of who you are. Now, please listen to me carefully: if you don’t move peaceably to the forward lounge, I’ll send you straight to the brig, where you will remain until disembarkation, at which time you will be turned over to local law enforcement and charged with assault.”

Blackburn stared at him, nostrils dilated, blowing hard.

“Or, if you calm down and follow orders, I’ll remove those handcuffs now and we’ll forget all about your unprovoked attack on ship’s perso

A few more heaving breaths, and then Blackburn bowed his head.

Kemper gestured to the security guard, who removed the cuffs.

“Take him to the lounge. Don’t let anybody leave for half an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, if the all-clear has sounded, they can return to their suites.”

“Very good, sir.”

The guard escorted Blackburn down the now empty hall, leaving Kemper and Hentoff alone in the echoing corridor. Thank God: the sprinklers had stayed off. All his preparatory work hadn’t been in vain. Firefighters were arriving, dragging out hoses and gear, entering staterooms looking for the fire, closing each stateroom door after they left. Although it was already becoming evident it was probably a false alarm, they had to go through the paces.

Kemper glanced at Hentoff and said, in a low voice, “We’d better go, too. We don’t want to be here when Pendergast . . .”

“Don’t even say it.” And Hentoff hustled down the hall as if he couldn’t get out of the area fast enough.

41

AT THE OTHER END OF THE SHIP, SEVEN DECKS BELOW, EMILY Dahlberg exited the Café Soho after a light breakfast of tea and scones and made her way toward the nearby shopping corridor known as Regent Street. She preferred this upscale arcade to the other, St. James’s, on Deck 6. The corridor had been tricked up to look like the real Regent Street of a hundred years before, and they’d done an amazing job: streetlamps with real gas jets, cobbled alleys with small, elegant clothing boutiques lining both sides. She’d arrived just in time: unlike the casinos and clubs that were open all day and night, Regent Street kept more regular hours. It was ten o’clock and the shops were just now opening, the lights coming on, the metal grates being pulled back by staff.

Ten o’clock. Ninety minutes to kill until it was time to meet up again with Gavin Bruce and plan their next move.

Dahlberg drifted by the first shop, eyeing the goods in the window. She knew the real Regent Street well, and the stores here were even more expensive than the real thing. Imagine, she mused as she looked through the shop window, paying eleven hundred pounds for an oyster puffball cocktail dress that you could get in London for a third as much. There was something about being on an ocean liner that put one’s rational mind to slumber.

She smiled vaguely as she made her way down the faux avenue, her mind wandering. Strangely, despite all the panic and confusion and apprehension that hung in the air like a pall, she found herself thinking of the elegant Mr. Pendergast. She hadn’t seen him since that First Night di