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“Yes, sir.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“A nice, old-fashioned sort of gent, sir.”
“In a derby hat?”
“Precisely, sir.”
Pendergast sca
Pendergast turned to the guard. “Johnson, may I borrow your gloves?”
The doorman was too well trained to show surprise. Do
There was no writing on the folded sheet. He angled it toward the light, but there was nothing else at all, not even a watermark.
At that moment, his cell phone rang.
Putting the envelope carefully aside, Pendergast plucked his phone from his suit pocket and raised it to his ear.
“Yes?” He spoke in a calm, neutral voice.
“It’s Nora. Listen, Smithback figured out where Leng lives.”
“And?”
“I think he went up there. I think he went into the house.”
The Search
ONE
NORA WATCHED THE Silver Wraith approach her at an alarming speed, weaving through the Central Park West traffic, red light flashing incongruously on its dashboard. The car screeched to a stop alongside her as the rear door flew open.
“Get in!” called Pendergast.
She jumped inside, the sudden acceleration throwing her back against the white leather of the seat.
Pendergast had lowered the center armrest. He looked straight ahead, his face grimmer than Nora had ever seen it. He seemed to see nothing, notice nothing, as the car tore northward, rocking slightly, bounding over potholes and gaping cracks in the asphalt. To Nora’s right, Central Park raced by, the trees a blur.
“I tried reaching Smithback on his cell phone,” Nora said. “He isn’t answering.”
Pendergast did not reply.
“You really believe Leng’s still alive?”
“I know so.”
Nora was silent a moment. Then she had to ask. “Do you think—Do you think he’s got Smithback?”
Pendergast did not answer immediately. “The expense voucher Smithback filled out stated he would return the car by five this evening.”
By five this evening . . . Nora felt herself consumed by agitation and panic. Already, Smithback was over six hours overdue.
“If he’s parked near Leng’s house, we might just be able to find him.” Pendergast leaned forward, sliding open the glass panel that isolated the rear compartment. “Proctor, when we reach 131st Street, we’ll be looking for a silver Ford Taurus, New York license ELI-7734, with rental car decals.”
He closed the panel, leaned back against the seat. Another silence fell as the car shot left onto Cathedral Parkway and sped toward the river.
“We would have known Leng’s address in forty-eight hours,” he said, almost to himself. “We were very close. A little more care, a little more method, was all it would have taken. Now, we don’t have forty-eight hours.”
“How much time do we have?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any,” Pendergast murmured.
TWO
CUSTER WATCHED BRISBANE unlock his office door, open it, then step irritably aside to allow them to enter. Custer stepped through the doorway, the flush of returning confidence adding gravity to his stride. There was no need to hurry; not anymore. He turned, looked around: very clean and modern, lots of chrome and glass. Two large windows looked over Central Park and, beyond, at the twinkling wall of lights that made up Fifth Avenue. His eyes fell to the desk that dominated the center of the room. Antique inkwell, silver clock, expensive knickknacks. And a glass box full of gemstones. Cushy, cushy.
“Nice office,” he said.
Shrugging the compliment aside, Brisbane draped his tuxedo jacket over his chair, then sat down behind the desk. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said truculently. “It’s eleven o’clock. I expect you to say what you have to say, then have your men vacate the premises until we can determine a mutually agreeable course of action.”
“Of course, of course.” Custer moved about the office, hefting a paperweight here, admiring a picture there. He could see Brisbane growing increasingly irritated. Good. Let the man stew. Eventually, he’d say something.
“Shall we get on with it, Captain?” Brisbane pointedly gestured for Custer to take a seat.
Just as pointedly, Custer continued circling the large office. Except for the knickknacks and the case of gems on the desk and the paintings on the walls, the office looked bare, save for one wall that contained shelving and a closet.
“Mr. Brisbane, I understand you’re the Museum’s general counsel?”
“That’s right.”
“An important position.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
Custer moved toward the shelves, examined a mother-of-pearl fountain pen displayed on one of them. “I understand your feelings of invasion here, Mr. Brisbane.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“To a certain extent, you feel it’s your place. You feel protective of the Museum.”
“I do.”
Custer nodded, his gaze moving along the shelf to an antique Chinese snuffbox set with stones. He picked it up. “Naturally, you don’t like a bunch of policemen barging in here.”
“Frankly, I don’t. I’ve told you as much several times already. That’s a very valuable snuffbox, Captain.”
Custer returned it, picked up something else. “I imagine this whole thing’s been rather hard on you. First, there was the discovery of the skeletons left by that nineteenth-century serial killer. Then there was that letter discovered in the Museum’s collections. Very unpleasant.”
“The adverse publicity could have easily harmed the Museum.”
“Then there was that curator—?”
“Nora Kelly.”
Custer noted a new tone creeping into Brisbane’s voice: dislike, disapproval, perhaps a sense of injury.
“The same one who found the skeletons—and the hidden letter, correct? You didn’t like her working on this case. Worried about adverse publicity, I suppose.”
“I thought she should be doing her research. That’s what she was being paid to do.”
“You didn’t want her helping the police?”
“Naturally, I wanted her to do what she could to help the police. I just didn’t want her neglecting her museum duties.”
Custer nodded sagely. “Of course. And then she was chased in the Archives, almost killed. By the Surgeon.” He moved to a nearby bookshelf. The only books it contained were half a dozen fat legal tomes. Even their bindings managed to look stultifyingly dull. He tapped his finger on a spine. “You’re a lawyer?”
“General counsel usually means lawyer.”
This bounced off Custer without leaving a dent. “I see. Been here how long?”
“A little over two years.”
“Like it?”
“It’s a very interesting place to work. Now look, I thought we were going to talk about getting your men out of here.”
“Soon.” Custer turned. “Visit the Archives much?”
“Not so much. More, lately, of course, with all the activity.”
“I see. Interesting place, the Archives.” He turned briefly to see the effect of this observation on Brisbane. The eyes. Watch the eyes.
“I suppose some find it so.”
“But not you.”
“Boxes of paper and moldy specimens don’t interest me.”