Dance Of Death

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Then let's go speak with her."

They passed out of the laboratory and through a series of chambers filled with glass-fronted cabinets and tall cases full of seemingly endless and impossibly eclectic collections: stuffed migratory birds, Amazonian insects, rare minerals, bottled chemicals.

At last, in a room full of butterflies, they stopped. Pendergast licked the flashlight over the ranks of display cases. Then he spoke quietly into the darkness.

"Constance?"

Only silence answered.

"Constance?" he said again, just a trifle louder.

There was a faint rustle of linen; then a woman of about twenty appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She wore a long, old-fashioned white dress with lace ruffling around the throat. Her delicate skin was very pale in the light of the flashlight.

"Aloysius," she said, embracing him. "Thank God."

For a moment, Pendergast simply held her close. Then he gently detached himself and turned away for a minute, twisting a small brass knob set into one wall. The chamber filled with faint light.

"Aloysius, what's the matter?" Her eyes-strangely wise for a face so young-grew anxious.

"I'll tell you in a moment." Pendergast placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me about the message."

"It arrived late this evening."

"Method of delivery?"

"It was slipped into a crack beneath the front door."

"You took the necessary precautions?"

Constance nodded. Then she reached into one of her sleeves and drew out a small ivory business card, carefully sealed inside a glassine envelope.

Pendergast took the card, turned it over. Diogenes Pendergast was engraved in fine copperplate on the card's face: below that, in rose-colored ink, had been written: The Five of Swords is Smithback.

He stared at the card for a long moment. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.

"What does it mean?" Constance asked.

"I hesitate to tell you more. Your nerves have been strained enough already."

Constance smiled faintly. "I must say, when you walked into the library, I was sure I was seeing a-a revenant."

"You know my brother's plans, how he intends to destroy me."

"Yes." Constance went even paler and for a moment seemed to stagger slightly. Pendergast placed his hand on her shoulder.

She mastered herself with effort. "I'm fine, thank you. Do go on."

"He has already begun. Over the last several days, three of my closest friends have been killed." Pendergast touched his jacket pocket. "This note from Diogenes puts me on notice that William Smithback is the next target."

"William Smithback?"

"He's a reporter for the New York Times." Pendergast hesitated again.

"And?" Constance asked. "There's something else troubling you- I can see it in your face."

"Yes. The first three who died were all very close to me. But that isn't the case with Bill Smithback. I've known him for several years. He was involved in three cases of mine, a very effective journalist. And despite an impulsive and somewhat careerist exterior, he is a good man. What troubles me, however, is that he's more an acquaintance than a friend. Diogenes is casting his net wider than I thought. It isn't just close friends who are at risk. And that makes the situation even more difficult than I thought."

"How can I help?" Constance asked in a low tone.

"By keeping yourself absolutely safe."

"You think-?"

"That you're a possible target? Yes. And there's something more. The third man to die was Michael Decker, an old FBI associate of mine. I found Mike's body yesterday, in his Washington house. He had been killed with an old bayonet. The modus operandi was a nod to a distant ancestor of mine, who died in a very similar fashion as an officer in Napoleon's army, during the Russian campaign of 1812."

Constance shivered.

"What concerned me was the weapon itself. Constance, that bayonet came from the collections of this very house."

She froze for a moment as the implications of this sank home. "The chasepot or the lebel?" she asked faintly, almost robotically.

"The chasepot. It had the initials P.S.P. engraved onto the quillon. Quite unmistakable."

But Constance did not reply. Her alert, intelligent eyes had sharpened, deepened, with fear.

"Diogenes has found entrance to this house. No doubt that was the message he intended to deliver to me with that particular bayonet."

"I understand."

"You're still safer within this house than without, and for now you are not in Diogenes's sights. Proctor here has found and sealed the weak point through which Diogenes entered, and as you know, this mansion has been hardened against intruders in many ways. Proctor will be ceaselessly vigilant, and he is more formidable than he looks. Still, you must be on constant guard. This is a very old and vast house. It has a great many secrets. You know those secrets better than anyone. Follow your instincts. If they tell you something is not right, melt into those recesses of the house that only you know. Be ready at a moment's notice. And until we can once again feel safe from this threat, I want you to sleep in that secret space where you first hid from me and from Wren."

At this, Constance's eyes went wide and wild. She clutched at Pendergast. "No!" she cried passionately. "No, I don't ever want to go back there again!"

Pendergast immediately put his arms around her. "Constance-"

"You know how it reminds me of that time! The dark spaces, the terrible things… I don't wish to be reminded, ever again!"

"Constance, listen to me. You'll be safe there. And I can't do what needs to be done without knowing you're safe."

Constance did not respond, and Pendergast pressed her more tightly. "Will you promise me that?"

She laid her forehead against his chest.

"Aloysius," she said, her voice breaking. "It was just a few months ago we sat in the library, upstairs. You read to me from the newspapers. Do you remember?"

Pendergast nodded.

"I was begi