Blue Labyrinth

“Ah, Mr. Pendergast!” the man said, beaming. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you. Please come in.” Pendergast turned to make the introductions. “Constance, this is Horace Ogilby. His firm looks after the Pendergast legal interests here in the New Orleans area. Mr. Ogilby, this is Constance Greene. My ward.”

“Charmed!” Mr. Ogilby said. He took Constance’s hand and kissed it with a grand gesture.

“I take it all the paperwork is in order?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes.” The lawyer moved to a nearby side table, opened his briefcase, and produced a few documents. “Here’s the paperwork for resituating the family plot.”

“Very good,” said Pendergast.

“Sign here, please.” The lawyer watched as Pendergast signed. “You do realize that — even though the plot is being relocated — the, ah, requirements of your grandfather’s bequest will remain in force.”

“I understand.”

“That means I can anticipate your presence again at the graveside in—” the lawyer paused a moment to calculate—“another three years.”

“I look forward to it.” Pendergast turned toward Constance. “My grandfather stipulated in his will that all his surviving beneficiaries — now sadly reduced in number — must make a pilgrimage to his grave site every five years, upon pain of having their trusts revoked.”

“He was quite an original gentleman,” said Ogilby, shuffling the documents. “Ah, yes. Only one other item of importance for today. It concerns that private parking lot on Dauphine Street you’re selling.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“In particular, those restrictions you added to the listing contract.”

“Yes?”

“Well…” The lawyer briefly hemmed and hawed. “The language you requested is rather, shall we say, unorthodox. Those clauses forbidding any excavation below ground level, for example. That would preclude any development and greatly reduce the price you’ll get for the property. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I am sure.”

“Very well, then. On the other hand—” he patted his plump hands together—“we got a spectacular price for the Rolls — I’m almost afraid to tell you how much.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Pendergast read over the sheet the lawyer handed him. “Everything seems to be in order, thank you.”

“In that case, I’ll be on my way — you’d be surprised how much paperwork is generated by the liquidation of assets on such a grand scale.”

“We’ll see you out,” Pendergast said.

They walked down the front steps and stopped beside the lawyer’s car. Ogilby put the briefcase and umbrella in the rear seat, then paused to look around. “What’s the name of the development again?” he asked.

“Cypress Wynd Estates. Sixty-five mansionettes and thirty-six holes of golf.”

“Ghastly. I wonder what the old family ghost is going to say about that.”

“Indeed,” said Pendergast.

Ogilby chuckled. Then, as he opened the driver’s door, he looked around. “I’m sorry. Can I give you a lift into town?”

“I’ve made my own arrangements, thank you.”

Pendergast and Constance watched as the lawyer got in, waved, and drove down the lane. And then Pendergast led the way around the side of the house. At the rear was an old stable, painted white, that had been converted into a garage with several bays. To one side, a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, polished to a gem-like brilliance, sat on a flatbed trailer, ready to be taken to its new owner.

Constance looked from Pendergast to the Rolls and back again.

“I really don’t need two, you know,” he said.

“It isn’t that,” Constance replied. “You made a point of telling both Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Ogilby that you’d made arrangements for our transportation back to New Orleans. We’re not going to ride in the tow truck, are we?”

In response, Pendergast stepped toward the garage, unlocked and opened one of the bays, and approached a vehicle covered by a tarp — the only vehicle now remaining in the building. He grasped the tarp, pulled it away.

Beneath lay a red roadster, low to the ground, its top removed. It gleamed faintly in the dim interior.

“Helen bought this before our marriage,” Pendergast explained. “A 1954 Porsche 550 Spyder.”

He opened the passenger door for Constance, then slid into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition, turned it. The vehicle roared to life.

They pulled out of the garage, and Pendergast got out long enough to close and lock the bay behind them.

“Interesting,” Constance said.

“What is?” Pendergast asked as he got back behind the wheel.

“You’ve divested yourself of everything purchased with Hezekiah’s money.”

“As best I can, yes.”

“But you obviously still have a lot left.”

“True. Much of it came independently from my grandfather, the one whose grave I must visit every five years. That will allow me to retain the Dakota apartment and, in general, continue living in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

“What about the Riverside Drive mansion?”

“I inherited that from my great-uncle Antoine. Your ‘Dr. Enoch.’ Along with his extensive investments, naturally.”

“Naturally. And yet, how curious.”

“I wonder, Constance, where this line of questioning is leading.”

Constance smiled slyly. “You’ve rejected the assets of one serial murderer — Hezekiah — while embracing the assets of another: Enoch Leng. No?”

There was a pause while Pendergast considered this. “I prefer hypocrisy to poverty.”

“Come to think of it, there is a rationale. Leng didn’t make his money from killing. He made it from speculating in railroads, oil, and precious metals.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that.”

“There is much you still don’t know about him.”

They waited in silence, the engine rumbling. Pendergast hesitated, and then turned toward her, speaking with a certain amount of awkwardness. “I’m not sure that I’ve thanked you properly — or Dr. Green — for saving my life. And at such terrible risk—”

She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “Please. You know how I feel about you. Don’t embarrass me by making me repeat myself.”

For a moment, Pendergast seemed on the brink of saying something. But then he merely added: “I shall honor your request.”

He nosed the car forward, engine grumbling, onto the white gravel drive. The great mansion slowly fell away behind them.

“It’s a beautiful machine, but not particularly comfortable,” Constance said, glancing around the cockpit. “Are we going to drive to New Orleans in this, or all the way to New York?”

“Shall we leave that for the car to decide?” And, driving down the shadow-knotted lane of graceful oaks and onto the main road, Pendergast accelerated with a roar that reverberated through the bayous and sleepy mangrove swamps of St. Charles Parish.

Acknowledgments

We’d like to thank the following for their ongoing support and assistance: Mitch Hoffman, Lindsey Rose, Jamie Raab, Kallie Shimek, Eric Simonoff, Claudia Rülke, and Nadine Waddell. And to Edmund Kwan, MD, our deepest appreciation for his expertise.

About the Authors

The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number-one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, and their recent novels include Cold Vengeance, Two Graves, White Fire, and The Lost Island. Preston’s acclaimed nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a movie starring George Clooney. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published five novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm.