Douglas Child - Fever Dream

"Had I done that, I would almost certainly never have made it into your office."

Chausson reddened. "I have heard just about enough. I'm a very busy man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have valid guests to attend to."

But Pendergast showed no signs of rising. Instead, with a sigh of something like regret, he reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small leather wallet, and flipped it open to reveal a gold shield.

Chausson stared at it for a long moment. "FBI?"

Pendergast nodded.

"Has there been a crime?"

"Yes."

Beads of sweat appeared on Chausson's brow. "You aren't going to... make an arrest at my hotel, are you?"

"I had something else in mind."

Chausson looked hugely relieved. "Is this some kind of criminal matter?"

"Not one related to the hotel."

"Do you have a warrant or subpoena?"

"No."

Chausson seemed to regain much of his poise. "I'm afraid, Mr. Pendergast, that we shall have to consult our attorneys before we can respond to any request. Company policy. So sorry."

Pendergast put away the shield. "Such a pity."

Complacency settled over the general manager's features. "My assistant will show you out." He pressed a button. "Jonathan?"

"Is it true, Mr. Chausson, that this hotel building was originally the mansion of a cotton baron?"

"Yes, yes." A slender young man entered. "Will you kindly show Mr. Pendergast out?"

"Yes, sir," the young man said.

Pendergast made no effort to rise. "I wonder, Mr. Chausson--what do you think your guests would say if they were to learn that, in fact, this hotel used to be a sanatorium?"

Chausson's face abruptly shut down. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"A sanatorium for all kinds of nasty, highly communicable diseases. Cholera, tuberculosis, malaria, yellow fever--"

"Jonathan?" Chausson said. "Mr. Pendergast won't be leaving quite yet. Please close the door on your way out."

The young man retreated. Chausson turned on Pendergast, sitting forward, pink jowls quivering with indignation. "How dare you threaten me?"

"Threaten? What an ugly word. 'The truth shall make you free,' Mr. Chausson. I'm offering to liberate your guests with the truth, not threaten them."

For a moment, Chausson remained motionless. Then--slowly--he sank back into his chair. A minute passed, then two. "What is it you want?" he asked in a low voice.

"The sanatorium is the reason for my visit. I'm here to see any old files that might remain--in particular, those relating to a specific patient."

"And who might that patient be?"

"John James Audubon."

The general manager's forehead creased. And then he smacked his well-scrubbed hand on the desk in undisguised annoyance. "Not again !"

Pendergast looked at Chausson in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Every time I think that wretched man is forgotten, somebody else comes along. And I suppose you'll be asking about that painting, as well."

Pendergast sat in silence.

"I'll tell you what I told the others. John James Audubon was a patient here nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. The, er, health care facility closed down more than a century ago. Any records--and certainly any painting--are long gone."

"And that's it?" Pendergast asked.

Chausson nodded with finality. "And that's it."

A look of sorrow came over Pendergast's face. "A pity. Well, good day, Mr. Chausson." And he rose from the chair.

"Wait a minute." The general manager also rose, in sudden alarm. "You're not going to tell the guests..." His voice trailed off.

Pendergast's sorrowful look deepened. "As I said--a pity."

Chausson put out a restraining hand. "Hold on. Just hold on." He took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow. "There may be a few files left. Come with me." And, fetching a deep, shuddering breath, he led the way out of the office.

Pendergast followed the little man through an elegant restaurant, past a food preparation area, and into an immense kitchen. The marble and gilt quickly gave way to white tile and rubberized floor mats. On the far side of the kitchen, Chausson opened a metal door. Old iron stairs led down into a chilly, damp, poorly lit basement corridor that seemed to tunnel forever into the Louisiana earth, its walls and ceiling of crumbling plaster, the floor of pitted brick.

At last, Chausson stopped before a banded iron door. With a groan of iron he pushed it open and stepped into blackness, the humid air heavy with the smell of fungus and rot. He twisted an old-fashioned light switch clockwise, and a vast empty space came into view, punctuated by the scurry and squeak of retreating vermin. The floor was littered with old asbestos-clad piping and various bric-a-brac, furred with age, mounded over with mold. "This was the old boiler room," he said as he picked his way through the rat droppings and detritus.

In the far corner sat several burst bundles of paper, damp, rodent-chewed, heavily foxed, and rotting with age. Rats had built a nest in one corner. "That's all that remains of the sanatorium paperwork," Chausson said, something of the old triumph creeping back into his voice. "I told you it was just scraps. Why it wasn't thrown out years ago, I have no idea--except that nobody ever comes in here anymore."

Pendergast knelt before the papers and, very carefully, began to go through them, turning each one over and examining it. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Chausson looked at his watch several times, but Pendergast was completely insensible to the man's irritation. Finally, he rose, holding a thin sheath of papers. "May I borrow them?"

"Take them. Take the lot."

He slipped them into a manila envelope. "Earlier, you mentioned that others had expressed interest in Audubon and a certain painting."

Chausson nodded.

"Would that painting have been known as the Black Frame?"

Chausson nodded again.

"These others. Who were they and when did they come?"

"The first one came, let's see, about fifteen years ago. Shortly after I became general manager. The other one came maybe a year afterward."

"So I'm only the third to inquire," Pendergast said. "From your tone, I'd assumed there were more. Tell me about the first one."

Chausson sighed again. "He was an art dealer. Quite unsavory. In my business, you learn how to read a person from his manner, the things he says. This man almost scared me." He paused. "He was interested in the painting Audubon allegedly did while he was here. Implied that he'd make it well worth my time. He grew very angry when I could tell him nothing."

"Did he see the papers?" Pendergast asked.

"No. I didn't know they existed at the time."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Yes. It was Blast. You don't forget a name like that."

"I see. And the second person?"

"It was a woman. Young, reddish-brown hair, thin. Very pretty. She was much more pleasant--and persuasive. Still, there wasn't much more I could tell her than I told Blast. She looked through the papers."

"Did she take any?"

"I wouldn't let her; I thought they might be valuable. But now, I just want to get rid of them."

Pendergast nodded slowly. "This young woman--do you recall her name?"

"No. It was funny--she never gave it. I remember thinking about that after she left."

"Did she have an accent like mine?"

"No. She had a Yankee accent. Like the Kennedys." The manager shuddered.

"I see. Thank you for your time." Pendergast turned. "I'll see my own way out."

"Oh, no," Chausson said quickly. "I'll escort you to your car. I insist ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Chausson. I won't say a word to your guests." And--with a small bow, and an even smaller, rather sad smile--Pendergast strode quickly to the long tunnel, toward the outside world.