Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“You were rather sharp this evening,” he said.

“So were you.”

“I’m trying to smoke out a killer. What were you doing?”

Constance sighed. “I’m sorry if I was difficult. After the monastery, I find all this opulence—dispiriting.”

“

Be in the world but not of it

.” Pendergast quoted the ancient Buddhism maxim.

“I’d rather be in my home, reading a book by the fire. This”—she gestured around— “is grotesque.”

“Keep in mind we’re working.”

She shifted restlessly in her chair and gave no reply.

Privately, Pendergast noted that a change had come over his ward in the past few weeks. Her time in the monastery had worked wonders on her. He was glad to see she had continued her Chongg Ran discipline in her stateroom, rising at four every morning and meditating for an hour, meditating in the afternoon, and not overindulging in food and drink. Most importantly, she was no longer listless, drifting. She was more purposeful, relaxed, more interested in the world around her than she had been since the death of his brother. This little mission of theirs, this unsolved mystery, had given her a new sense of direction. Pendergast had high hopes she was well on the way to recovery from the terrible events of March and the procedure at the Feversham Clinic. She was no longer in need of protection from others. Indeed, after her sharp display at dinner, he wondered if it wasn’t now the other way around. “What did you think of our dinner companions?” he asked.

“Very little, alas. Except for Mrs. Dahlberg—there’s something attractively genuine about her. She seems interested in you.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “I’m not the only one who made an impression.” He nodded at a slim manuscript that lay on a side table, entitled Caravaggio: The Riddle of Chiaroscuro . “I see that Dr. Brock wasted no time sending his monograph over to you.”

Constance glanced at the manuscript, frowned.

“Despite their shortcomings, I suspect a few of our dinner guests may prove useful,” he went on. “Mr. Mayles, for instance. Now there is a man who notices everything.”

Constance nodded and they fell into silence.

“So,” she finally said, changing the subject, “the thief and murderer killed Jordan Ambrose with a small-caliber pistol. Then committed gratuitous violence to the body.”

“Yes.”

“But the rest of the modus operandi you described—the careful checking of the pockets, the meticulous wiping and cleaning of all surfaces—doesn’t fit.”

“Precisely.”

“I’m not aware of any precedent in any of the casebooks I’ve read.”

“Nor am I. Except, perhaps, for a singular case I handled in Kansas not so long ago.”

There was a knock on the door and Pendergast went to answer it. Their cabin stewardess stood in the hall outside.

“Come in,” Pendergast said, waving his hand.

The woman made a small curtsey and stepped inside. She was thin and middle-aged, with black hair and deep-set black eyes. “Pardon me, sir,” she said in an Eastern European accent. “I was wondering if I could be of assistance in any way at present?”

“Thank you, no. We are fine for the time being.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be back to turn down the beds.” And with another small curtsey, she ducked out of the room.

Pendergast closed the door and returned to the sofa.

“So how

are

we going to spend the evening?” Constance asked.

“There are any number of postprandial entertainments available. Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”

“I thought perhaps the muster drill.”

“How droll. Actually, before we do anything, there’s one chore to complete.” Pendergast gestured toward a large computer printout that lay beside the wine list. “There are twenty-seven hundred passengers on board this ship and only seven days in which to find the murderer and retrieve the Agozyen.”

“Is that the passenger list?”

Pendergast nodded. “Direct from the ship’s database. Including occupation, age, sex, and time of boarding. As I told you earlier, I’ve already ruled out members of the crew.”

“How did you obtain that?”

“With great ease. I located a low-level computer maintenance tech and told him I was a North Star auditor, evaluating crew performance. He couldn’t furnish the list quickly enough. I’ve already made considerable progress thinning the pool of suspects.” And he pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

“Go on.”

A long white finger touched the paper. “The murder was committed at ten, the cab arrived at the dock at half past midnight, and so the killer must have boarded after that point. That alone removes one thousand four hundred seventy-six names.”

The finger touched the paper again. “The murderer is a man.”

“How in the world do you know that?” asked Constance, as if the assumption were an offense to womanhood.

“The bottle of scotch. A man like Ambrose would hardly have chosen that if his visitor were a woman. And then there is the knife that was driven clean through the body, through half an inch of carpet, and almost an inch into plywood flooring. That must have taken great strength. Finally, Ambrose himself was a mountain climber in superb physical condition, not an easy man to kill. It implies our killer is strong, fit, and fast—and male.”

“I’ll concede the point.”

The finger moved down the sheet. “For these same reasons, we can bracket the age: over twenty, under sixty-five. On a ship like this, that latter fact is most useful. In addition, he’s not traveling with a wife: the messy murder, cab ride, disguise, boarding ship with the Agozyen—all these are the actions of a man unencumbered by a wife. The psychopathology of the murder, the keen pleasure taken in the violence, also points strongly toward a single man. A single male, of a certain age: one thousand and twelve more names removed. Which gives us two hundred and twelve left.”

The finger moved again. “All the evidence shows that Ambrose contacted a known collector, perhaps not of Asian antiquities per se, but a collector nonetheless. And a man whose face might be recognizable to members of the general public. Which leaves us with twenty-six.”

He glanced up at Constance. “The murderer is clever. Put yourself in his shoes. He has to get this awkward box on board ship without being conspicuous. He would not have boarded immediately, carrying the box—that would be remembered. And besides, he was covered with blood from the murder; he’d have to change his clothes and wash up in a secure place. So what would he do?”

“Go to a hotel room, wash, repack the Agozyen in a larger steamer trunk, and then board at the height of the final crush.”

“Precisely. And that would be around nine this morning.”

Constance smiled wryly.

The finger lifted from the paper. “Which leaves us with just eight suspects—right here. You’ll note a curious coincidence: two were at our table.” He pushed the paper over. She read the names:

Lionel Brock. Owner of Brock Galleries, West 57th Street, New York City. Age 52. Prominent dealer of impressionist and post- impressionist paintings.

Scott Blackburn, former President and CEO, Gramnet, Inc. Age 41. Silicon Valley billionaire. Collects Asian art and 20th-century painting.

Jason Lambe, CEO, Agamemnon.com. Age 42. Technology mogul, Blackburn a major investor in his company. Collects Chinese porcelain and Japanese woodcuts and paintings.

Terrence Calderón, CEO, TeleMobileX Solutions. Age 34. Technology mogul, friend of Blackburn. Collects French antiques.

Edward Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh, reputed cat burglar. Age 24. Collects antique jewelry, silver and gold plate, reliquaries, and objets d’art.