Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

Claude Dallas, movie star. Age 31. Collects Pop art.

Felix Strage, chairman of the Department of Greek and Roman Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. Collects Greek and Roman antiquities.

Victor Delacroix, author and bon vivant. Age 36. Eclectic art collector.

Pendergast reached over with a pen and drew a line through the last name. “This one we can eliminate right away.”

“How?”

“I noticed at dinner he was left-handed. The killer is right-handed.”

She looked at him. “You’ve eliminated two thousand six hundred and ninety-three suspects—and you haven’t even resorted to cleverness yet.”

“Eliminating the last seven might prove more challenging. This is where we must divide if we are to conquer.” He glanced at her. “I will undertake the investigation abovedecks, among the passengers and ship’s officers. I’d like you to handle the belowdecks portion of our search.”

“Belowdecks? If it’s not a member of the crew, then why bother?”

“The best place to hear gossip and rumor on the passengers is belowdecks.”

“But why me?”

“You have a better chance of convincing crew members to talk than I do.”

“And what am I looking for, exactly?”

“Generally, anything your instincts tell you would be helpful. Specifically, a box. A long, awkward box.”

She paused. “How am I to get belowdecks?”

“You’ll find a way.” He placed a cautionary hand on her elbow. “But I must warn you, Constance—I don’t understand this killer. And that worries me. As it should you.”

She nodded.

“Make no moves on your own. Observe, then come to me. Agreed?”

“Yes, Aloysius.”

“In that case, the game , as they say, is afoot. Shall we toast the hunt with a fine old port?” Pendergast once again picked up the wine list. “The ’55 Taylor is drinking exceptionally well right now, I understand.”

She waved her hand. “I’m not in the mood for port, thank you, but please yourself.”

12

JUANITA SANTAMARIA WHEELED HER MAID’S TROLLEY DOWN THE elegant gold carpeting of Deck 12, her lips pursed in a slight frown, her eyes locked straight ahead. The trolley, piled high with fresh linens and scented soap, squeaked as it moved over the plush nap.

As she rounded a bend in the corridor, a passenger approached: a well-preserved woman of about sixty with a violet rinse. “Excuse me, my dear,” the woman said to Juanita. “Is this the way to the SunSpa?”

“Yes,” the maid replied.

“Oh, and another thing. I’d like to send the captain a note of thanks. What’s his name again?”

“Yes,” said Juanita, without stopping.

Ahead, the hall ended in a plain brown door. Juanita pushed the trolley through and into a service area that lay beyond. Large canvas bags of soiled laundry lay to one side, along with stacks of gray plastic tubs full of dirty room-service dishes, all waiting to be transported to the bowels of the ship. To the right lay a bank of service elevators. Wheeling the trolley up to the nearest elevator, Juanita extended her arm and pressed the down button.

As she did so, her finger trembled ever so slightly.

The elevator doors whispered open. Juanita pushed the trolley inside, then turned to face the control panel. Once again, she reached out to press a button. This time, however, she hesitated, staring at the panel, her face slack. She waited so long that the doors slid shut again and the elevator hung in its shaft, motionless, waiting. At last—very slowly, as if zombified—she pressed the button for Deck C. With a hum, the car began to descend.

The main starboard corridor of Deck C was cramped, low-ceilinged, and stuffy. It was as crowded as Deck 12 had been empty: busboys, maids, croupiers, hostesses, technicians, stewards, manicurists, electricians, and a host of others scurried past, intent on the innumerable errands and assignments required to keep a grand ocean liner running. Juanita pushed her trolley out into the ant-farm bustle, then stopped, staring back and forth as if lost. More than one person glared at her as they passed: the corridor was not wide, and the trolley, parked in the middle, quickly created a jam.

“Hey!” A frowsy woman wearing a supervisor’s uniform came bustling up. “No carts allowed down here, get that up to housekeeping right away.”

Juanita had her back to the woman and did not respond. The supervisor grabbed her by the shoulder and wheeled her around. “I said, get that—” Recognizing Juanita, she stopped.

“Santamaria?” she said. “What the

hell

are you doing down here? Your shift doesn’t end for another five hours. Get your ass back up to Deck 12.”

Juanita said nothing, made no eye contact.

“You hear me? Get back abovedecks before I have you written up and docked a day’s pay. You—”

The supervisor stopped. Something in Juanita’s vacant expression, the dark hollows of her eyes, made her fall silent.

Abandoning the maid’s trolley in the middle of the corridor, Juanita walked past the woman and made her way unsteadily through the crowds. The supervisor, spooked, simply watched her go.

Juanita’s quarters were in a cramped, oppressive warren of cabins near the ship’s stern. Although the turbine/diesel power plant was three decks beneath, the thrumming vibration and smell of fuel haunted the air like a drifting infection. As she approached the cabin, her step grew slower still. As crew members passed by, they frequently turned back to look at her, shocked by her unfocused eyes and the drawn, spectral look on her face.

She stopped outside her door, hesitant. A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, the door opened from within and a dark, black-haired woman began to step out. She wore the uniform of the waitstaff for Hyde Park, the informal restaurant on Deck 7. Seeing Juanita, she stopped abruptly.

“Juanita, girl!” she said in a Haitian accent. “You surprised me.”

Again, Juanita said nothing. She stared past the woman as if she weren’t there.

“Juanita, what’s wrong? You’re all staring, like you saw a ghost.” There was a splatter as Juanita’s bladder gave way. Yellow coils of urine trickled down her legs and puddled on the linoleum of the corridor.

The woman in the waitress uniform jumped back. “Hey!”

The loud voice seemed to rouse Juanita. Her glassy eyes focused. They swiveled toward the woman in the doorway. Then, very slowly, they moved down her face, to her throat, where a gold medallion hung from a simple chain. It depicted a many-headed snake, crouched below the rays of a stylized sun.

Suddenly, Juanita’s eyes widened. Thrusting out her hands as if to ward something off, she half staggered, half fell back into the hallway. Her mouth yawned open, showing an alarming cavern of pink.

That was when the screams began.

13

ROGER MAYLES WALKED ACROSS THE PLUSHLY CARPETED FLOOR OF the Mayfair Casino, nodding and smiling as he went. The Britannia had been in international waters for less than five hours, but already the casino was buzzing: the din of slot machines, blackjack and roulette dealers, and craps players drowned out the floor show currently playing in the Royal Court, just forward in the bow of Deck 4. Almost everybody was wearing a tux or a black evening gown: most had rushed straight down here after the First Night dinner without bothering to change.

A cocktail waitress carrying a salver laden with champagne stopped him. “Hello, Mr. Mayles,” she said over the noise. “Care for a glass?”

“No thank you, darling.”

A Dixieland band was wailing almost at their elbows, adding to the sensation of frantic merriment. The Mayfair was the most boisterous of the Britannia ’s three casinos, and, Mayles thought, was a giddy spectacle to greed and Mammon. The first night at sea was always the most gleefully chaotic: nobody had yet been sobered by large casino losses. Mayles winked at the waitress and continued on, glancing from table to table. A small dome of smoked glass had been discreetly set into the ceiling over each one, almost invisible among the dazzling crystal chandeliers. The decor was fin de siècle London, all crushed velvet and rich wood and antique brass. In the center of the vast room rose a bizarre sculpture carved out of pale pink ice: Lord Nelson, clad rather perversely in a toga.