Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

As he listened, Hentoff’s face grew increasingly red. “How in the world would you know something like this?”

“As you said yourself, Mr.—Hentoff, is it? I’m a

freelancer

.”

For a long moment, nobody spoke. The two technicians sat as if frozen, not daring to look away from their screens.

“It’s clear you could use some assistance in this matter, Mr. Hentoff. I’d be happy to provide it.”

“In exchange for our help with your little problem,” Hentoff said sarcastically. “Precisely.”

There was another strained silence. At last, Hentoff sighed. “Jesus. What exactly is it you want?”

“I have great faith in Mr. Mayles’s abilities. He has access to all the passenger files. His job is socializing with everyone on board, asking questions, soliciting information. He’s in an excellent position to help. Please don’t worry, Mr. Mayles, about disturbing the passengers—I’m interested in a handful of passengers only. I’d like to know, for example, if any of this handful consigned items to the central safe, if their cabins are on the ‘no entry’ list for housekeeping . . . that sort of thing.” Then he turned to Hentoff. “And I might need your help as well.”

“With what?”

“With—let’s see, what is the expression?—greasing the wheels.”

Hentoff glanced from Pendergast to Mayles.

“I’ll consider it,” Mayles muttered.

“For your sakes,” said Pendergast, “I hope you don’t take too long. Down two hundred thousand pounds in five hours—that’s a rather nasty trend.” He rose with a smile and slipped out of the pit without another word.

14

CONSTANCE GREENE DRIFTED DOWN THE BROAD THOROUGHFARE of boutiques and upscale shops on Deck 6 known as St. James’s. Although it was past midnight, the Britannia showed no signs of settling down for the night: beautifully dressed couples strolled along, gazing at the window displays or chatting in low tones. Large vases of fresh flowers lined the passages, and a string quartet could be heard sawing learnedly over the chatter and laughter. The air smelled of lilac, and lavender, and champagne.

Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miró, Klee, and Dalí at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.

Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears. It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse consumption and anxious attachment to the things of the world, from her life in the monastery. She longed to return.

Be in the world but not of it.

Turning away from the railing, she walked over to a nearby elevator bank and ascended to Deck 12. This deck was almost entirely given over to passenger accommodations; while still a picture of elegance, with its thick oriental carpets and gilt-framed landscapes in oils, its atmosphere was much more sedate. She moved forward. Ahead, the corridor ended, making a ninety-degree turn to the left. Straight ahead was the door to her suite, the Tudor, situated at the aft port corner of the ship. Constance began to reach for her passcard, then froze.

The door to the suite was ajar.

Instantly, her heart began to beat furiously, as if it had been waiting for just such an event. Her guardian would never have been so careless—it had to be somebody else. It can’t be him , she thought. It can’t. I saw him fall. I saw him die . A part of her knew that her fears were irrational. Yet she could not ease the sudden racing of her heart.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slender box, snapped it open, and removed a gleaming scalpel from its plush nest. The scalpel

he

had given her.

Holding the blade before her, she advanced silently into the stateroom. The main salon of the suite was oval in shape, ending in a large two-story plate-glass window overlooking the black Atlantic roiling far below. One door to the left led to a convenience pantry, another to the right opened onto the room she and Aloysius used as a study. The room was lit by a dim courtesy light. Beyond she could see moonlight painting a glittering trail across the heaving ocean, throwing jewels into the ship’s wake. It illuminated a sofa, two wing chairs, the dining area, a baby grand piano. Twin staircases curved up the walls to the left and right. The left led to Pendergast’s bedroom; the right to Constance’s. Taking another silent step forward, she craned her neck, looking upward.

The door to her room was ajar. Pale yellow light streamed out from beneath it.

She took a fresh grip on the knife. Then—slowly, and in complete silence—she crossed the room and began ascending the stairs.

During the course of the evening, the seas had steadily grown stronger. The slow roll of the ship, once barely perceptible, was becoming distinct. From above and far forward came the long, mournful cry of the ship’s whistle. Sliding one hand up the banister, Constance took slow, careful steps.

She gained the landing, stepped toward the door. There was no sound from beyond. She paused. Then she violently pushed the door open and darted inside.

There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.

It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.

“What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.

The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.

Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.

“

No!

” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”

Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.

Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled