Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“I wouldn’t have troubled you, sir, except that, as I mentioned, we put out a call on the PA system, did a thorough check of the public areas. Nothing.”

“She’s obviously with some man.” Cutter wheeled his solid form back toward the windows.

“As Mr. Kemper said, this is a second disappearance,” said Mason. “I think that makes it appropriate that we bring it to your attention, sir.”

Still, Cutter said nothing.

“And as Mr. Kemper reported to you on an earlier occasion, when we investigated the first disappearance, we found hair and skin samples on the port weather-deck brightwork that matched—”

“That proves nothing, it could have come from anywhere.” Cutter waved an arm in a gesture that was part irritation, part dismissal. “And even if she jumped—so what? You know as well as I do that a ship in midocean is a floating suicide palace.”

While LeSeur knew it was true that disappearances at sea weren’t uncommon—and were always zealously covered up by the crew—this coarse reply seemed to take even Mason by surprise. The staff captain was quiet for thirty seconds or so before clearing her throat and beginning again.

“Sir,” she said, taking a deep breath, “we have to consider the slim possibility that two disappearances might indicate there’s a maniac on board.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“I would respectfully recommend we consider diverting to the nearest port.”

Cutter stared at her for the first time, his eyes like coals in his pink, vein-burst flesh. He spoke slowly, voice ice-cold. “I find that recommendation ill-considered and utterly without merit, Captain Mason. This is the Britannia .”

The pronouncement of the ship’s name hung in the air as if it explained everything. When Mason responded, her voice was low and even. “Yes, sir.” Without another word, she walked past him and exited the bridge.

“Damned female fuss,” Cutter muttered half under his breath. He plucked the printout from his pocket and examined it again. His scowl deepened. Even without comparing it to the Olympia ’s navigational data, it seemed he was unhappy with their position. Ignoring the officer of the watch, he turned directly to the helmsman. “Increase speed to full ahead.”

“Full ahead, aye, sir.”

LeSeur didn’t even think to open his mouth to object. He knew it would do no good; no good at all.

30

AT PRECISELY TWENTY MINUTES PAST TWELVE, CONSTANCE Greene emerged from the aft starboard maid station on Deck 9 and wheeled her housekeeping trolley over the plush rug toward the Penshurst Triplex. She had been loitering in the maid’s station for the better part of two hours, pretending to look busy, folding and refolding linens, arranging the mouthwash and shampoo bottles in their complimentary laundry tubs, all the while waiting for Scott Blackburn to leave his suite for the casino. But the door had remained stubbornly closed all evening. Finally, just moments before, Blackburn had emerged and, with a quick glance at his watch, hurried down the corridor to the waiting elevator.

Now she stopped the trolley outside the suite; paused a moment to smooth down her maid’s outfit and compose herself; then plucked out the passcard Pendergast had given her and slid it into the waiting keyslot. The lock sprang ajar and she pushed the door open, wheeling the trolley into the suite behind her as quietly as possible.

Closing the door softly, she paused in the entryway to reconnoiter. The Penshurst was one of two Grand Triplex Suites on the Britannia , at 2,700 square feet remarkably large and well appointed. The bedrooms were on the upper floors, while the salon, dining room, and maid’s kitchen lay before her.

Bring me his trash

, Pendergast had said. Constance narrowed her eyes.

She didn’t know how long Blackburn planned to spend in the casino—if that was indeed where he was going—but she had to assume there wasn’t much time. She glanced at her watch: twelve-thirty. She would allow herself fifteen minutes.

She wheeled her trolley across the parquet floor of the entryway, looking curiously about her. While the suite sported the same rich wood paneling as the one she shared with Pendergast, in other ways it couldn’t possibly have appeared more different. Blackburn had decorated almost every surface with items from his collection. Tibetan rugs of silk and yak wool lay strewn across the floor; cubist and impressionist paintings in heavy frames hung on the walls above. Ahead, in the salon, a Bösendorfer piano in rich mahogany sat in one corner. Prayer wheels, ritual weapons, decorative boxes of gold and silver, and a profusion of sculptures were arrayed across various tables and on the bookshelves that lined one wall. A large and intricate mandala hung over a gas fireplace. Beside it, a heavy armoire of mellow teak glowed in the subdued light.

Leaving her trolley, she walked across the salon to the armoire. She stroked the polished wood thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled the door open. Inside sat a massive steel safe, its bulk taking up almost the entire interior of the cabinet. She stepped back, looking at the safe appraisingly. Was it large enough to hold the Agozyen?

Yes, she decided: it was large enough. She closed the door to the armoire and, taking a cloth from the pocket of her apron, polished the edges where she had touched it. One objective accomplished. She glanced around a second time and made a mental note of everything in Blackburn’s extensive and wildly eclectic collections.

As she walked back toward her cart, she paused at the base of the stairway. There had been a sound—faint, but distinct—from above. She waited motionless, listening. There it was again: a muffled snore, issuing from the open door of a bedroom at the next landing.

So somebody was still in the suite. Blackburn’s private maid, most likely. That would complicate things.

Grasping the handle of the trolley, she pushed it across the entryway, careful to make sure the broom and mop did not rattle in their holder. She parked it in the middle of the salon and quickly made the rounds, emptying the trash baskets and ashtrays into the fresh garbage bag she’d hung from the trolley. Leaving the trolley where it was, she darted into the dining room and kitchen in turn, repeating the process. There was precious little refuse to empty: clearly, Blackburn’s own maid had done a thorough job.

Returning to the salon, she paused to consider. She did not dare go upstairs for the rest of the garbage; that would awaken the maid and precipitate an unpleasant scene. She had the most important information already: the location and size of Blackburn’s safe and a quick inventory of his collection. Perhaps she should leave now.

But as she hesitated, thinking, she noticed a curious thing. While the surfaces of the tables and the objets d’art were spotless and gleaming, and the wastebaskets had held only a few scraps, there was a surprising amount of dust on the floor, especially around the moldings along the edges of the room. It appeared that the talents of Blackburn’s maid did not extend to vacuuming. She knelt and ran her finger along the base of the mahogany molding. It wasn’t just dust—it was sawdust.

She lifted her gaze to the vacuum that hung from her housekeeping trolley. If she turned it on, she would wake the maid for sure. So be it. She walked over to the trolley, plucked the vacuum from its hook, pulled out the old bag and attached a fresh one. Walking to the nearest wall of the salon, she knelt, turned on the vacuum, and made several quick passes along the edge of the floor, getting as much dust as possible.

Almost immediately, there was a muffled thud from upstairs. “Hello?” came a sleepy feminine voice. “Who’s there?”