Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

Pretending not to hear over the noise, Constance crossed to the center of the room, knelt again, and made several more passes with the vacuum along the tops of the moldings, then across the rug in the entryway, checking for hair and fiber.

A minute later, the voice sounded again, much louder this time. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Constance rose, turned off the vacuum, and turned around. A short, melon-shaped woman of about thirty stood on the bottom step of the staircase, her face red, clad only in a huge terrycloth towel, which she pressed against herself with one flabby forearm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded again. Constance curtseyed. “Sorry to wake you, mum,” she said, putting on her German accent. “The maid who normally does this suite has had an accident. I’ve taken over her duties.”

“It’s after midnight!” the woman shrilled.

“I’m sorry, mum, but I was told to clean the suite as soon as it was unoccupied.”

“Mr. Blackburn gave specific orders that there was to be no more maid service in this suite!”

At that moment, there was a noise from outside: the sound of a passcard being inserted into a slot, the click of a lock disengaging. The maid gasped, colored, and dashed back up the steps in the direction of her room. A moment later, the front door opened and Blackburn entered, a roll of newspapers under his arm.

Constance watched him, motionless, portable vacuum in one hand.

He stopped and stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Then he coolly turned and double-locked the door, walked across the entryway, and dropped his papers on a side table.

“Who are you?” he asked, his back still turned.

“Begging your pardon, sir, I’m your housekeeper,” she said.

“Housekeeper?”

“Your new housekeeper,” she went on. “Juanita—that is, the girl who cleaned your suite—she had an accident. Now I’ve been assigned—”

Blackburn turned and stared at her. The words died in her throat. There was something in his expression, in his eyes, that shocked her: an intensity of purpose as hard and clean as polished steel, shot through with something like fear, or perhaps even desperation.

She tried again. “I’m sorry about the late hour. I’ve been doing her staterooms as well as my own, and it’s been hard to catch up. I thought nobody was home, or I’d never have—”

Suddenly, a hand shot out, grasping her wrist. He squeezed it cruelly and dragged her toward him. Constance gasped with the pain.

“Bullshit,” he said in a low, ugly voice, his face inches from hers. “I gave clear orders just this evening that nobody was to clean my suite but my private help.” And he squeezed harder.

Constance fought back a groan. “Please, sir. Nobody told me. If you don’t wish your rooms cleaned, I’ll leave.”

He stared at her, and she averted her eyes. He squeezed still harder, until she thought he would crush her wrist. Then he shoved her brutally away. She fell to the floor, vacuum clattering across the carpet.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he growled.

Constance rose to her feet, scooping up the vacuum and smoothing her apron as she did so. She moved past him, hanging the vacuum on its hook and wheeling the trolley across the salon to the entryway of the suite. She unlocked the front door, pushed the trolley out ahead of her, and—with a single, hooded glance back at the man who was already mounting the stairs, yelling up at his own maid for admitting a stranger into the suite—stepped into the corridor.

31

THE POLISHED CHERRYWOOD TABLE IN THE DINING AREA OF THE Tudor Suite was covered with an incongruous clutter—a large garbage bag of clear plastic, dribbling out a host of scraps: crumpled paper, wadded tissue, cigar ash. Pendergast circled the table like a restless cat, arms behind his back, now and then bending close to examine something but never extending a hand to touch or probe. Constance sat on a nearby sofa, dressed now in one of the elegant gowns they had purchased on board ship, watching him.

“And he threw you to the ground, you say?” Pendergast murmured over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“He’s an ill-mannered cur.” He circled the table again, then stopped to look at her. “This is all?”

“I wasn’t able to do the upstairs of the suite. Not with the maid in residence. I’m sorry, Aloysius.”

“Don’t be. It was an afterthought anyway. The important thing is that we know the size and location of his safe. And you’ve given me an excellent précis of his collections. Too bad the Agozyen doesn’t seem to be among them.” He dipped one hand into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on, then began to examine the trash. He picked up an empty seltzer bottle from the table, examined it, put it aside. This was followed by several dry-cleaning tags; a cigar butt and accumulated ash; a crumpled business card; a soiled cocktail napkin; a champagne cork; a broken compact disk case; a ship’s brochure, torn in half; a swizzle stick; an empty Swan Vesta box and half a dozen spent wooden matches. Pendergast sorted through it all with great care. Once he had put the last item aside, he again circled the table, hands behind his back, pausing to examine various items with a loupe. Then, with a quiet sigh, he straightened up.

“Let’s put this away where housekeeping won’t take it,” he said. “Just in case we want to examine anything again.” He pulled off the gloves, dropped them on the table.

“What next?” Constance asked.

“Next we find a way to take a look inside that safe. Preferably when Blackburn has absented himself.”

“That might be difficult. Something seems to have spooked him—he seems reluctant to leave his suite for any length of time, and he won’t let anybody in.”

“If it were anybody else, I’d say the two disappearances you informed me of have spooked him. But not Mr. Blackburn. Too bad we didn’t narrow down my list more quickly; I could have examined his chambers with relative ease yesterday.” He glanced at Constance. “And we mustn’t forget that, though Blackburn may be the prime suspect, we also need to examine the rooms of Calderón and Strage, if only to rule them out.”

He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of calvados, then came over to the couch and took a seat. He rolled the amber liquid gently, brought it to his nose, took a small sip, and gave a sigh that was half contentment, half regret. “Well, thank you, my dear,” he said. “I’m sorry you were assaulted. In the fullness of time, I shall make sure Blackburn regrets it.”

“I’m only sorry that—” Then, abruptly, Constance fell silent.

“What is it?”

“I almost forgot. I retrieved something else from his suite. I used the vacuum to pick up some odd dust samples.”

“Why odd?”

“Considering the man has a live-in maid, and he’s clearly a petty tyrant, I thought it was strange the room was so dusty.”

“Dusty?” Pendergast repeated.

Constance nodded. “Most of it was along the walls, under the wainscoting. It looked like sawdust, actually.”

Pendergast was on his feet. “Where’s the vacuum bag, Constance?” He spoke quietly, but his silver eyes glittered with excitement.

“There, by the door—”

But almost before the words were out, Pendergast had flitted to the front door, scooped up the bag, plucked a clean plate from a kitchen cabinet, and returned to the table. Now his movements grew excessively careful. Taking a switchblade from his pocket, he carefully slit the vacuum bag and slowly emptied the contents onto the plate. Fixing a jeweler’s loupe to his eye, he began separating the debris with the blade of his knife, scrape by tiny scrape, as if he were examining the individual grains.