Lincoln Child - The Strange Case of Monsieur Bertin

In fact, he had been rumored in some instances to have moved beyond mere scholarship into actual practice. She also knew that the last time Pendergast had seen him, Bertin had come to New York expressly at the agent’s request. Although she didn’t know the details, it had to do with the strange and tragic death of Bill Smithback, a reporter who had been Pendergast’s sometime antagonist and then friend. What sort of “studies” Bertin might have offered as Pendergast’s tutor she did not know, but she suspected they might have been rather more esoteric than usual. New Orleans was a city saturated in myth and ritual, a strange and exotic mix of the formal and the uninhibited, hidebound tradition and sensual carnality. Even this funeral parlor, normally the most neutral of buildings, had some subtle but surprising touches: strangely carved moldings on the outside. She had noticed figures of woven straw and grass hidden among the funeral sprays of flowers. The elderly lady in the corner was also enigmatic. She looked like someone from Constance’s childhood, dressed as she was in a shapeless Victorian dress of black muslin, her head swaddled in a veil, hunched over in what appeared to be fervent prayer. This was a place both in and out of time: where some religions were intoned by day, and others whispered by night. Bertin seemed to have had a foot in both.

She glanced over at Pendergast. Was he praying? Probably not in the traditional sense. More likely he was honoring his old friend in some ineffable mental way of his own. Sneaking a glimpse, she noted his eyes were only half closed.

At the same time, she observed that the funeral director was now standing at a side door, hands clasped one over the other. He was a small, dapper man, bald on top with black hair perfectly slicked down around each ear. He slowly rocked on his feet. Save for the lack of tailoring and the quality of the material, the man’s suit could almost be mistaken for Pendergast’s.

Pendergast raised his head so abruptly she nearly jumped.

“Let us view the body,” he said, rising.

She followed him to the casket, where Pendergast, growing motionless once again, gazed at the body a long time. Bertin was dressed in white tie and full evening dress, beautifully pressed. He looked just like the photograph — no doubt it had been used as the model for re-creating his face in death — his round visage with its pursed mouth and tiny nose almost doll-like in their perfection. The beard was neatly trimmed, the makeup expertly applied, hands folded on his chest sporting immaculately clean and polished nails.

After a long moment of contemplation, Pendergast leaned over the deceased, and for an instant Constance thought he was going to kiss him — but no; he simply laid a familiar hand on the man’s chest.

Then he raised his hand again and touched the dead man’s hair, giving it an affectionate stroke. His long white fingers slipped lightly down the corpse’s face and brushed the lips in an affectionate gesture that, Constance thought, was uncharacteristic but quite understandable, given how much of an influence Bertin had had...

Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw Pendergast insert one finger of his caressing hand into the corpse’s mouth, the other hand coming over now to assist. He jerked at the man’s jaws and they parted with a sucking sound; apparently they had been stuck together with some sort of wax. Working more swiftly now, Pendergast pulled several cotton balls out of the mouth and flicked them aside, followed by two wax inserts in the cheeks.

Constance had come to believe that nothing Pendergast did could surprise her anymore. But now she found herself looking on with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Aloysius,” she said in a low voice, “may I ask what exactly you’re doing? You’re ruining all the mortician’s hard work.”

Pendergast’s silvery eyes flickered toward her, but he said nothing and continued his bizarre work. Glancing around, Constance noticed that although Pendergast had strategically positioned himself between the corpse and the funeral director, the latter was now squinting at them, apparently perceiving that something was amiss.

The mouth cleared, Pendergast now pulled back the lips, tilted the head, and examined the teeth as he might a horse, and then grasped and pulled aside the tongue and, with his other hand, whipped a penlight out of his pocket and shone it down the man’s throat. Next he pried open the eyes, removed two cosmetic inserts over the eyeballs, and examined them with the penlight as well, followed by a brief palpation of the lymph nodes in the neck. He then unbuttoned the jacket, fingers flying, and threw it open to reveal a false shirt that ended mid-torso, exposing Bertin’s abdomen. Pendergast reached in and palpated the abdomen with both hands, front and sides. His fingers, now covered with stage makeup, left flesh-colored prints on the corpse’s sallow skin. Quickly wiping the rest of the makeup off his hands with a handkerchief, he took both the corpse’s hands in his own and examined them, backs and palms, along with the nails and wrists.

“You, sir!” came a loud voice from behind Pendergast. “What in God’s name do you think you are doing?”

It was the funeral director, furiously red in the face, who had strode up behind just in time to witness the end of this outrage.

Pendergast dropped the corpse’s hands, straightened up, and, tucking his handkerchief back into his suit coat, asked: “Perhaps you can tell me who paid for Monsieur Bertin’s funeral?”

“Like most people, he bought a package ahead of time.” The funeral director waved this question away as if it were a fly. “That’s immaterial. What the devil do you mean by this? You’ve — you’ve desecrated a corpse! I’m calling the police!” Constance glanced at the corpse, which now indeed looked rather desecrated: eyes open and staring, makeup smeared over his cheeks and lips, jaw crooked, arms askew, hair sticking up, clothing disarranged.

With an easy motion, Pendergast slipped out of his black suit coat a checkbook and pen. “No need for such histrionics, my friend. Please lower your voice — and remember the solemnity of this place. I fear Monsieur Bertin will need a little touching up around the visage, and perhaps a bit of sartorial tidying as well, but I’m sure your capable staff can handle both.” He wrote a check with a flourish, snapped it off, and held it out for the enraged man to see. “For your trouble.”

“This is outrageous!” the funeral director cried. “This—” His eyes focused on the check. “Why, three thousand dollars?”

“Along with my sincere apologies for the extra work.”

As the funeral director reached for the check, Pendergast withdrew it slightly. “And as for the police...?”

“Under the circumstances, I, ah, see no reason to call them,” the man said. “This will certainly take care of any necessary fixes. And...” He looked around. “There really isn’t anyone here aside from the old lady, who hasn’t even looked up from her prayers. So there’s no harm done.”

“May I ask when the package was purchased?” Pendergast asked.

“Some weeks ago,” the man replied, his avid fingers grasping the check.

Pendergast released the check from his spidery fingers and the director folded it into his breast pocket. With another glace at the old lady — who had, in fact, not moved during the brief imbroglio — he gestured for an employee, who came over and silently began attending to the corpse.

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