Текст книги "Fever Dream"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

"So I'm only the third to inquire," Pendergast said. "From your tone, I'd assumed there were more. Tell me about the first one."

Chausson sighed again. "He was an art dealer. Quite unsavory. In my business, you learn how to read a person from his manner, the things he says. This man almost scared me." He paused. "He was interested in the painting Audubon allegedly did while he was here. Implied that he'd make it well worth my time. He grew very angry when I could tell him nothing."

"Did he see the papers?" Pendergast asked.

"No. I didn't know they existed at the time."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Yes. It was Blast. You don't forget a name like that."

"I see. And the second person?"

"It was a woman. Young, reddish-brown hair, thin. Very pretty. She was much more pleasant–and persuasive. Still, there wasn't much more I could tell her than I told Blast. She looked through the papers."

"Did she take any?"

"I wouldn't let her; I thought they might be valuable. But now, I just want to get rid of them."

Pendergast nodded slowly. "This young woman–do you recall her name?"

"No. It was funny–she never gave it. I remember thinking about that after she left."

"Did she have an accent like mine?"

"No. She had a Yankee accent. Like the Kennedys." The manager shuddered.

"I see. Thank you for your time." Pendergast turned. "I'll see my own way out."

"Oh, no," Chausson said quickly. "I'll escort you to your car. I insist."

"Don't worry, Mr. Chausson. I won't say a word to your guests." And–with a small bow, and an even smaller, rather sad smile–Pendergast strode quickly to the long tunnel, toward the outside world.

20

St. Francisville, Louisiana

D'AGOSTA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WHITEWASHED mansion, rising in airy formality from dead flower beds and bare-branched trees. The winter sky spat rain, puddles collecting on the blacktop. He sat in the rental car for a moment, listening to the last lousy lines of "Just You and I" on the radio, trying to overcome his annoyance at having been sent on what was hardly more than an errand. What the hell did he know about dead birds?

Finally, as the song faded away, he heaved himself from his seat, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out of the car. He climbed the steps of Oakley Plantation House and entered the gallery: a porch with jalousie windows shut against the steady rain. Shoving his dripping umbrella into a stand, he shrugged off his raincoat, hung it on a rack, and entered the building.

"You must be Dr. D'Agosta," said a bright, bird-like woman, rising from her desk and bustling toward him on stubby legs, sensible shoes rapping the boards. "We don't get many visitors this time of year. I'm Lola Marchant." She stuck out her hand.

D'Agosta took the hand and was given a surprisingly vigorous shake. The woman was all rouge and powder and lipstick, and she had to be at least sixty, stout and vigorous.

"Shame on you, bringing this bad weather!" She broke into a warbling laugh. "Even so, we always welcome Audubon researchers. Mostly we get tourists."

D'Agosta followed her into a reception hall, done up in white-painted wood and massive beams. He began to regret the cover he had given her over the phone. So little did he know about Audubon or birds, he felt sure he'd be busted on even the most minimal exchange of information. Best thing to do was keep his mouth shut.

"First things first!" Marchant went behind another desk and pushed an enormous logbook toward him. "Please sign your name and fill in the reason for your visit."

D'Agosta wrote down his name and the supposed reason.

"Thank you!" she said. "Now, let's get started. What, exactly, would you like to see?"

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "I'm an ornithologist"–he got the word out perfectly–"and I'd like to see some of Audubon's specimens."

"Wonderful! As you surely know, Audubon was only here for four months, working as a drawing master for Eliza Pirrie, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Pirrie, owners of the Oakley Plantation. After a tiff with Mrs. Pirrie he abruptly went back to New Orleans, taking with him all his specimens and drawings. But when we became a State Historic Site forty years ago, we were given a bequest of Audubon drawings, letters, and some of his actual bird specimens, which we've added to over the years–and now we have one of the finest Audubon collections in Louisiana!"

She smiled brightly at this recital, her bosom heaving slightly from the effort.

"Right," mumbled D'Agosta, removing a steno notebook from his brown suit coat, hoping it added verisimilitude.

"This way, Dr. D'Agosta, please."

Dr. D'Agosta. The lieutenant felt his apprehension increase.

The woman pounded her way across the painted pine floors to a set of stairs. They ascended to the second floor and walked through a large series of spacious rooms, furnished in period furniture, finally arriving at a locked door, which–when opened–revealed a set of attic stairs, steep and narrow. D'Agosta followed Marchant to the top. It was an attic in name only, being spotlessly clean and well kept, smelling of fresh paint. Old oaken cabinets with rippled glass lined three of the walls, with more modern, closed cabinets at the far end. The light came from a series of dormers with frosted windows, which let in a cool white light.

"We have about a hundred birds from Audubon's original collection," she said, walking briskly down the central corridor. "Unfortunately, Audubon was not much of a taxidermist. The specimens have been stabilized, of course. Here we are."

They stopped before a large, gray metal cabinet that looked almost like a safe. Marchant spun the center dial and turned the lever handle. With a sigh of air, the great door opened, revealing inner wooden cabinets with labels, stuck into brass label-holders, screwed to every drawer. A stench of mothballs washed over D'Agosta. Grasping one drawer, Marchant drew it out to display three rows of stuffed birds, yellowed tags around each claw, white cotton-wool poking out of their eyes.

"Those tags are Audubon's originals," said Marchant. "I'll handle the birds myself–please don't touch them without my permission. Now!" She smiled. "Which ones would you like to see?"

D'Agosta consulted his notebook. He had copied down some bird names from a website that listed all of Audubon's original specimens and their locations. Now he trotted them out. "I'd like to start with the Louisiana Water Thrush."

"Excellent!" The drawer slid in and another was pulled out. "Do you want to examine it on the table or in the drawer?"

"Drawer is fine." D'Agosta pushed a loupe into his eye and studied the bird closely with many grunts and mutterings. It was a ragged-looking thing, the feathers askew or missing, stuffing coming out. D'Agosta made what he hoped was a show of concentration, pausing to jot unintelligible notes.

He straightened. "Thank you. The American Goldfinch is the next on my list."

"Coming right up."

He made another show of examining the bird, squinting at it through the loupe, taking notes, talking to himself.

"I hope you're finding what you're looking for," said Marchant, with a leading tone in her voice.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." This was already getting tiresome, and the smell of mothballs was making him sick.

"Now–" He pretended to consult his notebook. "–I'll look at the Carolina Parrot."

A sudden silence. D'Agosta was surprised to see Marchant's face reddening slightly. "I'm sorry, we don't have that specimen."

He felt an additional wash of annoyance: they didn't even have the specimen he'd come for. "But it's in all the reference books as being here," he said, more crossly than he intended. "In fact, it says you have two of them."

"We don't have them anymore."

"Where are they?" he said, with open exasperation.

There was a long silence. "I'm afraid they disappeared."

"Disappeared? Lost?"

"No, not lost. Stolen. Many years ago, when I was just an assistant. All that remain are a few feathers."

Suddenly D'Agosta was interested. His cop radar went off big-time. He knew, right away, that this wasn't going to be a wild goose chase after all. "Was there an investigation?"

"Yes, but it was perfunctory. It's hard to get the police excited about two stolen birds, even if they are extinct."

"Do you have a copy of the old report?"

"We keep very good files here."

"I'd like to see it."

He found the woman looking at him curiously. "Excuse me, Dr. D'Agosta–but why? The birds have been gone for more than a dozen years."

D'Agosta thought fast. This changed the game. He made a quick decision, dipped into his pocket, and brought out his shield.

"Oh, my." She looked at him, her eyes widening. "You're a policeman. Not an ornithologist."

D'Agosta put it away. "That's right, I'm a lieutenant detective with NYPD homicide. Now be a dear and go get that file."

She nodded, hesitated. "What's it about?"

D'Agosta looked at her and noted a thrill in her eyes, a certain suppressed excitement. "Murder, of course," he said with a smile.

She nodded again, rose. A few minutes later she returned with a slender manila folder. D'Agosta opened it to find the most cursory of police reports, a single scribbled paragraph that told him nothing except that a routine check of the collection revealed the birds were missing. No sign of break-in, nothing else taken, no evidence collected at the scene, no fingerprints dusted, and no suspects named. The only useful thing was the time frame of the crime: it had to have occurred between September 1 and October 1, as the collection was inventoried once a month.

"Do you have logs of all the researchers who used the collections?"

"Yes. But we always check the collection after they leave, to make sure they haven't nicked something."

"Then we can narrow down the time frame even further. Bring me the logs, please."

"Right away." The woman bustled off, the eager clomping of her shoes echoing in the attic space as she descended the stairs.

Within a few minutes she returned, carrying a large buckram volume that she dropped on a central table with a thump. Turning the pages while D'Agosta watched, she finally arrived at the month in question. D'Agosta scanned the page. Three researchers had used the collection that month, the last one on September 22. The name was written in a generous, looping hand:

Matilda V. Jones

18 Agassiz Drive

Cooperstown, NY 27490

A fake name and address if ever there was one, thought D'Agosta. Agassiz Drive my ass. And New York State zip codes all began with a 1.

"Tell me," he asked, "do the researchers have to show you some kind of institutional affiliation, ID, or anything?"

"No, we trust them. Perhaps we shouldn't. But of course we supervise them closely. I just can't imagine how a researcher would manage to steal birds under our very noses!"

I can see a million ways, thought D'Agosta, but he didn't say anything out loud. The attic door was locked with an old-fashioned key, and the bird cabinet itself was a cheap model, with noisy tumblers that an experienced safecracker could defeat. Although, he mused, even that would hardly be necessary–he recalled seeing Marchant plucking a ring of keys off the wall of the reception hall as they set off upstairs. The door to the plantation house was unlocked–he had breezed right in. Anyone could wait until the curator on duty left the front desk on a bathroom break, pluck the keys off the nail, and go straight to the birds. Even worse, he'd been left alone with the unlocked bird cabinet himself when Marchant went to get the register. If the birds had any value they'd all be gone by now, he thought ruefully.

D'Agosta pointed to the name. "Did you meet this researcher?"

"As I said, I was just the assistant then. Mr. Hotchkiss was the curator, and he would have supervised the researcher."

"Where's he now?"

"He passed away a few years ago."

D'Agosta turned his attention back to the page. If Matilda V. Jones was indeed the thief–and he was fairly sure she was–then she was not a particularly sophisticated crook. Aside from the alias, the handwriting in her log entry did not have the appearance of having been disguised. He guessed the actual theft had taken place on or around September 23, the day after she had been shown the exact location of the birds by pretending to be a researcher. She probably stayed at a local inn for convenience. That could be confirmed by checking a hotel register.

"When ornithologists come here for research, where do they usually stay?"

"We recommend the Houma House, over in St. Francisville. It's the only decent place."

D'Agosta nodded.

"Well?" said Marchant. "Any clues?"

"Can you photocopy that page for me?"

"Oh, yes," she said, hefting and carting off the heavy volume, once again leaving D'Agosta alone. As soon as she was gone, he flicked open his cell phone and dialed.

"Pendergast," came the voice.

"Hello, it's Vinnie. Quick one: you ever heard the name Matilda V. Jones?"

There was a sudden silence, and then Pendergast's voice came back as chilly as an Arctic gust. "Where did you get that name, Vincent?"

"Too complicated to explain now. You know it?"

"Yes. It was the name of my wife's pet cat. A Russian Blue."

D'Agosta felt a shock. "Your wife's handwriting... was it large and loopy?"

"Yes. Now would you care to tell me what this is about?"

"Audubon's two stuffed Carolina Parakeets stored up at Oakley? Except for a few feathers, they're gone. And guess what: your wife stole them."

After a moment, a chillier response came: "I see."

D'Agosta heard the clomp of feet on the attic stairs. "Gotta go." He shut the cell phone just as Marchant rounded the corner with the photocopies.

"Well, Lieutenant," she said, laying them down. "Are you going to solve the crime for us?" She bestowed a vivid smile on him. D'Agosta noticed she had taken the occasion to re-rouge and touch up her lipstick. This was probably a lot more exciting, he thought, than back-to-back episodes of Murder, She Wrote.

D'Agosta shoved the papers in his briefcase and got up to leave. "No, I'm afraid the trail is too cold. Waytoo cold. But thanks for your help anyway."

21

Penumbra Plantation

YOU'RE SURE OF THIS, VINCENT? ABSOLUTELY sure?"

D'Agosta nodded. "I checked the local hotel, the Houma House. After examining the birds at Oakley Plantation–under the name of her cat–your wife spent the night there. She used her real name this time: they probably required identification, especially if she paid cash. No reason for her to spend a night unless she planned to return the next day, slip inside, and nab the birds." He passed a sheet of paper to Pendergast. "Here's the register from Oakley Plantation."

Pendergast examined it briefly. "That's my wife's handwriting." He put it aside, his face like a mask. "And you're sure of the date of the theft?"

"September twenty-third, give or take a few days."

"That puts it roughly six months after Helen and I were married."

An awkward silence descended on the second-floor parlor. D'Agosta glanced away from Pendergast, looking uncomfortably around at the zebra rug and the mounted heads, his eye finally coming to rest on the large wooden gun case with its display of powerful, beautifully engraved rifles. He wondered which one had been Helen's.

Maurice leaned into the parlor. "More tea, gentlemen?"

D'Agosta shook his head. He found Maurice disconcerting; the old servant hovered about like a mother.

"Thank you, Maurice, we're fine for the moment," said Pendergast.

"Very good, sir."

"What have youcome up with?" D'Agosta asked.

For a moment, Pendergast did not respond. Then, very slowly, he interlaced his fingers, placed his hands in his lap. "I visited the Bayou Grand Hotel, formerly the site of the Meuse St. Claire sanatorium, where Audubon painted the Black Frame. My wife had been there, asking about the painting. This was, perhaps, a few months after she first met me. Another man–an art collector or dealer, apparently of dubious repute–had also made inquiries about the painting, a year or so before Helen."

"So others were curious about the Black Frame."

"Very curious, it would seem. I also managed to find a few odd papers of interest in the basement of the sanatorium. Discussing the course of Audubon's illness, his treatment, that sort of thing." Pendergast reached for a leather portfolio, opened it, and pulled out an ancient sheet of paper enclosed in plastic, stained and yellow, missing its lower half to rot. "Here's a report on Audubon written by Dr. Arne Torgensson, his attending physician at the sanatorium. I'll read the relevant part." The patient is much improved, both in the strength of his limbs and in his mental state. He is now ambulatory and has been amusing the other patients with stories of his adventures along the Frontier. Last week he sent out for paints, a stretcher and canvas, and began painting. And what a painting it is! The vigor of the brush strokes, the unusual palette, is quite remarkable. It depicts a most unusual...

Pendergast returned the sheet to the portfolio. "As you can see, the critical section is missing: a description of the painting. No one knows the subject."

D'Agosta took a sip of the tea, wishing it was a Bud. "Seems like a no-brainer to me. The painting was of the Carolina Parakeet."

"Your reasoning, Vincent?"

"That's why she stole the birds from Oakley Plantation. To trace–or, more likely, identify–the painting."

"The logic is faulty. Why stealthe birds? Simply observing a specimen would be sufficient."

"Not if you're in competition, it wouldn't," D'Agosta said. "Others wanted the painting, too. In a high-stakes game, any edge you can give yourself–or deny others–you're gonna grab. In fact, that just might point to who mur–" But here he stopped abruptly, unwilling to voice this new speculation aloud.

Pendergast's penetrating glance showed he had divined his meaning. "With this painting, we just might have something that so far has escaped us." And here his voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Motive."

The room went quiet.

At last, Pendergast stirred. "Let us not get ahead of ourselves." He opened the portfolio again, withdrew another tattered scrap of paper. "I also recovered this, part of what is apparently Audubon's discharge report. Again, it is a mere fragment." ... was discharged from care on the fourteenth day of November, 1821. On his departure he gave a painting, only just completed, to Dr. Torgensson, director of Meuse St. Claire, in gratitude for nursing him back to health. A small group of doctors and patients attended the discharge and many farewells were...

Pendergast dropped the fragment back into the portfolio and closed it with an air of finality.

"Any idea where the painting is now?" D'Agosta asked.

"The doctor retired to Port Royal, which will be my next stop." He paused. "There is one other item of at least tangential interest. Do you recall Helen's brother, Judson, mentioning that Helen once took a trip to New Madrid, Missouri?"

"Yes."

"New Madrid was the site of a very powerful earthquake in 1812, greater than eight point zero on the Richter scale–so powerful that it created a series of new lakes and changed the course of the Mississippi River. Approximately half the town was destroyed. There is one other salient fact."

"And that is–?"

"John James Audubon was in New Madrid at the time of the earthquake."

D'Agosta sat back in his chair. "Meaning?"

Pendergast spread his hands. "Coincidence? Perhaps."

"I've been trying to find out more about Audubon," said D'Agosta, "but to tell the truth I was never a good student. What do you know about him?"

"Now, a great deal. Let me give you a precis." Pendergast paused, composing his thoughts. "Audubon was the illegitimate son of a French sea captain and his mistress. Born in Haiti, he was raised in France by his stepmother and sent to America at the age of eighteen to escape conscription in Napoleon's army. He lived near Philadelphia, where he took an interest in studying and drawing birds and married a local girl, Lucy Bakewell. They moved to the Kentucky frontier where he set up a store, but he spent most of his time collecting, dissecting, stuffing, and mounting birds. He drew and painted them as a hobby, but his early work was weak and tentative, and his sketches–many of which survive–were as lifeless as the dead birds he was drawing.

"Audubon proved to be an indifferent businessman, and in 1820, when his shop went bankrupt, he moved his family to a shabby Creole cottage on Dauphine Street, New Orleans, where they lived in penury."

"Dauphine Street," murmured D'Agosta. "So that's how he got to know your family?"

"Yes. He was a charming fellow, dashing, handsome, a superb shot and expert swordsman. He and my great-great-grandfather Boethius became friends and often went shooting together. In early 1821, Audubon fell gravely ill–so ill he had to be taken by horse-drawn cart, comatose, to Meuse St. Claire. There he had a long convalescence. As you already know, during his recovery he painted the work called the Black Frame, subject unknown.

"When he recovered, still flat broke, Audubon suddenly conceived the idea to depict America's entire avifauna in life size–every bird species in the country–compiled into a grand work of natural history. While Lucy supported the family as a tutor, Audubon traipsed off with his gun and a box of artist's colors and paper. He hired an assistant and floated down the Mississippi. He painted hundreds of birds, creating brilliantly vibrant portraits of them in their native settings–something that had never been done before."

Pendergast took a sip of tea, then continued. "In 1826, he went to England, where he found a printer to make copper-plate engravings from his watercolors. Then he crisscrossed America and Europe, finding subscribers for the book that would ultimately become The Birds of America. The last print was struck in 1838, by which time Audubon had achieved great fame. A few years later, he began work on another highly ambitious project, The Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America. But his mind began to fail, and the book had to be completed by his sons. The poor man suffered a hideous mental decline and spent his last years in raving madness, dying at sixty-five in New York City."

D'Agosta gave a low whistle. "Interesting story."

"Indeed."

"And nobody has any idea what became of the Black Frame?"

Pendergast shook his head. "It's the Holy Grail of Audubon researchers, it seems. I'll visit Arne Torgensson's house tomorrow. It's an easy drive, a few miles west of Port Allen. I hope to pick up the trail of the painting from there."

"But based on the dates you've mentioned, you believe–" D'Agosta stopped, searching for the most tactful way to phrase the question. "You believe your wife's interest in Audubon and the Black Frame... started before she met you?"

Pendergast did not reply.

"If I'm going to help you," D'Agosta said, "you can't clam up every time I broach an awkward subject."

Pendergast sighed. "You are quite right. It does seem that Helen was fascinated–perhaps obsessed–by Audubon from early in life. This desire to learn more about Audubon, to be closer to his work, led–in part–to our meeting. It seems she was particularly interested in finding the Black Frame."

"Why keep her interest a secret from you?"

"I believe–" he paused, his voice hoarse, "–she did not wish me to know that our relationship was not founded on a happy accident, but rather a meeting that she had intentionally–perhaps even cynically–engineered." Pendergast's face was so dark, D'Agosta was almost sorry he'd asked the question.

"If she was racing someone else to find the Black Frame," D'Agosta said, "she might have felt herself in danger. In the weeks before her death, did her behavior change? Was she nervous, agitated?"

Pendergast answered slowly. "Yes. I always assumed it was some work-related complication, getting ready for the safari." He shook his head.

"Did she do anything out of the ordinary?"

"I wasn't around Penumbra much those last few weeks."

Over his shoulder, D'Agosta heard the clearing of a throat. Maurice again.

"I just wanted to inform you that I'm turning in for the night," the retainer said. "Will there be anything else?"

"Just one thing, Maurice," Pendergast said. "In the weeks leading up to my final trip with Helen, I was away a good deal of the time."

"In New York," Maurice said, nodding. "Making preparations for the safari."

"Did my wife say, or do, anything out of the ordinary while I was away? Get any mail or telephone calls that upset her, for example?"

The old manservant thought. "Not that I can remember, sir. Though she did seem rather agitated, especially after that trip."

"Trip?" Pendergast asked. "What trip?"

"One morning, her car woke me up as it headed down the drive–you recall how loud it was, sir. No note, no warning, nothing. It was around seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, I recall. Two nights later she came back. Not a word about where she'd been. But I recollect she wasn't herself. Upset about something, but wouldn't say a word about it."

"I see," Pendergast said, exchanging glances with D'Agosta. "Thank you, Maurice."

"Not at all, sir. Good night." And the old factotum turned and vanished down the hall on silent feet.

22

D'AGOSTA EXITED I-10 ONTO THE BELLE CHASSE Highway, barreling along the nearly empty road. It was another warm February day, and he had the windows down and the radio set to a classic rock-and-roll station. He felt better than he had in days. As the car sang along the highway, he guzzled a Krispy Kreme coffee and snugged the cup back into the holder. The two pumpkin spice doughnuts had really hit the spot, calories be damned. Nothing could dampen his spirits.

The evening before he'd spent an hour talking to Laura Hayward. That started the upswing. Then he'd enjoyed a long, dreamless sleep. He woke up to find Pendergast already gone and Maurice waiting for him with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits. Next, he'd driven into town, where he'd scored big with the Sixth District of the New Orleans Police Department. At first, on learning of his connection to the Pendergast family, they'd been suspicious, but when they found he was a regular guy, their attitude changed. He was given free use of their computer facilities, where it took less than ninety minutes to track down the dealer long interested in the Black Frame: John W. Blast, current residence Sarasota, Florida. He was an unsavory character indeed. Five arrests over the past ten years: suspicion of blackmail; suspicion of forgery; possession of stolen property; possession of prohibited wildlife products; assault and battery. Either he had money or good lawyers, or both, because he'd beaten the rap every time. D'Agosta had printed out the details, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and–hungry again despite breakfast–hit the local Krispy Kreme before heading back to Penumbra.

Pendergast, he knew, would be eager to hear about this.

As he pulled up the drive of the old plantation, he saw that Pendergast had beaten him home: the Rolls-Royce sat in the shade of the cypress trees. Parking beside it, D'Agosta crunched his way across the gravel, then climbed the steps to the covered porch. He stepped into the entry hall, closing the front door behind him.

"Pendergast?" he called.

No reply.

He walked down the hallway, peering into the various public rooms. They were all dark and empty.

"Pendergast?" he called once more.

Perhaps he's gone out for a stroll, D'Agosta thought. Nice enough day for it.

He went briskly up the stairs, turned sharply at the landing, then stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar silhouette sitting silently in the parlor. It was Pendergast, occupying the same chair he'd sat in the previous night. The parlor lights were off, and the FBI agent was in darkness.

"Pendergast?" D'Agosta said. "I thought you were out, and–"

He stopped when he saw the agent's face. It carried an expression of blankness that gave him pause. He took the adjoining seat, his good mood snuffed out. "What's going on?" he asked.

Then Pendergast took a slow breath. "I went to Torgensson's house, Vincent. There's no painting."

"No painting?"

"The house is now a funeral home. The interior was gutted–right down to the structural studs and beams–to make way for the new business. There's nothing. Nothing." Pendergast's lips tightened. "The trail simply ends."

"Well, what about the doctor? He must have moved someplace else; we can pick up the trail there."

Another pause, longer than before. "Dr. Arne Torgensson died in 1852. Destitute, driven mad by syphilis. But not before he'd sold off the contents of his house, piecemeal, to innumerable unknown buyers."

"If he sold the painting, there should be a record of it."

Pendergast fixed him with a baleful stare. "There areno records. He might have traded the painting to pay for coal. He might have torn it to shreds in his insanity. It might have outlived him and perished in the renovations. I've hit a brick wall."

And so he'd given up, D'Agosta thought. Come home, to sit in the dark parlor. In all the years he'd known Pendergast, he'd never seen the agent so low. And yet the facts didn't warrant this sort of despair.

"Helen was tracking the painting, too," D'Agosta said, rather more sharply than he intended. "You've been searching for it–what, a couple of days? She didn't give up for years."

Pendergast did not respond.

"All right, let's take another approach. Instead of tracking the painting, we'll track your wife. This last trip she took, where she was gone for two or three days? Maybe it had something to do with the Black Frame."

"Even if you're right," Pendergast said. "That trip is a dozen years in the past."

"We can always try," D'Agosta said. "And then we can pay a visit to Mr. John W. Blast, retired art dealer, of Sarasota."

The faintest spark of interest flickered in Pendergast's eyes.

D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "That's right. He's the other guy who was chasing for the Black Frame. You're wrong when you say we've hit a wall."