Nora angled the light toward the skiff.
“Can you row?” Pendergast inquired.
“I’m an expert.”
“Good. I believe you’ll find an abandoned marina a few blocks south of here. Get to a phone as quickly as possible, call 645-7884; that’s the number of my chauffeur, Proctor. Explain to him what’s happened. He’ll come get you and arrange everything, including the doctor for Smithback and myself.”
Nora turned over the rowboat and slid it into the water. It was old, loose-jointed, and leaky, but it appeared to be seaworthy.
“You’ll take care of Bill while I’m gone?” she said.
Pendergast nodded, the reflected water rippling across his pale face.
She stepped gingerly into the boat.
Pendergast stepped forward. “Dr. Kelly,” he said in a low voice. “There is something more I must tell you.”
She looked up from the boat.
“The authorities
“I understand,” Nora replied after a moment. She stared at him as the full import of what he was saying began to sink in. The secret to prolonged life: it still seemed incredible. Unbelievable.
“I must also admit to a more personal reason for secrecy. I do not wish to bring more infamy down on the Pendergast name.”
“Leng was your ancestor.”
“Yes. My great-grand-uncle.”
Nora nodded as she fitted the oarlocks. It was an antique notion of family honor; but then, she already knew that Pendergast was a man out of his time.
“My doctor will evacuate Smithback to a private hospital upstate where they do not ask inconvenient questions. I will, of course, undergo surgery there myself. We need never mention our adventure to the authorities.”
“I understand,” she repeated.
“People will wonder what happened to Fairhaven. But I doubt very much the police will ever identify him as the Surgeon, or make the connection with 891 Riverside Drive.”
“Then the Surgeon’s murders will remain unsolved? A mystery?”
“Yes. But unsolved murders are always the most interesting, don’t you think? Now, repeat the telephone number for me, please.”
“Six four five-seven eight eight four.”
“Excellent. Now please hurry, Dr. Kelly.”
She pushed away from the quay, then turned back to look at Pendergast once again, her boat bobbing in the shallow water.
“One more question. How in the world did you escape from those chains? It seemed like magic.”
In the dim light, she saw Pendergast’s lips part in what appeared to be a smile. “It
“I don’t understand.”
“Magic and the Pendergast family are synonymous. There have been magicians in my lineage for ten generations. We’ve all dabbled in it. Antoine Leng Pendergast was no exception: in fact, he was one of the most talented in the family. Surely you noticed the stage apparatus in the refectory? Not to mention the false walls, secret panels, trapdoors? Without knowing it, Fairhaven bound his victims with Leng’s trick cuffs. I recognized them right away: the American Guiteau handcuffs and Bean Prison leg-irons, fitted with a false rivet that any magician, once manacled, could remove with his fingers or teeth. To a person who knew the secret, they were about as secure as transparent tape.”
And Pendergast began laughing softly, almost to himself.
Nora rowed away, the splashing of the oars distorted in the low, rocky cavern. In a few moments she came to a weed-choked opening between two rocks, just large enough to admit the boat. She pushed through and was suddenly on the broad expanse of the Hudson, the vast bulk of the North River plant rising above her, the great glittering arc of the George Washington Bridge looming farther to the north. Nora took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. She could hardly believe they were still alive.
She glanced back at the opening through which she had just come. It looked like a tangle of weeds and some boulders leaning together—nothing more.
As she bent to the oars, the abandoned marina just coming into view against the distant gleaming towers of Midtown Manhattan, she thought she could still make out—borne on the midnight wind—the faint sound of Pendergast’s laughter.
Epilogue:
Arcanum
FALL HAD TURNED to winter: one of those crisp, sunny days of early December before the first snowfall, when the world seemed almost crystalline in its perfection. As Nora Kelly walked up Riverside Drive, holding hands with Bill Smithback, she looked out over the Hudson. Already, cakes of ice were drifting down from the upper reaches. The New Jersey Palisades were etched in stark sunlight, and the George Washington Bridge seemed to float above the river, silvery and weightless.
Nora and Smithback had found an apartment on West End Avenue in the Nineties. When Pendergast had
