didn’t want to.”
“Height?”
“Oh, about average.”
“Voice?”
The man shrugged. “American, I think. Kind of high. Soft-spoken. Didn’t say much.”
“When did he leave?”
“Didn’t see him go. Was in the back doing paperwork.”
“He didn’t ask you to call him a cab?”
“No.”
“Describe what he was wearing.”
“Raincoat, like yours. Didn’t see what he had on his feet.”
“Did he come by car or cab?”
The clerk shrugged and scratched again.
“Thank you,” Pendergast said. “I’ll be going out for a few hours. Call me a cab from your standard pool, please.”
The clerk made a call. “Just buzz when you return,” he said over his shoulder, as he went back to his “paperwork.”
Pendergast stood outside. In about five minutes, a cab came. He got in.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Pendergast took out a hundred-pound note. “Nowhere yet. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“You a copper?”
“No. Private detective.”
“A regular Sherlock, eh?” The cabbie turned, his red, bloodshot face lighting up with excitement and pleasure. He took the note. “Thanks.”
“A man left here about a quarter past ten or half past ten this evening, most likely in one of your cabs. I need to locate the driver.”
“Right.” He plucked his radio off the dash, spoke into it. The exchange went on for a few minutes, and then he pressed a button and handed the mike back to Pendergast. “Got your bloke on the line.” Pendergast took the mike. “You’re the man who picked up a fare in front of the Buckinghamshire Gardens Hotel this evening about ten- twenty?”
“I’m your man,” came the raspy voice, in a heavy Cockney accent.
“Where are you? Can I meet you?”
“I’m driving back from Southampton on the M3.”
“I see. Can you describe your fare for me?”
“To tell the truth, guv, your man ’ad an eye that warn’t too lovely. A patch over it, oozing blood like, didn’t want to take too close a butcher’s, if you get my meaning.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“A big, long cardboard box.”
“His accent?”
“American, southern or something.”
“Could he have been a woman in disguise?”
A raspy laugh followed. “With all the nancy boys around today, I suppose it’s possible.”
“Did he tell you his name or pay by credit card?”
“Paid in cash and never said a bleedin’ word the whole way—after telling me where he was going, that is.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Southampton. To the quay.”
“The quay?”
“Right, guv. To the
.”
“North Star’s new ocean liner?”
“You got it.”
“Was he a passenger?”
“Think so. He had me drop him off at the customs building, and he had what looked like a ticket in his hand.”
“Could he have been crew?”
Another raspy laugh. “Not bloody likely. It were a two-’undred-pound cab ride.” “He had no luggage other than the box?”
“No, sir.”
“Was there anything else unusual about him?”
The driver thought for a moment. “He had a strange smell about him.”
“Smell?”
“Like he worked in a tobacconist, like.”
Pendergast paused for a moment, thinking. “Do you know when the
is sailing, by any chance?”
“They said it were sailing at noon, with the tide.”
Pendergast handed the mike back to the cabbie and thought for a moment. And in that moment his cell phone rang.
He flipped it open. “Yes?”
“It’s Constance.”
Pendergast sat up, surprised. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Brussels airport, I’ve just deplaned from a nonstop flight from Hong Kong. Aloysius, I’ve got to see you. I’ve some critical information.”
“Constance, your timing is excellent. Listen to me carefully. If you can get to Heathrow in four hours or less, I’ll pick you up at the airport. Can you do that—four hours, not one minute more? Otherwise I’ll be forced to leave without you.”
“I’ll do my best. But what’s this about leaving? What’s happening?”
“We’re about to set sail.”
9
THE BLACK LONDON CAB TORE ALONG THE M3 MOTORWAY AT one hundred and forty kilometers per hour, passing cars and lorries in a blur. In the distance, the squat, cream-colored tower of Winchester Cathedral was visible amidst a tangle of gray urban landscapes.
In the rear seat, Pendergast, sitting next to Constance, glanced at his watch. “We need to be at the Southampton docks in fifteen minutes,” he told the driver.
“Impossible.”
“There’s another fifty pounds in it for you.” “Money won’t make ’er fly, sir,” the driver said.
Still, the vehicle accelerated even further, tires squealing as the cabbie negotiated the ramp onto the southbound A335. The Winchester suburbs quickly gave way to greenery. Compton, Shawford, and Otterbourne passed by in heartbeats.
“Even if we do make the ship,” Constance said at last, “how are we going to board? I read in
Pendergast shuddered. “A rather unfortunate comparison. As it happens, I’ve already secured us acceptable accommodations. The Tudor Suite, a duplex at the ship’s stern. It has a third bedroom we’ll be able to use as an office.”
“How did you manage that?”
“The suite had been booked by a Mr. and Mrs. Prothero of Perth, Australia. They were happy to exchange the tickets for an even larger suite on the
The cab shot over the M27 interchange, then began to slow as the traffic inbound to Southampton grew heavier. They passed through a dreary industrial zone, then row after row of semidetached brick houses, as they approached the maze of streets in the old town center. They made a left onto Marsh Lane, then an immediate right onto Terminus Terrace, the big vehicle dipping and swerving deftly through the traffic. The sidewalks were thick with people, most of them holding cameras. From ahead came the sound of cheering and shouting.
“Tell me, Constance, what it is you discovered that caused you to leave the monastery with such precipitation?”
“It’s quickly said.” She lowered her voice. “I took your parting request to heart. I made inquiries.”
Pendergast lowered his own voice in turn. “And how does one ‘make inquiries’ in a Tibetan monastery?”
Constance suppressed a grim smile. “Boldly.”
“Which means?”
“I went into the inner monastery and
