A long white finger touched the paper. “The murder was committed at ten, the cab arrived at the dock at half past midnight, and so the killer must have boarded after that point. That alone removes one thousand four hundred seventy-six names.”
The finger touched the paper again. “The murderer is a man.”
“How in the world do you know that?” asked Constance, as if the assumption were an offense to womanhood.
“The bottle of scotch. A man like Ambrose would hardly have chosen that if his visitor were a woman. And then there is the knife that was driven clean through the body, through half an inch of carpet, and almost an inch into plywood flooring. That must have taken great strength. Finally, Ambrose himself was a mountain climber in superb physical condition, not an easy man to kill. It implies our killer is strong, fit, and fast—and male.”
“I’ll concede the point.”
The finger moved down the sheet. “For these same reasons, we can bracket the age: over twenty, under sixty- five. On a ship like this, that latter fact is most useful. In addition, he’s not traveling with a wife: the messy murder, cab ride, disguise, boarding ship with the Agozyen—all these are the actions of a man unencumbered by a wife. The psychopathology of the murder, the keen pleasure taken in the violence, also points strongly toward a single man. A single male, of a certain age: one thousand and twelve more names removed. Which gives us two hundred and twelve left.”
The finger moved again. “All the evidence shows that Ambrose contacted a known collector, perhaps not of Asian antiquities per se, but a collector nonetheless. And a man whose face might be recognizable to members of the general public. Which leaves us with twenty-six.”
He glanced up at Constance. “The murderer is clever. Put yourself in his shoes. He has to get this awkward box on board ship without being conspicuous. He would not have boarded immediately, carrying the box—that would be remembered. And besides, he was covered with blood from the murder; he’d have to change his clothes and wash up in a secure place. So what would he do?”
“Go to a hotel room, wash, repack the Agozyen in a larger steamer trunk, and then board at the height of the final crush.”
“Precisely. And that would be around nine this morning.”
Constance smiled wryly.
The finger lifted from the paper. “Which leaves us with just eight suspects—right here. You’ll note a curious coincidence: two were at our table.” He pushed the paper over. She read the names:
Lionel Brock. Owner of Brock Galleries, West 57th Street, New York City. Age 52. Prominent dealer of impressionist and post- impressionist paintings.
Scott Blackburn, former President and CEO, Gramnet, Inc. Age 41. Silicon Valley billionaire. Collects Asian art and 20th-century painting.
Jason Lambe, CEO, Agamemnon.com. Age 42. Technology mogul, Blackburn a major investor in his company. Collects Chinese porcelain and Japanese woodcuts and paintings.
Terrence Calderon, CEO, TeleMobileX Solutions. Age 34. Technology mogul, friend of Blackburn. Collects French antiques.
Edward Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh, reputed cat burglar. Age 24. Collects antique jewelry, silver and gold plate, reliquaries, and objets d’art.
Claude Dallas, movie star. Age 31. Collects Pop art.
Felix Strage, chairman of the Department of Greek and Roman Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. Collects Greek and Roman antiquities.
Victor Delacroix, author and bon vivant. Age 36. Eclectic art collector.
Pendergast reached over with a pen and drew a line through the last name. “This one we can eliminate right away.”
“How?”
“I noticed at dinner he was left-handed. The killer is right-handed.”
She looked at him. “You’ve eliminated two thousand six hundred and ninety-three suspects—and you haven’t even resorted to cleverness yet.”
“Eliminating the last seven might prove more challenging. This is where we must divide if we are to conquer.” He glanced at her. “I will undertake the investigation abovedecks, among the passengers and ship’s officers. I’d like you to handle the belowdecks portion of our search.”
“Belowdecks? If it’s not a member of the crew, then why bother?”
“The best place to hear gossip and rumor on the passengers is belowdecks.”
“But why me?”
“You have a better chance of convincing crew members to talk than I do.”
“And what am I looking for, exactly?”
“Generally, anything your instincts tell you would be helpful. Specifically, a box. A long, awkward box.”
She paused. “How am I to get belowdecks?”
“You’ll find a way.” He placed a cautionary hand on her elbow. “But I must warn you, Constance—I don’t understand this killer. And that worries me. As it should you.”
She nodded.
“Make no moves on your own. Observe, then come to me. Agreed?”
“Yes, Aloysius.”
“In that case, the
She waved her hand. “I’m not in the mood for port, thank you, but please yourself.”
12
JUANITA SANTAMARIA WHEELED HER MAID’S TROLLEY DOWN THE elegant gold carpeting of Deck 12, her lips pursed in a slight frown, her eyes locked straight ahead. The trolley, piled high with fresh linens and scented soap, squeaked as it moved over the plush nap.
As she rounded a bend in the corridor, a passenger approached: a well-preserved woman of about sixty with a violet rinse. “Excuse me, my dear,” the woman said to Juanita. “Is this the way to the SunSpa?”
“Yes,” the maid replied.
“Oh, and another thing. I’d like to send the captain a note of thanks. What’s his name again?”
“Yes,” said Juanita, without stopping.
Ahead, the hall ended in a plain brown door. Juanita pushed the trolley through and into a service area that lay beyond. Large canvas bags of soiled laundry lay to one side, along with stacks of gray plastic tubs full of dirty room-service dishes, all waiting to be transported to the bowels of the ship. To the right lay a bank of service elevators. Wheeling the trolley up to the nearest elevator, Juanita extended her arm and pressed the down button.
As she did so, her finger trembled ever so slightly.
The elevator doors whispered open. Juanita pushed the trolley inside, then turned to face the control panel. Once again, she reached out to press a button. This time, however, she hesitated, staring at the panel, her face slack. She waited so long that the doors slid shut again and the elevator hung in its shaft, motionless, waiting. At last—very slowly, as if zombified—she pressed the button for Deck C. With a hum, the car began to descend.
The main starboard corridor of Deck C was cramped, low-ceilinged, and stuffy. It was as crowded as Deck 12 had been empty: busboys, maids, croupiers, hostesses, technicians, stewards, manicurists, electricians, and a host of others scurried past, intent on the innumerable errands and assignments required to keep a grand ocean liner running. Juanita pushed her trolley out into the ant-farm bustle, then stopped, staring back and forth as if lost. More than one person glared at her as they passed: the corridor was not wide, and the trolley, parked in the middle, quickly created a jam.
