walls above. Ahead, in the salon, a Bosendorfer piano in rich mahogany sat in one corner. Prayer wheels, ritual weapons, decorative boxes of gold and silver, and a profusion of sculptures were arrayed across various tables and on the bookshelves that lined one wall. A large and intricate mandala hung over a gas fireplace. Beside it, a heavy armoire of mellow teak glowed in the subdued light.
Leaving her trolley, she walked across the salon to the armoire. She stroked the polished wood thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled the door open. Inside sat a massive steel safe, its bulk taking up almost the entire interior of the cabinet. She stepped back, looking at the safe appraisingly. Was it large enough to hold the Agozyen?
Yes, she decided: it was large enough. She closed the door to the armoire and, taking a cloth from the pocket of her apron, polished the edges where she had touched it. One objective accomplished. She glanced around a second time and made a mental note of everything in Blackburn’s extensive and wildly eclectic collections.
As she walked back toward her cart, she paused at the base of the stairway. There had been a sound—faint, but distinct—from above. She waited motionless, listening. There it was again: a muffled snore, issuing from the open door of a bedroom at the next landing.
So somebody was still in the suite. Blackburn’s private maid, most likely. That would complicate things.
Grasping the handle of the trolley, she pushed it across the entryway, careful to make sure the broom and mop did not rattle in their holder. She parked it in the middle of the salon and quickly made the rounds, emptying the trash baskets and ashtrays into the fresh garbage bag she’d hung from the trolley. Leaving the trolley where it was, she darted into the dining room and kitchen in turn, repeating the process. There was precious little refuse to empty: clearly, Blackburn’s own maid had done a thorough job.
Returning to the salon, she paused to consider. She did not dare go upstairs for the rest of the garbage; that would awaken the maid and precipitate an unpleasant scene. She had the most important information already: the location and size of Blackburn’s safe and a quick inventory of his collection. Perhaps she should leave now.
But as she hesitated, thinking, she noticed a curious thing. While the surfaces of the tables and the objets d’art were spotless and gleaming, and the wastebaskets had held only a few scraps, there was a surprising amount of dust on the floor, especially around the moldings along the edges of the room. It appeared that the talents of Blackburn’s maid did not extend to vacuuming. She knelt and ran her finger along the base of the mahogany molding. It wasn’t just dust—it was sawdust.
She lifted her gaze to the vacuum that hung from her housekeeping trolley. If she turned it on, she would wake the maid for sure. So be it. She walked over to the trolley, plucked the vacuum from its hook, pulled out the old bag and attached a fresh one. Walking to the nearest wall of the salon, she knelt, turned on the vacuum, and made several quick passes along the edge of the floor, getting as much dust as possible.
Almost immediately, there was a muffled thud from upstairs. “Hello?” came a sleepy feminine voice. “Who’s there?”
Pretending not to hear over the noise, Constance crossed to the center of the room, knelt again, and made several more passes with the vacuum along the tops of the moldings, then across the rug in the entryway, checking for hair and fiber.
A minute later, the voice sounded again, much louder this time. “Hey! What are you doing?”
Constance rose, turned off the vacuum, and turned around. A short, melon-shaped woman of about thirty stood on the bottom step of the staircase, her face red, clad only in a huge terrycloth towel, which she pressed against herself with one flabby forearm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded again. Constance curtseyed. “Sorry to wake you, mum,” she said, putting on her German accent. “The maid who normally does this suite has had an accident. I’ve taken over her duties.”
“It’s after midnight!” the woman shrilled.
“I’m sorry, mum, but I was told to clean the suite as soon as it was unoccupied.”
“Mr. Blackburn gave specific orders that there was to be no more maid service in this suite!”
At that moment, there was a noise from outside: the sound of a passcard being inserted into a slot, the click of a lock disengaging. The maid gasped, colored, and dashed back up the steps in the direction of her room. A moment later, the front door opened and Blackburn entered, a roll of newspapers under his arm.
Constance watched him, motionless, portable vacuum in one hand.
He stopped and stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Then he coolly turned and double-locked the door, walked across the entryway, and dropped his papers on a side table.
“Who are you?” he asked, his back still turned.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I’m your housekeeper,” she said.
“Housekeeper?”
“Your new housekeeper,” she went on. “Juanita—that is, the girl who cleaned your suite—she had an accident. Now I’ve been assigned—”
Blackburn turned and stared at her. The words died in her throat. There was something in his expression, in his eyes, that shocked her: an intensity of purpose as hard and clean as polished steel, shot through with something like fear, or perhaps even desperation.
She tried again. “I’m sorry about the late hour. I’ve been doing her staterooms as well as my own, and it’s been hard to catch up. I thought nobody was home, or I’d never have—”
Suddenly, a hand shot out, grasping her wrist. He squeezed it cruelly and dragged her toward him. Constance gasped with the pain.
“Bullshit,” he said in a low, ugly voice, his face inches from hers. “I gave clear orders just this evening that nobody was to clean my suite but my private help.” And he squeezed harder.
Constance fought back a groan. “Please, sir. Nobody told me. If you don’t wish your rooms cleaned, I’ll leave.”
He stared at her, and she averted her eyes. He squeezed still harder, until she thought he would crush her wrist. Then he shoved her brutally away. She fell to the floor, vacuum clattering across the carpet.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he growled.
Constance rose to her feet, scooping up the vacuum and smoothing her apron as she did so. She moved past him, hanging the vacuum on its hook and wheeling the trolley across the salon to the entryway of the suite. She unlocked the front door, pushed the trolley out ahead of her, and—with a single, hooded glance back at the man who was already mounting the stairs, yelling up at his own maid for admitting a stranger into the suite—stepped into the corridor.
31
THE POLISHED CHERRYWOOD TABLE IN THE DINING AREA OF THE Tudor Suite was covered with an incongruous clutter—a large garbage bag of clear plastic, dribbling out a host of scraps: crumpled paper, wadded tissue, cigar ash. Pendergast circled the table like a restless cat, arms behind his back, now and then bending close to examine something but never extending a hand to touch or probe. Constance sat on a nearby sofa, dressed now in one of the elegant gowns they had purchased on board ship, watching him.
“And he threw you to the ground, you say?” Pendergast murmured over his shoulder.
