Fever Dream

'I'm Portby Chausson, general manager of the Bayou Grand Hotel.'

Pendergast shook the proffered hand. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance.'

Chausson gestured toward the hotel with a pink hand. 'Delighted. My office is this way.'

He led the way through the courtyard into an echoing lobby, draped in cream-colored marble. Pendergast followed the manager past well-fed businessmen with sleek women on their arms to a plain door just beyond the front desk. Chausson opened it to reveal an opulent office in the French Baroque style. He ushered Pendergast into a chair before the ornate desk.

'I see from your accent you're from this part of the country,' Chausson said as he took a seat behind the desk.

'New Orleans,' Pendergast replied.

'Ah.' Chausson rubbed his hands together. 'But I believe you are a new guest?' He consulted a computer. 'Indeed. Well, Mr. Pendergast, thank you for considering us for your holiday needs. And allow me to commend you on your exquisite taste: the Bayou Grand is the most luxurious resort in the entire Delta.'

Pendergast inclined his head.

'Now, over the phone you indicated you were interested in our Golf and Leisure Packages. We have two: the one-week Platinum Package, and the two-week Diamond Package. While the one-week packages begin at twelve thousand five hundred, I might suggest upgrading to the two-week because of the--'

'Excuse me, Mr. Chausson?' Pendergast interrupted gently. 'But if you'd allow me to interject for just a moment, I think I could save both of us valuable time.'

The general manager paused, looking at Pendergast with an expectant smile.

'It's true I did express some interest in your golf packages. Please forgive my little deception.'

Chausson looked blank. 'Deception?'

'Correct. I merely wished to gain your attention.'

'I don't understand.'

'I'm not sure how much plainer I can express myself, Mr. Chausson.'

'Do you mean to say'--the blank look darkened--'that you have no intention of staying at the Bayou Grand?'

'Alas, no. Golf is not my sport.'

'That you deceived me so that you could... gain access to me?'

'I see the light has finally dawned.'

'In that case, Mr. Pendergast, we have no further business to discuss. Good day.'

Pendergast examined his perfectly manicured fingernails a moment. 'Actually, we do have business to discuss.'

'Then you should have approached me directly, without subterfuge.'

'Had I done that, I would almost certainly never have made it into your office.'

Chausson reddened. 'I have heard just about enough. I'm a very busy man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have valid guests to attend to.'

But Pendergast showed no signs of rising. Instead, with a sigh of something like regret, he reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small leather wallet, and flipped it open to reveal a gold shield.

Chausson stared at it for a long moment. 'FBI?'

Pendergast nodded.

'Has there been a crime?'

'Yes.'

Beads of sweat appeared on Chausson's brow. 'You aren't going to... make an arrest at my hotel, are you?'

'I had something else in mind.'

Chausson looked hugely relieved. 'Is this some kind of criminal matter?'

'Not one related to the hotel.'

'Do you have a warrant or subpoena?'

'No.'

Chausson seemed to regain much of his poise. 'I'm afraid, Mr. Pendergast, that we shall have to consult our attorneys before we can respond to any request. Company policy. So sorry.'

Pendergast put away the shield. 'Such a pity.'

Complacency settled over the general manager's features. 'My assistant will show you out.' He pressed a button. 'Jonathan?'

'Is it true, Mr. Chausson, that this hotel building was originally the mansion of a cotton baron?'

'Yes, yes.' A slender young man entered. 'Will you kindly show Mr. Pendergast out?'