Chausson sighed again. 'He was an art dealer. Quite unsavory. In my business, you learn how to read a person from his manner, the things he says. This man almost scared me.' He paused. 'He was interested in the painting Audubon allegedly did while he was here. Implied that he'd make it well worth my time. He grew very angry when I could tell him nothing.'
'Did he see the papers?' Pendergast asked.
'No. I didn't know they existed at the time.'
'Do you remember his name?'
'Yes. It was Blast. You don't forget a name like that.'
'I see. And the second person?'
'It was a woman. Young, reddish-brown hair, thin. Very pretty. She was much more pleasant--and persuasive. Still, there wasn't much more I could tell her than I told Blast. She looked through the papers.'
'Did she take any?'
'I wouldn't let her; I thought they might be valuable. But now, I just want to get rid of them.'
Pendergast nodded slowly. 'This young woman--do you recall her name?'
'No. It was funny--she never gave it. I remember thinking about that after she left.'
'Did she have an accent like mine?'
'No. She had a Yankee accent. Like the Kennedys.' The manager shuddered.
'I see. Thank you for your time.' Pendergast turned. 'I'll see my own way out.'
'Oh, no,' Chausson said quickly. 'I'll escort you to your car. I
'Don't worry, Mr. Chausson. I won't say a word to your guests.' And--with a small bow, and an even smaller, rather sad smile--Pendergast strode quickly to the long tunnel, toward the outside world.
20
D'AGOSTA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WHITEWASHED mansion, rising in airy formality from dead flower beds and bare-branched trees. The winter sky spat rain, puddles collecting on the blacktop. He sat in the rental car for a moment, listening to the last lousy lines of 'Just You and I' on the radio, trying to overcome his annoyance at having been sent on what was hardly more than an errand. What the hell did he know about dead birds?
Finally, as the song faded away, he heaved himself from his seat, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out of the car. He climbed the steps of Oakley Plantation House and entered the gallery: a porch with jalousie windows shut against the steady rain. Shoving his dripping umbrella into a stand, he shrugged off his raincoat, hung it on a rack, and entered the building.
'You must be Dr. D'Agosta,' said a bright, bird-like woman, rising from her desk and bustling toward him on stubby legs, sensible shoes rapping the boards. 'We don't get many visitors this time of year. I'm Lola Marchant.' She stuck out her hand.
D'Agosta took the hand and was given a surprisingly vigorous shake. The woman was all rouge and powder and lipstick, and she had to be at least sixty, stout and vigorous.
'Shame on you, bringing this bad weather!' She broke into a warbling laugh. 'Even so, we always welcome Audubon researchers. Mostly we get tourists.'
D'Agosta followed her into a reception hall, done up in white-painted wood and massive beams. He began to regret the cover he had given her over the phone. So little did he know about Audubon or birds, he felt sure he'd be busted on even the most minimal exchange of information. Best thing to do was keep his mouth shut.
'First things first!' Marchant went behind another desk and pushed an enormous logbook toward him. 'Please sign your name and fill in the reason for your visit.'
D'Agosta wrote down his name and the supposed reason.
'Thank you!' she said. 'Now, let's get started. What, exactly, would you like to see?'
D'Agosta cleared his throat. 'I'm an ornithologist'--he got the word out perfectly--'and I'd like to see some of Audubon's specimens.'
'Wonderful! As you surely know, Audubon was only here for four months, working as a drawing master for Eliza Pirrie, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Pirrie, owners of the Oakley Plantation. After a tiff with Mrs. Pirrie he abruptly went back to New Orleans, taking with him all his specimens and drawings. But when we became a State Historic Site forty years ago, we were given a bequest of Audubon drawings, letters, and some of his actual bird specimens, which we've added to over the years--and now we have one of the finest Audubon collections in Louisiana!'
She smiled brightly at this recital, her bosom heaving slightly from the effort.
'Right,' mumbled D'Agosta, removing a steno notebook from his brown suit coat, hoping it added verisimilitude.
'This way, Dr. D'Agosta, please.'
The woman pounded her way across the painted pine floors to a set of stairs. They ascended to the second floor and walked through a large series of spacious rooms, furnished in period furniture, finally arriving at a locked door, which--when opened--revealed a set of attic stairs, steep and narrow. D'Agosta followed Marchant to the top. It was an attic in name only, being spotlessly clean and well kept, smelling of fresh paint. Old oaken cabinets with rippled glass lined three of the walls, with more modern, closed cabinets at the far end. The light came from a series of dormers with frosted windows, which let in a cool white light.
