Fever Dream

'Never. And that's all I know.'

'You know a great deal more,' said Pendergast, suddenly smiling. 'But before you speak further, Mr. Blast, let me offer you something that you apparently don't know--as a sign of trust.'

First a stick, now a carrot, D'Agosta thought. He wondered where Pendergast was going with this.

'I have proof that Audubon gave the painting to Torgensson,' said Pendergast.

Blast leaned forward, his face suddenly interested. 'Proof, you say?'

'Yes.'

A long silence ensued. Blast sat back. 'Well then, now I'm more convinced than ever that the painting is gone. Destroyed when his last residence burned down.'

'You mean, his estate outside Port Allen?' Pendergast asked. 'I wasn't aware there was a fire.'

Blast gave him a long look. 'There's a lot you don't know, Mr. Pendergast. Port Allen was not Dr. Torgensson's final residence.'

Pendergast was unable to conceal a look of surprise. 'Indeed?'

'In the final years of his life, Torgensson fell into considerable financial embarrassment. He was being hounded by creditors: banks, local merchants, even the town for back taxes. Ultimately he was evicted from his Port Allen house. He moved into a shotgun shack by the river.'

'How do you know all this?' D'Agosta demanded.

In response, Blast stood up and walked out of the room. D'Agosta heard a door open, the rustling of drawers. A minute later he returned with a folder in one hand. He handed it to Pendergast. 'Torgensson's credit records. Take a look at the letter on top.'

Pendergast pulled a yellowed sheet of ledger paper, roughly torn along one edge, from the folder. It was a letter scrawled on Pinkerton Agency letterhead. He began to read. ' 'He has it. The fellow has it. But we find ourselves unable to locate it. We've searched the shanty from basement to eaves. It's as empty as the Port Allen house. There's nothing left of value, and certainly no painting of Audubon's.' '

Pendergast replaced the sheet, glanced through other documents, then closed the folder. 'And you, ah, purloined this report so as to frustrate your competition, I presume.'

'No point in helping one's enemies.' Blast retrieved the folder, placed it on the sofa beside him. 'But in the end it was all moot.'

'And why is that?' Pendergast asked.

'Because a few months after he moved into the tenement, it was hit by lightning and burned down to its foundations--with Torgensson inside. If he hid the Black Frame elsewhere, the location is long forgotten. If he had it in the house somewhere, it burned up with everything else.' Blast shrugged. 'And that's when I finally gave up the search. No, Mr. Pendergast, I'm afraid the Black Frame no longer exists. I know: I wasted twenty years of my life proving it.'

* * *

'I don't believe a word of it,' D'Agosta said as they rode the elevator to the lobby. 'He's just trying to make us believe Helen didn't want the painting to erase his motive for doing her harm. He's covering his ass, he doesn't want us to suspect him of her murder--it's as simple as that.'

Pendergast didn't reply.

'The guy's obviously smart, you'd think he could come up with something a little less lame,' D'Agosta went on. 'They both wanted the painting and Helen was getting too close. Blast didn't want anybody else taking his rightful inheritance. Open and shut. And then there's the big-game connection, the ivory and fur smuggling. He's got contacts in Africa, he could have used them to set up the murder.'

The elevator doors opened, and they walked through the lobby into the sea-moist night. Waves were sighing onto the sand, and lights twinkled from a million windows, turning the dark beach to the color of reflected fire. Mariachi music echoed faintly from a nearby restaurant.

'How did you know about that stuff?' D'Agosta asked as they walked toward the road.

Pendergast seemed to rouse himself. 'I'm sorry?'

'The stuff in the closet? The furs?'

'By the scent.'

'Scent?'

'As anyone who has owned one will confirm, big-cat furs have a faint scent, not unpleasant, a sort of perfumed musk, quite unmistakable. I know it well: my brother and I as children used to hide in our mother's fur closet. I knew the fellow smuggled ivory and rhino horn; it wasn't a big leap to think he was also trading in illegal furs.'

'I see.'

'Come on, Vincent--Caramino's is only two blocks from here. The best stone crab claws on the Gulf Coast, I'm told: excellent when washed down with icy vodka. And I feel rather in need of a drink.'

29

New York City

WHEN CAPTAIN HAYWARD ENTERED THE shabby waiting area outside the interrogation rooms in the basement of One Police Plaza, the two witnesses she had called in leapt to their feet.

The homicide sergeant also rose, and Hayward frowned. 'Okay, everyone sit down and relax. I'm not the president.' She realized that all the gold on her shoulders probably was a bit intimidating, especially for someone who worked on a ship, but this was too much and it made her uncomfortable. 'Sorry to call you out like this on a Sunday. Sergeant, I'll take one at a time, no particular order.'