“ID,” the man replied. “They said you’d have some ID.”
Pendergast reached into his jacket pocket and showed his FBI identification to the man, who examined it carefully.
“Mr. Albert Diamond, correct?” Pendergast said.
“Al,” the man said with a careless gesture. “What ya need?”
“I hear you’re the authority on underground New York,” Pendergast said. “You’re the engineer who’s consulted on everything from the building of a new subway tunnel to the repair of a gas main.”
Diamond stared at Pendergast. One cheek began to bulge as his tongue made a slow traverse of his lower molars. “Guess that’s true,” he replied at last.
“When were you last underground?”
Diamond raised one fist, opened it wide once, twice, closed it again.
“Ten?” Pendergast said. “Ten months?”
Diamond shook his head.
“Years?”
Diamond nodded.
“Why so long?”
“Got tired. Requested this instead.”
“Requested? Interesting choice of assignment. About as far away from the underground as one could get without actually being airborne. Intentional?”
Diamond shrugged, neither agreeing nor contradicting.
“I need some information,” Pendergast shouted. It was simply too loud in the observation chamber for any kind of small talk.
Diamond nodded, the bulge in his cheek slowly rising as the investigation moved to the upper molars.
“Tell me about the Devil’s Attic.”
The bulge froze in position. After a few moments, Diamond shifted on the stool, but said nothing.
Pendergast continued. “I’m told there’s a level of tunnels underneath Central Park. Unusually deep tunnels. I’ve heard the region referred to as the Devil’s Attic. But there are no records of such a place in existence, at least by that name.”
After a long moment, Diamond looked down. “Devil’s Attic?” he repeated, as if with great reluctance.
“Do you know of such a place?”
Diamond reached into his coveralls and drew out a small flask of something that was not water. He took a long pull, then returned the flask without offering it to Pendergast. He said something that was inaudible over the shriek of the exhaust stack.
“What?” Pendergast cried, moving still closer.
“I said, yeah, I know of it.”
“Tell me about it, please.”
Diamond looked away from Pendergast, his eyes gazing over the river toward the New Jersey shore.
“Those rich bastards,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Those rich bastards. Didn’t want to rub shoulders with the working class.”
“Rich bastards?” Pendergast asked.
“You know. Astor. Rockefeller. Morgan. And the rest. Built those tunnels over a century ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Railroad tunnels,” Diamond burst out irritably. “They were building a private railcar line. Came down from Pelham, under the Park, beneath the Knickerbocker Hotel, the Fifth Avenue parkfront mansions. Fancy private stations and waiting rooms. The whole nine yards.”
“But why so deep?”
For the first time, Diamond grinned. “Geology. Had to go deeper than the existing train lines and early subway tunnels, of course. But right below was a layer of shitstone.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pendergast yelled.
“Rotten Precambrian siltstone. We call it shitstone. You can run water and sewer lines through shitstone, but not a railroad tunnel. So they had to go deeper. Your Devil’s Attic is thirty stories underground.”
“But why?”
Diamond looked at the FBI agent in disbelief. “Why? Why do you think? Those fancy pants didn’t want to share any sidings or signals with regular train lines. With those deep tunnels, they could go straight out of the city, come up around Croton, and be on their way. No delays, no mixing with the common folk.”
“That doesn’t explain why there is no record of their existence.”
