Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

actually writing the report. When we arrived back at the hotel, I gave Carlo a good-sized tip. Despite his protestations that he was supposed to remain at my service until Harper arrived, I told him I didn't need him anymore and that he should use the time he would have spent with me to visit his family in Italy. He said he couldn't do that, but he thanked me profusely for the money, then got into the Mercedes and drove off, waving goodbye as he did so.

I glanced at my watch, calculated that Neuberger was probably at home. Feeling a bit guilty at how little I was having to do to earn this particular fee with a European vacation thrown in to boot, I went up to my room and placed a call to Neuberger's mansion on Long Island, figuring my client might appreciate a prompt verbal report on what was going to be in my written report.

Neuberger's butler, Peterson, usually answered his telephone, but the man's voice on the other end of the line definitely wasn't Peterson's. The voice was somehow familiar, but I couldn't identify it in the context of Emmet Neuberger's household.

'This is Dr. Robert Frederickson,' I said. 'I'd like to speak to Mr. Neuberger.'

'Mongo?'

'Who's this?'

'Barry Stone.'

I felt a tingling at the base of my spine, and I sat down on the edge of the bed. Barry Stone was a Long Island homicide detective, a friend of Garth's and mine. 'What the hell are you doing in Emmet Neuberger's home, Barry?'

'First I have to ask why you're calling here, Mongo.'

'Neuberger's a client. I'm doing some work for him.'

'Where are you calling from?'

'Zurich.'

'What kind of work are you doing for him?'

'Come on, Barry, it's your turn. What's going on there?'

'It could be a while before you get to speak to your client again, Mongo-if ever. He was snatched sometime last night, apparently by a guy named John Sinclair. I assume you've heard of him?'

'I've heard of him,' I said tersely, suddenly feeling slightly short of breath. 'How do you know it was Sinclair? I didn't think kidnapping was his thing.'

'We can't be positive, because Sinclair changes his handwriting like other men change shirts, but there was a note left with his name on it. Also, every servant in the house was killed with something sharp and hot through the eyes and into the brain. Now, that is something Sinclair might do.'

I swallowed, found that my mouth was dry. 'How much money does he want, and who does he expect to pay it?'

'The note didn't mention money, and it wasn't addressed to anyone. It just said he'd be in touch. Now tell me what Neuberger sent you to do in Switzerland.'

I did. I talked for twenty minutes, struggling with feelings of distraction and disorientation, briefing the homicide detective on just what it was Neuberger had wanted me to do and what I'd learned from Hyatt Pomeroy and Interpol. After I'd finished I gave him my number at the Hilton, and he gave me a number where I could reach him if I found out anything else at my end. He thanked me and hung up.

I poured myself a stiff drink from the bar in the suite, sipped it as I stared out the window, thinking. One thing seemed clear: my much-anticipated vacation with Harper was going to have to be postponed. Although I had fulfilled my professional obligation to my client, and while there was no reason why I couldn't traipse off to Zermatt with my beloved while Interpol and the Long Island police went about their respective business, I knew I couldn't. It seemed somehow inappropriate, and I was surprised to find that I had a somewhat proprietary feeling toward the hapless Emmet P. Neuberger, who had not only had his family charity ripped off for ten million dollars but was now likely to have his life ripped out of him. I knew I was going back to New York, not because there was anything I could contribute, but simply to stand vigil in a way for a well-meaning but vaguely obnoxious man whom nobody, including me, much cared for.

I tried to call Harper at her home in Palmetto Grove, Florida, but she was out, and her answering machine was off. I was just getting ready to call the Zurich police and Interpol to ask them if they knew that the man they were so certain they had penned up in Switzerland was busy in New York killing and kidnapping people when there was a knock at the door. Surprised, I replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, went to the door, and opened it.

The man standing in the doorway was about six feet tall, well dressed in a three-piece suit off Savile Row. He was whippet thin, with pale brown hair and eyes. An angular, rodent-like face was made to seem even more angular and rodent-like by a wispy moustache. However, the most striking thing about the man was the strong antiseptic smell, perhaps skin or scalp medication, that he exuded. It was precisely the same odor I'd detected in my room the day before.

'My name's Duane Insolers, Dr. Frederickson,' the man said, producing a slender, well-worn leather wallet which he flipped open to reveal a very official-looking violet and gold card with his photo on it. 'I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency, and I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time. May I come in?'

I stayed in the doorway. 'None of the spies I've ever met have gone around flashing ID cards. I hope you're not here to try to sell me a set of encyclopedias, or something.'

The man who had identified himself as Duane Insolers smiled wryly. 'Ah,' he said, scratching his left ear, 'I've been told that you and your brother know more than a little about the intelligence community, and that some of my colleagues have made a bad impression on the two of you in the past. I can assure you that I don't shoot people, and I don't go skulking around trying to overthrow unfriendly governments. I'm really just a functionary, a bureaucrat.'

'Sure you are. Now you're starting to sound like a spy.'

'If you want more convincing, the last ten digits of that very large number at the bottom of my ID card is an eight-hundred number for a direct line to Langley. They'll verify that I am who I say I am.'

'What do you want, Insolers?'

'To speak with you.'

'About what?'

'May I come in?'

'How'd you know about me?'

'Well, to say that your reputation precedes you anywhere you go in the world is an understatement. Interpol told me you were coming to town to make inquiries about the matters involving Chant Sinclair. Interpol and the CIA cooperate on many things, but we're especially cooperative when it comes to hunting Sinclair.'

'You may not skulk around trying to overthrow unfriendly governments, Insolers, but you're definitely a skulker. If you didn't want to give me a bad impression of you, why did you search my room yesterday? What the hell did you expect to find?'

He reacted. He caught himself quickly, but not before I had seen the glint of surprise in his pale brown eyes; it occurred to me that, as skillfully stealthy as Insolers might be, he was actually not aware of the odor he carried and left in his wake like an olfactory fingerprint.

'Really, Dr. Frederickson. Even if your room was searched, what makes you think it was me?'

'Is that a denial, Insolers?'

He studied me carefully while he considered his answer. 'No,' he said at last. 'I'm usually pretty good at these things, and I'll be damned if I saw any detection devices. You must know some tricks I don't.'

'I'm a veritable magician. What were you looking for?'

'I wasn't sure, Frederickson. That's the truth.' He paused, shrugged. 'I guess old skulking habits die hard.'

'Forget it,' I said, turning and walking back into the suite, casually motioning for him to follow me. 'You can skulk around here all you want, and it won't make a damn bit of difference. You, Interpol, the Zurich police, and the Swiss Army are all wasting your time. Sinclair took his show back out on the road. He's an ocean away, butchering and kidnapping people in New York.'

I stopped and turned, expecting to find him right behind me. But Duane Insolers was still standing in the doorway, looking positively stunned and making no effort to mask it. 'What are you talking about?' he asked in a