were peppered with large-caliber bullet holes.
“Tristram!” he cried as he began to run.
He flew through the vaults, his shoes crunching on a carpet of glass, turned a corner halfway down the series of chambers, came to his son’s room, jammed his key in the lock, then turned it and wrenched open the door.
A body lay on the floor, covered with a sheet. Stifling a gasp, Pendergast rushed to it and pulled the sheet back—to uncover Proctor, his face covered with blood. He quickly felt the pulse in his neck: strong. The chauffeur was alive but unconscious. Pendergast made an examination of Proctor’s body, determining he was merely battered, with a nasty gash on his head that had bled copiously and was clearly evidence of a concussion.
Going to the connecting bathroom, he rinsed a cloth in warm water and returned, gently cleaning Proctor’s face and the cut on his head. The effort began to revive the man, and he tried to sit up, almost fainting as a result. Pendergast eased him back down.
“What happened?” Pendergast asked, quietly but urgently.
Proctor shook his head to clear it, then groaned at the resulting pain. “Alban… took Tristram.”
“How in God’s name did he get in?”
Another shake of the head. “No idea. Thought I heard… a noise.”
“When did this happen?”
“About a quarter… to ten.”
It was now past eleven. Pendergast leapt up. There was no indication Alban and his victim had left the house—the alarms had been green. And yet more than an hour had passed since the attack.
“I’m going to leave you here while I track them,” he said.
Proctor waved a dismissive hand as if to say,
Sidearm at the ready, Pendergast performed a quick search of the room. Going through the mess of papers on Tristram’s desk, his attempts to write in English, he found a striking drawing of a mountain, with a note indicating it was a gift to his father. This discovery caused a painful twinge. But he pushed the feeling away as best he could, took the drawing, and left the room, locking the door behind him.
He examined intently the marks in the dust of the side passage, but this close to Tristram’s room there were too many confusing footprints to bring any order to. He returned to the main corridor, continuing on as swiftly as he could while still maintaining vigilance, examining the riot of ruin that covered the floor. Passing through several more chambers, he came to the old laboratory of Professor Leng. The confrontation had not extended this far—the lab was relatively in order. Old soapstone tabletops were covered with beakers, retorts, titration apparatuses. He looked around carefully, then made his way noiselessly along the walls to the open door leading to the next and final room. It was full of weapons, both ancient and relatively modern: swords, maces, rifles, blackjacks, grenades, flails, tridents.
Here Pendergast paused, fishing a small LED light from his pocket and exploring the room with it. Nothing appeared to be missing. At the far end, he stopped. There were fresh marks before an unobtrusive door in the wall.
The security alarms had been green. The motion sensors had not been triggered. The mansion was exceedingly well wired against intruders—except for the basement and sub-basements, accessible only through the hidden elevator and secret door, which because of their bizarre layout and almost limitless extent could not be properly wired for security. Indeed, attempting to have done so might actually have compromised that secret section of the mansion. But this was all speculation, because no intruder could find his way into them.
Pendergast stared at the closed door. Unless… was it even possible?
He quickly opened the door, which led to a crude stone passageway and a descending staircase, constructed from a natural crevasse in the schist bedrock. A strong smell of mold and damp rose from below. Heading down the long series of rude steps, he came to an ancient stone quay alongside a watery tunnel—the lair of the river pirate who had owned an earlier house near the site of the mansion. Normally, an old rowing skiff was upturned on the quay—but now it was gone. Fresh splashes and puddles of water on the stone edges of the quay attested to the fact the boat had been recently launched.
Pendergast knew the smuggler’s tunnel led to the Hudson River. It was so well concealed, and the passage from it to the sub-basement so carefully barred and locked, Pendergast had always believed the rear tunnel entrance to be undiscoverable and impregnable. He now realized this had been a foolish oversight. With an hour’s head start, Alban and his hostage would be gone—and impossible to trace.
He half sat, half collapsed onto the stone floor of the quay.
DR. JOHN FELDER STEPPED OUT OF THE GATEHOUSE AND closed the door silently behind him. As the calendar had promised, it was a moonless night. The Wintour mansion had no exterior lights—Miss Wintour was too miserly to buy any more lightbulbs than absolutely necessary—and the ancient pile was a vast obscure shape rising before him, black against black.
He took a deep breath, then began pushing his way through the knee-high tangle of dead weeds and grasses. It was a cold night, close to freezing, and his breath smoked the air. The mansion, the street, the entire town of Southport seemed cloaked in silence. Despite the darkness, he felt horribly exposed.
Reaching the main building, he pressed himself against its chill flanks and paused, listening. All was silent. He moved slowly along the exterior wall until he came to the large bow window of the mansion’s library. The library boasted three sets of casement windows. Moving even more slowly now, Felder peered into the closest casement. Utter blackness.
Retreating slightly, he pressed his back to the stone facade and peered around. There was nothing, not even the hush of a passing car, to break the stillness. This side of the mansion was at right angles to the street, hidden from view by a wall of ancient arborvitae planted along the inside edge of the wrought-iron fence. He could not be seen.
Nevertheless, he stood in the lee of the library windows for a long time. Was he really going to do this? As he’d sat in the gatehouse that evening, hour after hour, waiting for midnight, he’d told himself he wasn’t really planning anything wrong. He’d simply be appropriating the portfolio of a second-rate artist who nobody cared about, least of all Miss Wintour. In fact, he wouldn’t even be appropriating it. He was simply borrowing it. At the end of the day, he could just mail it back to her anonymously. No harm done…
But then he’d come back to reality. He was planning a burglary. Breaking and entering. That was a crime, a misdemeanor or perhaps even a felony, punishable by jail time. And then his thoughts went to Dukchuk—and jail seemed a preferable alternative to getting caught by him.
His feet were going numb from the cold and the lack of movement, and he shifted position. Was he really going to do this? Yes, he was—in another minute. Or two.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, checking its contents. A Maglite, a screwdriver, a scalpel, a tin of 3- In-One oil, a thin pair of leather gloves. He took another deep, shuddering breath; licked his lips; looked around yet again. Nothing. It was utterly black; he could barely make out the library windows against their heavy frames. The mansion was as silent as a tomb. Another moment of hesitation—then he plucked the gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and stepped up to the nearest window.
Pressing close to the casement, he took out his flashlight, and—shielding its beam with his glove—turned it on and examined the center post where the two vertical sections of the window met. Damn—the espagnolettes had been twisted into place, the hinged levers effectively locking this pair of windows. Flicking off the light and taking another look around, he moved on to the next casement and examined it. Again, the handles that opened the windows had been twisted into a horizontal position. He couldn’t get in without breaking the glass, reaching in, and turning the handle himself—unthinkable.
With a sensation that seemed half disappointment, half relief, he moved on to the last casement, hooded his light, and glanced in. The handle of the first matched window was securely in place. But the beam of his light revealed that its mate was slightly ajar, the espagnolette having broken off and been left unrepaired, the place where it had been fastened to the metal framing now just a hole.
