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She watched as he briefly considered this. “You put me in an uncomfortable position. What happens if I refuse the, ah, price?”
“You’ll find the price to be within your means and, indeed, quite reasonable under the circumstances. If you refuse, you’ll never see me, or the Arcanum, again. There will, naturally, be no negotiation.”
“Why can’t you just tell me the price now? Then I could be sure of complying.”
“The matter is not open for further discussion. You have my terms and conditions. Now: do you agree, or not?”
“Today is Sunday,” he said after a moment. “To be followed by Christmas Eve, Christmas, and Boxing Day. My, ah, bank won’t be open for business again until December twenty-seventh. Assuming it is money you want?”
“Do not try my patience with more questions. I need your answer now.”
Once more, Leng went silent. Constance was fairly sure she knew what he was thinking. The public square she had suggested as a meeting place was mere blocks from the private banking house where Leng transacted all his financial business: this was, in fact, critical to her choice of December 27 as a diversion. She had been careful to say nothing about Leng’s laboratory or where he performed his work. Shottum’s Cabinet, and the tunnels beneath it where Mary was hidden somewhere, were equally close to that same public square—in theoppositedirection. Leng would assume she wanted money; hence, her frequent repetition of the word “price.” Or perhaps, he would speculate, she wanted something he was storing in a bank vault: some other prized possession of his. It was natural for him to speculate. But the last thing she’d want was one of his victims. That was her belief—and the gamble that had precipitated this exchange.
She’d misled Leng, thrown him off-balance, as much as she dared. She had no intention of giving him the actual Arcanum—she would never further his murderous project, in this universe or any other. A few select changes would nullify it, while still convincing him it was real. But in point of fact, this was academic: because in a few days, a week, perhaps a month, he would be dead by her hand.
“I agree to your proposition,” said Leng.
She reached out a hand for the notebook. After an insolent delay, Leng returned it. She placed it back in her reticule. Then she plucked a petit four from the tier and took a dainty bite, savoring its sweetness. “Just as you promised, Dr. Leng—sublime. And now, I really must be going. Thank you so much for tea.”
The fussy flower plumper, an under-waiter in the requisite black suit and white tie, finished freshening the displays and, his hamper filled with wilted blooms, turned to exit the elegant confines of Delmonico’s through the staff doors. He paused briefly in the doorway and glanced back, his silvery eyes fixating on the man and woman just now finishing their tea. Then he turned and vanished catlike through the door—headed for Longacre Square.
53
June 9
Friday
VINCENT D’AGOSTA WASonly too glad to get out of Borough Homicide and hail a cab uptown to Riverside Drive. Agent Coldmoon’s arrival had been a breath of fresh air, and he couldn’t deny a lot of progress had been made, but at the same time, it had sent the case spinning off in a totally new direction—a direction that didn’t seem to involve D’Agosta much except in keeping up with paperwork and maintaining the pretense of continuing an unsuccessful investigation.
As the cab left the West Side Highway and merged onto Riverside Drive, Pendergast’s mansion loomed up. “Nice crib!” the driver said as he pulled over. “Who lives here—some Colombian drug lord?”
“Yeah,” said D’Agosta, getting out. “And hisguardiashave itchy trigger fingers.”
Even before he could knock, the door was opened by Proctor, who stepped to one side as D’Agosta walked into the dim entryway.
“He’s waiting for you in the library, sir,” said Proctor. “You know the way.” He turned and disappeared down some dim passageway off the refectory. D’Agosta watched him go. The man would always remain a cipher—not unlike his boss. He headed toward the library. As he crossed the vast reception hall, he wondered what Pendergast wanted. Over the phone, the agent’s voice had retained little of its usual polished suavity.
Pendergast was in his usual chair. A carafe of green liquid stood on the side table next to him, along with a slotted silver spoon, a lighter, and the other paraphernalia of the man’s absinthe habit.
Pendergast glanced over. “Ah, Vincent, how good of you to come on such short notice. Forgive me if I don’t rise.”
“No worries, stay where you are.”
“May I offer you a—what is it—Budweiser Light? What I have to tell you may require mental fortification.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Mrs. Trask had materialized in the doorway, and now she disappeared once again to fetch his beer.
D’Agosta gave Pendergast a closer look. His face was still pale as death, of course, and the usual gleam in his eyes remained a hard, icy-blue flame. He wondered again what the hell was going on.
“My dear friend, before we go any further, I must ask you about this current case of yours. I understand it has drawn in my temporary FBI partner. How is it going?”
“Great,” said D’Agosta sarcastically. “Just great.”
“Has he not proved congenial?”
“Coldmoon’s a most congenial, stand-up guy, smart and no-nonsense and easy to work with.”