Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [44]
At last, Chausson stopped before a banded iron door. With a groan of iron he pushed it open and stepped into blackness, the humid air heavy with the smell of fungus and rot. He twisted an old-fashioned light switch clockwise, and a vast empty space came into view, punctuated by the scurry and squeak of retreating vermin. The floor was littered with old asbestos-clad piping and various bric-a-brac, furred with age, mounded over with mold. “This was the old boiler room,” he said as he picked his way through the rat droppings and detritus.
In the far corner sat several burst bundles of paper, damp, rodent-chewed, heavily foxed, and rotting with age. Rats had built a nest in one corner. “That’s all that remains of the sanatorium paperwork,” Chausson said, something of the old triumph creeping back into his voice. “I told you it was just scraps. Why it wasn’t thrown out years ago, I have no idea—except that nobody ever comes in here anymore.”
Pendergast knelt before the papers and, very carefully, began to go through them, turning each one over and examining it. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Chausson looked at his watch several times, but Pendergast was completely insensible to the man’s irritation. Finally, he rose, holding a thin sheath of papers. “May I borrow them?”
“Take them. Take the lot.”
He slipped them into a manila envelope. “Earlier, you mentioned that others had expressed interest in Audubon and a certain painting.”
Chausson nodded.
“Would that painting have been known as the Black Frame?”
Chausson nodded again.
“These others. Who were they and when did they come?”
“The first one came, let’s see, about fifteen years ago. Shortly after I became general manager. The other one came maybe a year afterward.”
“So I’m only the third to inquire,” Pendergast said. “From your tone, I’d assumed there were more. Tell me about the first one.”
Chausson sighed again. “He was an art dealer. Quite unsavory. In my business, you learn how to read a person from his manner, the things he says. This man almost scared me.” He paused. “He was interested in the painting Audubon allegedly did while he was here. Implied that he’d make it well worth my time. He grew very angry when I could tell him nothing.”
“Did he see the papers?” Pendergast asked.
“No. I didn’t know they existed at the time.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Yes. It was Blast. You don’t forget a name like that.”
“I see. And the second person?”
“It was a woman. Young, reddish-brown hair, thin. Very pretty. She was much more pleasant—and persuasive. Still, there wasn’t much more I could tell her than I told Blast. She looked through the papers.”
“Did she take any?”
“I wouldn’t let her; I thought they might be valuable. But now, I just want to get rid of them.”
Pendergast nodded slowly. “This young woman—do you recall her name?”
“No. It was funny—she never gave it. I remember thinking about that after she left.”
“Did she have an accent like mine?”
“No. She had a Yankee accent. Like the Kennedys.” The manager shuddered.
“I see. Thank you for your time.” Pendergast turned. “I’ll see my own way out.”
“Oh, no,” Chausson said quickly. “I’ll escort you to your car. I insist.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Chausson. I won’t say a word to your guests.” And—with a small bow, and an even smaller, rather sad smile—Pendergast strode quickly to the long tunnel, toward the outside world.
20
St. Francisville, Louisiana
D’AGOSTA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WHITEWASHED mansion, rising in airy formality from dead flower beds and bare-branched trees. The winter sky spat rain, puddles collecting on the blacktop. He sat in the rental car for a moment, listening to the last lousy lines of “Just You and I” on the radio, trying to overcome his annoyance at having been sent on what was hardly more than an errand. What the hell did he know about dead birds?
Finally, as the song faded away, he heaved himself from his seat, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out of the car. He climbed the steps of Oakley Plantation