Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [67]
“Bullshit!” D’Agosta said, rising from his chair. He could contain himself no longer. “Helen spent years searching for the painting—just to look at it? No way. You’re lying.”
“So help me, it’s the truth,” Blast said. And he smiled his ferret-like smile.
“What happened next?” Pendergast asked.
“That was it. We went our separate ways. That was my one and only encounter with her. I never saw her again. And that is the God’s truth.”
“Never?” Pendergast asked.
“Never. And that’s all I know.”
“You know a great deal more,” said Pendergast, suddenly smiling. “But before you speak further, Mr. Blast, let me offer you something that you apparently don’t know—as a sign of trust.”
First a stick, now a carrot, D’Agosta thought. He wondered where Pendergast was going with this.
“I have proof that Audubon gave the painting to Torgensson,” said Pendergast.
Blast leaned forward, his face suddenly interested. “Proof, you say?”
“Yes.”
A long silence ensued. Blast sat back. “Well then, now I’m more convinced than ever that the painting is gone. Destroyed when his last residence burned down.”
“You mean, his estate outside Port Allen?” Pendergast asked. “I wasn’t aware there was a fire.”
Blast gave him a long look. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Mr. Pendergast. Port Allen was not Dr. Torgensson’s final residence.”
Pendergast was unable to conceal a look of surprise. “Indeed?”
“In the final years of his life, Torgensson fell into considerable financial embarrassment. He was being hounded by creditors: banks, local merchants, even the town for back taxes. Ultimately he was evicted from his Port Allen house. He moved into a shotgun shack by the river.”
“How do you know all this?” D’Agosta demanded.
In response, Blast stood up and walked out of the room. D’Agosta heard a door open, the rustling of drawers. A minute later he returned with a folder in one hand. He handed it to Pendergast. “Torgensson’s credit records. Take a look at the letter on top.”
Pendergast pulled a yellowed sheet of ledger paper, roughly torn along one edge, from the folder. It was a letter scrawled on Pinkerton Agency letterhead. He began to read. “ ‘He has it. The fellow has it. But we find ourselves unable to locate it. We’ve searched the shanty from basement to eaves. It’s as empty as the Port Allen house. There’s nothing left of value, and certainly no painting of Audubon’s.’ ”
Pendergast replaced the sheet, glanced through other documents, then closed the folder. “And you, ah, purloined this report so as to frustrate your competition, I presume.”
“No point in helping one’s enemies.” Blast retrieved the folder, placed it on the sofa beside him. “But in the end it was all moot.”
“And why is that?” Pendergast asked.
“Because a few months after he moved into the tenement, it was hit by lightning and burned down to its foundations—with Torgensson inside. If he hid the Black Frame elsewhere, the location is long forgotten. If he had it in the house somewhere, it burned up with everything else.” Blast shrugged. “And that’s when I finally gave up the search. No, Mr. Pendergast, I’m afraid the Black Frame no longer exists. I know: I wasted twenty years of my life proving it.”
* * *
“I don’t believe a word of it,” D’Agosta said as they rode the elevator to the lobby. “He’s just trying to make us believe Helen didn’t want the painting to erase his motive for doing her harm. He’s covering his ass, he doesn’t want us to suspect him of her murder—it’s as simple as that.”
Pendergast didn’t reply.
“The guy’s obviously smart, you’d think he could come up with something a little less lame,” D’Agosta went on. “They both wanted the painting and Helen was getting too close. Blast didn’t want anybody else taking his rightful inheritance. Open and shut. And then there’s the big-game connection, the ivory and fur smuggling. He’s got contacts in Africa, he could have used