Fever Dream Page 11

  “I see from your accent you’re from this part of the country,” Chausson said as he took a seat behind the desk.

  “New Orleans,” Pendergast replied.

  “Ah.” Chausson rubbed his hands together. “But I believe you are a new guest?” He consulted a computer. “Indeed. Well, Mr. Pendergast, thank you for considering us for your holiday needs. And allow me to commend you on your exquisite taste: the Bayou Grand is the most luxurious resort in the entire Delta.”

  Pendergast inclined his head.

  “Now, over the phone you indicated you were interested in our Golf and Leisure Packages. We have two: the one-week Platinum Package, and the two-week Diamond Package. While the one-week packages begin at twelve thousand five hundred, I might suggest upgrading to the two-week because of the—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chausson?” Pendergast interrupted gently. “But if you’d allow me to interject for just a moment, I think I could save both of us valuable time.”

  The general manager paused, looking at Pendergast with an expectant smile.

  “It’s true I did express some interest in your golf packages. Please forgive my little deception.”

  Chausson looked blank. “Deception?”

  “Correct. I merely wished to gain your attention.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure how much plainer I can express myself, Mr. Chausson.”

  “Do you mean to say”—the blank look darkened—“that you have no intention of staying at the Bayou Grand?”

  “Alas, no. Golf is not my sport.”

  “That you deceived me so that you could… gain access to me?”

  “I see the light has finally dawned.”

  “In that case, Mr. Pendergast, we have no further business to discuss. Good day.”

  Pendergast examined his perfectly manicured fingernails a moment. “Actually, we do have business to discuss.”

  “Then you should have approached me directly, without subterfuge.”

  “Had I done that, I would almost certainly never have made it into your office.”

  Chausson reddened. “I have heard just about enough. I’m a very busy man. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have valid guests to attend to.”

  But Pendergast showed no signs of rising. Instead, with a sigh of something like regret, he reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small leather wallet, and flipped it open to reveal a gold shield.

  Chausson stared at it for a long moment. “FBI?”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “Has there been a crime?”

  “Yes.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on Chausson’s brow. “You aren’t going to… make an arrest at my hotel, are you?”

  “I had something else in mind.”

  Chausson looked hugely relieved. “Is this some kind of criminal matter?”

  “Not one related to the hotel.”

  “Do you have a warrant or subpoena?”

  “No.”

  Chausson seemed to regain much of his poise. “I’m afraid, Mr. Pendergast, that we shall have to consult our attorneys before we can respond to any request. Company policy. So sorry.”

  Pendergast put away the shield. “Such a pity.”

  Complacency settled over the general manager’s features. “My assistant will show you out.” He pressed a button. “Jonathan?”

  “Is it true, Mr. Chausson, that this hotel building was originally the mansion of a cotton baron?”

  “Yes, yes.” A slender young man entered. “Will you kindly show Mr. Pendergast out?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said.

  Pendergast made no effort to rise. “I wonder, Mr. Chausson—what do you think your guests would say if they were to learn that, in fact, this hotel used to be a sanatorium?”

  Chausson’s face abruptly shut down. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “A sanatorium for all kinds of nasty, highly communicable diseases. Cholera, tuberculosis, malaria, yellow fever—”

  “Jonathan?” Chausson said. “Mr. Pendergast won’t be leaving quite yet. Please close the door on your way out.”

  The young man retreated. Chausson turned on Pendergast, sitting forward, pink jowls quivering with indignation. “How dare you threaten me?”

  “Threaten? What an ugly word. ‘The truth shall make you free,’ Mr. Chausson. I’m offering to liberate your guests with the truth, not threaten them.”

  For a moment, Chausson remained motionless. Then—slowly—he sank back into his chair. A minute passed, then two. “What is it you want?” he asked in a low voice.

  “The sanatorium is the reason for my visit. I’m here to see any old files that might remain—in particular, those relating to a specific patient.”

  “And who might that patient be?”

  “John James Audubon.”

  The general manager’s forehead creased. And then he smacked his well-scrubbed hand on the desk in undisguised annoyance. “Not again!”

  Pendergast looked at Chausson in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Every time I think that wretched man is forgotten, somebody else comes along. And I suppose you’ll be asking about that painting, as well.”

  Pendergast sat in silence.

  “I’ll tell you what I told the others. John James Audubon was a patient here nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. The, er, health care facility closed down more than a century ago. Any records—and certainly any painting—are long gone.”

  “And that’s it?” Pendergast asked.

  Chausson nodded with finality. “And that’s it.”

  A look of sorrow came over Pendergast’s face. “A pity. Well, good day, Mr. Chausson.” And he rose from the chair.

  “Wait a minute.” The general manager also rose, in sudden alarm. “You’re not going to tell the guests…” His voice trailed off.

  Pendergast’s sorrowful look deepened. “As I said—a pity.”

  Chausson put out a restraining hand. “Hold on. Just hold on.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow. “There may be a few files left. Come with me.” And, fetching a deep, shuddering breath, he led the way out of the office.

  Pendergast followed the little man through an elegant restaurant, past a food preparation area, and into an immense kitchen. The marble and gilt quickly gave way to white tile and rubberized floor mats. On the far side of the kitchen, Chausson opened a metal door. Old iron stairs led down into a chilly, damp, poorly lit basement corridor that seemed to tunnel forever into the Louisiana earth, its walls and ceiling of crumbling plaster, the floor of pitted brick.

  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 House and entered the gallery: a porch with jalousie windows shut against the steady rain. Shoving his dripping umbrella into a stand, he shrugged off his raincoat, hung it on a rack, and entered the building.

  “You must be Dr. D’Agosta,” said a bright, bird-like woman, rising from her desk and bustling toward him on stubby legs, sensible shoes rapping the boards. “We don’t get many visitors this time of year. I’m Lola Marchant.” She stuck out her hand.

  D’Agosta took the hand and was given a surprisingly vigorous shake. The woman was all rouge and powder and lipstick, and she had to be at least sixty, stout and vigorous.

  “Shame on you, bringing this bad weather!” She broke into a warbling laugh. “Even so, we always welcome Audubon researchers. Mostly we get tourists.”

  D’Agosta followed her into a reception hall, done up in white-painted wood and massive beams. He began to regret the cover he had given her over the phone. So little did he know about Audubon or birds, he felt sure he’d be busted on even the most minimal exchange of information. Best thing to do was keep his mouth shut.

  “First things first!” Marchant went behind another desk and pushed an enormous logbook toward him. “Please sign your name and fill in the reason for your visit.”

  D’Agosta wrote down his name and the supposed reason.

  “Thank you!” she said. “Now, let’s get started. What, exactly, would you like to see?”

  D’Agosta cleared his throat. “I’m an ornithologist”—he got the word out perfectly—“and I’d like to see some of Audubon’s specimens.”

  “Wonderful! As you surely know, Audubon was only here for four months, working as a drawing master for Eliza Pirrie, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Pirrie, owners of the Oakley Plantation. After a tiff with Mrs. Pirrie he abruptly went back to New Orleans, taking with him all his specimens and drawings. But when we became a State Historic Site forty years ago, we were given a bequest of Audubon drawings, letters, and some of his actual bird specimens, which we’ve added to over the years—and now we have one of the finest Audubon collections in Louisiana!”

  She smiled brightly at this recital, her bosom heaving slightly from the effort.

  “Right,” mumbled D’Agosta, removing a steno notebook from his brown suit coat, hoping it added verisimilitude.

  “This way, Dr. D’Agosta, please.”

  Dr. D’Agosta. The lieutenant felt his apprehension increase.

  The woman pounded her way across the painted pine floors to a set of stairs. They ascended to the second floor and walked through a large series of spacious rooms, furnished in period furniture, finally arriving at a locked door, which—when opened—revealed a set of attic stairs, steep and narrow. D’Agosta followed Marchant to the top. It was an attic in name only, being spotlessly clean and well kept, smelling of fresh paint. Old oaken cabinets with rippled glass lined three of the walls, with more modern, closed cabinets at the far end. The light came from a series of dormers with frosted windows, which let in a cool white light.

  “We have about a hundred birds from Audubon’s original collection,” she said, walking briskly down the central corridor. “Unfortunately, Audubon was not much of a taxidermist. The specimens have been stabilized, of course. Here we are.”

  They stopped before a large, gray metal cabinet that looked almost like a safe. Marchant spun the center dial and turned the lever handle. With a sigh of air, the great door opened, revealing inner wooden cabinets with labels, stuck into brass label-holders, screwed to every drawer. A stench of mothballs washed over D’Agosta. Grasping one drawer, Marchant drew it out to display three rows of stuffed birds, yellowed tags around each claw, white cotton-wool poking out of their eyes.

  “Those tags are Audubon’s originals,” said Marchant. “I’ll handle the birds myself—please don’t touch them without my permission. Now!” She smiled. “Which ones would you like to see?”

  D’Agosta consulted his notebook. He had copied down some bird names from a website that listed all of Audubon’s original specimens and their locations. Now he trotted them out. “I’d like to start with the Louisiana Water Thrush.”

  “Excellent!” The drawer slid in and another was pulled out. “Do you want to examine it on the table or in the drawer?”

  “Drawer is fine.” D’Agosta pushed a loupe into his eye and studied the bird closely with many grunts and mutterings. It was a ragged-looking thing, the feathers askew or missing, stuffing coming out. D’Agosta made what he hoped was a show of concentration, pausing to jot unintelligible notes.

  He straightened. “Thank you. The American Goldfinch is the next on my list.”

  “Coming right up.”

  He made another show of examining the bird, squinting at it through the loupe, taking notes, talking to himself.

  “I hope you’re finding what you’re looking for,” said Marchant, with a leading tone in her voice.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.” This was already getting tiresome, and the smell of mothballs was making him sick.

  “Now—” He pretended to consult his notebook. “—I’ll look at the Carolina Parrot.”

  A sudden silence. D’Agosta was
surprised to see Marchant’s face reddening slightly. “I’m sorry, we don’t have that specimen.”

  He felt an additional wash of annoyance: they didn’t even have the specimen he’d come for. “But it’s in all the reference books as being here,” he said, more crossly than he intended. “In fact, it says you have two of them.”

  “We don’t have them anymore.”

  “Where are they?” he said, with open exasperation.

  There was a long silence. “I’m afraid they disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Lost?”

  “No, not lost. Stolen. Many years ago, when I was just an assistant. All that remain are a few feathers.”

  Suddenly D’Agosta was interested. His cop radar went off big-time. He knew, right away, that this wasn’t going to be a wild goose chase after all. “Was there an investigation?”

  “Yes, but it was perfunctory. It’s hard to get the police excited about two stolen birds, even if they are extinct.”

  “Do you have a copy of the old report?”

  “We keep very good files here.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  He found the woman looking at him curiously. “Excuse me, Dr. D’Agosta—but why? The birds have been gone for more than a dozen years.”

  D’Agosta thought fast. This changed the game. He made a quick decision, dipped into his pocket, and brought out his shield.

  “Oh, my.” She looked at him, her eyes widening. “You’re a policeman. Not an ornithologist.”

  D’Agosta put it away. “That’s right, I’m a lieutenant detective with NYPD homicide. Now be a dear and go get that file.”

  She nodded, hesitated. “What’s it about?”

  D’Agosta looked at her and noted a thrill in her eyes, a certain suppressed excitement. “Murder, of course,” he said with a smile.

  She nodded again, rose. A few minutes later she returned with a slender manila folder. D’Agosta opened it to find the most cursory of police reports, a single scribbled paragraph that told him nothing except that a routine check of the collection revealed the birds were missing. No sign of break-in, nothing else taken, no evidence collected at the scene, no fingerprints dusted, and no suspects named. The only useful thing was the time frame of the crime: it had to have occurred between September 1 and October 1, as the collection was inventoried once a month.