Now up ahead, Coldmoon made out the ancient façade of the Chandler House. It still looked a fright: surrounded by scaffolding, numerous windows boarded up, and the ruined upper floor covered in a superstructure of pipe and plastic. Most of the staff had returned once the building was fully stabilized, to help direct renovations.
As they came through the lobby doors, Coldmoon caught a glimpse of Chatham Square and the cluster of trailers and temporary Quonset huts he’d privately dubbed Fedville. A car was idling at the curb outside the lobby, an Uber sign posted inside the driver’s window.
Early, Coldmoon thought. Good omen.
As they mounted the wide main staircase, Pendergast turned to him. “I see you plan to leave for the airport immediately.”
Did nothing escape Pendergast’s notice? “Yes, well, I thought it’d be a good idea to get a jump on things.”
“Given past experience, that’s probably wise.”
They turned off at the second-floor landing, walked a few steps down the corridor, then stopped at the door to Pendergast’s suite. “Well, let’s find Constance and say our goodbyes,” Pendergast said. “We have a little something to give you.”
“Will it take long?”
“Just as much time as it takes to pass from my hand to yours.” Pendergast gave him a slim smile. “My precipitate friend, I dislike maudlin farewells as much as you do. It will be quick and painless.”
Coldmoon grunted in return. This was, after all, what he wanted. Still, he realized he’d been hoping for the opportunity to say no to a glass of cognac or a final heart-to-heart. Chagrin turned to curiosity as he wondered what token of thanks Pendergast was going to give him. Hopefully it would be something negotiable at a bank.
The suite had been spared damage, and sunlight flooded the spacious, orderly rooms. The doors were all open, and as he walked into the parlor Coldmoon could see the two studies with attached private bedrooms, their armoire doors thrown open and luggage set upon the beds in the universal language of travelers about to check out. Pendergast had wandered off briefly, but now he returned.
“This is curious,” Pendergast said. “Where is Constance?”
“Packing?” Coldmoon asked.
Pendergast shook his head. He headed to his own set of rooms, returning a moment later. He picked up the house phone.
“Maybe she’s taking a final turn around the city,” Coldmoon said. “For nostalgia’s sake.”
Pendergast ignored this sarcastic comment as he dialed. “She’s been rather out of sorts the last few days.”
A voice answered the phone — apparently, from the front desk — and Pendergast made some brief inquiries. Nobody had seen Constance Greene. If she’d left the hotel while Pendergast was gone, the doorman would know, as there was a system now in place for checking people in and out of the building.
“Most curious,” Pendergast said as he hung up. He began walking slowly back into Constance’s rooms, and Coldmoon followed.
“What are your plans?” Coldmoon asked.
“I’m taking Constance on vacation — a true vacation this time.” He paused in her study, looking around. Coldmoon did as well. Everything seemed as neat and orderly as he would have expected.
“I’ve arranged for a surprise,” Pendergast went on as he moved into the bedroom. “We’re going to Rome, where the Vatican has agreed to open its private libraries and catacombs. It should be...”
Outside, a city clock struck noon. And at the same moment, quite abruptly, Pendergast stopped midsentence.
Coldmoon glanced around the bedroom, wondering what could have caught the agent’s eye. The closet doors were open, revealing a rack of expensive and tasteful clothes. His gaze moved to a small writing desk by the bed, on which sat a black handbag and Constance’s cell phone.
“She can’t be far,” he said. “Her phone’s here.” He glanced toward the bed, where two slab-sided suitcases of monogrammed canvas lay, open and empty.
Coldmoon watched in surprise as Pendergast seized the lambskin bag and upended it on the table, dumping out the contents. He then began rooting through its zippered pockets.
“What’s going on—?” Coldmoon began.
“It isn’t here,” Pendergast murmured.
“What isn’t there?”
“Her stiletto.”
“So?”
“She is never without it. Never.”
“Even in the shower? I mean, not that you’d... look, her cell phone’s here, and she wouldn’t leave without that.”
Pendergast, ignoring him, began sweeping through racks of hanging clothes, pulling open drawers with his good arm.
Coldmoon glanced surreptitiously at his watch. This was crazy. Constance never strayed far from Pendergast. She was probably in the library, lost in a book.
As he tried to think of some reason to excuse himself, he paused again. Pendergast had now moved toward the bed and the open, empty suitcases that lay upon it. Reaching for the larger of the two, he felt around its lid, where the brass zipper met the fastidiously stitched leather edging. As if by magic, a small enameled gold box appeared from a hiding place in the lid of the suitcase. Pendergast flipped it open. Lined in plush purple velvet, with a number of tiny compartments, it was empty.
Pendergast pushed the suitcase aside and hobbled toward the door.
“Wait!” Coldmoon said. “Pendergast — Aloysius — what’s going on? I’ve got to leave!”
When Pendergast didn’t answer, he hurried after him. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“Her jewels,” Pendergast said over his shoulder.
“What about them?”
“They’re gone.”
“Maybe they were stolen,” Coldmoon said, but even as he spoke he knew this wasn’t the case; nobody could have guessed that suitcase lid was hiding anything.
“What’s so important about the jewelry?” Coldmoon asked.
“Not jewelry,” Pendergast said. “Jewels. They mean more to her than... The cell phone left behind... the missing gown...” He was moving faster now: out the door of the suite, down the corridor toward the stairs. He hurried down them.
Animated by a terrible premonition, Pendergast broke into a limping run as he crossed the lobby — dangerously fast for a man who had recently suffered such a serious injury. Hurrying after him, Coldmoon felt the shadow of that same premonition fall over him... especially when Pendergast reached the door to the basement, flung it open, and disappeared down the stairs. Forgetting his flight and the Uber waiting outside, Coldmoon followed, his heart accelerating as he realized what their destination would be.
Even as they were making their way through the shadowy basement, Coldmoon began to hear an erratic ticking noise. Acrid smoke hung in the air ahead of them, heavy with the stench of melted plastic and burnt wiring. It only grew thicker as they passed the final obstacles and ducked into the secret room that held the machine.
When they reached it, the room was stifling hot and too full of smoke to see much of anything. Coughing, Coldmoon did his best to fan away the fumes. As the air cleared, the outlines of the machine emerged, a sooty pall still drifting up from the vents in its sides. The two steel wands protruding from its front panels were scorched and steaming. The computer screen was blank. The ticking, he realized, was the sound of a superheated machine as it cooled off.
His eye fell to the control knob. It had been twisted to its farthest clockwise extent: past the first mark, past the second mark, past even the setting Ellerby had used to inadvertently summon the creature. Someone had redlined the machine: whether to sabotage it so it could no longer be used, or simply to fulfill its purpose one last time, Coldmoon could not guess. It had been pushed far past its limits and was now little more than a hulk.