"Pendergast?" D'Agosta said. "I thought you were out, and--"
He stopped when he saw the agent's face. It carried an expression of blankness that gave him pause. He took the adjoining seat, his good mood snuffed out. "What's going on?" he asked.
Then Pendergast took a slow breath. "I went to Torgensson's house, Vincent. There's no painting."
"No painting?"
"The house is now a funeral home. The interior was gutted--right down to the structural studs and beams--to make way for the new business. There's nothing. Nothing." Pendergast's lips tightened. "The trail simply ends."
"Well, what about the doctor? He must have moved someplace else; we can pick up the trail there."
Another pause, longer than before. "Dr. Arne Torgensson died in 1852. Destitute, driven mad by syphilis. But not before he'd sold off the contents of his house, piecemeal, to innumerable unknown buyers."
"If he sold the painting, there should be a record of it."
Pendergast fixed him with a baleful stare. "There areno records. He might have traded the painting to pay for coal. He might have torn it to shreds in his insanity. It might have outlived him and perished in the renovations. I've hit a brick wall."
And so he'd given up, D'Agosta thought. Come home, to sit in the dark parlor. In all the years he'd known Pendergast, he'd never seen the agent so low. And yet the facts didn't warrant this sort of despair.
"Helen was tracking the painting, too," D'Agosta said, rather more sharply than he intended. "You've been searching for it--what, a couple of days? She didn't give up for years."
Pendergast did not respond.
"All right, let's take another approach. Instead of tracking the painting, we'll track your wife. This last trip she took, where she was gone for two or three days? Maybe it had something to do with the Black Frame."
"Even if you're right," Pendergast said. "That trip is a dozen years in the past."
"We can always try," D'Agosta said. "And then we can pay a visit to Mr. John W. Blast, retired art dealer, of Sarasota."
The faintest spark of interest flickered in Pendergast's eyes.
D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "That's right. He's the other guy who was chasing for the Black Frame. You're wrong when you say we've hit a wall."
"She could have gone anywhere in those three days," Pendergast said.
"What the hell? You're just giving up?" D'Agosta stared at Pendergast. Then he turned, stuck his head out into the hall. "Maurice? Yo! Maurice!" Where was the man when you finally needed him?
For a moment, silence. Then, a faint banging in the far spaces of the mansion. A minute later, feet sounded on the back stairway. Maurice appeared around the bend of the corridor. "I beg your pardon?" he panted as he approached, his eyes wide.
"That trip of Helen's you mentioned last evening. When she left without warning, was gone for two nights?"
"Yes?" Maurice nodded.
"Isn't there anything more about it you can tell us? Gas station receipts, hotel bills?"
Maurice fell into a silent study, then said: "Nothing, sir."
"She didn't say anything at all after her return? Not a word?"
Maurice shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir."
Pendergast sat, utterly motionless, in his chair. A silent pall settled over the parlor.
"Come to think of it, there is one thing," Maurice said. "Although I don't think you'll find it of use."
D'Agosta pounced. "What was it?"
"Well..." The old servant hesitated. D'Agosta wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him.
"It's just that... I recollect now that she called me, sir. That first morning, from the road."
Pendergast slowly rose. "Go on, Maurice," he said quietly.
"It was getting on toward nine. I was having coffee in the morning room. The phone rang, and it was Mrs. Pendergast on the line. She'd left her AAA card in her office. She'd had a flat tire and needed the member number." Maurice glanced at Pendergast. "You recall she never could do anything with cars, sir."
"That's it?"
Maurice nodded. "I got the card and read her the number. She thanked me."
"Nothing else?" D'Agosta pressed. "Any background noise? Conversation, maybe?"
"It was so long ago, sir." Maurice thought hard. "I believe there were traffic noises. Perhaps a honk. She must have been calling from an outdoor phone booth."
For a moment, nobody spoke. D'Agosta felt hugely deflated.
"What about her voice?" Pendergast asked. "Did she sound tense or nervous?"
"No, sir. In fact, now I do recollect--she said it was lucky, her getting the flat where she did."
"Lucky?" Pendergast repeated. "Why?"
"Because she could have an egg cream while she waited."
There was a moment of stasis. And then Pendergast exploded into action. Ducking past D'Agosta and Maurice, he ran to the landing without a word and went tearing down the stairs.
D'Agosta followed. The central hallway was empty, but he could hear sounds from the library. Stepping into the room, he saw the agent feverishly searching the shelves, throwing books to the floor with abandon. He seized a volume, strode to a nearby table, cleared the surface with a violent sweep of his arm, and flipped through the pages. D'Agosta noticed the book was a Louisiana road atlas. A ruler and pencil appeared in Pendergast's hand and he hunched over the atlas, taking measurements and marking them with a pencil.
"There it is,"he whispered under his breath, stabbing a finger at the page. And without another word he raced out of the library.
D'Agosta followed the agent through the dining room, the kitchen, the larder, the butler's pantry, and the back kitchen, to the rear door of the plantation house. Pendergast took the back steps two at a time and charged through an expansive garden to a white-painted stable converted to a garage with half a dozen bays. He threw open the doors and disappeared into darkness.
D'Agosta followed. The vast, dim space smelled faintly of hay and motor oil. As his eyes adjusted, he made out three tarp-covered objects that could only be automobiles. Pendergast strode over to one and yanked off the tarp. Beneath lay a two-seat red convertible, low-slung and villainous. It gleamed in the indirect light of the converted barn.
"Wow." D'Agosta gave a whistle. "A vintage Porsche. What a beauty."
"A 1954 Porsche 550 Spyder. It was Helen's." Pendergast leapt in nimbly, felt under the mat for the key. As D'Agosta opened the door and got into the passenger seat, Pendergast found the key, fitted it to the ignition, turned. The engine came to life with an ear-shattering roar.
"Bless you, Maurice," Pendergast said over the growl. "You've kept it in top shape."
He let the car warm up for a few seconds, then eased it out of the barn. Once they were clear of the doors, he stomped on the accelerator. The vehicle shot forward, scattering a storm of gravel that peppered the outbuilding like so much buckshot. D'Agosta felt himself pressed into the seat like an astronaut on liftoff. As the car swept out of the driveway, D'Agosta could see Maurice's black-dressed form on the steps, watching them go.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Pendergast looked at him. The despair was gone, replaced by a hard glitter in his eye, faint but noticeable: the gleam of the hunt. "Thanks to you, Vincent, we've located the haystack," he replied. "Now let's see if we can find the needle."