“Was she wounded?” Kermode asked. “She looked healthy enough to me.”
“She spent a couple of months at the U.S. military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. Her actual medical records are sealed, and the air force protects those files like the dickens.”
“And the girl, Swanson?”
“She’s a little hellion. Grew up in a trailer park in a dreadful little town in Kansas. Parents were low, lowworking-class, split up after she was born. Mother’s a raging alcoholic, father a ne’er-do-well, once accused of robbing a bank. She herself has a juvenile record as long as your arm. The only reason she got as far as she did is because this Pendergast fellow took her under his wing and financed her schooling. No doubt there’s a quid pro quo there. The problem is, as long as Pendergast is around she’ll be hard to get at.”
“The chief of police tells me he left for London last night.”
“That’s lucky news. You’d better act fast.”
“And do what, exactly?”
“You’re perfectly capable, my dear, of taking care of this problem before that FBI agent returns. I might just remind you what is at stake here. So don’t play games. Hit hard. And if you decide to hire out, only hire the best. Whatever you do, I don’t want to know about it.”
“What a coward you are.”
“Thank you. I’m quite willing to concede that you’re the one in this family with the high testosterone, dear cousin.”
Kermode pressed the SPEAKERPHONE button with an angry jab, ending the phone call.
Montebello had remained silent throughout the conversation, his attention seemingly focused on his well-manicured nails. Now, however, he looked up. “Leave this to me,” he said. “I know just the person for the job.”
36
Espelette, the upscale brasserie off the lobby of the Connaught Hotel, was a cream-and-white confection of tall windows and crisp linen tablecloths. The climatic change from Roaring Fork was most welcome. London had so far been blessed with a mild winter, and mellow afternoon sunlight flooded the gently curving space. Special Agent Pendergast, seated at a large table overlooking Mount Street, rose to his feet as Roger Kleefisch entered the restaurant. The figure was, Pendergast noted, a trifle stouter, his face seamed and leathery. Kleefisch had been practically bald even as a student at Oxford, so the shiny pate was no surprise. The man still walked with a brisk step, moving with his body thrust forward, nose cutting the air with the anxious curiosity of a bloodhound on a scent. It was these qualities — as much as the man’s credentials as a Baker Street Irregular — that had given Pendergast confidence in his choice of partner for this particular adventure.
“Pendergast!” Kleefisch said, extending his hand with a broad smile. “You look exactly the same. Well, almost the same.”
“My dear Kleefisch,” Pendergast replied, shaking the proffered hand. They had both fallen easily into the Oxbridge convention of referring to each other by their last names.
“Look at you: back at Oxford, I’d always assumed you’d been in mourning. But I see that was a misapprehension. Black suits you.” Kleefisch sat down. “Can you believe this weather? I don’t think Mayfair has ever looked so beautiful.”
“Indeed,” said Pendergast. “And I noted this morning, with no little satisfaction, that the temperature in Roaring Fork had dropped below zero.”
“How dreadful.” Kleefisch shivered.
A waiter approached the table, laid out menus before them, and withdrew.
“I’m so glad you were able to catch the morning flight,” Kleefisch said, rubbing his hands as he looked over the menu. “The ‘chic and shock’ afternoon tea here is especially delightful. And they serve the best Kir Royale in London.”
“It is good to be back in civilization. Roaring Fork, for all its money — or perhaps because of it — is a boorish, uncouth town.”
“You mentioned something about a fire.” The smile faded from Kleefisch’s face. “The arsonist you spoke of struck again?”
Pendergast nodded.
“Oh, dear…On a brighter note, I think you’ll be pleased with a discovery I’ve made. I’m hopeful your trip across the pond won’t prove entirely in vain.”
The waiter returned. Pendergast ordered a glass of Laurent-Perrier champagne and a ginger scone with clotted cream, and Kleefisch a variety of finger sandwiches. The Irregular watched the waiter move away, then reached into his fat lawyer’s briefcase, withdrew a slender book, and slid it across the table.
Pendergast picked it up. It was by Ellery Queen, and was titled Queen’s Quorum: A History of the Detective Crime Short Story As Revealed in the 106 Most Important Books Published in This Field Since 1845.
“ Queen’s Quorum,” Pendergast murmured, gazing over the cover. “I recall you mentioning Ellery Queen in our phone conversation.”
“You’ve heard of him, of course.”
“Yes. Them, to be more accurate.”
“Precisely. Two cousins, working under a pseudonym. Perhaps the preeminent anthologizers of detective stories. Not to mention being authors in their own right.” Kleefisch tapped the volume in Pendergast’s hands. “And this book is probably the most famous critical work on crime fiction — a collection, and study, of the greatest works in the genre. That’s a first edition, by the way. But here’s the odd thing: despite its title, Queen’s Quorumhas 107 entries — not 106. Have a look at this.” And taking the book back, he opened it, turned to the contents page, and indicated an entry with his finger:
74. Anthony Wynne — Sinner Go Secretly— 1927
75. Susan Glaspell — A Jury of Her Peers— 1927
76. Dorothy L. Sayers — Lord Peter Views the Body— 1928
77. G.D.H. & M. Cole — Superintendent Wilson’s Holiday— 1928
78. W. Somerset Maugham — Ashenden— 1928
78A. Arthur Conan Doyle — The Adventure of(?) — 1928 (?)
79. Percival Wilde — Rogues in Clover— 1929
“Do you see that?” Kleefisch said with something like triumph in his voice. “ Queen’s Quorumnumber seventy-eight A. Title uncertain. Date of composition uncertain. Even the existence uncertain: hence the A. And no entry in the main text — just a mention in the contents. But clearly, Queen had — most likely due to his preeminence in the field — heard enough about its rarity, secondhand, to believe it worth inclusion in his book. Or then again, maybe not. Because when the book was later revised in 1967, bringing the list up to one hundred twenty-five books, seventy-eight A was left out.”
“And you think this is our missing Holmes story.”
Kleefisch nodded.
Their tea arrived. “Uniquely, Conan Doyle has a prior entry in the book,” Kleefisch said, taking a bite of a smoked salmon and wasabi cream sandwich. “ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Queen’s Quorumnumber sixteen.”
“Then it would seem that the obvious next step should be to determine just what Ellery Queen knew about this Holmes story, and where he — they — learned it from.”
“Unfortunately, no. Believe me, the Irregulars have been down that path countless times. As you might imagine, Queen’s Quorumseventy-eight A is one of the seminal bugbears of our organization. A special title has been created and is waiting to be conferred on the member who tracks down that story. The two cousins have been dead for decades and left behind no shred of evidence regarding either why seventy-eight A was in the first edition of Queen’s Quorumor why it was later removed.”
Pendergast took a sip of champagne. “This is encouraging.”