“Oh, I see.” This was a heartbreaking story indeed.
“I just wanted to see the place one last time, just once, before the contents go to wrack and ruin. And…in particular, there’s an old family photo album I remember paging through as a boy, put up in a cupboard, which I’d like to take — if that’s all right with you. I have nothing, nothing, of the family. We left everything behind when we went to America.”
Miss Pembroke listened to this tragic story, pity welling up in her heart. After a moment she cleared her throat. Pity was one thing, dutyquite another.
“As I’ve said, I’m very sorry,” she said. “But for all the reasons I’ve told you, it’s simply out of the question. And in any case all the contents belong to the Trust, even the photographs, which might hold historic interest.”
“But they’re just rotting away! It’s been over thirty years and nothing’s been done!” Pendergast’s voice had taken on a wheedling tone. “Just ten minutes inside? Five? Nobody would have to know besides you and me.”
This insinuation — that she might be privy to an underhanded scheme unbeknownst to the Trust — broke the spell. “That is out of the question. I am surprised you would make such an overture.”
“And that’s your final word?”
Miss Pembroke gave a curt nod.
“I see.” The man’s air changed. The forlorn expression, the faint tremor in the voice, vanished. He sat back in his chair and regarded her with quite a different expression than before. There was suddenly something in the expression — something Miss Pembroke could not quite put a finger on — that was ever so faintly alarming.
“This is of such importance to me,” said the man, “that I will go to unreasonable lengths to achieve it.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but my mind is made up,” she said with absolute firmness.
“I greatly fear that your recalcitrance leaves me no choice.” And, reaching into his pocket, the FBI agent pulled out a quire of papers and held them up.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“I have information here that might prove of interest to you.” The man’s tone of voice had changed, as well. “I understand your family used to reside at Chiddingham Place?”
“Not that it can be of any interest to you, but they still do.”
“Yes. On the fourth floor. The material I think you’ll find to be particularly interesting concerns your grandfather.” He placed the papers on her desk with a courtly motion. “I have here information— incontrovertibleinformation — that during the final months of his business, just before he went bankrupt, he borrowed against the value of the stocks of his own shareholders in a desperate attempt to keep the company alive. To do so, he not only committed serious financial fraud, but he also lied to the bank, claiming the securities as his own.” He paused. “His criminal actions left many of his shareholders penniless, among whom were a number of widows and pensioners who, subsequently, died in abject penury. I fear the story makes highly unpleasant reading.”
He paused.
“I’m sure, Ms. Pembroke, you would not wish the good name of your grandfather — and of the Pembroke family by extension — to be sullied.” The man paused to display his white teeth. “So wouldn’t it be in your best interests to give me temporary access to Covington Grange? A small thing. I think it would work out best for everyone — don’t you?”
It was that final, cold smile — those small, even, perfect teeth — that did it. Miss Dorothea Pembroke went rigid. Then, slowly, she rose from her chair. Just as slowly, she picked up the papers the man Pendergast had left on her desk. And then, with a disdainful motion, she tossed them at his feet.
“You have the effrontery to come into my office and attempt to blackmail me?” Her voice remained remarkably calm, surprising her. “I have never in my life been subjected to such appalling behavior. You, sir, are nothing more than a confidence man. I wouldn’t be surprised if that story you told me was as false as I suspect that badge is.”
“True or false, the information I have on your grandfather is rock-solid. Give me what I want or I hand it over to the police. Think of your family.”
“My duty is to my office and the truth. No less, no more. If you wish to destroy my family’s name, if you wish to drag us through the muck, if you wish to take what little financial security we have — so be it. I shall live with that. What I shall notlive with is a breach of my responsibility. And so I say to you, Mr. Pendergast—” she extended her arm, pointing a steady finger at the exit, her voice quiet yet unyielding— “leave this building at once, or I shall have you bodily ejected. Good day.”
Standing on the front steps of the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty, Agent Pendergast glanced around for a moment, the look of exasperation slowly giving away to a very different expression: admiration. True courage sometimes revealed itself in the most unlikely places. Few could have resisted such a thorough assault; Miss Pembroke, who was, after all, just doing her job, was one in a thousand. His thin lips twitched in a smile. Then he tossed the papers into a nearby trash can. And — as he descended the steps, heading for the station and the train back to London — he quoted under his breath: “‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always thewoman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex…’”
40
Mockey Jones was smashed again and glad of it. Jones often thought of himself in the third person, and the little voice in his head was telling him that here was Mockey Jones, titubating down East Main Street, feeling no pain (or cold), with five expensive martinis and an eighty-dollar steak in his gut, his loins recently exercised, with a wallet full of cash and credit cards, no job, no work, and no worries.
Mockey Jones was one of the one percenters — actually one of the one-tenth of one-tenth of one percenters — and, while he hadn’t actually earned a dime of his money, it didn’t matter because money was money and it was better to have it than not have it, and better to have a lot of it than only some. And Mockey Jones had a lot of it.
Mockey Jones was forty-nine and had left three wives and as many children scattered in his wake — he gave a little bow as he proceeded down the street in homage to them — but now he was unattached and totally irresponsible, with nothing to do but ski, eat, drink, screw, and yell at his investment advisors. Mockey Jones was very happy to live in Roaring Fork. It was his kind of town. People didn’t mind who you were or what you did as long as you were rich. And not just millionaire rich — that was bullshit. The country was lousy with cheap middle-class millionaires. Such people were despised in Roaring Fork. No — you had to be a billionaire, or at least a centimillionaire, to fit into the right circle of people. Jones was himself in the centi category, but while that was an embarrassment he had gotten used to, the two hundred million he had inherited from his jerk-off father — another bow to the memory — was adequate for his needs.
He stopped, looked around. Christ, he should have pissed back at the restaurant. This damn town had no public restrooms. And where the hell had he left his car? Didn’t matter — he wasn’t stupid enough to get behind the wheel in his condition. No way would there ever be the headline in the Roaring Fork Times: MOCKEY JONES ARRESTED FOR DUI. He would call one of the late-night drunk limo services, of which there were several, kept busy squiring home those like Mockey who had “dined too well.” He pulled out his cell phone, but it slipped out of his gloved hands and landed in a snowbank; with an extravagant curse he bent down, picked it up, brushed it off, and hit the appropriate speed dial. In a moment he had arranged for the ride. Those martinis back at Brierly’s Steak House had sure tasted good, and he was looking forward to another when he got home.