Chapter 40
THERE WAS NO JOY at the humanities library, either—the same course catalogs were missing.
“The university must’ve been embarrassed,” Chambers said, “if they really tossed away everything about that department.”
“I do not think it was the university.”
“Then who? What was so incriminating? I think it’s just messed-up shelving.”
Pendergast did not answer.
“So where are we going now? Back to the Rolls?” he asked hopefully. The day was almost half over.
“Not yet. There are a few more stops I’d like to make.”
Chambers glanced at his watch: ten thirty. “You’re the boss.” For exactly another six and a half hours, he thought.
The next stop turned out to be the Cassat-Watson Center, a hulking building of the usual weathered stone that held, among other things, the registrar’s office.
Chambers followed Pendergast into the main office, where he looked around for a moment—standing still as marble—then indicated a row of chairs where students were waiting their turn to register for classes.
“Shall we have a seat?” he asked.
“Hell no. We’re FBI, we can jump the line.”
“Humor me,” Pendergast said, taking out his pocket watch and checking it. “Let us wait.”
“Jesus.” Grumbling, Chambers sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair and watched as his partner tucked the antique away.
Pendergast and his damn affectations. “Want me to get you a pair of pince-nez to go with that thing?” Chambers asked sarcastically.
“With what?”
“That museum piece you tell time with. I’m surprised the Bureau even allows it.”
Pendergast eyed him for a moment. “If you are referring to my pocket watch, then—seeing as we have a moment—I’ll acquaint you with its pedigree. If it’s a ‘museum piece,’ that’s only because of rarity—Patek Philippe made fewer than two hundred pocket watch rattrapantes.”
“Two hundred what?”
“Split-second chronographs.” Pendergast took out the timepiece again, opened the case, and turned the face toward Chambers.
It was the first time he’d looked at it up close, and Chambers was shocked at how beautiful—and, especially, how complex—it was.
In addition to the main, hand-painted enamel dial, there were sub-dials, a total of five hands of varying sizes, along with what seemed a tiny porthole into the actual components of the watch that displayed the elegantly carved, fantastically detailed metal workings within.
“Don’t all those hands make you dizzy?” Chambers asked, trying very hard not to be impressed by what he’d always considered an anachronistic affectation.
“They do not. Most have specialized applications—horse racing, for example.” He pressed the pendant and the largest of the blued hands started ticking, like a stopwatch.
“Let’s say you’re timing two horses. You can record when the first passes the finish line…
and still time the other one.” He pressed a button on the case, and what Chambers had thought was a single moving hand now split into two—the top one remaining stationary, and the one previously hidden beneath it continuing to move—until, with another press of the button, Pendergast stopped it as well, simulating the finishing time of a second horse.
With a few more presses of the pendant, both hands returned to their original position.
“I admit, the timepiece is not new. It was assembled in 1916 and given to my great-grandfather by the Swiss government in return for services rendered. It has been passed on from son to son, ultimately to me. It is one of perhaps three such watches the Swiss had adjusted to not five, or even six, but seven positions—the last being used as an antishock safeguard for the others in the event of, ah, unexpected gravitational pressure.” He closed the lid gently and returned the watch to his jacket.
“Can that ridiculous piece of black rubber strapped to your wrist time two events simultaneously?”
Chambers glanced down at his Casio, all knobby edges, minuscule print, and tiny, slippery buttons. Of course it could. Probably. He’d just need to read the manual.
“You said your ancestor was given that in 1916 for services rendered?” he asked, changing the subject. “Services to Switzerland?”
“I said the watch was assembled—with great care, craftsmanship, and taste, with the dual complications of a foudroyante and a rattrapante included, in addition to the chronograph I just demonstrated for you—in 1916. He was not given it until after the Armistice.”
“You mean, that ended the First World War? Switzerland was neutral.”
Pendergast smiled grimly. “More blood and treasure was lost—more secretly—to keep things that way than you could ever imagine, Agent Chambers. During both world wars. Read up on Operation Tannenbaum when you have some spare time.”
As he sat back in his chair, Chambers thought of what Pendergast said: the watch—delicate as it looked—having been designed to withstand “unexpected gravitational pressure.” It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine such shock and pressure being the result of incoming bombs and trench warfare.
Then, abruptly, Pendergast jumped to his feet.
Taken by surprise, Chambers realized the man had not just been giving him a lecture in antique watches: all the time, he’d been observing the three registration workers as they handled the students coming through—waiting for a certain pink-faced, elderly woman at the far end of the counter to become free.
She looked at them with raised eyebrows as they approached. Chambers saw a title card pinned to her blouse that read LOUISE FERRAGAMO, HEAD REGISTRATION CLERK.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said. “Interested in some senior education courses?”
A wiseass. Chambers could only guess how many thousands of clueless students she’d had to deal with over the years.
“No, Miss Ferragamo,” said Pendergast in his buttery tone. “Not today, at least.”
“Good. Because personal-enrichment classes are offered by an establishment about a mile and a half down Calhoun Street.”
“Actually, we’re not interested in our own educations at all—sadly lacking though they may be. We’re interested in a graduate student who left Tulane in 1986. Parker Wickman.”
She stared at them. “Surely you know our records are strictly confidential? Or is one of you Wickman?”
“I’m afraid not. Our interest is professional.” He slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out his FBI shield. Not satisfied with looking at it, the woman actually took it.
Chambers did the same, but the woman paid no attention to his. She was peering closely at Pendergast’s gold badge, turning it over and over and looking as if she might bite it as proof of authenticity.
“You see,” Pendergast continued, “Mr. Wickman—he never finished his doctoral degree—has gotten himself into trouble. Rather scandalous trouble, I’m afraid.”
The woman’s jaunty attitude slipped somewhat. “Trouble, you say?”
Pendergast nodded a little sadly. “The kind that might reflect badly on Tulane.”
“And why are you coming to me about this?”
“We’d like to see the transcripts of his graduate years.”
“For an investigation.”
“Yes.”
“I believe that requires a warrant.”
“That is more or less true.” Pendergast added a little honey to the butter. “Naturally, we could get a court order. But that would likely become public. You see, the kind of trouble Mr. Wickman’s landed himself in is deeply unsavory—and would reflect badly, very badly, on Tulane itself.”
The woman pulled herself up. “Tulane is in no way responsible for the bad behavior of its students,” she said. “We’re a respectable institution, founded as a medical university one hundred and fifty years ago.”
Pendergast leaned forward and whispered something in her ear.
The woman blanched. “He did what? To what?”
Pendergast leaned forward and whispered again, more briefly this time.
The woman reached into a drawer beneath her side of the stand, pulled out a tissue, dabbed at her forehead and temples, then blew her nose. “Mercy sakes,” she murmured, pulling herself together.
“And that’s not only why we’re here today—but why I chose you in particular to speak with.
As the head clerk, Miss Ferragamo, you lived through Tulane’s recent history.
Not many people realize it, but it’s remarkable how much one can learn, being a registrar: listening to the idle chatter, tabulating the courses that students sign up for.
Seeing what grades, honors, and I presume disciplinary actions are meted out. Am I correct?”
She gave a pert nod.
“So you see, if you could provide us with copies of Mr. Wickman’s graduate transcripts, that will give us the information we need to maneuver him into a…
well, confession isn’t exactly the right word.
Let’s just say that when confronted by the information they contain—which in many cases will probably give the lie to his sworn testimony—we’ll be able to quickly wrap up this whole sordid mess, and he will no longer be in a position to do Tulane’s reputation any harm. We’ll make sure of that.”
“And the copies?”
“They will be sealed deep within the FBI’s evidence storage, where no one will see them. The alternative is stories in the newspaper, a public trial and conviction, bringing shame upon Tulane.”
The head clerk stood for a moment at her station, considering.
Then she walked away. Five minutes later, she came back with a white legal-size envelope, which she handed to Pendergast. He thanked her with a little bow, then turned and left the office so quickly that Chambers practically had to run to keep up.
“What’s the sudden hurry?” he panted. It had been a pretty masterful performance, but he was damned if he was going to puff up Pendergast’s ego more than it already was by admitting that.
“Miss Ferragamo is excellent at her job: a stickler for protocol, but also experienced enough to employ pragmatism when it comes to dealing with problems. However, she is also perspicacious. I think it prudent that we make ourselves scarce before she comes up with additional questions—or, worse, ponders things through a little more thoroughly and sees the holes in my, ah, little story.”