Chapter 44
AS AGENT A. X. L. PENDERGAST stepped out of his Rolls-Royce in front of the Elms Mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans, he gave his tuxedo jacket a little tug to straighten the shawl collar, making it lie flat and sleek on his chest. A red carpet had been laid out leading up to the pillared portico, and the arriving guests were lined up and walking into a chorus of popping flashbulbs.
As he emerged from the Rolls, many of them turned and stared at him in curiosity.
Pendergast knew he cut a striking figure.
He intended to cut such a figure; it was part of his plan.
Several photographers from the local press converged on him, flashes going off. Of course they had no idea who he was; all they knew was he looked important—they would try to figure him out later.
Pendergast was not on the guest list: he was quite certain Dr. Dorion Magnus would not want an FBI agent at the reception and ceremony in which he was to receive Louisiana’s highest honor, the Huey P. Long Medal. And it seemed the guardians at the gate meant business.
At the short line that had formed to check invitations, Pendergast paused to turn and help an elderly lady directly behind him, whose corgi had gotten its leash tangled in her sleeve.
He then proceeded past the invitation checkers, showing them his with a distracted air.
He paused once again. The dowager behind him was fishing in her handbag for her own invitation.
“I believe you dropped this,” he said to her, handing her the invitation he’d relieved her of just a moment earlier.
Accepting her effusive thanks with a gracious bow, he entered the sumptuous foyer of the grand old mansion, glowing with stained glass, gilded sconces, and intricately carved dark oak paneling, and paused to take in the splendor of it.
It had been built in 1869 by Watson Van Benthuysen II, a wealthy wine and tobacco merchant, who had clearly spared no expense.
As he strolled contemplatively down the central hall, he glimpsed to his left a drawing room in white with gilded accents, featuring a grand marble fireplace.
Straight ahead, a dark oak staircase swept in a curve to a landing above.
To his right was a dining room in the grand style, with a green marble fireplace, gilded moldings, Persian rugs, and rich brocaded wall coverings.
Next to it was an extravagant room decorated in the high style of the Napoleonic Empire: neoclassical pillars, heavy mahogany furniture, bronze accents, and a magnificent onyx Sphinx.
He felt, deep down, the faintest of twinges.
The mansion unexpectedly reminded him of his childhood home, Rochenoire, not far away on Dauphine Street, which had burned in a fire set by a mob, taking both his parents with it.
He unexpectedly felt the haunting weight of his family history on his shoulders, his strange and unhappy upbringing, before recoiling from those feelings and focusing his mind on the matter at hand.
He stepped out the back portico and paused to survey the reception and dinner for Magnus, now in full swing, taking place in the mansion’s famous patio and garden.
His eye was drawn to an octagonal temple in the center of the patio with Corinthian columns, modeled after the ancient Athenian Tower of the Winds.
An orchestra was playing Mozart to one side, while on another side tables sufficient to seat several hundred had been set for a sit-down dinner.
A generous bar, heaped with flowers and attended by numerous bartenders, dominated the middle.
The temple, he noticed, had been hung with enormous garlands of fresh flowers.
This, he assumed, was where Magnus would receive his medal from the mayor of New Orleans.
He glanced at the time. Seven thirty. Dinner would be served at eight, and at eight forty-five the awards ceremony would begin. Magnus hadn’t arrived yet—he was apparently planning to stage a grand entrance once everyone had gathered.
There was time for a cocktail—or perhaps two.
He descended the marble stairs to the garden and headed toward the long, sumptuous bar.
He was aware that a number of eyes had turned to him, all wondering who he was.
Of course, there were some who would recognize the venerable Pendergast name, which among certain of the ancient, decaying society of New Orleans was now looked upon with abhorrence.
Amused by this thought, Pendergast stepped up to the bar—guests opening a lane for him.
“What may I get you, sir?” asked a young bartender, hurrying over.
“A Sazerac, if you please, strong, made with that absinthe I see on the top shelf—the Vieux Carré.”
“I’m so sorry sir, that’s the mayor’s private reserve.”
Pendergast’s silvery eyes remained on the young man’s face and he said nothing, waiting, as the seconds ticked by.
“But I’m sure he won’t mind,” the young man said.
“With all the big doings going on here, I mean,” he added, flushing as he removed the bottle and, preparing the cocktail, placed it in front of Pendergast. There was no tip jar—that would be déclassé—so Pendergast extracted a hundred-dollar bill and, with an almost invisible movement, slid it over the bar.
He took up the cocktail and sipped it. Most excellent. “I thank you,” he said.
Carrying the drink, he took a turn around the gathering.
He recognized a few relics from the old New Orleans families: various decrepit dowagers draped in diamonds and pearls, clinging to desiccated old men sporting black tie or wearing military uniforms emblazoned with medals.
The wearing of uniforms seemed to be coming back into vogue these days, Pendergast noticed with approval.
He wondered, idly, how many of them were members of the Round Table, the most prestigious and secretive gentleman’s club in the city.
His own father, of course, had never received an invitation—not with the Pendergasts’ history.
More curious eyes turned his way. Pendergast scanned the crowd again and found what he was looking for. He strolled over. “Why, Madame Pontalba, how lovely to see you!” He held out his white-gloved hand.
“Oh, yes, delightful to see you too, Mr.—” the large dowager said with a faint hesitation, which Pendergast immediately filled.
“Pendergast,” he said. “Aloysius Pendergast.” And he bowed, bringing her silk-gloved hand to within two inches of his lips.
“Mr. Pendergast, how delightful.”
“What a happy occasion,” said Pendergast, taking a goodly sip of his cocktail. “Dr. Magnus has done so much for the community—so much.”
“Oh yes. Have you seen the riverboat? I can’t wait until the renovations are complete—I’m dying for the invitation to its christening.”
The dowager seemed not only ignorant of the Pendergast family but quite taken with him, as well. This was as he had hoped. But Pendergast knew nothing of a riverboat. “Ah! Please tell me about it,” he asked, deeply interested eyes gazing into hers.
“Well, it’s called the Fant?me—a larger cousin, they say, of the one mentioned by Mark Twain in Life on the Mississippi.
He’s restoring it to absolute perfection.
It’s a tremendous undertaking, and I can’t begin to imagine the expense, but when it’s complete it will be one of the treasures of the city. ”
“Madame, if you don’t mind my asking, how is it that you’re so sure you will receive what must be a coveted invitation to its ceremonial launch?”
She waved a gloved hand deprecatingly. “You know, the old family thing and all.”
Pendergast did know. Pontalba was one of the oldest and most distinguished names in New Orleans—descendants of the Baroness de Pontalba, who back in the 1840s funded the construction of several now-historic buildings.
“You may find this strange,” said Pendergast, “but I’d not heard of Dr. Magnus until just a week ago. I’ve been away, you see, and only recently returned.”
“Oh yes—he’s a quiet, modest fellow, doesn’t like the limelight,” said the woman.
“But so charming and generous. And handsome. Doing such good work at the university and the hospital. They say he’s one of the top pharmaceutical biologists in the country—and, you know, those pharmacological patents of his practically mint money.
” She tittered. “He oh-so-quietly gave a million dollars to Tulane University Hospital just last year. He’s a major philanthropist—and still short of forty. And single. Quite the catch!”
Pendergast followed her glance to see Magnus himself striding in, wearing an understated tux.
He was in fact a remarkably handsome man, his yellow hair curling about his face, deep-green and almost feminine eyes, a jaw cut as if from granite, and a high smooth forehead. His manner was charming and animated.
“There he is now!” said Madame Pontalba, clasping her hands together. “The man of the hour.”
A hush fell over the crowd, then a susurrus of applause rose as Magnus paused at the top of the stairs, flanked by a small entourage.
He smiled and waved, then descended, and walked through, working the crowd, shaking hands, dropping bons mots, laughing and nodding, kissing ladies on both cheeks.
He was trailed by the mayor, who was taking the opportunity to do his own glad-handing, and on the other side of him was Dr. Telligren, gray-haired and distinguished, wearing not a tux but a Marine Corps uniform sporting silver eagles with spread wings—he’d been a full-bird colonel—and a rack of campaign decorations.
From a quick scan of the breast bar, Pendergast could see the man had served in Vietnam as a medical officer.
This was a side of Dr. Telligren that pleaded for further exploration.
He turned to Madame Pontalba. “And I see he’s with Dr. Telligren.”
“Oh yes. They’re the greatest of friends at the university hospital.”
“Of course,” said Pendergast. He then bowed. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, madame.” Having gotten what he wanted, he excused himself and drifted away. His drink was almost finished and he would not mind another. He went over to the bar, which now had a short line.
“Lovely evening,” he said to an attractive woman also waiting for a cocktail.
“It could hardly be lovelier,” she said, her eyes turning to him and lingering.
“May I get you a drink?”
“Thank you. Chablis.”
Pendergast ordered her a Chablis and another Sazerac for himself. He handed the wine to her. “Pendergast,” he said, extending his hand.
“Olivia,” she said, taking it. “Last names only?”
“My first name is not worth mentioning,” he said.
“Well, Pendergast,” said the woman, “what brings you here?”
Pendergast moved closer to her and let his FBI badge show for just a moment. Her eyes widened. “I’m an FBI agent,” he said. “Investigating a murder. I could use the temporary assistance of a clever, self-possessed woman.”
She took a step back but was obviously intrigued nevertheless. He’d pegged her as a woman who liked an adventure, and he was about to give her a little one.
“You don’t mean me, do you?”
“I most certainly do.”
She smiled jauntily. “What kind of assistance?”
“I need to get close enough to Dr. Magnus to exchange a few words with him unheard—but, as you can see, he’s surrounded by his people.”
“What can I do about it?”
“He’s coming to the bar now. Make sure he’s looking your way, and in the process of taking off your gloves, drop one.”
“And?”
“He’ll come rushing over to pick it up for you—and that will give me a moment to speak to him without the others overhearing.”
“Well.” She looked at him slyly. “Tell me, Mr. FBI agent: is he a crook?”
“When is a New Orleanian being awarded the Huey P. Long Medal not a crook, my dear Olivia?”
As Magnus and his entourage made for the bar, Olivia accomplished her task with skill, catching the man’s eye and then dropping her glove in a slow movement that seemed possibly deliberate, even enticing.
As expected, Magnus came rushing over, leaving his entourage, then bent down and scooped it up, offering it back to her.
Giggling, she reached out to take it, and he bowed and kissed her hand.
Pendergast, who had lingered next to the woman with his back turned, now swung around.
“Ah, Dr. Magnus,” he said in a low voice, “I want you to know that you are in grave danger.”
“Danger? How?”
“Because I see through you—and your charade.”
Magnus did not react as Pendergast expected.
Instead, the man gave him a smile almost as if he’d anticipated the comment, then gently took his arm.
As his entourage caught up, he turned to them with a smile.
“Excuse us for a moment—my dear friend Pendergast and I have a small private matter to discuss.”
This was hardly the guilty reaction Pendergast had anticipated. Nevertheless, he went along with it, as Magnus led him to a quiet spot beside a potted palm. Still smiling cordially, he bent close to Pendergast’s ear. “And I see through you, too, Aloysius.”
“And what do you see?” Pendergast asked.
“I see the Pendergasts of Dauphine Street: a strange, sad family. Parents burned to death by a mob, great-aunt a poisoner of her own children, grandfather killer of thousands with his quack medicines.” He leaned closer and said in harsh whisper: “And I see a dear brother, well on his way to becoming a monstrous criminal.” He straightened up with a laugh, as if they’d just shared a private joke, and concluded sotto voce: “Indeed, Aloysius—I see through you as one sees through a thin pane of glass… And I’m carrying a rock. ”