Chapter 52
AH, MY DEAR LEO,” Dr. Magnus said to the contractor at his side—wearing a white jumpsuit and holding a notepad on an overstuffed metal clipboard box—“you’ve outdone yourself again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Magnus took a moment to bestow a look of approval on the contractor, which he could see had the desired effect. And the approval was, in fact, genuine: the man was the finest contractor one could find in Louisiana. Such individuals were rare as hen’s teeth, and they needed proper tending and care.
Magnus was wearing a straw boater, a jacket striped in fawn and ivory, and pleated linen pants.
He looked and felt the part of riverboat owner as he stepped into the saloon of the steamboat, followed by the contractor.
He paused and cast his eye around, admiring the beautiful way in which this old room had been brought back to life.
The portholes gleamed in their brass fittings; the built-in mahogany bookcases shone like gold, already filled with rare bindings.
The zinc bar was without blemish and period-perfect, framed by antique oaken scrollwork, laurel leaves, flying putti, and other classical motifs.
He gave a sigh of contentment as he strolled here and there, running his finger over the satinwood, inhaling the scent of varnish and tung oil.
He came to a halt in front of the porthole closest to the bow.
He stopped, stared, and then turned to the contractor.
The contractor’s gaze went from Magnus’s displeased face to what he had been looking at.
“Damn it to hell,” Leo muttered. “Those snakewood joints aren’t properly book-matched.”
Magnus gave a small smile. “I knew you would notice.”
“I’ll have it fixed right away, Dr. Magnus.”
“As I know you shall.”
“And I’ll give the subcontractor a piece of my mind.”
“Thank you. If you feel it appropriate, you might consider giving his fee a modest haircut.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Magnus privately felt the culprit should be given the sack, but he knew the best results would be gotten by leaving the hiring and firing to Leo.
He strolled on, stopping to gaze languidly up at the coffered ceiling, which like the rest of the cozy space was being restored in period authenticity to perfection.
“Leo,” he said, “I must say your people have done a truly excellent job, laying that purple heartwood over the cross members.” He hesitated just a moment before the final word.
The contractor followed Magnus’s gaze. “Thank you, sir. It’s difficult wood to work with—I’d be lying if I said otherwise—but my men put in 110 percent.”
“I’m sure they did,” Magnus mused, still staring at the ceiling. The ornamentation of the cross members was complete, but the niches between them were still bare—the African padauk wood Magnus had selected for them being very hard to come by and, as a result, late in arriving.
“I got a call on my way over here that the shipment of heavy veneer just arrived from the Port of Dar es Salaam,” Leo said, as if reading his mind. “My team will get it installed by midafternoon—perhaps even by lunchtime.”
“Thank you, Leo, that would be outstanding.”
It pleased Magnus that even though he had shown only the tiniest degree of disappointment at the porthole molding, Leo was frantic at the thought of disappointing him in even the smallest way.
This was, Magnus mused, how one got the best out of people: not by bullying and fear, but by instilling in them an overwhelming desire to please.
An example was how, without being told, his worker bees all seemed to intuit that they should begin work on the Magnus project at 7:00 AM.
And despite the clang and buzz of machinery at that early hour, nobody within earshot seemed interested in complaining.
Of course, Magnus paid generous overtime; he had a horror of being thought of as stingy.
There were even days when he strolled through the ship, handing one-hundred-dollar bills to everyone as he went along.
That, more than anything, brought him their love.
“You’re a good man,” he said.
Leo smiled as if he’d just been granted a boon, put on his paint-splattered cap, touched its visor deferentially, then turned and left. Magnus watched the man head aft down the central corridor of the stateroom deck.
Magnus settled into a banquette of polished red leather.
With the simultaneous activity of half a dozen contractors, all just as eager to please as Leo, it truly was remarkable how quickly and masterfully the saloon had been redone.
He could, of course, have handled things differently: fuming and fussing, nickel-and-diming his suppliers, yelling and threatening when things didn’t go right or mistakes were made—but that wasn’t the way he chose to use his gifts.
Much better to employ empathy, offering a luscious carrot while allowing only the hint of a stick to be visible in the background.
As a result, a few gentle suggestions was all it took to get fifty blue-collar workers slaving over one thing or another, as gratefully as if he’d been tossing them pearls.
Machiavelli, he was sure, would approve.
There had been a point years earlier when Magnus realized that—instead of going into politics, in which he would almost certainly have won high office—he would be happier limiting his ambitions.
The mistakes so many made involved overreach, greed, and not appreciating the diminishing returns of power.
Twice five miles of fertile ground, in the words of Coleridge, allowed him to be the toast of New Orleans, admired and loved by all, even as he flew under the radar that would expose a more grasping nature.
It didn’t matter, really, how big one’s pleasure dome was, as long as it was feathered to perfection…
and tenanted with people who, like innocent lambs, doted on his every word; flung themselves at him; worked for him; vouched for him; bowed to him; or fucked him—and always with an outpouring of gratitude.
At times like this, while enjoying the luxurious vessel, every whim of his quickly fulfilled, it amused him that not a single citizen of the Big Easy, from the bluebloods on Audubon Place to the struggling workers on Old Gentilly Road, realized how much he disdained their affection and servility.
Yet despite being so careful to limit the scope of his ambitions, Magnus had become aware of occasional periods—more frequent in recent years—when along with its perfect safety, that very scope also felt slightly stifling.
He found relief in the secret consolation known to no one but himself—and on a whim, by taking up a pet project when the opportunity presented itself.
This steamboat he’d purchased was just such an opportunity—a perfect one, at that.
It had never originally been in Magnus’s grand scheme of things.
But when he’d been invited to a party aboard one three years before, the germ of an idea had been planted.
The vessel he’d boarded, of course, would never have done—it was a cheap, gaudy casino, with a stationary paddle wheel only for show—but nevertheless it struck an unexpectedly deep chord in him.
New Orleans and steamboats went together like Echo and Narcissus.
What a shame so few of them survived, and fewer still in good operating condition.
A little research revealed that those still in existence were largely decomposing at wharves or serving as two-bit museums. But there were a few that had been maintained through at least the first half of the twentieth century, and it was on these he focused his attention.
Ultimately, he came across the Fant?me. Its keel had been laid in 1880 by a wealthy inventor eager to apply his new ideas to a commercial steamboat.
He’d made the hull of metal rather than wood—a rare and costly option—and he’d designed the stateroom and hurricane decks with an eye to both luxury and functionality.
Because he was an engineer by training, the usually shallow draft of riverboats—often as little as six feet—offended the man’s sense of efficient design.
He had no plans to take the Fant?me upriver, where it would compete with all the commercial traffic on the Mississippi—rather, he imagined selling one-week cruises along the coastline of the Gulf of Mexico, limited to wealthy and discriminating clients.
So he’d built the vessel with a draft of eighteen feet, so he could put the boilers where they belonged—deep in the bowels of the vessel—rather than in the usual site on the main deck, where their heat was an annoyance to passengers.
Just as important, this design allowed him to place the paddle wheel deeper in the water.
On most stern-wheelers, only about a quarter of the paddles were underwater and doing the work of propulsion at any given time—a ludicrous waste of energy.
By employing Charles Morgan’s new “feathering” design, over half could be submerged and rotating when the boat was under power.
The builder also placed metal bracers along the outer edges of each paddle, the sharp edges cutting into the water more cleanly, adding still more efficiency.
Unfortunately, the Fant?me’s innovations came about too late in the age of paddle steamers to make much of a splash.
And it turned out the wealthy were not particularly interested in cruising the Gulf of Mexico.
And so the builder went bankrupt and the Fant?me went through a series of owners—all of whom took good care of her.
She’d spent the last forty years tethered at a slip, but she was still structurally sound.
And now she would become Magnus’s home away from home—done up in the best of taste, completely reconfigured for one resident.
He’d been quick to paint the boat when it arrived at the Port of New Orleans, and it was now as elegant outside—shades of white and black, with red trimming—as it was becoming inside.
Magnus wanted a showpiece, not a tourist curiosity.
When completely restored, the Fant?me would be a perfect New Orleans touch to burnish his reputation with; a retreat from his home near campus, where it was impossible to avoid the unexpected call of a well-wisher…
and, most important, a seaworthy vessel where—when the desire for indulging his secret vices became overwhelming—he could simply slip anchor and head out into the Gulf of Mexico or down one of the innumerable side channels leading to it.
This way, any leftovers, so to speak, from the satisfaction of his needs could be safely and securely disposed of…
deep in the muck of a Mississippi tributary.
At that moment, his Nokia 2110—he’d just recently switched from cumbersome satphones to cutting-edge but still-buggy cell phones—sounded. He took it out, frowning with curiosity—very few people had this number.
“Yes?” he said, raising the antenna and bringing the phone to his ear.
“Dr. Magnus?”
He recognized the voice immediately. “Special Agent Pendergast. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Indeed. I was wondering if you would grant me the courtesy of an interview—at your convenience, of course.”
“An interview, you say?”
“At your home or office, as you prefer—the location is up to you.”
As usual, Pendergast—or at least, his voice—was neutral. This was a man who interested Magnus very much. “I take it this interview is voluntary? I have the right to decline?”
“Naturally.”
“Let me check my schedule.”
Magnus put down the phone. This was precisely the development he’d anticipated.
He checked his watch—just a few minutes past 8:00 AM. He picked up the phone again.
“I could make myself available later this afternoon—say, two o’clock? Would that be satisfactory?”
There was a pause on the line, during which Magnus imagined Pendergast recovering from his surprise at the acceptance. “It would be satisfactory, yes. At your office?”
“I don’t keep office hours on weekends. May I suggest my steamboat, where I’ll be spending the day? It’s still being retrofitted, but my quarters are furnished and comfortable. Just come down to the port—where Henderson Street ends near the wharves—and turn right. You can’t miss it. The Fant?me.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
“Not at all.” He ended the call with the press of a button. Then he made a series of calls of his own. Once complete, he looked at his watch again. Quarter after eight.
With a sigh of both satisfaction and anticipation, he settled into the banquette.