Blue Labyrinth

22

The third-floor suite of the Palm Springs Hilton was dimly lit, the curtains drawn across the picture windows overlooking the swimming pool and cocktail cabana, shimmering in the late-morning sun. In a far corner of the suite, Agent Pendergast was reclining in an armchair, a pot of tea on a table beside him. His legs were crossed at the ankles on a leather ottoman, and he was speaking into his cell phone.

“He’s being held in lieu of bail at the Indio jail,” he said. “There was no identification on his person, and his fingerprints aren’t in any database.”

“Did he say why he attacked you?” came the voice of Constance Greene.

“He’s been as silent as a Trappist monk.”

“You were both knocked out by some anesthetizing agent?”

“So it would seem.”

“To what purpose?”

“That is still a mystery. I’ve been to the doctor, I’m in perfect health — save for the injuries inflicted during the struggle. There’s no trace of any poison or ill effects. No needle marks or anything to indicate I was interfered with while unconscious.”

“The person who attacked you must have been in league with whoever administered the sedative. It seems strange he would have anesthetized his own associate.”

“The entire sequence of events is strange. I believe the man was duped as well. Until he talks, his motive remains obscure. There is one thing, however, that is quite clear. And it is much to my discredit.”

He paused.

“Yes?”

“All of this — the turquoise, the Golden Spider Mine, the Salton Fontainebleau, the ineffectually erased tire tracks, the map of the mine itself, and possibly the old man I spoke to — was a setup. It was carefully orchestrated to lure me into that particular animal handling room where that gas could be administered. That room was built years ago for the very purpose of administering anesthetic gas to dangerous animals.”

“So what’s to your discredit?”

“I thought I was one step ahead of them, when in reality they were always several steps ahead of me.”

“You say they. Do you really believe that Alban could have been involved, somehow?”

Pendergast did not answer at once, and then repeated, in a low voice, “You have Alban to thank for this. A rather unambiguous statement, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“This complex arrangement at the Salton Fontainebleau, over-engineered as if to compensate for any possible failure, has all the tricky hallmarks of something Alban would delight in setting up. And yet — it was his murder that set the trap in motion.”

“A strange kind of suicide?” asked Constance.

“I doubt it. Suicide is not Alban’s style.”

The line lapsed into silence before Constance spoke again. “Have you told D’Agosta?”

“I haven’t informed anybody, especially Lieutenant D’Agosta. He already knows more about Alban than is good for him. As for the NYPD in general, I have no faith that they can be of any assistance to me in this matter. If anything, I fear they would trod about, doing damage. I’ll go back to the Indio jail this afternoon to see if I can get anything out of this fellow.” A pause. “Constance, I’m terribly chagrined I fell into this trap to begin with.”

“He was your son. You weren’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s neither comfort nor excuse.” And with that, Pendergast ended the call, slipped the cell phone into a pocket of his suit jacket, and remained unmoving, a vague, thoughtful figure in a darkened room.