Blue Labyrinth

57

Far below Pendergast’s bedroom, Constance stood at one of the last of the long sub-basement rooms, breathing hard. A black nylon bag was slung over her shoulder. Traceries of cobwebs hung from her dress.

She had reached the end of Dr. Enoch’s cabinet. It was two thirty PM, and she’d spent hours trying to assemble the necessary compounds for the antidote. Putting the nylon bag down, she consulted her list again, although she knew perfectly well what was still missing. Chloroform and oil of chenopodium.

She had found a large carboy of chloroform, but it hadn’t been well sealed and, over the years, had evaporated. She had found no trace of chenopodium. Chloroform was available by prescription, but that would take too long and Constance did not expect that it would be easy to persuade Dr. Stone, upstairs, to write a scrip. But oil of chenopodium was the bigger problem, as it was no longer used in herbal preparations because of its toxic nature. If she couldn’t find it down here, she would be out of luck. There had to be some in the collections somewhere, as it had been a common ingredient in patent medicines.

But she had seen none.

She started back through the rooms, sweeping beneath the archways. She had skipped the few remaining ruined storage rooms on her outward exploration. Now she would inspect those, too. Over the months, she and Proctor had undertaken the painstaking cleaning process — tossing away the piles of broken glass, gingerly clearing away the crushed artifacts or spilled chemicals.

What if the bottles of oil of chenopodium had been among those broken and disposed of…?

She paused in the one room they had not yet restored. Toppled shelves lay strewn about, and millions of fragments of broken glass winked and glittered on the floor, which was stained with various colored substances and sticky, dried pools. A vile, moldy smell hung in the air here like a toxic miasma. But not everything was broken: many bottles lay on the floor intact, and some shelves still were upright or leaning, crowded with jars of numerous colors, each with a label written in Enoch Leng’s elegant hand.

She started going through the unbroken bottles on some shelves that had escaped the general destruction. The bottles rattled under her fingers as she sorted through them, one Latin name after another, an endless procession of compounds.

It was maddening. The cataloging system Dr. Enoch had used had all been in his own head — and after his death she had never been able to decipher it. She suspected it was random — and that the doctor had simply recorded the entire library of chemicals in his photographic memory.

Completing one shelf, she started on the next, and then the next. A bottle fell and shattered; she kicked the pieces aside. A stench rose up. She kept going, sorting faster and faster, more bottles dropping in her haste. She looked at her watch. Three o’clock.

With a hiss of irritation, she moved to the intact bottles lying about the floor — the ones that hadn’t broken. Stooping, her feet crunching over broken glass, she continued searching, plucking up a bottle, reading the label, tossing it aside. Here were many oils: calendula, borage seed, primrose, mullein, poke root… but no chenopodium. With sudden frustration she lashed out at one of the shelves she had already ransacked, sweeping all the bottles to the floor. They landed with a crashing and popping sound, and now a truly horrific stench rose up.

She stepped aside. Her loss of control was regrettable. Taking a series of deep breaths, she regained her presence of mind and began searching the last of the shelves. Still nothing.

And suddenly there it was: a big bottle labeled OIL OF CHENOPODIUM. Right in front of her.

Scooping up the bottle, she put it in her bag and continued searching for chloroform. Almost the next bottle she picked up turned out to be a small, well-sealed vial of that, too. She stuffed it into the bag, rose, and swept toward the stairs leading to the elevator.

She took this sudden reversal of luck to be a sign. But even as she reached the library, the bookshelves sliding back into place, Mrs. Trask was there, proffering her a phone.

“It’s the lieutenant,” she said.

“Tell him I’m not in.”

With a look of disapproval, Mrs. Trask continued holding out the telephone. “He’s most insistent.”

Constance took the phone and made an effort to be cordial. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I want you and Margo down here, on the double.”

“We’re rather occupied at the present time,” said Constance.

“I’ve got some vital information. There are some really, really bad people involved in this. You and Margo are going to get yourselves killed. I want to help.”

“You can’t help us,” said Constance.

“Why?”

“Because…” She went silent.

“Because you’re planning some illegal shit?”

No answer.

“Constance, get your ass down here now. Or so help me God I’ll come up there with a posse and bring you down myself.”