The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

into them with the tip of his knife. They were remarkably deep.
    Pendergast retreated to the door, then gave the room a final look over. There was nothing more to see. The general outlines of what had happened were now plain: the killer had arrived for an appointment around ten; he’d placed his wet umbrella in the corner and his wet raincoat over a chair; Ambrose had poured out two scotches from a bottle he had purchased for the occasion; the man had taken out a .22 Magnum, pressed it to Ambrose’s head, and fired a bullet into his brain. Next, he had searched the body and the room; then savagely and senselessly stabbed and cut up the corpse—and then, still apparently calm, had wiped down the room, taken the Agozyen, and left.
    Behavior well outside the bell curve of most murderers.
    The hotel wouldn’t discover the corpse until checkout time or later. Pendergast had plenty of time to get far away.
    He turned off the light, exited the room, and took the elevator to the lobby. He went to the desk and gave the bell a pair of sharp rings. After a long wait, the clerk came slouching out of the back, his hair mashed even further.
    “Problem?” he asked.
    “I’m a friend of Jordan Ambrose, registered in room 714.”
    The clerk scratched his skinny ribs through his shirt. “So?”
    “He had a visitor about ten this evening. Do you recall him?”
    “I’m not likely to forget
that
,” said the clerk. “Man came in around ten, said he had an appointment with the gentleman in 714.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Had a bloody patch over one eye, along with some bandages. Wore a cap and raincoat, it was tiddling down outside. Didn’t get a closer look and didn’t want to.”
    “Height?”
    “Oh, about average.”
    “Voice?”
    The man shrugged. “American, I think. Kind of high. Soft-spoken. Didn’t say much.”
    “When did he leave?”
    “Didn’t see him go. Was in the back doing paperwork.”
    “He didn’t ask you to call him a cab?”
    “No.”
    “Describe what he was wearing.”
    “Raincoat, like yours. Didn’t see what he had on his feet.”
    “Did he come by car or cab?”
    The clerk shrugged and scratched again.
    “Thank you,” Pendergast said. “I’ll be going out for a few hours. Call me a cab from your standard pool, please.”
    The clerk made a call. “Just buzz when you return,” he said over his shoulder, as he went back to his “paperwork.”
    Pendergast stood outside. In about five minutes, a cab came. He got in.
    “Where to?” the driver asked.
    Pendergast took out a hundred-pound note. “Nowhere yet. Can I ask you a few questions?”
    “You a copper?”
    “No. Private detective.”
    “A regular Sherlock, eh?” The cabbie turned, his red, bloodshot face lighting up with excitement and pleasure. He took the note. “Thanks.”
    “A man left here about a quarter past ten or half past ten this evening, most likely in one of your cabs. I need to locate the driver.”
    “Right.” He plucked his radio off the dash, spoke into it. The exchange went on for a few minutes, and then he pressed a button and handed the mike back to Pendergast. “Got your bloke on the line.”
    Pendergast took the mike. “You’re the man who picked up a fare in front of the Buckinghamshire Gardens Hotel this evening about ten-twenty?”
    “I’m your man,” came the raspy voice, in a heavy Cockney accent.
    “Where are you? Can I meet you?”
    “I’m driving back from Southampton on the M3.”
    “I see. Can you describe your fare for me?”
    “To tell the truth, guv, your man ’ad an eye that warn’t too lovely. A patch over it, oozing blood like, didn’t want to take too close a butcher’s, if you get my meaning.”
    “Was he carrying anything?”
    “A big, long cardboard box.”
    “His accent?”
    “American, southern or something.”
    “Could he have been a woman in disguise?”
    A raspy laugh followed. “With all the nancy boys around today, I suppose it’s