She moved over to a sideboard — picking up a battered paperback as she did so — and placed the pistol upon it. As she walked, Constance noted that she appeared to be moving with a degree of pain that could not be concealed. Beyond the woman, Constance could see a series of adjoining rooms, sumptuously furnished, with recessed bookshelves, old tapestries, elaborate rosewood wainscoting, and crown molding. Here and there, folding byōbu screens of latticed rice paper were spread open, their elaborate shoji patterns acting as partitions between sections of the apartment. Along one wall of all the rooms ran a gallery of windows, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling; beyond was a balcony, barely visible in the gloom.
The woman turned back. “You must be Constance Greene,” she said.
Constance, surprised, said nothing.
“You’re staying in the Juliette Gordon Low suite with that FBI agent who’s causing such a stir.” The woman looked quizzically at Constance. “What — did you think that just because I’m ancient and enfeebled, I wouldn’t know what’s going on in my hotel?”
After a moment, Constance replied: “At this point, I think the conventional response would be: ‘I believe you have me at a disadvantage, ma’am.’”
The woman laughed, coming forward again. Although there were sofas and wing chairs arranged around the room immediately behind her, she did not offer Constance a seat. “And I imagine he’s sent you up here to find out, with your feminine wiles, what I know about the recent unpleasantness.”
Constance shook her head. “I was merely curious. I’m not here because of Mr. Ellerby.”
She’d mentioned the name intentionally, and she noticed that, upon hearing it, the old woman could not conceal a wince of sorrow. “I’m here because the rumors I heard have intrigued me.”
“Which rumors are those? There are so many. That I ride out of here at midnight on a broomstick? That I drink the blood of firstborn children? That I’m a direct descendant of Gilles de Rais?”
“No. That, like me, you prefer the company of fine books to that of other people.”
The old woman raised her eyebrows. “Indeed! An interesting habit in one so young. I give you credit for your courage in tiptoeing up here. No doubt you heard all the fearful rumors about me as well.” She paused. “And ἀργαλέος γὰρ Ὀλύμπιος ἀντιφέρεσθαι.”
Constance smiled mirthlessly. “If I am courageous, it’s due in large part to something we both share. συμφερτὴ δ' ἀρετὴ πέλει ἀνδρῶν καὶ μάλα λυγρῶν.”
For the first time, Miss Frost’s eyes registered surprise. “Forgive me,” she said after a moment. “Regina, iubes renovare dolorem.”
“Quisque suos patimur Manes,” Constance quoted in reply.
This was followed by a long silence. “If you know as much about sorrow as you know about dead languages,” Miss Frost said, “then you know it is best kept private.”
“The sorrow, yes,” Constance said. “But not necessarily the sufferer.”
“An interesting coil on sorrow, that.” Miss Frost went silent for a long moment. Then her gaze, which had gone distant, fixed again on Constance. “I’m so sorry I can’t offer you my hospitality,” she said. “But I find myself rather busy this evening.”
“Of course.” Constance bowed slightly, then turned to leave.
“Miss Greene?” came the voice from behind her.
Constance turned back.
“Perhaps you would care to join me another evening. For tea.”
“I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”
And as Constance quietly closed the door to Miss Frost’s apartments and made her way down the narrow staircase, she heard the melody of the Chopin nocturne begin to sound once more.
33
Coldmoon saw the early-morning glow of a café spilling onto the sidewalk and swerved toward it, not even bothering to ask his partner’s opinion. It was 6 AM and the café had apparently just opened.
“My dear Coldmoon—” began Pendergast.
“If I don’t get some coffee,” said Coldmoon loudly, “I’m going to die.”
“Very well,” said Pendergast. “I wouldn’t want another corpse on my hands.”
Inside, the little diner was air-conditioned, shiny and cheerful, smelling of coffee and bacon. It was a relief from the muggy night air. Coldmoon took a seat in one of the banquettes and Pendergast sat opposite him, gingerly, after inspecting the interior — and the banquette seat in particular — with a barely concealed expression of disdain. A waitress appeared immediately with plastic menus and a big pot of coffee.
“Fill ’er up, please,” said Coldmoon.
“I don’t suppose you have, ah, espresso...?” Pendergast asked.
“Sorry, sugar. Just this.” She held up the pot with a grin.
“Tea?”
“Black or green?”
“English breakfast, if you please. Milk and sugar.”
“Sure thing. Anything to eat, boys?”
“Bacon and eggs for me,” Coldmoon said, “over easy, toast, hash browns.”
“Hash browns?” the waitress said. “We’re known for our grits here. Buttered, salted, and sugared.”
“No,” Coldmoon said. “Hash browns. The greasier the better.”
“We don’t serve greasy food,” she said, offended.
“Okay, fine, whatever. But make it hash browns.”
She glared at him for a moment. Then she turned toward Pendergast — having picked up on his drawl — with a considerably softer expression. “And you, sugar?” she asked. “A nice plate of chicken and waffles?”
Pendergast closed his eyes and opened them. “Nothing for me, thank you very much.”
She went off and Coldmoon took a gulp of his coffee. It was, of course, not as richly burnt as he liked, but the bitter brew went down well and he quickly felt its revivifying effects.
“Sorry, Pendergast, but I can’t think straight if I haven’t had my coffee and breakfast.” He paused. “Chicken and waffles?”
“Keep your voice down — you’ve made a bad enough impression as it is.” Pendergast paused. “It’s a southern thing. If you have to ask, you won’t understand the explanation.”
Coldmoon shook his head. “Sounds toxic.”
“Then perhaps I shouldn’t tell you the waffles are slathered in butter, the fried chicken is doused with hot sauce, and then the entire concoction is drowned in maple syrup.”
Coldmoon shuddered.
Pendergast paused while the waitress brought his tea. “In any case, this interregnum will give us a chance to review the forensic examination of Mr. Ellerby’s day-trading hobby.”
“Already?”
“I spoke to the gentleman who analyzed the computer hard drives. The results are curious, to say the least.”
Coldmoon’s plate of food arrived in record time, and he tucked into the hash browns.
“In the three weeks before his death,” Pendergast said in the same casual voice, “Mr. Ellerby made two hundred million dollars.”
Coldmoon had just forked a mess of hash browns into his mouth and now he nearly choked. He chewed and chewed, finally getting the bolus of food down. “You timed that bombshell, I know you did,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“What could you mean?” said Pendergast.
“Two hundred million?” Coldmoon asked. “How?”
“Simple day trading. Exclusively limited to the thirty companies on the Dow Jones Industrial Index. All of it quite straightforward, apparently, with no sign of insider trading, manipulation, fraud, or any other illegality.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The forensic accountant, in whose competence I have faith, says in all his years of analyzing cooked books and unscrupulous trading, he’s never seen anything like it. The hotel manager’s trades, every single one, appeared to be totally legitimate and aboveboard. He never made a killing, just steady gains, one after the other, across thousands of trades of stocks and options.”