The Medusa Amulet (3 page)

As he talked, he became not only more relaxed, but positively excited by the opportunity to share some of the discoveries he had made about the methodology that Dante had employed in his use of natural imagery. The poet often included animals in the text, but he also made regular use of the sun (a planet, according to the Ptolemaic system of the time) and the stars, the sea, the leaves of the trees, snow. Though the hall was dimly lighted, David did his best to maintain some eye contact with the audience as he elucidated these points, and midway through he noted a woman all in black, with a small black hat and a veil across her face, slip into the room and take a seat close to the door. The veil was what struck him. Who wore such things anymore, even in mourning? For a second he lost the thread of what he was saying and had to glance down at his notes to remember where he was.

“The meaning that Dante attaches to these natural elements changes, as we move from the
Inferno
to the
Purgatorio
to the
Paradiso.
” He continued with his thesis, but his eye was drawn periodically to the mysterious woman in back, and for some reason it popped into his head that she might be the donor of the book, there to see what had become of it. As the images passed by on the screen to his right, he found himself explicating them as if he were talking chiefly to the woman concealed behind the veil. She remained completely still, her hands folded in her lap, her legs in black stockings, and it was all but impossible for him to figure out anything about
her … most notably her age. There were moments he felt she was in her twenties, dressed up as if for a grim costume party, and other times when he suspected she was a more mature woman, perched primly, almost precariously, on the edge of the chair.

By the time he had shown his last illustration—a whirlwind of leaves, containing the Cumaean Sybil’s prophecies—and wrapped up the lecture with Dante’s closing invocation to “the Love that moves the sun and the other stars”—he was determined to meet her. But when the lights came up in the exhibit hall, a bunch of hands went up with questions.

“How will you go about determining the illustrator of this volume? Have you got any leads already?”

“Was Florence as prominent a publishing center as Pisa or Venice?”

And, from an eager academic in back, “What would you say about Ruskin’s comment, concerning the flux of consciousness essential to the ‘pathetic fallacy,’ as it pertains to the
Comedy
?”

David did his best to field the queries, but he also knew that he’d been talking for over an hour, and that most of the audience would be eager to get up, stretch, and have another drink. In the lobby area just outside the exhibit hall, he could see waiters in black tie balancing silver trays of champagne glasses. The smell of hot hors d’oeuvres wafted in on the central heating.

When he finally stepped down from the dais, several members of the audience shook his hand, a couple of the older gentlemen clapped him on the back, and Dr. Armbruster beamed at him. He knew she’d been hoping he would hit one out of the park, and he sort of felt that he had. Apart from his initial anxiety, he hadn’t missed a step.

But what he really wanted to do was find the lady in black, who had apparently escaped the exhibit hall already. In the lobby, long trestle tables had been set up with damask tablecloths and silver serving dishes. The profs were already lined up elbow patch to elbow patch, their little plates piled high.

But the lady in black was nowhere to be seen.

“David,” Dr. Armbruster was saying, as she took him by the elbow and steered him toward an elegant, older couple holding their champagne flutes, “I don’t know if you’ve met the Schillingers. Joseph is also an Amherst man.”

“But way before your time,” Schillinger said, shaking his hand with a firm grasp. He looked like a tall and ancient crane, with a beaked nose and white hair. “I quite enjoyed your talk.”

“Thanks.”

“And I would love to be kept apprised of your work on the book. I lived in Europe for quite a while, and—”

“Joseph is being modest,” Dr. Armbruster broke in. “He was our ambassador to Liechtenstein.”

“And I started my own collection of Old Masters drawings. Still, I never saw anything quite like these. The renderings of the rings of Hell are especially macabre, to say the very least.”

David never failed to be impressed at the credentials and the backgrounds of the people he met at the Newberry functions, and he did his best to stay focused and courteous to the Schillingers. The former ambassador even pressed his card on him and offered to assist his research in any way he could.

“When it comes to getting access to private archives and such,” he said, “I still have some strings I can pull on the other side of the pond.”

But the whole time they were talking, David kept one eye out for the lady in black; and when he could finally break away, he found Dr. Armbruster again and asked if she knew where she might have gone, or who it might have been.

“You say she came in midway through your talk?”

“Yes, and sat all the way in back.”

“Oh, then I wouldn’t have seen her. I was off supervising the food.”

A waiter passed by, carrying a tray with one lone cheese puff left.

“I wonder if we’ll have enough,” she said, before excusing herself. “Those professors eat like locusts.”

David shook a few more hands, fielded a few more casual questions, then, as the last guests filtered out, he slipped up a back staircase to his office—a cubbyhole crammed with books and papers—and hung his sport coat and tie on the back of the door. He kept them there for those rare occasions, like the lecture, when he had to dress up. Then he pulled on his coat and gloves and went out by a side door.

Ex-ambassador Schillinger and his wife were just getting into the back of a black BMW sedan as a sturdy, bald chauffeur held the door. A couple of professors, deep in conversation, were still huddled by the stairs. The last thing David wanted was to have them spot him and come up with some other arcane question, so he put up the hood of his coat and set off across the park.

Long known as Bughouse Square because of its appeal to soapbox orators, the park was understandably deserted just then. The late-afternoon sky was a pewter gray and the wind was nearly blowing the big fake candy canes off the lampposts. Christmas was just around the corner, and David had yet to do his shopping. Not that he had much to do. There was his sister, her husband, his niece, and that was about it. His girlfriend, Linda, had moved out a month ago. At least that was one less present to worry about.

Crossing Oak Street, he walked north to Division, and as he approached the El station, he heard a train screeching to a stop overhead. He raced up the stairs three at a time—he’d been on the track team in high school and could still keep up a pretty good pace—and made it through the sliding doors just in the nick of time. He flopped onto the bench feeling victorious, then, as he unzipped his coat and waited for his glasses to defog, wondered why he’d been in such a hurry. It was a Saturday, and he had no plans. As the train picked up speed, and the conductor announced the next stop over the garbled intercom, he reminded himself to put a Post-it note on his computer on Monday morning, reading: “Get a life.”

Chapter 2

Even for someone as jaded as Phillip Palliser, it had been a strange day so far.

A car had been sent to his hotel, and the driver—a Frenchman named Emil Rigaud, who looked as if he had spent more than a few years in military service of some kind—had whisked them off to a private airfield just outside Paris, where they had boarded a helicopter and flown south toward the Loire Valley. Palliser, a man who spent a good part of his life flying around the globe, still harbored some reservations about helicopter flight. The din in the cabin, even with the headphones on, was excruciating, and as part of the floor was transparent, he could not help but see the landscape rushing by below his feet. First, the outlying suburbs of the city—a hideous jumble of concrete blocks and crowded highways, much like the wastelands surrounding most metropolitan centers—blissfully followed by snowy farms and fields, then, an hour later, deep, dark forests and valleys.

As they had passed above the town of Chartres, Rigaud had leaned in, and, over his headset, said, “That’s the cathedral, right under us. I told the pilot to ring the bells.”

And when Palliser looked down, it did indeed seem as if the chopper’s rails were about to clip the cathedral’s twin spires. He felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach and closed his eyes. When he opened
them again a few seconds later, Rigaud was looking at him fixedly, with a smile on his face.

The man was a bit of a sadist, Palliser thought.

“Not much farther,” Rigaud said over a burst of static. But his tone conveyed less comfort than regret … at the ordeal coming to an end.

Palliser looked away and concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths. For nearly ten years, ever since leaving the International Art Recovery League, he had undertaken private commissions such as the one he was on now. But none was going to be as lucrative as this. If he could find what his mysterious patron had asked him to find, he could finally take that retirement he dreamt of and even, perhaps, begin his own art collection in earnest. He was tired of being the expert instead of the owner, the detective hired to track down the valuable objets d’art to which other people—most of them philistines—held some spurious claim. It was time to set up shop for himself.

As they approached the steep, rugged walls of a cliff rising from the river, Rigaud’s voice again crackled in his headphones.

“The Chateau Perdu is due south. You will see it soon.”

In all his years, and all his travels, Palliser had never heard of this Chateau Perdu—or lost castle—but he had been sufficiently intrigued by the note left at his hotel to undertake this journey.

“I understand that we share certain interests,” the note had said. “I have long been a collector of art, from all over the globe, and would be delighted to have someone with your discerning eye appreciate, and perhaps appraise, some of it.” Palliser picked up the scent of a commission down the road. But it was the conclusion that sealed the deal. “Perhaps I can even help you on your present mission. After all, even Perseus did not prevail over the Medusa without the help of powerful friends.”

It was that last comment—about the Medusa—that had piqued his interest. The man who had signed the note—Monsieur Auguste
Linz—must know something about the assignment Palliser was on. How he’d found out was anyone’s guess, as even Palliser had never met his actual employer on this job. But if this Linz actually knew something about the whereabouts of
La Medusa
, the ancient artifact that he was seeking, then enduring the helicopter ride would have been well worth the trouble.

Rigaud’s arm lifted, straight from the shoulder, and he pointed past the pilot’s head at a ridgeline where towering old oaks gave way to a grim chateau with pepperpot towers—five of them, Palliser counted—rising from its walls. The day was fading, and here and there lights had come on behind the slitted windows.

A dry moat, like an open grave, surrounded it on three sides; the fourth was just a sheer drop-off to the river far below. But even from this height and distance, Palliser could see that the chateau far predated most of its more famous counterparts. This was not some frilly cupcake, designed for a royal mistress, but a fortress built by a knight back from the Crusades or a duke with his eye on a crown.

The chopper skimmed above the tops of the trees, their branches nearly grazing the bubble beneath Palliser’s feet, before banking slowly and wobbling down onto a sere, frost-covered lawn. A few dead leaves scattered in the wash from the propellers. Palliser removed his headphones, unhooked his shoulder harness, and after Rigaud had climbed out of the hatch, followed him, head bent low, as the blades stopped whirring and the engine died down.

His legs, he discovered, were a tad unsteady.

Rigaud, all in black and his dyed blond hair shining in the late-day sun, strode off, without another word, toward the main gate of the chateau, leaving Palliser, in his cashmere overcoat and his fine Italian loafers, to stumble after him, a leather briefcase holding the facsimiles from Chicago clutched in one hand.