The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (28 page)

It was more than I could have hoped for. “I think I can manage.”

“The books you’re looking for are up there, under the heading Roswell. If you need anything, ring the buzzer over on the desk. My valet will help you with anything you might need. I’ll check in on you a bit later.” Witt tramped out of the library, leaving me alone. The kid was in the candy store.

I had no doubt the Witt had received one of the boxes from Malloy and ensconced it somewhere in his sprawling mansion. My PI instincts could sense it, like a good poker player smells a bluff. But the old recluse wasn’t naive enough to put me in the same room with it, without knowing he could trust me. Which, of course, he couldn’t. And least I got my foot in the door. Now I needed to be quick, careful, and lucky, three adjectives rarely used in the same sentence.

I looked around, trying to find a logical starting place. The library was a boundless, teeming smorgasbord of possibilities. My eyes drifted to the vid-phone, then to the desk under it. I’d always found desks to be personal microcosms, wooden and metal monuments to their owners’ lives, crammed full of correspondence, receipts, and forgotten reminders jotted down on scraps of paper. It was as good a place as any to begin my search.

With almost two decades of hands-on experience, I rifled Witt’s desk with the precision of an assembly line worker. It took no more than fifteen minutes to determine that there was nothing of importance to be found. I wasn’t surprised; anyone with Witt’s mentality would undoubtedly keep anything of value locked away from prying eyes.

I finished with the drawers and turned my attention to the desktop. Bills sat in a pile under an Easter Island paperweight. Checking out Witt’s utility records wouldn’t help me locate the box, but I wasn’t about to leave any stone unturned. I flipped through the envelopes, all of which had been opened. At the bottom was a phone bill. Maybe a look at Witt long-distance calls would turn up some information.

The list of long-distance charges took up two and a half pages. Witt certainly seemed to spend a lot of time on the horn. I ran my finger down the first page. He called all over the world, three to four times a day. The second page contained nothing to attract my attention. On the third page, I noted that the last calls recorded for the billing period had been made three days earlier, about the time he would have received the box from Malloy. That afternoon, there was an extremely short call to San Francisco. Witt had probably tried to contact Malloy as soon as he got the box. Witt had followed the first call with another to a different location, again in San Francisco. This second call was almost fifteen minutes long, implying that he’d gotten whoever he was trying to reach at that number.

After that, there was the first of three calls to the same place in Los Angeles. The first two calls were only seconds long, but the third was forty-eight minutes. Between the first and second calls to Los Angeles, a call had been placed to Tuscon, Arizona, also very brief. I guessed that the short calls had reached answering machines or disconnected service messages. Perhaps receiving the box had set Witt into action, possibly trying to contact others who had ties to Malloy.

I jotted down the phone numbers in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Tuscon, then returned the bills to their resting place. Now what? I glanced around the room, hoping the trail to the box would pop out at me. Maybe Witt had installed some kind of hidden entrance to the library. Sure, it was a long shot, but I’d seen it in enough movies to consider it a valid option. I made my way slowly around the perimeter of the library, scrutinising the bookshelves for any spot that might conceal a latch or trigger. At one point, I found a curious-looking knot in the wood. With a sense of excited expectation directly attributable to having read the entire Hardy Boys series, I pressed the knot. Nothing happened.

I continued to make my way around the room. On the wall, between two sections of bookshelves, I found an odd-looking light switch. I couldn’t put my finger on what made it seem strange. Attempting to be thorough, I flipped the switch. As far as I could tell, it had no effect. I tried it again several times without results, then moved on to yet another enormous fireplace, similar to the one I’d seen in the foyer. A careful inspection turned up nothing.

I came full circle without finding a secret entrance. It appeared that the library was a dead end. The idea of venturing out into the rest of the mansion wasn’t particularly appealing. If Witt or his limey lackey saw me, I had no doubt I’d be shown the door in quick fashion. Of course, I could always say I was in desperate need of the facilities. They’d buy that. One just doesn’t say no to a full bladder.

I started to cross the room to the door. My wing tips made a solid clunking sound on the hardwood, then change to a muffled thump as I trod across a handsome oriental rug. Toward the corner of the rug, I came to a dead stop. My last footstep had sounded different. I turned and tried the spot again. There was no question about it. There was a hollow spot in the floor. I began stomping all around the area, like I’d stumbled into a herd of cockroaches. Only the one spot, about four feet square, sounded hollow. Throwing a hasty glance over my shoulder, I hurried to one side of the rug and began to roll it up. A few moments later, the outline of a trapdoor was exposed. Dropping to my hands and knees, I inspected the cracks in the floor. There was no apparent means of lifting the door, and the cracks were so small, I had no way of getting my fingers in to pry it open.

My eyes searched the library anew, looking for something, anything, that I could use as a lever. On the far side of that room, close by the fireplace, I spotted a shop-tipped poker. Seconds later, I jammed the end the poker into one of the cracks and was prying like mad man. After several minutes, but gouge the hell out of the floor and determined that the floor was not going to be forced open. Year it was locked from below or I’d missed some kind of trip device in my search of the room.

My mind immediately went back to the mysterious light switch I’d seen earlier. I’d hurried over and looked at it closely. Suddenly I realised what made it look odd: there were no screws or holes in the face plate. It didn’t appear to have anything attaching it to the wall. I pressed my fingertips under the side of the faceplate and applied some pressure. It was held firmly to the wall. I tried the other side. The faceplate popped open like a tiny door. In the opening behind, I saw a knob. I grabbed hold and twisted. From behind me, I heard a spring-loaded ka-chunk.

I turned to see one side of the trap door jutting up from the plane of the floor.

I grab the exposed end of the trap door and lifted. It came up with almost no effort. Underneath, I saw a set of stairs, beyond which there was no light source. I stepped down and descended into the pitch darkness. The air was cooler than upstairs and smiled slightly musty. The mansion didn’t appear to have been built more than maybe ten years ago, but the cellar felt ancient.

The light from the library above provided only about six feet of visibility in any direction. To my left, I made out a square shape on the wall. Running my hands over the surface, I realised that it was a fuse box. I found the flip latch and opened it. Now was not the time to make a mistake. Nothing would attract attention like cutting off all the power in the house. I gently touched the rows of switches. All were set to the right except two, one at the top and one near the bottom. Maybe flipping one of them would get me some light, but which one? There was only one way to decide. Eeny, meeny, miney, moe… I flipped the top switch. The cellar flared to life, based in the yellow-orange glow of firelight.

I turned away from the fuse box and found myself staring down a long passage. The walls and floor were made of stone, and the light created eerie patterns across the rough texture. Small metal lamps protruded from the wall along the right side, each emitting a flickering flame. I was curious to see how the lamps had been lit by flipping the switch in the fuse box, but my lifelong interest in lighting techniques would just have to wait.

I was close to the box now. Just the atmosphere of the cellar and the clandestine entrance would have been enough to tell me that, but my instincts could smell it as clearly as a neighbourhood barbecue. I walked down the passage and saw several doors on either side. The first door was to my right. I pushed it open and saw racks of dusty wine bottles, ageing expensively in the darkness. I was thirsty, but I’d forgotten to bring along a corkscrew. And I was willing to bet that all the bottles had those annoying corks in them.

I closed the door and moved on to the next room. I pushed the door open and peered in. The light from behind threw a flickering swathe onto a massive, ornately carved wooden table and a high-back, the velvet-lined chair. A five-pronged candelabra sat on the table. I searched through my pockets and found book of matches. As I lit the candles, the room became visible around me, but my eyes were focused on an object lying on the table.

It was the box.

Several tools were scattered around it, as though Witt had been trying unsuccessfully to open it. I picked up the box and looked it over. It was identical to the others I’d seen. I tucked it under my arm and put out the candles. Suddenly, a voice spoke. I froze in my tracks, startled. The voice was coming from above me and to my right. After several moments, the voice spoke again. I could barely make out the words. I moved closer. The voice had a slight echo, as if it were coming through a pipe. I decided it must be travelling through an air duct, or something similar. I strained to listen.

“How many are there?” It was Witt. I couldn’t hear whoever he was talking to.

“I’ve been in touch with Oliver.” A new name. I wondered who he was and what he had to do with anything. Maybe he had the last box.

“Day before yesterday.” There was a short pause. “He went to Columbia. Business.”

The silent partner went on for some time. Witt cleared his throat. “Yeah, he said he’d received it, but he doesn’t have it with him. No, he said we can’t get it. We have to wait until he gets back. He said he can get it as soon as he returns.”

A long pause. “Tall. Wears a fedora.”

In a flash of transcendental awareness, I knew I was being discussed. Whoever was on the other end of the conversation knew who I was. A brighter man would probably have made a break for it at that moment, but I wanted to hear everything which had to say. Maybe he’d drop a name, or enough information for me to deduce who he was talking to.

“Yeah, he’s here.”

My heart crept up into my throat — they were on to me.

“I’ll take care of it.”

I spun around and tore out of the room. Witt didn’t know I’d overheard him. Maybe he wouldn’t go straight to the library and leave me enough time to escape the way I came in. I dashed down the passageway and turned to climb the stairs. From above, I heard the library door open. For instant, I flirted with the idea of confronting Witt. He wouldn’t be any match for me — unless, of course, he had a gun. I decided I couldn’t chance it. I turned and ran back down the passageway. There had to be another way out.

I reached the end of the passage and turned left, which I guessed was toward the front of the mansion. This section of the passage was not so well lit, but I continued on. Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed behind me. Straight ahead, I saw another flight of stairs. I hit them at a dead run and vaulted toward a door at the top. I threw open the door, expecting to see a gun barrel pointed at me. To my surprise, I was alone, standing in a hallway. Although I had no idea which way to go, I turned my left and moved quickly down the hall. Up ahead, I saw what I thought was the foyer. As I was about to run for it, I heard the limey’s voice. Instinctively, I turned to a door on my right, opened it, and slipped into the room beyond.

I picked the wrong door. A young woman, wearing nothing but an oversized bath towel, was staring at me incredulously. Her body was turned in profile toward a large vanity with a well-lit mirror. Behind her, I saw a large, round tub. She had turned her head to look at me, but otherwise hadn’t moved. Her hair was short, dark, and still wet from her bath. Her exotic facial features didn’t require any makeup.

Under any other circumstances, I would’ve paid good money to be in this position. As it was, I was feeling a significant level of discomfort. “Sorry for barging in. I just wanted to check to see if you had a towel I could borrow.”

The young woman remained amazingly calm. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Tex. I’m a friend of Mr Witt’s. You must be his… daughter? Granddaughter?”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’ve never been here before. It’s a beautiful place. Especially in here.” the young woman looked me up and down, then took a step toward me, hands on her hips.

“Most of my uncle’s visitors are old. I never found any of them very interesting.” She paused, as though expecting a response from me. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. All I knew was that I could hear a faint commotion outside the door.

“So, you’re Mr Witt’s niece? What’s your name?”

“Vasha.”

“Pretty name.”

Vasha took another step toward me. “Thanks. So, how long are you going to be visiting?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’ve got to be getting along pretty soon.”

“What a shame.”

There was brief moment of silence as I weighed and balanced the many implications of that statement. My contemplation was rudely interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door.

“Vasha?” It was Witt. “Vasha?”

More knocking. The Young woman looked from me to the door, then back to me. She moved closer and motioned for me to move against a wall. Then she went to the door and opened it a crack.

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

Vasha hesitated for what seemed like a week. “Of course. Why?”

“Well, darling, don’t be alarmed, but we seem to have a burglar on the grounds.”

“A burglar?”

“Now, I don’t believe he’s dangerous, but, just to be safe, you should lock this door until we catch him. I’ll let you know when we’ve got him.”