Crimson Shore

Начало книги

When the knock sounded, Constance Greene stopped playing the Flemish virginal and the library fell silent and tense. She glanced in the direction of Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, sitting by a dying fire, wearing thin white gloves, having gone quite still while leafing through an illuminated manuscript, a glass of Amontillado half-finished on the side table. Constance recalled the last time someone had knocked on the door of 891 Riverside Drive — the rarest of occurrences at the Pendergast mansion. The memory of that awful moment now hung in the room like a miasma.

Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur, bodyguard, and general factotum, appeared. “Shall I answer the door, Mr. Pendergast?”

“Please. But do not let the person in; get their name and business and report back.”

Three minutes later, Proctor returned. “It is a man named Percival Lake, and he wishes to hire you for a private investigation.”

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