Pendergast inclined his head. “Before you tell me your story, I’m afraid I can’t claim the title Inspector. That would be British. I am merely a special agent of the FBI.”
“I guess I read too many murder mysteries.” The man shifted in his chair. “Let me get right to the point. I live in a little seaside town in northern Massachusetts called Exmouth. It’s a quiet place, off the tourist trail, and not well known even among the summer crowd. About thirty years ago, my wife and I bought the old lighthouse and keeper’s quarters on Walden Point, and I’ve been there ever since. It’s proven an excellent spot for my work. I’ve always been someone who appreciates fine wine—red, don’t bother with white—and the basement of the old house was a perfect place for my rather large collection, being dug into the ground with stone walls and floor, fifty-six degrees summer and winter. Anyway, a few weeks ago, I went away for a long weekend to Boston. When I returned, I found a rear window broken. Nothing had been taken in the house, but when we went to the basement, it was cleaned out. My wine cellar was gone!”
“How terrible for you.”
Constance thought she could just detect the faintest note of contemptuous amusement in Pendergast’s voice.
“Tell me, Mr. Lake, are you still married?”
“My wife died several years back. I now have a, well, lady friend who lives with me.”
“And she was with you the weekend the cellar was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your wine.”
“Where to start? I had a vertical collection of Chateau Léoville Poyferré going back to 1955, along with excellent collections of all the notable years of Chateau Latour, Pichon-Longueville, Petrus, Dufort-Viviens, Lascombes, Malescot-Saint-Exupéry, Chateau Palmer, Talbot—”
Pendergast stemmed this flood with an upraised hand.
“Sorry,” Lake said with a sheepish smile. “I tend to go overboard when it comes to wine.”
“Only French Bordeaux?”
“No. More recently I had been collecting some wonderful Italian wines as well, Brunellos, Amarones, and Barolos mostly. All gone.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“The Exmouth police chief is worthless. An ass, in fact. He came out of Boston, and he’s going through the motions, but it’s clear to me he isn’t taking it seriously. I suppose if it was a collection of Bud Light he might be more concerned. I need someone who’s going to find that wine before it gets dispersed or, God forbid, drunk up.”
Pendergast nodded slowly. “So why come to me?”
“I read those books about your work. The ones by Smithback. William Smithback, I believe.”
A moment passed before Pendergast replied. “I fear those books grossly distorted the facts. In any case, to the degree that they are true, you must realize I focus my attention on human deviancy—not purloined wine. I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
“Well, I hoped you might, since I understood from those books that you’re a bit of a connoisseur yourself.” Lake leaned forward in his chair. “Agent Pendergast, I’m a desperate man. My wife and I spent untold hours assembling that collection. Every bottle has a memory, a history, especially of my wonderful years with her. In some ways I feel like she’s died all over again. I’d pay you a very good fee.”
“I’m indeed sorry I can’t help you in the matter. Mr. Proctor will show you out.”
The sculptor rose. “Well, I knew it was a long shot. Thanks for listening.” His troubled look eased slightly. “All I can say is, thank God the thieves missed the Haut-Braquilanges!”
The room fell silent.
“Chateau Haut-Braquilanges?” Pendergast said faintly.
“Yes, indeed. A full case of ’04. My prized possession. It was set aside, in one corner of the cellar, in the original wooden case. The damned idiots just overlooked it.”
Proctor opened the door to the library, waiting.
“How did you happen on a case of the ’04? I thought it was long gone.”
“And so did everyone else. I’m always on the lookout for wine collections for sale, especially when the owner dies and his heirs want to turn it into cash. My wife and I found this case in an old wine collection in New Orleans.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “New Orleans?”
“An ancient French family of means that fell onto hard times.”
As Constance watched, a look of irritation crossed Pendergast’s face—or was it vexation?
Lake turned toward the open door just as Pendergast rose from his chair. “On second thought, I will take on your little problem.”
“Really?” Lake turned back, his face breaking into a smile. “Wonderful! As I said, whatever your fee is I will be glad—”
“My fee is simple: a bottle of the Haut-Braquilanges.”
Lake hesitated. “I was thinking more along the lines of a financial arrangement.”