pdouglas.thecodex-第7节

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surprised　him　that　their　father　had　bothered　to　save　those…particularly　when　he　had　been　none　too　pleased　with　their　grades　to　begin　with。
　〃Have　you　paid　it　back　yet？〃　Philip　asked。
　〃I　will。〃
　〃Of　course　you　will；〃　said　Philip　sarcastically。
　Vernon　colored。　〃What　about　the　forty　thousand　that　Father　spent　on　sending　you　to　graduate　school？　Have　you　paid　that　back　yet？〃
　〃That　was　a　gift。　He　paid　for　Tom's　veterinary　school；　too…right；　Tom？　And　if　you　had　gone　to　graduate　school　he　would　have　paid　for　yours。　Instead；　you　went　and　lived　with　that　swami　woo…woo　in　India。〃
　There　was　a　tense　silence。
　〃Go　to　hell；〃　said　Vernon。
　Tom　stared　from　one　brother　to　the　other。　It　was　happening；　just　as　it　had　happened　a　thousand　times　before。　Usually　he　stepped　in　and　tried　to　be　peacemaker。　Just　as　often　it　did　no　good。
　〃The　hell　with　you；　too；〃　Philip　said。　He　put　the　pipe　back　between　his　teeth　with　a　click　and　turned　on　his　heel。
　〃Wait！〃　Vernon　called；　but　it　was　too　late。　When　Philip　got　mad；　he　left；　and　he　was　doing　it　again。　The　great　door　boomed　shut　with　a　dying　rattle。
　〃For　God's　sake；　Vernon；　can't　you　pick　a　better　time　to　fight？〃
　〃Screw　him。　He　started　it；　didn't　he？〃
　Tom　couldn't　even　remember　who　started　it。
　
　Back　in　the　office；　Hutch　Barnaby　sat　in　his　chair；　a　fresh　cup　of　coffee　resting　on　his　paunch；　looking　out　the　window。　Fenton　sat　in　the　other　chair；　with　his　own　cup；　staring　gloomily　at　the　floor。
　〃Fenton；　you　gotta　stop　thinking　about　it。　These　things　happen。〃
　〃I　can't　believe　it。〃
　〃I　know；　it's　some　crazy　shit；　the　guy　burying　himself　with　half　a　billion　dollars。　Don't　worry。　Someday　someone　in　this　town'll　mit　a　New　York　Times　front…page　crime；　and　your　name'll　be　there。　This　just　didn't　pan　out。〃
　Fenton　nursed　his　coffee…and　his　disappointment。
　〃I　knew　it；　Fenton；　even　before　I　saw　that　video。　I　figured　it　out。　When　I　realized　it　wasn't　an　insurance　scam；　it　was　like　a　lightbulb　went　on　in　my　head。　Hey；　it　would　make　a　great　movie；　don't　you　think？　Rich　guy　takes　his　shit　with　him。〃
　Fenton　said　nothing。
　〃How　do　you　think　the　old　guy　did　it？　Think　about　it。　He　needed　help。　That　was　a　lot　of　stuff。　You　can't　move　a　few　tons　of　artwork　around　the　world　without　someone　noticing。〃
　Fenton　sipped。
　Barnaby　glanced　up　at　the　clock　and　then　down　at　the　papers　strewn　about　his　desk。　〃Two　hours　to　lunch。　How　e　nothing　interesting　ever　happens　in　this　city？　Look　at　this。　Drugs　and　more　drugs。　Why　don't　these　kids　rob　a　bank　for　a　change？〃
　Fenton　drained　the　cup。　〃It's　out　there。〃
　Silence。
　〃What　are　you　trying　to　say？　What　do　you　mean　by　that　ment？　It's　out　there。　So　what？　Lot　of　things　are　out　there。〃
　Fenton　crushed　the　cup。
　〃You　aren't　suggesting　something；　are　you？〃
　Fenton　dropped　the　cup　in　the　trash　can。
　〃You　said；　It's　out　there。　I　want　to　know　what　you　meant　by　that。〃
　〃We　go　get　it。〃
　〃And？〃
　〃We　keep　it。〃
　Barnaby　laughed。　〃Fenton；　I'm　amazed　at　you。　In　case　you　didn't　notice；　we're　law　enforcement　officers。　Did　that　little　fact　slip　your　mind？　We're　supposed　to　be　honest。〃
　〃Yeah；〃　said　Fenton。　：。
　〃Right；〃　said　Barnaby　after　a　moment。　〃Honesty。　If　you　don't　have　that；　Fenton；　then　what　do　you　have？〃
　〃Half　a　billion　dollars；〃　said　Fenton。
　
　6
　
　The　building　wasn't　an　old　brownstone　as　it　would　have　been　in　a　Bogart　film　but　a　glass　and　steel　monstrosity　that　teetered　into　the　sky　above　West　Fifty…seventh　Street；　an　ugly　eighties　skyscraper。　At　least；　thought　Philip；　the　rent　would　be　high。　And　if　the　rent　was　high；　it　meant　Marcus　Aurelius　Hauser　was　a　successful　private　investigator。
　Strolling　into　the　lobby　was　like　walking　into　a　giant　polished　granite　cube。　The　place　reeked　of　cleaning　fluids。　A　stand　of　sickly　bamboo　grew　in　one　corner。　An　elevator　whisked　him　up　to　the　thirtieth　floor；　and　he　was　soon　at　the　cherry　doors　leading　into　the　offices　of　Marcus　Hauser；　PI。
　Philip　paused　inside　the　doorway。　Whatever　he　had　imagined　as　the　office　of　a　private　investigator；　this　colorless　postmodern　interior　of　gray　slate；　industrial　carpeting；　and　black　polished　granite　was　not　it。　How　could　anyone　work　in　such　a　sterile　space？　The　room　appeared　empty。
　〃Yeah？〃　came　a　voice　from　behind　a　half…moon　wall　of　glass　bricks。
　Philip　came　around　and　found　himself　staring　at　the　back　of　a　man　sitting　at　a　vast　kidney…shaped　desk；　which　instead　of　facing　the　door　to　his　office　faced　in　the　opposite　direction　toward　a　wall　of　windows　that　looked　west　over　the　dull　zinc　sheen　of　the　Hudson　River。　Without　turning；　the　man　gestured　toward　an　armchair。　Philip　crossed　the　floor；　seated　himself；　and　settled　in　to　study　Marcus　Hauser：　ex…Vietnam　Green　Beret；　ex…tomb　robber；　ex…lieutenant；　BATF；　Manhattan　field　office。
　In　his　father's　photo　albums　he　had　seen　pictures　of　Hauser　as　a　young　man；　blurry　and　indistinct；　dressed　in　jungle　khakis；　packing　some　kind　of　firearm　on　his　hip。　He　was　always　grinning。　Philip　felt　a　little　disconcerted　finally　seeing　him　in　the　flesh。　He　looked　even　smaller　than　Philip　had　imagined　him；　and　he　was　overdressed　in　a　brown　suit　with　collar　pin；　vest；　gold　chain；　and　watch　fob。　A　working…class　man　aping　the　gentry。　There　was　the　scent　of　cologne　about　him；　and　what　little　hair　he　had　was　excessively　pomaded　and　curled；　each　strand　individually　arranged　to　provide　maximal　coverage　to　his　bald　spot。　Gold　rings　winked　on　no　fewer　than　four　of　his　fingers。　His　hands　had　been　manicured；　his　nails　cleaned　and　polished；　his　nose　carefully　trimmed　of　hair。　Even　his　bald　pate；　gleaming　under　the　screen　of　hairs　that　covered　it；　gave　every　appearance　of　having　been　waxed　and　buffed。　Philip　found　himself　wondering　if　this　was　the　same　Marcus　Hauser　who　had　tramped　through　the　jungles　with　his　father　in　search　of　lost　cities　and　ancient　tombs。　Perhaps　there　had　been　some　mistake。
　He　cleared　his　throat。　〃Mr。　Hauser？〃
　〃Marcus；〃　came　the　rapid　reply；　like　a　cracking　good　tennis　volley。　His　voice　was　equally　disconcerting：　high；　nasal；　working…class　accent。　His　eyes；　however；　were　as　green　and　cool　as　a　crocodile's。
　Philip　felt　flustered。　He　recrossed　his　legs　and；　without　asking　permission；　took　out　his　pipe　and　began　to　fill　it。　At　this；　Hauser　smiled；　slid　open　his　desk　drawer；　turned　out　a　humidor；　and　removed　an　enormous　Churchill。　〃So　glad　you　smoke；〃　he　said；　rolling　the　cigar　between　his　perfect　fingers；　sliding　a　gold　monogrammed　clipper　out　of　his　pocket；　and　giving　the　end　a　snip。　〃We　mustn't　let　the　barbarians　take　over。〃　When　he　had　lit　up；　he　leaned　back　in　his　chair　and；　looking　at　him　through　a　skein　of　smoke；　said；　〃What　can　I　do　for　the　son　of　my　old　partner；　Maxwell　Broadbent？〃
　〃May　we　speak　in　confidentiality？〃
　〃Naturally。〃
　〃Six　months　ago　my　father　was　diagnosed　with　cancer。〃　Philip　paused；　observing　Hauser's　face　to　see　if　he　had　already　known。　But　Hauser's　face　was　as　opaque　as　his　mahogany　desk。　〃Lung　cancer；〃　Philip　continued。　〃They　operated；　and　he　got　the　usual　chemo　and　radiation。　He　gave　up　the　stogies　and　went　into　remission。　For　a　while　it　seemed　like　he　had　it　licked；　and　then　it　came　roaring　back。　He　started　on　the　chemotherapy　again；　but　he　hated　it。　One　day　he　ripped　out　the　TVs；　decked　a　male　nurse；　and　left。　He　picked　up　a　box　of　Cuba　Libres　on　the　way　home　and　never　went　back。　They　had　given　him　six　months　to　live；　and　that　was　three　months　ago。〃
　Hauser　listened；　puffing　on　his　cigar。
　Philip　paused。　〃Has　he　been　in　touch　with　you？〃
　Hauser　shook　his　head；　took　another　puff。　〃Not　for　forty　years。〃
　〃Sometime　last　month；〃　Philip　said；　〃Maxwell　Broadbent　disappeared；　along　with　his　collection。　He　left　us　a　video。〃
　Hauser　raised　his　eyebrows。
　〃It　was　a　last　will　and　testament　of　sorts。　In　it；　he　said　he　was　taking　it　with　him　into　the　grave。〃
　〃He　did　what？〃　Hauser　leaned　forward；　his　face　suddenly　interested。　The　mask　had　fallen　for　a　moment：　He　was　genuinely　astonished。
　〃He　took　it　with　him。　Everything。　Money；　artwork；　his　collection。　Just　like　an　Egyptian　pharaoh。　He　buried　himself　in　a　tomb　somewhere　in　the　world　and　then　issued　us　a　challenge：　If　we　find　the　tomb；　we　can　rob　it。　That；　you　see；　is　his　idea　of　making　us　earn　our　inheritance。〃
　Hauser　leaned　back　and　laughed　long　and　loud。　When　he　finally　recovered；　he　took　a　couple　of　lazy　puffs　on　his　cigar；　then　reached　out　and　tapped　a　two…inch　ash　off。　〃Only　Max　could　e　up　with　a　scheme　like　that。〃
　〃So　you　don't　know　anything　about　this？〃　Philip　asked。
　〃Nothing。〃　Hauser　seemed　to　be　telling　the　truth。
　〃You're　a　private　investigator；〃　said　Philip。
　Hauser　shifted　the　cigar　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other。
　〃You　grew　up　with　Max。　You　spent　a　year　with　him　in　the　jungle。　You　know　him　and　how　he　worked　better　than　anyone。　I　wondered　if　you'd　be　willing；　as　a　PI；　to　help　me　find　his　tomb。〃
　Hauser　eased　a　stream　of　blue　smoke　out　of　his　mouth。
　Philip　added；　〃It　doesn't　seem　to　me　that　this　would　be　a　difficult　assignment。　An　art　collection　like　that　wouldn't　travel　inconspicuously。〃
　〃It　would　in　the　hold　of　Max's　Gulfstream　IV。〃
　〃I　doubt　he　buried　himself　in　his　plane。〃
　〃The　Vikings　buried　themselves　in　their　ships。　Maybe　Max　packed　his　treasur