Page 99 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Three dollars and fifty cents a night. American plan.”

“How did you pay for it? You bring some old money with you or something?”

“I did indeed. On my initial journey, I carried with me fifty pounds of Morgan silver dollars that I picked up at an auction. Well worn and of little numismatic value, with a total face value of one thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars? What’s the equivalent in today’s money—that is, yesterday’s money?”

“Given that a thousand dollars equals two years’ salary for a working man, and you can buy a house for a few hundred, I would estimate its buying power at perhaps one hundred thousand dollars.”

D’Agosta whistled. “You could make a business out of that. You bring money back here, invest it, and because you know the future market movements, make a quick killing.”

“And then?”

“You bury it and dig it up in the present.”

Pendergast said, “You’re forgetting: this isn’t our timeline or our universe. You would dig where it was buried and find nothing.”

“Oh. Right.” Pendergast had explained how “time travel” was a simplistic term for what the machine actually did—a process involving parallel universes—but D’Agosta hadn’t really understood. “Well, we could make a killing inthis1880, turn it into gold bars or diamonds, then carry them back using the machine.”

“We could. But we won’t.”

“Why not?”

Pendergast shook his head. “It would be wrong. And dangerous. Such a project might involve months, and the longer we stay here, the more chance there is for the machine to develop a fault.”

The idea of being stuck here forever sent a shiver through D’Agosta. Oddly enough, being separated from Laura by space as well as time had eased his worst feelings of depression and guilt—it was too late to turn back, and he had other things to worry about now. But he was still counting on helping Pendergast, keeping undercover, and then getting back to his own world—in one piece.

“So what’s in those?” he said, nodding at the suitcases. “More silver dollars? Or gold bullion, maybe? They certainly weighed enough.”

“This is now my fourth trip to this place—I’ve had plenty of time to assemble a list of items that our business may require…before we can return.”

Our business may require.D’Agosta shuddered. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said. “What should I do,sir?”

“It is down the hall, to the left I believe. Or you can make use of the chamber pot under your bed. Conveniently emptied twice a day.”

D’Agosta groaned. “I’ll wait.”

“As long as we’re on the subject, the maid will draw you a bath, if you so wish, on twenty-four hours’ notice. The bathing rooms are also just down the hall. Hot water for shaving and washing will be supplied every morning to our rooms.” Pendergast tilted his head. “In the Normandie, we enjoy the very summit of comfort and luxury.”

“Yeah. Right. As long as there’s free Wi-Fi, I’m happy.” He looked around. “What time is it, by the way?”

“Six o’clock. What I might suggest, Vincent, is a cold bottle of champagne and some caviar aux blinis while we discuss the next steps. I’m afraid a can of your usual pedestrian beverage is out of the question, although I am sure they can provide a tankard of Manhattan Ale…at room temperature.”

“Champagne will do just fine.”

“As my manservant, you shall have to order it. Just ring the bell on the wall over there and put your ear to the speaking tube. When you hear a voice, bellow our order.”

D’Agosta heaved himself out of the chair and went over to the indicated contraption. He pressed the bell and waited, and then a voice sounded, hollow and distorted in the tube. D’Agosta moved the tube from his ear to his lips. “Bottle of champagne, caviar and blinis, to room 323, please.”

He heard a muffled affirmative and returned to his chair.

Meanwhile, Pendergast had taken a chair of his own, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. The bemused air with which he’d entered the hotel was now gone, replaced with an expression of the utmost seriousness. “Vincent, it is impossible for me to thank you enough for making this sacrifice on my behalf. So, if you don’t mind, I won’t even try—for now, at least. Now we must talk strategy. Time is of the essence.”

“Go ahead.”

“In our own timeline, we know Leng killed Mary on his operating table on January 7, 1881. But here is the problem:we are no longer in our own timeline. By intruding into this parallel universe, we have disturbed it like a rock thrown into the surface of a pond. And even now, our disturbance—or more to the point, Constance’s disturbance—is rippling outward in ways we can’t predict.”

“If we can’t predict the consequences, what does that mean?”

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