The man looked around, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was unsure what had attracted his attention. Then he caught sight of Door, standing just in front of him. “Hello . . . ?” he said.
“I’m Door,” she told him. “This is Richard.”
“Oh . . . ” said the man. Then he fumbled in an inner pocket, pulled out a cigar case, and forgot all about them. “There. See?” said Door.
“I think so,” he replied. They said nothing for some time, as the line moved slowly toward the single open glass door at the museum’s main entrance. Door looked at the writing on her scroll, as if she needed to reassure herself of something. Then Richard said, “A traitor?”
“They were just winding us up,” said Door. “Trying to upset us.”
“Doing a bloody good job of it, too,” said Richard. And they walked through the open door, and then they were in the British Museum.
Mr. Vandemar was hungry, so they walked back through Trafalgar Square.
“Scare her,” muttered Mr. Croup, disgustedly. “Scare her. That we should be brought to this.”
Mr. Vandemar had found half a shrimp and lettuce sandwich in a garbage can, and was gently tearing it into small pieces, which he was tossing down onto the flagstones in front of him, attracting a small flock of hungry late-night pigeons. “Should have followed my idea,” said Mr. Vandemar. “Would have scared her lots more if I’d pulled his head off while she wasn’t looking, then put my hand up through his throat and wiggled my fingers about. They always scream,” he confided, “when the eyeballs fall out.” He demonstrated with his right hand.
Mr. Croup was having none of it. “Why get so squeamish at this stage in the game?” he asked.
“I’m not squeamish, Mister Croup,” said Mr. Vandemar. “I like it when the eyeballs fall out. Peepers and tarriwags.” More gray pigeons strutted over to peck at the fragments of bread and shrimp, and to disregard the lettuce.
“Not you,” said Mr. Croup. “The boss. Kill her, kidnap her, scare her. Why doesn’t he make up his mind?”
Mr. Vandemar ran out of the sandwich he had been using as bait, and now he made a dash into the crowd of pigeons, who took to the wing with some clacking noises and the occasional grumbling coo. “Well caught, Mister Vandemar,” said Mr. Croup, approvingly. Mr. Vandemar was holding a surprised and upset pigeon, which grumbled and fidgeted in his grasp and pecked ineffectively at his fingers.
Mr. Croup sighed, dramatically. “Well, anyway. We’ve certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons now,” he said, with relish. Mr. Vandemar held the pigeon up to his face. There was a crunching noise, as he bit off its head and commenced to chew.
The security guards were directing the museum’s guests to a hallway that seemed to be functioning as some kind of holding area. Door ignored the guards entirely and set off into the museum halls with Richard trailing along behind her. They went through the Egyptian rooms, up several flights of back stairs, and into a room marked Early English.
“According to this scroll,” she said, “the Angelus is in this room somewhere.” Then Door looked down at her scroll some more and looked around the hall, more carefully. She made a face. “Tch,” she explained, and took off back down the stairs, the way they had come. Richard had an intense feeling of déjà vu, before realizing that, yes, of course this felt familiar: it was how he had spent his weekends in the Jessica days. Which were starting to seem, already, like things that had happened to someone else a long, long time ago.
“The Angelus wasn’t in that room, then?” asked Richard.
“No, it wasn’t there,” said Door, a little more fiercely than Richard felt the question had actually warranted.
“Oh,” he said. “I only wondered.” They went into another room. Richard wondered if he were starting to hallucinate. “I can hear music,” he said. It sounded like a string quartet.
“The party,” said Door.
Right. The people in the dinner jackets they had lined up with. No, the Angelus didn’t seem to be here either. Door walked into the next hall, and Richard trailed in her wake. He wished he could be of more use. “This Angelus,” he said. “What does it look like?”
For a moment he thought she was going to reprimand him simply for asking. But she stopped, rubbed her forehead. “This just says it’s got a picture of an angel on it. But it can’t be that hard to find. After all,” she added, hopefully, “how many things with angels on them are there here?”
NINE
Jessica was under a little pressure. She was worried, and nervous, and jittery. She had catalogued the collection, arranged with the British Museum to host the exhibition, organized the restoration of the prime exhibit, assisted in hanging and exhibiting the collection, and put together the list of invitees to the fabulous launch. It was just as well she didn’t have a boyfriend, she would tell her friends. There’d be no time for one even if she had one. Still, it would be nice, she thought, when she got a moment: someone to go to galleries with on the weekends. Someone to . . .
No. She did not go to that place in her head. She could no more pin it down than she could put her finger on a bead of mercury, and she refocused on the exhibition. Even now, at the last minute, there were so many things that could go wrong. Many a horse had fallen at the final hurdle. Many an overconfident general had seen certain victory turn to defeat in the closing minutes of a battle. Jessica was simply going to ensure that nothing went wrong. She was wearing a green silk dress, an off-the-shoulder general marshalling her troops and stoically pretending that Mr. Stockton was not half an hour late.
Her troops consisted of a head waiter, a dozen serving staff, three women from the caterers, a string quartet, and her assistant, a young man named Clarence.
She inspected the drinks table. “We’re fine for champagne? Yes?” The head waiter pointed to the crate of champagne beneath the table. “And sparkling mineral water?” Another nod. Another crate. Jessica pursed her lips. “What about plain mineral water? Bubbles aren’t everybody’s cup of tea, you know.” They had plenty of plain mineral water. Good.
The string quartet was warming up. They were not quite loud enough to drown the noise coming from the hallway outside. It was the noise of a small but affluent crowd: the grumbling of ladies in mink coats, and men, who, were it not for the NO SMOKING signs on the walls—and perhaps the advice of their doctors—would be smoking cigars; the grumbling of journalists and celebrities who could smell the canapes, vol-au-vents, sundry nibbles, and free champagne.