Free The Conspiracy Club by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

white shirt, dark tie. Once again, he stepped out into the downpour so that Jeremy could benefit from his umbrella. Jeremy moved closer, wanting to share, but the little man stayed out of reach as they ran for the door.
    When Jeremy stepped into the pale blue light, his eyes were assaulted by pupil-popping fluorescence.
    A tall figure filled the doorway. Arthur was already inside.
    The monkey-faced little man waited until he’d passed. Soaked, but still smiling. The three of them stood in a small, white anteroom backed by a white door. The ceiling was acoustical tile. The bright light spewed from an industrial fixture that resembled an elongated waffle. No furniture, no odors, no chill. But for specks, splotches, and pools of gritty water dispersed on the black linoleum floor, a thoroughly inorganic place.
    “Laurent,” said Arthur. “Thank you for providing shelter.”
    “Of course, Doctor.” The little man took both umbrellas and placed them in a corner. He took Arthur’s coat, then turned to Jeremy.
    “This is Dr. Carrier, Laurent.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” Laurent extended his hand, and Jeremy shook what felt like a knob of knurled oak.
    “The others are here,” Laurent told Arthur. His suit, like Arthur’s, was beautifully cut but of another era. Blue-black gabardine, over a white-on-white shirt. The shirt’s collar was fastened by a gold pin. His tie was true black satin. Tiny, narrow feet were encased in cap-tipped black bluchers so highly polished the rainwater beaded on the leather and rolled to the floor.
    “Lovely,” said Arthur.
    “Everything looks wonderful, sir.” Laurent turned back to Jeremy. His cheeks were flushed. “You’re a lucky young man.”
     
     
    Arthur pushed open the white door and held it as Laurent scooted forward. The panel closed behind Jeremy with a swoosh, and his eyes adjusted, yet again. Dimmer light. Soft, amber, caressing light.
    Before him was a long hallway paneled in a golden, bird’s-eyed wood. Linenfold paneling, hand-carved, was topped by notched edging. Beneath his feet was carpeting of a deeper gold, plush as the seats of Arthur’s Lincoln. The ceiling was high, domed plaster, veneered with pale gold leaf.
    Jeremy thought:
A bird in a gilded cage.
    Laurent led them up the muffled corridor. The air was warm, sweet with rosewater. The passageway terminated at massive double doors. Carved into the capstone were three letters in flowery script.
CCC
    The year three hundred?
    Something bygone and Soviet — was Arthur an unregenerate communist?
    The thought amused Jeremy, but before he could speculate further, Laurent had thrown both doors open. He and Arthur flanked the doorway. Arthur’s long arm swooped theatrically. “After you, my friend.”
     
     
    Jeremy stared out at a beautiful space. Four faces stared back at him.
    A quartet of smiles.
    A different silence — the sudden, percussive hush of conversation brought to a sharp halt. His nose filled with the aroma of roasted meat. His eyes accommodated to yet another quality of light: scores of chandelier bulbs dimmed low. Monumental chandelier, a riot of crystal swags and pendants and orbs.
    The fleshy smell was delicious.
    Jeremy stepped inside.
    The room was over twenty feet high, wide as a chateau ballroom, long as a yacht. Like the corridor, the walls were wood — burled walnut the color of hot cocoa, incandesced by layers of polish, sectioned into octagonal panels and embroidered with boisserie. Where the massive chandelier wasn’t crystal it was sterling silver. The ceiling plaster was vaulted and embellished by swirls and medallions. A dozen paintings — pastoral scenes — were suspended from wires hooked over stout crown moldings.
    Twin swinging doors backed the room, and Laurent disappeared through one of them. Between the doors, a baronial sideboard fitted with brass mounts hosted a centerpiece teeming with white orchids.
    Under the chandelier was a mirror-polished, Chippendale