palm up, as if to say
I’m at your disposal
.
Logan placed his duffel on the arm of one of the chairs arranged before the desk, then sat down. Opening the duffel, hepulled something out: a badly charred piece of paper inside an envelope. He handed it to Olafson, who scrutinized it carefully.
“I found that among a pile of burned papers in the forgotten room’s fireplace,” he said.
Olafson continued to look at it. “It seems to be three men in lab coats, standing behind a worktable.”
“Not
a
worktable. The worktable that’s still in the room. You can tell by that deep scar in the wood, near the left corner.”
“Even so, it’s impossible to identify the people. The images have been burned away from the chest up.”
“That’s correct,” Logan replied. “But the photo can tell us something nevertheless.” Reaching into his duffel again, he took out a piece of paper, folded it in half, and held the bottom half up for the director to see. It was a bright, cartoonish picture of an exaggeratedly rotund man standing on the deck of a ship in heavy seas—wearing a blue double-breasted yachtsman’s jacket, white shorts, and a beanie—gazing bemusedly down at an obviously seasick woman lying beneath a blanket on a deck chair.
Olafson squinted at it. “What about it?”
Now Logan unfolded the top half and let Olafson see the paper in its entirety. The logo of a magazine,
The New Yorker
, was emblazoned across the top of the sheet, along with a date: July 16, 1932.
“The Newport library has an excellent periodical collection,” Logan said. “They wouldn’t let me bring the actual issue, but they did make a color Xerox of the cover for me.”
“I don’t understand,” Olafson said.
“Take a closer look at the burned photograph. Notice those letters and periodicals sitting on the desk? They are all too blurry to make out—
except
for the magazine cover featuring a porcine man in an odd yachtsman’s uniform. Look closely; you can just make it out. It’s obviously not a cover from a slick such as
Colliers, Life
, or the
Saturday Evening Post
. In fact, it looked to me like a quintessential
New Yorker
cover.” He put the paper back in his duffel. “So now we have a
terminus post quem
for the work beingdone in that room. It was in use at least as late as the summer of 1932.”
“I see.”
“And that puts to rest any question about who was using the room.
Lux
was using that room—in addition to, or instead of, the mansion’s initial owner. And speaking of the owner: I checked the original blueprints for Dark Gables in Strachey’s office. They did not include the forgotten room.” Logan picked up the charred fragment of photograph and returned it to his duffel. “Have you heard of something called Project Sin?”
“Project Sin?” Olafson frowned. “No.”
“Please think carefully. ‘Sin’ may well be just the beginning of a word. No Lux project of that name comes to mind?”
When Olafson shook his head, Logan pulled another glassine envelope—this one containing the bit of burnt memo he had also recovered from the fireplace—and handed it to Olafson.
The director looked at it a moment before returning it. “Doesn’t ring even the remotest bell.”
“I wasn’t able to find anything about any such project in your archives, either—although my search was as exhaustive as possible. I did discover something, however. Something quite interesting.”
Olafson poured himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “Let’s hear it.”
Logan sat forward. “I’ve discovered what I think is a gap in your records.”
“What kind of gap?”
“When I was investigating Lux’s archives earlier this afternoon, I found files relating to certain projects that were gathering steam in the late twenties and early thirties. Interesting but seemingly unrelated projects on such subjects as exotic qualities of electromagnetic radiation; on the classification of chemicals in the brain; and
I’m at your disposal
.
Logan placed his duffel on the arm of one of the chairs arranged before the desk, then sat down. Opening the duffel, hepulled something out: a badly charred piece of paper inside an envelope. He handed it to Olafson, who scrutinized it carefully.
“I found that among a pile of burned papers in the forgotten room’s fireplace,” he said.
Olafson continued to look at it. “It seems to be three men in lab coats, standing behind a worktable.”
“Not
a
worktable. The worktable that’s still in the room. You can tell by that deep scar in the wood, near the left corner.”
“Even so, it’s impossible to identify the people. The images have been burned away from the chest up.”
“That’s correct,” Logan replied. “But the photo can tell us something nevertheless.” Reaching into his duffel again, he took out a piece of paper, folded it in half, and held the bottom half up for the director to see. It was a bright, cartoonish picture of an exaggeratedly rotund man standing on the deck of a ship in heavy seas—wearing a blue double-breasted yachtsman’s jacket, white shorts, and a beanie—gazing bemusedly down at an obviously seasick woman lying beneath a blanket on a deck chair.
Olafson squinted at it. “What about it?”
Now Logan unfolded the top half and let Olafson see the paper in its entirety. The logo of a magazine,
The New Yorker
, was emblazoned across the top of the sheet, along with a date: July 16, 1932.
“The Newport library has an excellent periodical collection,” Logan said. “They wouldn’t let me bring the actual issue, but they did make a color Xerox of the cover for me.”
“I don’t understand,” Olafson said.
“Take a closer look at the burned photograph. Notice those letters and periodicals sitting on the desk? They are all too blurry to make out—
except
for the magazine cover featuring a porcine man in an odd yachtsman’s uniform. Look closely; you can just make it out. It’s obviously not a cover from a slick such as
Colliers, Life
, or the
Saturday Evening Post
. In fact, it looked to me like a quintessential
New Yorker
cover.” He put the paper back in his duffel. “So now we have a
terminus post quem
for the work beingdone in that room. It was in use at least as late as the summer of 1932.”
“I see.”
“And that puts to rest any question about who was using the room.
Lux
was using that room—in addition to, or instead of, the mansion’s initial owner. And speaking of the owner: I checked the original blueprints for Dark Gables in Strachey’s office. They did not include the forgotten room.” Logan picked up the charred fragment of photograph and returned it to his duffel. “Have you heard of something called Project Sin?”
“Project Sin?” Olafson frowned. “No.”
“Please think carefully. ‘Sin’ may well be just the beginning of a word. No Lux project of that name comes to mind?”
When Olafson shook his head, Logan pulled another glassine envelope—this one containing the bit of burnt memo he had also recovered from the fireplace—and handed it to Olafson.
The director looked at it a moment before returning it. “Doesn’t ring even the remotest bell.”
“I wasn’t able to find anything about any such project in your archives, either—although my search was as exhaustive as possible. I did discover something, however. Something quite interesting.”
Olafson poured himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “Let’s hear it.”
Logan sat forward. “I’ve discovered what I think is a gap in your records.”
“What kind of gap?”
“When I was investigating Lux’s archives earlier this afternoon, I found files relating to certain projects that were gathering steam in the late twenties and early thirties. Interesting but seemingly unrelated projects on such subjects as exotic qualities of electromagnetic radiation; on the classification of chemicals in the brain; and
Similar Books
