The Medusa Amulet Read Online Free PDF Page A

works of all Renaissance art, known throughout the world.
    As the evening progressed, Rigaud looked increasingly bored, and Ava perked up only when a torte was brought out, piled high with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. She dug in with gusto.
    Linz, too, plainly enjoyed the dessert, a moustache of cream forming on his upper lip. But Palliser had lost his appetite. Glancing at his watch—it was well past ten—he said, “And I do hate to end the evening so abruptly, but I should get back to Paris. I still have La Medusa to find.”
    “You sound undeterred,” Linz said. “I’m impressed.” Wiping his lips with his napkin, he added, “But if you would prefer to spend the night here, Lord knows we have plenty of room.”
    Little as he relished the idea of the helicopter ride back, in the dark, Palliser was even less inclined to stay the night under such a strange roof. There was something unsettling about Linz, quite apart from the fact that he had provided so little help. All through the dinner, Palliser had increasingly felt as if he was being drained of all his own information, and for nothing in return. He wasn’t used to being duped, and he didn’t like it one bit.
    “Thank you,” he said, “but I have an appointment first thing in the morning.”
    Linz acceded graciously, rising from his chair. That left arm was definitely palsied, Palliser noticed. But then, to his own great embarrassment, he found himself weaving on his own feet from the effects of the wine. Rocking in place for a second, he said, “Your wine cellar is exceptionally well stocked.”
    “It’s the best in the Loire Valley,” Linz said. “In fact, you have been such good company, I’d like to offer you a gift—a bottle of whatever you like.”
    Palliser demurred, but Linz would have none of it. “Emil,” he commanded, “tell the pilot to be ready in ten minutes.” And then, taking Palliser by the elbow, he escorted him out of the room while Ava called for a second helping of the torte.
    Palliser, holding his briefcase, was led back through the armor hall and the salons, then down a winding stair and through the kitchens and scullery. The temperature grew colder and the air grew damp. Linz circumvented an old dusty rack and flicked a switch. A long corridor, carved from the stone itself, was lined with thousands of bottles of wine, as far as the eye could see. Palliser, who had seen the vaunted storerooms of Moldova, could not even guess at the quantity housed here.
    “What do you like?” Linz asked, leading the way under a string of dim white lightbulbs. “Bordeaux? Pinot Noir?” He waved an arm atthe racks, moving on. “This valley is best known for its dry white wines. Did you enjoy the Sancerre at dinner?”
    “I did,” Palliser confessed, wishing that he had enjoyed it a little less.
    “Then let me offer you one of these,” Linz said, stepping farther down the tunnel and taking a bottle from the rack. Blowing off the dust, he said, “Yes, this is a 1936—a very fine vintage.”
    As Palliser took the bottle, he became aware of a draft under his feet, and the distant sound of sloshing water. He looked down, and in the wavering light saw that he was standing atop a rusty grate.
    “This was once a dungeon,” Linz explained. “You’re standing above the oubliette.”
    The shaft, Palliser knew, where prisoners were thrown to die a slow death of thirst and starvation.
    Instinctively, he stepped back.
    “But the chateau rests on limestone, and the river is eroding the cliffs,” Linz said, stooping to pull the grate away to reveal the shaft; he appeared rather proud of his oubliette. “You see? The water has already reached the bottom of the pit.”
    Indeed, Palliser could just make out a surge of water swirling at the very bottom of the funnel, when he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Rigaud had rejoined them.
    “The chopper is ready to go,” he said, Palliser’s cashmere overcoat