Pendergast took D'Agosta's elbow. "Sir Gervase de Vache, director of the museum."
The man plucked the microphone from the podium, his elegant figure straight and dignified.
"I welcome you all," he said, apparently feeling it unnecessary to introduce himself. "We are here to memorialize our friend and colleague Jeremy Grove—but as he would have wanted it: with food, drink, music, and good cheer, not long faces and lugubrious speeches." He spoke with a trace of a French accent.
Although Pendergast had stopped the moment the director gained the stage, D'Agosta noticed that the FBI agent was still scouring the room with his restless eyes.
"I first met Jeremy Grove some twenty years ago, when he reviewed our Monet exhibition for Downtown. It was—how shall I say it?—a classic Grove review."
There was a ripple of knowing laughter.
"Jeremy Grove was, above all else, a man who told the truth as he saw it, unflinchingly and with style. His rapier wit and irreverent sallies enlivened many a dinner party…"
D'Agosta tuned out. Pendergast was still ceaselessly scanning the room, and now he began moving again, slowly, like a shark that has just scented blood in the water. D'Agosta followed. He liked to watch Pendergast in action. There, at the liquor table, pouring himself a stiff drink, was a striking young man dressed entirely in black, with a neat goatee. He had exceptionally large, deep, liquid eyes, and fingers that were even more spidery than Pendergast's.
"Maurice Vilnius, the abstract expressionist painter," Pendergast murmured. "One of many beneficiaries of Grove's ministrations."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I recall a review Grove wrote of Vilnius's paintings some years back. The phrase that best sticks in my mind is: These paintings are so bad they inspire respect, even awe. It takes a special kind of talent to produce mediocrity at this level. Vilnius has such talent in abundance."
D'Agosta swallowed a laugh. "That's worth killing over." He hastily put his face in order; Vilnius had turned to see them approach.
"Ah, Maurice, how are you?" Pendergast asked.
The painter raised two very black eyebrows. As a fellow sufferer of bad reviews, D'Agosta had expected to see anger, or at least resentment, on the flushed face. Instead, it wore a broad smile.
"Have we met?"
"My name's Pendergast. We met briefly at your opening at Galerie Dellitte last year. Beautiful work. I've been considering acquiring a piece for my apartment in the Dakota."
Vilnius's smile grew broader. "Delighted." He spoke with a Russian accent. "Come by anytime. Come by today. It would make my fifth sale this week."
"Indeed?" D'Agosta noticed Pendergast was careful to keep surprise from his voice. In the background, the director's voice droned on: "…a man of courage and determination, who did not go gently into that good night…"
"Maurice," Pendergast continued, "I'd like to speak with you about Grove's last—"
Suddenly, a middle-aged woman came up to Vilnius, her cadaverous figure draped in a sequined dress. In tow was a tall man in a black tuxedo, his bald head polished to gemstone brilliance.
The woman tugged at Vilnius's sleeve. "Maurice, darling, I just had to congratulate you in person. That new review is simply wonderful. And so long overdue."
"You've seen it already?" Vilnius replied, turning toward these new arrivals.
"Just this afternoon," the tall man replied. "A proof copy was faxed to my gallery."
"…and now, one of Jeremy's beloved sonatas by Haydn…"
People continued talking, ignoring the man at the podium. Vilnius glanced back toward Pendergast for a moment. "Nice to have met you again, Mr. Pendergast," he said, drawing a card from his pocket and handing it to the FBI agent. "Please drop by the studio anytime." Then he turned back to the woman and her escort. As they walked away, D'Agosta could hear Vilnius saying, "It's remarkable to me how quickly news spreads. The review isn't even due to be published for another day."
D'Agosta looked at Pendergast. He, too, was watching Vilnius walk away. "Interesting," he murmured under his breath.
They drifted back into the crowd. De Vache had concluded his speech, and the noise level had risen once again. The harpischord had resumed but was now completely inaudible over the drinking, eating, and gossiping.
Suddenly, Pendergast took off at high speed, arrowing through the crowd. D'Agosta realized his aim was the director of the Met, stepping down from the stage.
De Vache paused at their approach. "Ah, Pendergast. Don't tell me you’re on the case"
Pendergast nodded.
The Frenchman pursed his lips. "Is this official? Or were you perhaps a friend of his?"
"Did Grove have any friends?"
De Vache chuckled. "True, very true. Friendship was a stranger to Jeremy, something he kept at arm's length. The last time I met him was—let me see—at a dinner party. I recall he asked the man across from him—a perfectly harmless old gentleman with dentures—to stop clacking his front incisors while he ate; that he was a man, not a rat. Someone later dripped sauce on his tie, and Jeremy inquired if perchance he was related to Jackson Pollock." Sir Gervase chuckled. "And that was just one dinner party. Can a man who routinely talks this way have friends?"
Sir Gervase was called away by a group of jewelry-laden matrons. He apologized to Pendergast, nodded at D'Agosta, then turned away. Pendergast's eyes went back to roaming the room, finally locking on a group of people near the harpsichord. "Voilà," he said. "The mother lode."
"Who?"
"Those three talking together. Along with Vilnius, whom you just met, they were the guests at Grove's last dinner party. And our reason for being here."
D'Agosta's eye landed first on an unexceptional-looking man in a gray suit. Beside him stood a wraithlike elderly woman, covered with powder and rouge, dressed to the nines, manicured, coiffed, and no doubt Botoxed in an ultimately failed attempt to look less than sixty. She wore a necklace of emeralds so big D'Agosta feared her scrawny shoulders would tire carrying their weight. But the standout among the group was the figure at her other elbow: an enormously fat man in a gorgeous, dove-gray suit, replete with silk waistcoat, white gloves, and gold chain.
"The woman," murmured Pendergast, "is Lady Milbanke, widow of the seventh Baron Milbanke. She is said to be a poisonous gossip, a drinker of absinthe, and an indefatigable'séance organizer and raiser of the dead."
"She looks like she needs a little raising from the dead herself."
"Vincent, I have missed your trenchant sense of humor. The heavyset gentleman is undoubtedly Count Fosco. I have long heard of him, but this is the first time I've seen him."
"He must weigh three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce."
"And yet observe how lightly he carries himself. And the tall gentleman in the gray suit is Jonathan Frederick, the art critic for Art & Antiques."
D'Agosta nodded.
"Shall we venture into the lion's den?"
"You're the boss."
Immediately, Pendergast strode over, smoothly and shamelessly insinuated himself into the group, and, seizing Lady Milbanke's hand, raised it toward his lips.
The old woman blushed beneath her makeup. "Have we had the pleasure—?"
"No," said Pendergast. "More's the pity. My name is Pendergast."
"Pendergast. And who is your friend? A bodyguard?" This elicited a round of titters from the group.
Pendergast chuckled along with them. "In a manner of speaking."
"If he's moonlighting," the tall man named Frederick said, "he should do so out of uniform. This is, after all, a memorial service."
D'Agosta noted that Pendergast did not bother to correct the man about the moonlighting. Instead, he shook his head sadly, ignoring the comment. "Terribly sad about Grove, don't you think?"
Nods all around.
"I heard a rumor he gave a dinner party the night of his death."
There was a sudden silence.
"Well now, Mr. Pendergast," s
aid Lady Milbanke. "What an extraordinary comment. You see, we were all at that dinner party."
"Indeed. They say the murderer might have been a guest at the party."
"How exciting!" cried Lady Milbanke. "It's just like an Agatha Christie novel. As a matter of fact, we each had our own motives to do away with Grove. At least, we used to." She exchanged brief glances with the others. "But then, we weren't the only ones. Isn't that so, Jason?" And, raising her voice, she beckoned a young man who was passing by, champagne flute in one hand. An orchid drooped from the buttonhole of his fawn jacket, and his hair was the color of marmalade.
The youth stopped, frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"This is Jason Prince." She laughed teasingly. "Jason, I was just telling Mr. Pendergast here how many people in this room had cause to murder Jeremy Grove. And you're known to be a jealous lad."
"She's full of crap, as usual," said Prince, his face flushing. Turning on his heels, he strode away.
Lady Milbanke issued another tinkle of laughter. "And Jonathan here had been skewered by Grove more than once in his time. Right, Jonathan?"
The gray-haired man smiled ironically. "I joined a rather large club."
"He called you the inflatable love doll of art critics, didn't he?"
The man didn't bat an eye. "Grove did have a turn of phrase. But I thought we agreed this was all behind us, Evelyn. That was more than five years ago."
"And then there's the count. A prime suspect. Look at him! Obviously a man of dark secrets. He's Italian, and you know them."
The count smiled. "We Italians are devious creatures."
D'Agosta looked at the count with curiosity. He was struck by the man's eyes, which were a dark gray color, with the unique clearness of deep water. The man had long gray hair, swept back, and skin as pink as a baby's, despite his age, which had to approach sixty.
"And then there’s me," Lady Milbanke continued. "You might think I had the best motive of all to murder him. We were once lovers. Cherchez la dame."
D'Agosta shuddered and wondered if such a thing was physically possible.
The critic, Frederick, seemed to be equally put off by this image, because he began backing off. "Excuse me, there's someone I need to speak with."
Lady Milbanke smiled. "About your new appointment, I suppose?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Pendergast, a pleasure to have met you."
There was a brief pause in the conversation. D'Agosta found that the count's gray eyes had settled on Pendergast and that a small smile was playing about his lips. "Pray tell, Mr. Pendergast," said the count. "What is your official interest in this case?"
Pendergast didn't react. By way of response, he slipped a hand into his jacket and removed his wallet, opening it slowly and reverently, as if it was a case of jewels. The gold badge flashed in the lights of the great hall.
"Ecce signum!" the count cried delightedly.
The old lady took a step back. "You? Police?"
"Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Lady Milbanke rounded on the count. "You knew and didn’t tell me? And here I've made all of us into suspects!" Her voice had lost its undertone of amusement.
The count smiled. "I knew the minute he approached that he was of the constabulary."
"He doesn't look like an FBI agent to me."
The count turned to Pendergast. "I hope Evelyn's information will be useful to you, sir?"
"Very," said Pendergast. "I have heard much about you, Count Fosco."
The count smiled.
"I believe you and Grove have been friends a long time?"
"We shared a love of music and art, and that highest marriage of the two: opera. Are you by chance a lover of opera?"
"I am not."
"No?" The count arched his eyebrows. "And why not?"
"Opera has always struck me as vulgar and infantile. I prefer the symphonic form: pure music, without such props as sets, costumes, melodrama, sex, and violence."
It seemed to D'Agosta the count had gone stock-still. But then he realized Fosco was laughing silently, visible only from an internal convulsion. The laugh went on for quite a long time. Then he wiped the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief and patted his plump hands together lightly, in appreciation. "Well, well. I see you are a gentleman with firm opinions." He paused, leaned toward Pendergast, and began to sing in a low tone, his deep bass voice barely keeping above the noise of the room.
Braveggia, urla! T'affretta a palesarmi il fondo dell'alma ria!
He paused, leaned back, beaming around. "Tosca, one of my favorites."
D'Agosta saw Pendergast's lips tighten a little. "Shout, braggart," he translated. "What a rush you're in to show me the last dregs of your vile soul!"
The group became still at what appeared to be an insult directed at the count. But the count only broke into a smile himself. "Bravo. You speak Italian."
"Ci Provo," said Pendergast.
"My dear fellow, if you can translate Puccini that well, I should say you do much better than merely trying. So you dislike opera. I can only hope you are less of a philistine when it comes to art. Have you had a chance to admire that Ghirlandaio over there? Sublime."
"Getting to the case," said Pendergast, "I wonder, Count, if you could answer a few questions?"
The count nodded.
"What was Grove's mood on the night of his death? Was he upset? Frightened?"
"Yes, he was. But come, shall we take a closer look?" The count moved toward the painting. The others followed.
"Count Fosco, you were one of the last people to see Jeremy Grove alive. I would appreciate your help."
The count patted his hands together again. "Forgive me if I seem flippant. I want to help. As it happens, your line of work has always fascinated me. I'm an ardent reader of English mysteries; they are perhaps the only thing the English are good for. But I must confess myself unused to being the subject of detection. Not an altogether agreeable feeling."
"It is never agreeable. What makes you think Grove was upset that night?"
"Over the course of the evening, he couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes. He hardly drank at all, a striking departure from his usual habits. At times, he spoke loudly, almost giddily. Other times he wept."
"Do you know why he was upset?"
"Yes. He was in fear of the devil."
Lady Milbanke clapped her hands in an excess of excitement.
Pendergast peered at Fosco intently. "And what makes you think that?"
"As I was leaving, he asked me a most peculiar question. Knowing I was Catholic, he begged to borrow my cross."
"And?"
"I loaned it to him. And I must admit to being a trifle alarmed about its safety since reading the morning papers. How may I retrieve it?"
"You can't."
"And why not?"
"It's been entered into evidence."
"Ah!" the count said, relieved. "But in time I may retrieve it, yes?"
"I don't see why you'd want to, save perhaps the jewels it held."
"And why is that?"
"It's been burned and melted beyond all recognition."
"No!" the count cried. "A priceless family relic, passed down for a dozen generations. And it was a present to me from my nonno, on my confirmation!" He mastered himself quickly. "Fate is a capricious thing, Mr. Pendergast. Not only did Grove die a day too soon to do me an important service, but he took my prized heirloom as partner to his destruction. So goes life." He dusted his hands. "And now an exchange of information, perhaps? I have satisfied your curiosity, you satisfy mine."
"I regret I can't talk about the case."
"My dear sir, I don't speak of the case. I speak of this painting! I would value your opinion."
Pendergast turned to the painting and said, in an offhand way, "I detect the influence of the Portinari Triptych in those peasants' faces."
Count Fosco smiled. "What genius! What foresight!"
"I speak not of you, my friend, but of the artist. You see, that must have been quite a feat, since Ghirlandaio painted this little panel three years before the Portinari Triptych arrived in Florence from Flanders." He beamed, looking around at his audience.
Pendergast coolly returned the gaze. "Ghirlandaio saw the studies for the painting which were sent to the Portinari family five years before the altarpiece arrived. I'm surprised, Count, to find you not in possession of that fact."
The count lost his smile for only a moment. Then he clapped with genuine admiration. "Well done, well done! It seems you have bested me on my home turf. I really must get to know you better, Mr. Pendergast: for a member of the carabinieri, you are exceptionally cultivated."
{ 9 }
D'Agosta listened to the distant ringing from the earpiece, so faint the other phone could have been ringing on the moon. If only his son, Vincent, would answer. He really didn't want to talk to his wife.
There was a click and that familiar voice came on. "Yes?" She never said hello, she always said yes, as if his call was already an imposition.
"It's me."
"Yes?" she repeated.
Jesus Christ. "Me, Vinnie."
"I know who it is."
"I'd like to talk to my son, please."
There was a pause. "You can't."
D'Agosta felt a flare of anger. "Why not?"
"Here in Canada we have something called school."
D'Agosta felt stupefied. Of course. It was Friday, close to noon. "I forgot."
"I know you forgot. Just like you forgot to call on his birthday."
"You left the phone off the hook."
"The dog must've knocked it off the hook. But you could have sent a card, a present."
"I did send a card and a present."
"It arrived the day after."
"I sent it ten days before his birthday, for chrissakes. You can't blame me for slow mail." This was insane. Once again he was letting himself get dragged into a senseless argument. Why did they feel this desperate need to fight? The best thing to do was just not respond.
"Look, Lydia, I'll call later tonight, okay?"
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