'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!'
Pendergast inclined his head slightly.
'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.'
