'A splendid book.'
'Thank you.'
'I shall never forget seeing The Visitation in the little church in Carmignano. The most perfect orange in all of art history. In your book-'
'May we get to the point, Mr. Pendergast?'
There was a silence. Ponsonby apparently had no interest in discussing academic subjects with gumshoes, no matter how cultivated. For once, Pendergast's usual charm offensive had failed.
'I believe you had a student named Ranier Beckmann,' Pendergast went on.
'You mentioned that on the phone. I was his thesis adviser.'
'I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.'
'Why don't you ask him directly? I have no intention of becoming an FBI informant, thank you.'
D'Agosta had run into this type before. Deeply suspicious of law enforcement, treating every question as a personal challenge. They refused to be flattered into compliance and fought you every step of the way, citing all kinds of spurious legalisms about the right to privacy, the Fifth Amendment, the usual bullshit.
'Oh, you didn't know?' Pendergast said, his voice smooth as honey. 'Mr. Beckmann died. Tragically.'
Silence. 'No, I didn't know.' More silence. 'How?'
Now it was Pendergast's turn to be unforthcoming. Instead, he dropped another tantalizing nugget. 'I've just come from the exhumation of his body . But perhaps this isn't an appropriate topic of conversation, seeing as how you two weren't close.'
'Whoever told you that was misinformed. Ranier was one of my best students.'
'Then how is it you didn't hear about his death?'
The professor shifted uneasily. 'We lost touch after he graduated.'
'I see. Then perhaps you won't be able to help us, after all.' And Pendergast made a show of preparing to stand.
'He was a brilliant student, one of the best I've ever had. I was-I was very disappointed he didn't want to go on to graduate school. He wanted to go to Europe, do a grand tour on his own, a sort of wandering journey without any kind of academic structure. I did not approve.' Ponsonby paused. 'May I ask how he died and why the body was exhumed?'
'I'm sorry, but that information can be disclosed only to Mr. Beckmann's family and friends.'
'I tell you, we were very close. I gave him a book at parting. I've only done that with half a dozen students in my forty years of teaching.'
'And this was in 1976?'
'No, it was in 1974.' The professor was very glad to offer the correction. Then a new thought seemed to strike him. He looked at Pendergast afresh. 'It wasn't homicide . was it?'
'Really, Professor, unless you can get the permission of a family member to release this information-you do know someone in his family, I daresay?'
The professor's face fell. 'No. No one.'
Pendergast arched his eyebrows in surprise.
'He wasn't close to his family. I can't recall him ever mentioning them.'
'Pity. And so you say that Beckmann left for Europe in 1974, right after graduation, and that was the last you heard of him?'
'No. I got a note from Scotland at the end of August of that year. He was preparing to leave some farming commune he'd joined and head to Italy. I felt it was just some stage he had to go through. To tell you the truth, these past dozen years I'd been half expecting to see his name turn up in one of the journals, or perhaps to hear of an art opening of his. I've often thought of him over the years. Really, Mr. Pendergast, I would appreciate hearing anything you might be able to tell me about him.'
Pendergast paused. 'It would be highly irregular . ' He let his voice trail off.
D'Agosta had to smile. Flattery hadn't worked, so Pendergast had taken another tack. And now he had the professor begging him for information.
'Surely you can at least tell me how he died.'
His pipe had gone out, and Pendergast waited while the professor drew out another match. As Ponsonby struck it, Pendergast spoke. 'He died an alcoholic in a flophouse in Yonkers and was buried in the local potter's field.'
The professor dropped the burning match, his face a mask of horror. 'Good God. I had no idea.'
'Very tragic.'
The professor tried to cover up his shock by opening the matchbox again, but his shaking hands spilled them over the bench.
Pendergast helped pick them up. The professor poked them back one by one into the trembling box. He put his pipe away, unlit. D'Agosta was surprised to see the old man's eyes film over. 'Such a fine student,' he said, almost to himself.
Pendergast let the silence grow. Then he slipped Beckmann's copy of Lives of the Painters out from his suit coat and held it out to Ponsonby.
For a moment, the old man didn't appear to recognize it. Then he started violently. 'Where did you get this?'
