Down! the marquis insisted. Down!
And the count sank lower, sprawling on the floor.
Sant’Angelo rose from his chair, and wending his way past the tormented dreamers, stood above the count. Cagliostro’s hands were pressed to his temples, as if his head might split open at any second; with one more, well-directed tap, Sant’Angelo thought, he could break it in two like a quartz crystal. Cagliostro groaned in agony.
La Medusa lay beside him on the floor.
Sant’Angelo bent down and picked it up, clutching it in his fist as if to never let it go.
You will remember who overmastered you tonight, Count.
Cagliostro writhed, his boots scraping on the wood. The white monkey, screaming in fright, tried to run past, but Sant’Angelo snagged its leash and looped it several times around his groveling foe’s neck.
But you will never be able to speak of it. His mind, Sant’Angelo knew, would rot from within, like termite- infested wood.
Turning toward the queen and her guests, restive but still mesmerized, the marquis instructed them to awaken only at the tolling of the clock. It was one minute before midnight.
Then he gathered his wolfskin coat and left. He was halfway to the Trianon’s gate when he heard-added to the shrieks of the monkey and the cawing of the parrot-the commotion of the queen and her guests shaking off their trance. There were shouts of nervous exultation, raucous laughter, voices babbling in shock and surprise.
But what, he wondered with some satisfaction, did they make of the prostrate magician, with a screaming monkey wrapped around his neck?
He did not look back. There was no reason to. As his boots clicked across the flagstones and he gazed down at the long-lost Medusa, now cradled in his hand, he felt more at peace than he had for centuries.
Chapter 25
Coming around the corner of the Rue de Longchamp, David and Olivia paused. On one side of the street, there was a large park, with a sign advertising a boating lake and concession stands. And on the other side, their immaculate facades perfectly aligned, there was a row of eighteenth-century town houses, three or four stories high, with blue mansard roofs. In several of them, windows were lighted, revealing luxurious jewel-box interiors. A party appeared to be going on in one of them, with a woman in a backless gown laughing and sipping from a champagne flute.
But the address David was seeking, the last in the row, showed no signs of life. It was surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence, enclosing a garden and a porte cochere; its windows were dark, the curtains drawn. Although he would have found it hard to say why, the white limestone house gave off a forbidding air, as if it were holding itself aloof from the others. Security cameras were discreetly mounted at either end of the fence, and there was another one above the door. One bright spotlight, apparently motion-sensitive, switched on as David studied the small, gilded plaque, which read, “ L’Anti-quaire.” Antiquary. “ Consultations Privees sur Rendez-vous Seulement.” Private consultations by appointment only.
It was just past seven, and David lifted the heavy door knocker-fashioned in the shape of a lion’s jaw-and banged it three times. Inside, he could hear the boom echoing around an empty foyer.
They waited a minute or so before Olivia pointed out a touch pad with an intercom, and pressed that, too.
David had the distinct impression that they were being watched, and he looked up at the impassive lens of the camera, with its tiny winking red light. He lifted a hand to indicate that he knew.
There was a click of static, and a gruff voice said, “ Que voulezvous? ” What do you want?
“We would like to see the Marquis di Sant’Angelo,” Olivia leaned forward to reply, her French being far better than David’s. “It’s important.”
“He’s out.”
“When will he be back?” David asked, realizing that, in their scruffy coats and jeans, they probably made a far less favorable impression than most of the marquis’s private clients. “We can wait.”
There was a pause, the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown back, and the door opened. A scowling man of about thirty glared down at them.
“What do you want with him?” he said, doubtfully.
“A consultation,” David said.
“About?”
“That’s none of your business,” Olivia interjected. “We have serious matters to discuss.”
The man at the door looked unmoved-in fact, he looked ready to slam the door in their faces-so David jumped in to placate him.
“We’re looking for an artifact that we believe the marquis may know something about.”
“He knows about a lot of things,” the man said, the door swinging more closed by the second.
“It dates from the Renaissance,” David blurted out, “Florence probably, and it’s a mirror.”
Although the man said nothing, the door stopped closing. David could see him debating what to do.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said.
And then the door closed, though David was sure they were still being monitored.
“I’m freezing,” Olivia said, stamping her feet. “There was a restaurant on the boulevard. Let’s get something to eat.”
They were seated at a table in the window, with a view of the park, and ordered some hot sandwiches and coffee. The barren branches of the trees across the way were bending and swaying in the rising wind; the air smelled like rain. There were only a few other customers, bundled in their coats, trying to get the chill out of their bones. But David was feeling more optimistic than he had in weeks-he felt that he might finally be onto something, and the reaction of that man at the door only bolstered it.
For her part, Olivia was thrilled that by following her nose with Cagliostro, she had again picked up the trail of Dieter Mainz, and now she was rattling off more of the Third Reich’s crackpot theories-“in 1937, a rocket engineer named Willy Ley broke away from something called the Vril Society and had the courage to openly speak about their aims in public.”
“Which were?” David said, listening, really, with only half an ear. He could not get his mind off meeting this antiquarian Sant’Angelo, and his eyes stared past his own reflection in the window to watch the night grow more turbulent. A smallish man, in a bulky jacket and hat pulled low, was lighting a cigarette at the entrance to the Metro station across the street.
“The members of the society-and most of the Nazis’ upper echelon, including the Fuhrer, by the way, were members-believed that by pursuing esoteric knowledge and ancient teachings, they could awaken their latent vril.”
“Their what?”
“It’s a meaningless word, really, invented for a science-fiction story by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The vril was supposedly an essence in the blood, a mystical power, that could grant them virtual immortality.”
The waiter brought them more coffee, asked if they would like to see the pastry selections, and when David looked back at the window, he was surprised to see that the man with the cigarette was standing just outside the glass, studying them like fish in an aquarium.
And damned if it wasn’t the same man who had doctored their drinks on the train.
“I can’t believe it!” Olivia said on seeing him there, and they were both incredulous when he casually ground out his lighted cigarette, came inside the bistro, and, as if they were old friends, pulled up a chair at their table.
David thought Olivia was going to grab her fork and try to stab him, and he laid a calming hand on her arm.
“I don’t suppose you expected to see me again,” the man said, taking off his hat and calling for a glass of the house red. His curly hair was squashed down tight around his crown.
