Dance of Death (11 page)

"I learned later of the count's curious death. Was that you?"

"Sure was."

Pendergast nodded approvingly. "What happened to the violin?"

"I couldn't leave it lying around the castle, so I took it and..." He paused, feeling uncertain how Pendergast would feel about what he had done.

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in query.

"I brought it to Viola Maskelene. I told her you were dead."

"I see. How did she react?"

"She was very shocked, very upset. Although she tried to cover that up. I think..." D'Agosta hesitated. "I think she cares for you."

Pendergast was silent, his face a mask.

D'Agosta and Pendergast had first met Viola Maskelene the prior November, while working on a case in Italy. It had been obvious to D'Agosta that, from the moment the two saw each other, something ineffable had passed between Pendergast and the young Englishwoman. He could only guess what Pendergast was now thinking.

Pendergast suddenly roused himself. "You did the correct thing, and now we can consider the case of the Stormcloud violin definitively closed."

"But look," D'Agosta said, "how did you escape the castle? How long were you walled up down there?"

"I was chained in the tomb for almost forty-eight hours."

"In the dark?"

Pendergast nodded. "Slowly suffocating, I might add. I found a certain specialized form of meditation to be most useful."

"And then?"

"I was rescued."

"By who?"

"My brother."

D'Agosta, still reeling from Pendergast's near-miraculous reappearance, felt himself go numb with shock. "Your
brother?
Diogenes?"

"Yes."

"But I thought he hated you."

"Yes. And because he hates me, he needs me."

"For what?"

"For at least the past six months, Diogenes had made it his business to monitor my movements, as part of his preparation for the crime. I regret to say I was completely unaware of it. I had always believed myself the biggest impediment to his success and that someday he would attempt to kill me. But I was wrong-foolishly wrong. The
opposite
was true. When Diogenes learned of my peril, he launched a daring rescue. He entered the castle, disguised as a local-he is more the master of disguise than I am-and freed me from the tomb."

D'Agosta was seized by a sudden thought. "Wait. His eyes are two different colors, right?"

Pendergast nodded again. "One is hazel, the other a milky blue."

"I saw him.
On the hillside there, above Fosco's castle. Just after we were separated. He was standing in the shadow of a rock ledge, watching the proceedings, as calm as if it was the first race at Aqueduct."

"That was him. After freeing me from my imprisonment, he transported me to a private clinic outside Pisa, where I recuperated from dehydration, exposure, and the wounds inflicted by Fosco's dogs."

"I still don't get it. If he hated you-if he planned to commit this so-called perfect crime-why not just leave you walled up?"

Pendergast smiled again, but this time the smile held no mirth. "You must always remember, Vincent, that we are dealing with a uniquely deviant criminal mind. How little I understood his real plans."

At this, Pendergast abruptly rose and went to the kitchen. A moment later, D'Agosta heard the clink of ice in a glass. When the agent returned, he held a bottle of Lillet in one hand and a tumbler in the other.

"Are you sure I can't interest you in a drink?"

"No. Now tell me, for God's sake, what you mean."

Pendergast splashed a few fingers of Lillet into the glass. "If I had died, I would have ruined everything for Diogenes. You see, Vincent,
I
am the primary object of his crime."

"You?
You're going to be the victim? Then why-?"

"I am not
going
to be the victim. I
already am
the victim."

"What?"

"The crime has commenced. It is being successfully executed as we speak."

"You're not serious."

"I have never been more serious in my life." Pendergast took a long gulp of Lillet, refilled the glass. "Diogenes disappeared during my recovery at the private clinic in Pisa. As soon as I recovered, I returned to New York, incognito. I knew his plans were almost mature, and New York seemed the best place to mount the effort to stop him. I had little doubt the crime would take place here. This city offers the greatest anonymity, the best opportunities to hide, adopt an alter ego, develop his plan of attack. And so now-aware that my brother had been keeping tabs on my movements-I remained 'dead' as a way to move about unseen. It meant keeping all of you in the dark. Even Constance." At this, a stab of pain crossed Pendergast's face. "I regret that more than I can say. Still, it seemed the most prudent way to proceed."

"And so you became a doorman."

"The position allowed me to keep an eye on you and, through you, others important to me. I have a better chance of hunting Diogenes from the shadows. And I would not have revealed myself had certain events not forced my hand prematurely."

"What events?"

"The hanging of Charles Duchamp."

"That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?"

"Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall."

"What's the connection?"

"Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest-in fact, my
only
-childhood friend. He's the only person from my youth I've remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes."

"It couldn't be a coincidence?"

"Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It's a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father's died of a bite from that same spider when he was a minor functionary in India during the Raj." Pendergast took another sip. "Duchamp was hung from a noose, which then parted, plunging him twenty stories to his death. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner. He was hanged in New Orleans in 1871 for murdering his wife and her lover. Because the gibbet had been badly damaged in recent riots, they hung him instead from one of the upper courthouse windows on Decatur Street. But Maurice's violent struggles, combined with a defective rope, caused it to part, sending him plummeting to his death."

D'Agosta stared at his friend in horror.

"These deaths, and the manner in which they were staged, were Diogenes's way of attracting my attention. Perhaps now, Vincent, you can understand why Diogenes needs me
alive."

"You can't mean that he's-"

"Precisely. I had always assumed his crime would be against humanity. But now I know
I
am his target. My brother's so-called perfect crime is to murder
everyone close to me.
That's the real reason he rescued me from Fosco's castle. He doesn't want me dead, he wants me alive-alive so he can destroy me in a far more exquisite way, leaving me filled with misery and self-reproach, torturing myself with the knowledge that I was unable to save those few people on earth..." Pendergast paused, took a steadying breath. "Those few people on earth I truly care about."

D'Agosta swallowed. "I can't believe this monster's related to you."

"Now that I know the true nature of his crime, I've been forced to abandon my initial plan and develop a new one. It's not an ideal plan, but it is the best possible under the circumstances."

"Tell me."

"We
must
prevent Diogenes from killing again. That means locating him. And here's where I'll need your help, Vincent. You must use your access as a law enforcement officer to glean as much as you can from the crime scene evidence."

He handed a cell phone to D'Agosta. "Here's a phone I'll use to keep in contact with you. Because time is of the essence, we'll need to start locally, with Charles Duchamp. Dig up whatever evidence you can find and bring it to me. No crumb is too small. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward-but for God's sake don't tell her what you're up to. Not even Diogenes can leave a totally clean crime scene."

"Good as done." D'Agosta paused. "So what's with the date on the letter? January 28?"

"I no longer have any doubt that is the day he plans to complete his crime. But it is vital you keep in mind that the crime
has already begun.
Today is the twenty-second. My brother has been planning this infamy for years, maybe decades. All his preparations are in place. I shudder to think who he might kill in the next six days." And at this, Pendergast sat forward and stared at D'Agosta, his eyes glittering in the dim room. "Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me-and that would certainly include you, Vincent-may die."

THIRTEEN

Smithback took his usual place in the darkest corner of the Bones, the dingy restaurant behind the museum favored as an after-hours hangout by museum employees who-it seemed-never tired of the sight of bones. The official name of the place was the Blarney Stone Tavern; it had acquired its nickname from the owner's penchant for hammering bones of all shapes, sizes, and sources onto the walls and ceiling.

Smithback looked at his watch. Miracle of miracles, he was ten minutes early. Maybe Nora would be early, too, and they could have a few extra minutes to talk. He felt like he hadn't seen his new wife in ages. She had promised to meet him here for a burger and beer before she returned to the museum to work late on the big upcoming show. And he himself had a story of sorts to write up and file before the 2 a.m. deadline.

He shook his head. What a life: two months married and he hadn't been laid in a week. But it wasn't so much making love he missed as Nora's companionship. Talk. Friendship. The truth was, Nora was Smithback's best friend, and right now he needed his best friend. The Duchamp murder story was going badly: he'd gotten nothing more than the same crap as the other papers. The cops were keeping a tight lid on information, and his usual sources could offer nothing. Here he was, Smithback of the
Times,
and his latest stories were nothing more than the reheated leftovers of a few briefings. Meanwhile, he could almost smell Bryce Harriman's ambition to muscle in on the story, take it away from him, leave him with the damn Dangler assignment he'd managed to slough off so adroitly when the Duchamp case first broke.

"Whence the dark look?"

Smithback looked up, and there was Nora. Nora, her bronze-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, her freckled nose wrinkled by a smile, her green eyes sparkling with life.

"This seat taken?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? Jesus, woman, you're a sight for sore eyes."

She slid her bag to the floor and sat down. The obligatory droopy-eared, hangdog-faced waiter appeared, like a pallbearer at a funeral, and stood silently awaiting their order.

"Bangers and mash, fries, glass of milk," said Nora.

"Nothing stronger?" Smithback asked.

"I'm going back to work."

"So am I, but that never stopped me. I'll take a shot of that fifty-year-old Glen Grant, backed up by a steak and kidney pie."

The waiter gave a mournful dip of his head and was gone.

Smithback took her hand. "Nora, I miss you."

"Likewise. What a crazy life we lead."

"What are we
doing
here in New York City? We should go back to Angkor Wat and live in some Buddhist temple in the jungle for the rest of our lives."

"And take a vow of celibacy?"

Smithback waved his hand. "Celibacy? We'll be like Tristan and Isolde in our own jeweled cave, making love all day long."

Nora blushed. "It was quite a shock, coming back to reality after that honeymoon."

"Yeah. Especially to find that circus ape Harriman, grinning and bobbing in my doorway."

"Bill, you're too obsessed with Harriman. The world's full of people like that. Ignore him and move on. You should see the people I have to work with at the museum. Some of them should be numbered and put in a glass case."

Their food arrived within minutes, along with Smithback's drink. He picked it up, clinked Nora's glass of milk. "Slainte."

"Chin-chin."

Smithback took a sip. Thirty-six dollars a shot and worth every penny. He watched Nora tuck into her meal. Now, there was a woman with healthy appetites-no fussy little salads for her. He recalled a certain moment that illustrated his point, back in the ruins of Banteay Chhmar, and felt an amorous stirring in his loins.

"So how are things at the museum?" he asked. "You whipping them into shape over that new show?"

"I'm only the junior curator, which means I'm mostly a whippee."

"Ouch."

"Here we are, six days from opening, and a quarter of the artifacts haven't even been mounted yet. It's a zoo. I've got only one more day to write label copy for thirty objects, and then I have to curate and organize an entire exhibit on Anasazi burial practices. And just today they said they want me to give a lecture on southwestern prehistory for the lecture series. Can you believe it? Thirteen thousand years of southwestern prehistory in ninety minutes, complete with slides." She took another bite.