"Get in," said the count.
Pendergast rose to his feet and ducked into the tiny room beyond the doorway. D'Agosta followed. The iron door slammed, the metal key turned, and they were in darkness.
The count's face appeared at the small grating set into the door.
"You'll be secure here," he said, "while I attend to a few final details. And then I will be back. You see, I have prepared something special, something fitting , for you both. For Pendergast, a literary end-something out of Poe, actually. And for D'Agosta, murderer of my Pinchetti, I will use my microwave device one more time before destroying it, and with it the last evidence of my involvement in this affair."
The face vanished. A moment later, the faint illumination of the corridor was extinguished.
D'Agosta sat in the dark, listening to the echo of retreating footsteps. In a moment, all was silent save for the faint dripping of water and the flutter of what D'Agosta thought must be bats.
He shifted, pulled his torn clothes more tightly around him. Pendergast's voice came to him through the darkness, so low as to be almost inaudible.
"I don't see any reason to delay our departure. Do you?"
"Was that a lockpick I saw you hiding under Fabbri's collar?" D'Agosta whispered.
"Of course. Most obliging of him to carry it for me. Naturally, I stumbled into him just now in order to reclaim it. And now I have little doubt that Fabbri or one of the others is outside, guarding us. Bang on the door, Vincent, and see if you can't get a response from him."
D'Agosta banged and shouted: "Hey! Let us out! Let us out! "
The echoes slowly died away in the corridor beyond.
Pendergast touched D'Agosta's arm and whispered again. "Keep making noise while I pick the lock."
D'Agosta shouted, yelled, and swore. A minute later, Pendergast touched his arm once again.
"Done. Now listen. The man waiting in the dark no doubt has an electric torch, which he'll turn on at the slightest indication of funny business. I'm going to find him and take care of him. You keep making noise as a diversion, and to cover any sounds of my crawling through the dark."
"Okay."
D'Agosta once again took up the cry, stomping around and demanding to be let out. It was pitch-black, and he could see nothing of what Pendergast was doing. He yelled and yelled. Suddenly there was a loud thump outside, followed by a thud. Then a beam of light stabbed through the low opening.
"Excellent work, Vincent."
D'Agosta ducked back out beneath the low doorway. There, about twenty feet away, was Fabbri, facedown on the stone floor, arms flung wide.
"Are you sure there's a way out of this pile?" D'Agosta asked.
"You heard the squeaking of bats. Right?"
"Right."
"There must be a way out."
"Yeah, for a bat."
"Where bats fly, so shall we. But first we must get our hands on the machine. It's our only real evidence against the count."
{ 81 }
They made their way back through the dark stonework of the storage cellars and furtively climbed the ancient stairway to the pantry. Pendergast checked the room carefully, then motioned D'Agosta forward. Slowly, they moved from the pantry to the kitchen: a huge room with parallel tables of oiled pine and marble, and a massive fireplace replete with grills and racks. Cast-iron cookware hung on great hooks and chains from the ceiling. No sounds issued from the dining salotto beyond. All appeared deserted.
"When Pinketts retrieved the weapon," whispered Pendergast, "he came through this kitchen, and was gone no more than a minute. It has to be close."
"Why would it still be in the same place?"
"Remember what Fosco said. He's planning to use it once more-on you. Other than the dining area, there are only two ways out of this room. The pantry we just came through, and that ." He pointed to a door leading into what looked like an old meat locker.
At that moment, footsteps sounded from beyond the dining room. They flattened themselves behind the door of the kitchen. Voices spoke in Italian, too indistinct to make out, but approaching.
"Let's keep looking," Pendergast said after a moment. "Any moment now the alarm might be raised."
He ducked into the meat locker: a cool stone room hung with prosciutti and salami, shelves groaning under the weight of massive wheels of aging cheeses. Pendergast shone Fabbri's torch around the crowded space. There was a gleam of aluminum on one of the upper shelves.
"There!" D'Agosta grabbed the case.
"Too bulky," Pendergast said. "Get rid of the case and let's assemble the weapon."
They opened the case, and-with a little difficulty-Pendergast screwed together the various parts. He handed it to D'Agosta, who slung it over his shoulder by its attached leather strap. Then they hurried back into the kitchen. More voices, this time from the dining room itself. Then the hiss of a radio. A voice rasped out, loud, full of panic.
"Sono scappati!"
A flurry of activity, followed by retreating footsteps.
"They've got radios," Pendergast murmured. He paused only another moment. Then he dashed back through the kitchen and across the dining room, D'Agosta following, weapon bouncing on his shoulder. They ran out into the central gallery, past the age-darkened portraits and luxurious tapestries.
Dim voices could be heard ahead.
"This way," Pendergast said, nodding toward a small open door. They ran through it to find themselves in an old armory. Rusted swords, armor, and chain mail hung from the walls. Without a word, Pendergast took down a sword, examined it, put it back, took down another.
The voices grew louder. And then a group of men passed by the doorway, running at top speed toward the dining room and the kitchen.
Pendergast peered out, and then motioned to D'Agosta.
They continued down the gallery, then veered away through a maze of elegant chambers, arriving at last in the small, damp, windowless rooms surrounding the old keep. D'Agosta heard no footsteps but their own. It seemed they were temporarily in luck: nobody expected they'd head for the heart of the castle instead of making toward the outer walls.
No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he heard a voice ahead, talking furiously. He looked around. There was no place to hide in this series of bare stone rooms.
Pendergast swiftly got behind the door, D'Agosta crouching at his back. A man appeared in the doorway, jogging, radio in hand. Pendergast raised his sword with one swift motion; the man grunted, then sprawled forward onto the floor, run through, blood running out over the paving stones.
In an instant, Pendergast had retrieved the man's handgun, a 9mm Beretta. He handed the sword to D'Agosta and gestured for him to follow.
Ahead yawned the entrance to a circular staircase, leading down into darkness. They began flying down the steps, two at a time. Then Pendergast raised his hand.
Footsteps rang faintly from below. Someone was running up toward them.
"How many thugs does the fat fuck employ?" D'Agosta muttered.
"As many as he wants, I imagine. Stay still. We have the advantage of surprise and altitude." And Pendergast aimed the gun carefully down the curve of the stairs. Moments later, a man in peasant dress appeared. Pendergast fired without hesitation, then knelt beside the crumpled form, retrieved his weapon, and tossed it to D'Agosta.