The cars pulled into the graveled parking area just outside the inner wall. Here, in the deep shadow of the stone buttresses, it was chilly. D'Agosta opened the car door and stepped out briskly despite his aches and pains.
"The Fiat," he said. "Our rented car. It's gone."
"What model?" Esposito asked.
"A Stylo, black. License IGP 223."
Esposito turned to one of his men and barked an order.
The castle seemed deserted, almost preternaturally quiet. The colonnello nodded to his men, then led the way quickly up the stone steps to the banded doors.
This time, the doors to the inner ward did not open by themselves. In fact, it took five minutes-and increasingly agitated raps by the colonnello -before they groaned slowly open. There, on the far side, stood Fosco. His gaze traveled over the knot of policemen, coming to rest at last on D'Agosta. He smiled.
"Why, my heavens! It's Sergeant D'Agosta. How are you finding Italy?"
D'Agosta did not reply. Just the sight of the grotesque count brought on a rush of loathing. Keep it cool, he reminded himself.
Fosco was puffing just a bit but otherwise seemed his jovial, unflappable self. "Please excuse my delay in responding. I wasn't expecting any company today." Then he turned toward the colonnello . "But we haven't yet been introduced. I am Fosco."
"I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito of the Nucleo Investigativo," Esposito said brusquely. "We have a warrant to search these premises. I would ask you to step aside, sir."
"A warrant!" Surprise bloomed on the count's face. "What's it about?"
Esposito ignored him, walking past, barking orders to his men. He turned to the count. "My men will need access to all parts of the castle."
"Of course!" The count hastened across the lawn of the inner ward, past the purling fountain, and into the fastness of the dark and brooding keep, putting on a remarkable front of surprise and alarm, mingled with subservient cooperation.
D'Agosta maintained a stony silence, keeping his canvas bag well away from Fosco. He noticed that, this time, none of the massive doors scraped closed behind them.
The count led the way down the central gallery and into a room D'Agosta hadn't seen before: a large and elegant library, its walls covered with ancient volumes, leather spines stamped and gilded. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth.
"Please, gentlemen," Fosco said, ushering them in. "Have a seat. Can I offer you sherry? A cigar?"
"I'm afraid there is no time for pleasantries," Esposito said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper bearing official stamps, laid it on the table. "Here is the warrant. We will search the basements and cellars first, then work our way up."
The count had taken a cigar from a carved wooden box. "Of course I shall cooperate, but I'd like to know what it's about."
"Sergeant D'Agosta has leveled very grave charges against you."
"Against me ?" the count said. He glanced at D'Agosta. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"Kidnapping, attempted murder-and the accusation that you are still holding Pendergast."
The surprise on Fosco's face deepened. "But this-this is outrageous!" He lowered the cigar, looking from D'Agosta to Esposito and back again. "Sergeant, is this true? Do you make such accusations?"
"Let's go," said D'Agosta impatiently. Although he kept his tone level, he seethed inwardly at the masterful acting. The count truly looked like a man struggling with shock and disbelief.
"Well. If that is the case, who am I to protest?" Fosco examined the cigar, snipped off the end with a tiny silver clipper, lit it. "But you may put away that warrant, Officer. I give you and your men free run of the castle. Every door is open to you. Search where you will. Please allow me to assist you in any way I can."
Esposito turned briskly to some of the carabinieri, speaking in Italian. The men saluted, fanned out, disappeared.
Esposito turned back to D'Agosta. "Sergeant, perhaps you could take us to the room where you were incarcerated for the night. Count, you will accompany us."
"I would insist upon it. The Focus are an ancient and noble family, and we value our honor above all else. These charges must be addressed, and settled, immediately." He glanced back at D'Agosta with just a trace of indignation.
D'Agosta led the way down the gallery, through the drawing room, and into the long procession of elegant chambers. The count followed, walking in his peculiar light-footed way, pointing out various works of art and sights of interest for the colonnello , who ignored him. The remaining two carabinieri brought up the rear.
Then came a point where D'Agosta lost his way. He looked around, stepped forward, stopped again. There had been a door in this stuccoed wall-hadn't there?
"Sergeant?" Esposito said.
"Perhaps I could be of assistance?" Fosco volunteered.
D'Agosta glanced through one doorway, backtracked, looked through another. It had been less than twenty-four hours; he couldn't have forgotten. Could he? He advanced, touched the stucco, but it was old, crumbling, anything but fresh.
"The sergeant said the apartment where he was held prisoner was in the tower itself," the colonnello told Fosco.
The count cast a puzzled gaze on the colonnello , turned to D'Agosta. "There is only one apartment in the tower, but it is not this way."
"Take us to it."
The count led them quickly through a series of passages and low, dark stone rooms, barren of furnishings.
"This is the oldest part of the castle," Fosco said. "Dating back to the ninth century. It's rather cold and depressing. There are no modern amenities like electricity or plumbing. I never come here myself."
Within a minute, they had reached the heavy iron door of the keep. Fosco opened it with difficulty, the lock rusty. The door creaked open, Fosco brushing away cobwebs. He led the way up the staircase beyond, the echo of feet filling the stony spaces. Reaching the landing, D'Agosta paused before the door of their apartment. It was ajar.
"Is this it?" Esposito asked.
D'Agosta nodded.
Esposito beckoned to his men, who came forward, opened the door, and stepped inside. Esposito followed, D'Agosta on his heels.
The snug apartment where he'd spent the night before last was gone. The rugs, bookshelves, and furniture were nowhere to be seen. Lights, plumbing fixtures-everything that had been retrofitted into the space was now gone. Instead, he gazed into a chill, dark vault filled with decaying lumber, broken stone carvings, moldering stacks of heavy draperies. A massive iron chandelier, twisted and rusting, lay on the floor. Everything was coated in a thick mantle of dust. It looked like a storage area for the cast-off detritus of past centuries.
"Sergeant-are you sure this is the room?"
D'Agosta's astonishment gave way to puzzlement, then anger. "Yes, but it wasn't like this. It wasn't like this at all. There were bedrooms, a bathroom-"
The room fell silent.
So that's the game, D'Agosta thought. "The count has used the twelve hours it took to get the warrant to fix things. To disguise everything."
Esposito ran his finger over the dust on an old, wormy table, rubbed it between thumb and finger, then looked at D'Agosta rather intently. He turned to the count. "Are there any other apartments in the tower?"
"As you can see, this occupies the entire upper floor."
Esposito looked back at D'Agosta. "All right. What next?"
"We went down to dinner." D'Agosta was careful to keep his voice calm. "In the main dining room. Fosco said we'd never leave the castle alive. There was an exchange of gunfire. I killed his manservant."