"I don't know how to use it," D'Agosta said.
"Try," said Esposito, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
It occurred to D'Agosta that if he could get it working, it might be his only chance to turn the tide. It was his last chance.
He pointed it toward the fireplace hearth, where-as if placed as a deliberate challenge-sat a fresh pumpkin. He tried to clear his mind, tried to remember precisely what Fosco had done before. He turned a knob, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He spun more dials, pressed a button, aimed, pulled the trigger.
Still nothing.
For all he knew, it had been damaged during the escape, when he tossed it into the bushes. He fiddled with the dials, pulling the trigger again and again, hoping for the low hum he'd heard during the demonstration. But the machine remained silent, cold.
"I think we've seen enough," said Esposito quietly.
Slowly, very slowly, D'Agosta replaced it in the canvas bag. He could hardly bring himself to look at the colonnello. The man was staring at him, his face a mask of skepticism. No, not just skepticism: pure disbelief, anger-and pity.
From over Esposito's shoulder, Fosco also stared. Then-very slowly and deliberately-Fosco reached into his collar, drew out a chain with a medallion at the end, and draped it carefully over his shirtfront, patting it familiarly with a plump hand.
With a sudden, burning shock of recognition, D'Agosta recognized the medallion: the lidless eye over a phoenix rising from the ashes. Pendergast's own chain. Fosco's private message was all too terribly clear.
"You bastard-!" And D'Agosta lunged for the count.
In a moment, the carabinieri leaped on D'Agosta and pulled him back, restraining him against a far wall of the library. The colonnello quickly placed himself between D'Agosta and Fosco.
"The son of a bitch! That's Pendergast's chain! There's your proof! He killed Pendergast and took it! "
"Are you all right?" Esposito asked the count, ignoring D'Agosta.
"Quite all right, thank you," Fosco said, sitting back and smoothing his capacious front. "I was startled, that is all. To settle the question once and for all, so there can beno doubt -" He turned the disc over, and there, on the reverse of the medallion, evidently worn by time, was an intricate engraving of the count's own crest.
Esposito looked at the crest, then turned to stare at D'Agosta, dark eyes glittering. D'Agosta, clamped in the arms of six men, could barely move. He tried to regain control of himself, his voice. The way the count had said So there can be no doubt, with that peculiar emphasis on the words no doubt . It was a message aimed directly at D'Agosta It was a message that told him he was too late. Those twelve hours maneuvering for the warrant had proved fatal. The desperate hope D'Agosta had been fighting to hold on to-that the count might have kept Pendergast alive, a prisoner-guttered and died. Pendergast was dead. So there can be no doubt .
Esposito extended his hand to Fosco. "Abbiamo finito qui, Conte. Chiedo scusa per il disturbo, e la ringrazio per la sua pazienza con questa faccenda piuttosto spiacevole."
The count inclined his head graciously. "Niente disturbo, Colonnello. Prego." He glanced in D'Agosta's direction. "Mi dispiace per lui."
Esposito and Fosco shook hands. "We'll be going now," Esposito said. "There is no need to show us out." And with this he bowed deeply to Fosco and left the room, ignoring D'Agosta.
The carabinieri holding D'Agosta released him. D'Agosta picked up the canvas bag and headed for the door. A red mist hung before his eyes In the doorway, he stopped to look back at Fosco. "You're a dead man," he said, barely managing to speak. "You-"
But the words died in his throat as Fosco swiveled to stare at him in turn, his large features and wet lips spreading into a horrible grin It was like nothing D'Agosta had ever seen before-malevolent, triumphant, a grotesque leer of exultation. If the count had spoken the words out loud, the message couldn't have been clearer. He had murdered Pendergast.
And then the smile was gone, hidden behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
Colonnello Esposito said nothing during the walk back along the gallery, across the manicured lawn, through the gate of the inner ward. He remained silent as the cars made their way down the narrow road, past the cypress trees and olive groves It was not until they were on the main road back to Florence that he turned to D'Agosta.
"I misjudged you, sir," he said in a low, chill voice. "I welcomed you here, gave you credentials, cooperated with you in every way In return, you disgraced yourself and humiliated me and my men I will be lucky if the count doesn't bring a denuncia against me for this invasion of his home and insult to his person."
He leaned a little closer. "You may consider all your official privileges revoked from this moment on. The paperwork to have you declared persona non grata in Italy will take a little time-but if I were you, signore, I would leave this country by the next available flight."
Then he sat back, stared stonily out the window, and spoke no more.
{ 86 }
It was approaching midnight when Count Fosco finished his evening constitutional and, puffing slightly, returned to the main dining salotto of the castle. Whether in town or country, it was his habit, before turning in, to take a short stroll for his health's sake. And the long galleries and corridors of Castel Fosco offered an almost endless variety of perambulations.
He took a seat in a chair facing the vast stone fireplace, warming his hands before the merry blaze, dispelling the damp embrace of the castle. He'd take a glass of port and sit here awhile before retiring: sit here, and contemplate the end of a successful day.
The end, in fact, of a successful undertaking.
His men had been paid off and had all melted away, back into the huts and tenant farmhouses of his estate. The small detachment of police had gone, along with Sergeant D'Agosta and his fire and bluster. The man would soon be on a flight back to New York. The servants would not return until the next morning. The castle seemed almost watchful in its silence.
Fosco rose, poured himself a glass of port from a bottle on an ancient sideboard, then returned to his comfortable chair. For the past few days, the walls of the castle had rung with noise and excitement. Now, by comparison, they seemed preternaturally quiet.
He sipped the port, found it excellent.
It was a great pity, not having Pinketts, or rather Pinchetti, here to anticipate his every need. It was a great pity, to think of him at rest in an unmarked tomb within the family vault. The man would be difficult, even impossible, to replace. Truth to tell, sitting here by himself, in this vast empty edifice, Fosco found himself feeling just the least bit lonely.
But then, he reminded himself, he was not alone. He had Pendergast for company-or, at least, his corpse.
Fosco had faced many adversaries in the past, but none had shown the brilliance or tenacity of Pendergast. In fact, had it not been for Fosco's home soil advantages-his moles in the police and elsewhere, the maturity of his long-laid plans, the scope of his contingency arrangements-the story might well have ended differently. Even so, he'd felt just the least bit anxious. And so Fosco had made sure this evening's constitutional took him back down-very deep down indeed-to Pendergast's current domicile. Just to make sure. As expected, he'd found the newly mortared but carefully disguised wall as he left it. He'd rapped on it, listened, called softly, but, of course, there was no answering response. Almost thirty-six hours had passed. No doubt the good agent was already dead.