"Pity. And so you say that Beckmann left for Europe in 1974, right after graduation, and that was the last you heard of him?"
"No. I got a note from Scotland at the end of August of that year. He was preparing to leave some farming commune he'd joined and head to Italy. I felt it was just some stage he had to go through. To tell you the truth, these past dozen years I'd been half expecting to see his name turn up in one of the journals, or perhaps to hear of an art opening of his. I've often thought of him over the years. Really, Mr. Pendergast, I would appreciate hearing anything you might be able to tell me about him."
Pendergast paused. "It would be highly irregular . " He let his voice trail off.
D'Agosta had to smile. Flattery hadn't worked, so Pendergast had taken another tack. And now he had the professor begging him for information.
"Surely you can at least tell me how he died."
His pipe had gone out, and Pendergast waited while the professor drew out another match. As Ponsonby struck it, Pendergast spoke. "He died an alcoholic in a flophouse in Yonkers and was buried in the local potter's field."
The professor dropped the burning match, his face a mask of horror. "Good God. I had no idea."
"Very tragic."
The professor tried to cover up his shock by opening the matchbox again, but his shaking hands spilled them over the bench.
Pendergast helped pick them up. The professor poked them back one by one into the trembling box. He put his pipe away, unlit. D'Agosta was surprised to see the old man's eyes film over. "Such a fine student," he said, almost to himself.
Pendergast let the silence grow. Then he slipped Beckmann's copy of Lives of the Painters out from his suit coat and held it out to Ponsonby.
For a moment, the old man didn't appear to recognize it. Then he started violently. "Where did you get this?" he asked, grasping it quickly.
"It was with Mr. Beckmann's effects."
"This is the book I gave him." As he opened the flyleaf to the dedication page, the photograph slipped out. "What's this?" he asked as he picked it up.
Pendergast said nothing, asked no questions.
"There he is," Ponsonby said, pointing at the photo. "That's just how I remember him. This must have been taken in Florence in the fall."
"Florence?" said Pendergast. "It could have been taken anywhere in Italy."
"No, I recognize that fountain behind them. It's the one in Piazza Santo Spirito. Always a big hangout for students. And there, behind, you can just see the portone of the Palazzo Guadagni, which is a shabby student pensione. I say the fall because they're dressed that way, although I suppose it could have also been in spring."
Pendergast retrieved the picture, then asked offhandedly, "The other students in the photograph were also from Princeton?"
"I've never seen any of them before. He must have met them in Florence. Like I said, the Piazza Santo Spirito was a gathering place for foreign students. Still is." He closed the book. His face looked very tired and his voice cracked. "Ranier . Ranier had such promise."
"We are all born with promise, Professor." Pendergast stood up, then hesitated. "You may keep the book, if you wish."
But Ponsonby didn't seem to hear. His shoulders were bent, and he caressed the spine with a trembling hand.
As they drove back to New York in the gathering dusk, D'Agosta stirred restlessly in the front passenger seat. "Amazing how you extracted all that information from the professor without his even knowing it." And it was amazing, though also a little sad: despite the professor's arrogance and high-handedness, he'd seemed terribly moved by the death of a favorite student, even one not seen for three decades.
Pendergast nodded. "One rule, Vincent: the more unwilling the subject is to release information, the better the information is, once released. And Dr. Ponsonby's information was as good as gold." His eyes gleamed in the dark.
"It looks like they met up in Florence in the fall of '74."
"Exactly. Something happened to them there, something so extraordinary it resulted in at least two murders, thirty years later." He turned to D'Agosta. "Do you know the saying, Vincent, 'All roads lead to Rome'?"
"Shakespeare?"
"Very good. In this case, however, it appears all roads lead to Florence. And that is precisely where our road should lead."
"To Florence?"
"Precisely. No doubt Bullard himself is on his way there, if he's not there already."
"I'm glad there's not going to be any argument about my coming along," D'Agosta said.
"I wouldn't have it any other way, Vincent. Your police instincts are first-rate. Your marksmanship is astonishing. I know I can trust you in a tight spot. And the chances of ourselves ending up in just such a spot are rather good, I'm afraid. So if you wouldn't mind sliding out the laptop again, we'll book our tickets now. First class, if you don't mind, open return."
"Leaving when?"
"Tomorrow morning."
{ 48 }
D'Agosta let the cab drop him off at 136th Street and Riverside. After what happened on his first visit to Pendergast's crumbling old mansion, there was no way in hell he was going to trust public transportation. Still, caution prompted him to get off a block early. Somehow he felt Pendergast would prefer it that way.
He dragged the lone suitcase out of the backseat, handed fifteen dollars to the driver. "Keep the change," he said.
"Whatever." And the cabbie sped away. Seeing D'Agosta and his luggage outside the hotel, he'd clearly been hoping for an airport fare-and he hadn't been at all pleased to find out the actual destination was Harlem.
D'Agosta watched the cab take the next corner at speed and vanish from sight. Then he scanned Riverside Drive carefully, up and down, checking the windows, the stoops, the dark areas between the lampposts. Everything seemed quiet. Hefting the suitcase, he began trotting north.
It had taken about half an hour to prepare for the trip. He hadn't bothered to call his wife-as it was, the next time he heard from her would probably be through a lawyer. Chief MacCready of the Southampton P.D. was delighted to hear he'd be taking an unscheduled trip as part of his modified duty with the FBI. The chief was in increasingly hot water over the slow progress of the case, and this gave him a bone to throw the local press: SPD officer sent to Italy to follow hot lead. Given a dawn departure, Pendergast had suggested they both spend the night in New York at his place on Riverside Drive. And now here he was, luggage in hand, just hours away from standing on his family's ancestral soil. It was both an exhilarating and a sobering thought.
The one thing he'd miss, he thought as he neared the end of the block, was his blossoming relationship with Laura Hayward. Though the frantic pace of the last few days had mostly kept them apart, D'Agosta realized he'd begun to feel, for the first time in almost twenty years, that constant, low-frequency tingle of courtship. When he'd called her from the hotel to say he was accompanying Pendergast to Italy in the morning, the line had gone silent for several seconds. Then she'd said simply, "Watch your ass, Vinnie." He hoped to hell this little jaunt wouldn't throw a monkey wrench into things.
Ahead, the Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside rose up, the sharp ramparts of its widow's walk pricking the night sky. He crossed the street, then slipped through the iron gate and made his way down the carriageway to the porte-cochère. His knock was answered by Proctor, who wordlessly escorted him through echoing galleries and tapestried chambers to the library. It appeared to be lit only by a large fire that blazed on the hearth. Peering into the grand, book-lined room, he made out Pendergast near the far wall. The agent had his back to the door and was standing before a long table, writing something on a sheet of cream-colored paper. D'Agosta could hear the crackling of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Constance was nowhere to be seen, but he thought he made out-just at the threshold of hearing-the distant, mournful sound of a violin.