TWELVE
FOR A moment, D'Agosta went rigid in shock and disbelief. The voice was familiar and yet strange. Instinctively, he tried to speak again, but the gloved hand clamped down still harder over his mouth.
"Shhhh."
The elevator doors rolled open with a faint chime. Still holding D'Agosta in a tight restraint, the man peered cautiously out into the dark basement corridor, looking carefully in both directions. Then he gave D'Agosta a gentle shove out into the dingy hall, steering him through a series of narrow, high-ceilinged passages of yellow cinder block. At last, he brought D'Agosta up short before a scuffed metal door, unlabeled and painted the same color as the walls. They were near the building's power plant: the low rumble of furnaces was clearly audible. The man glanced around once again, then stopped to examine a small cobweb that stretched across one edge of the door frame. Only then did he withdraw a key from his pocket, unlock the door, and usher D'Agosta quickly inside, closing the door and carefully locking it.
"Glad to see you looking so well, Vincent."
D'Agosta could not summon a word.
"My sincerest apologies for the brusque behavior," the man said, crossing the room with swift steps and checking the lone basement window. "We may speak freely here."
D'Agosta remained astounded by the disconnect between the man's voice-those unmistakable, mellifluous southern tones with the lazy consistency of molasses-and the man himself: a total stranger in a spotty doorman's uniform, stocky, dark-complected, with brown hair and eyes and a round face. Even his bearing, his manner of walking, was unfamiliar.
"Pendergast?" D'Agosta asked, finally finding his voice.
The man bowed. "The very same, Vincent."
"Pendergast!" And before he realized what he was doing, D'Agosta had crushed the FBI agent in a bear hug.
Pendergast went rigid for a few seconds. Then, gently but firmly, he disengaged himself from the embrace and took a step back. "Vincent, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you again. I have missed you."
D'Agosta seized his hand and shook it, embarrassment mingling with the surprise, relief, and joy. "I thought you were dead. How-?"
"I must apologize for the deception. I'd intended to remain 'dead' even longer. But circumstances have forced my hand." He turned his back. "Now, if you don't mind…" He slipped out of the doorman's coat, which D'Agosta could now see was cleverly padded around the shoulders and midriff, and hung it on the back of the door.
"What happened to you?" D'Agosta asked. "How did you escape? I turned Fosco's castle upside down looking for you. Where the hell have you been?" As the initial shock began to recede, he felt himself filling with a thousand questions.
Pendergast smiled faintly under this barrage. "You shall know all, I promise. But first, make yourself comfortable-I'll only be a moment." And with that, he turned and vanished into a back room.
For the first time, D'Agosta examined his surroundings. He was in the living room of a small, dingy apartment. A threadbare sofa was shoved against one wall, flanked by two wing chairs, their arms spotted with stains. A cheap coffee table held a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. A battered rolltop desk sat against one wall, its writing surface bare save for a sleek Apple PowerBook: the only thing out of place in the monochromatic room. Some faded Hummel pictures of big-eyed children hung on the nondescript walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, mostly popular novels and cheesy best sellers. D'Agosta was amused to find a personal favorite, Ice Limit III: Return to Cape Horn, among the well-thumbed reads. Beyond the living room, an open door led to a kitchen, small but tidy. The place was about as far removed from Pendergast's digs at the Dakota or his Riverside Drive mansion as you could get.
There was a faint rustle and D'Agosta jumped to find Pendergast-the real Pendergast-standing in the doorway: tall, slender, his silver eyes glittering. His hair was still brown, his skin swarthy, but his face had morphed back into the fine, aquiline features D'Agosta knew so well.
Pendergast smiled again, as if reading D'Agosta's mind. "Cheek pads," he said. "Remarkable how effectively they can change one's appearance. I've removed them for the present, however, since I find them rather uncomfortable. Along with the brown contact lenses."
"I'm floored. I knew you were a master of disguises, but this beats all… I mean, even the room…" D'Agosta jerked a thumb in the direction of the bookcase.
Pendergast looked pained. "Even here, alas, nothing can appear out of place. I must keep up the image of doorman."
"And a surly one at that."
"I find that exhibiting unpleasant personality traits helps one evade deeper scrutiny. Once people typecast me as a peevish doorman with a chip on his shoulder, they look no farther. May I offer you a beverage?"
"Bud?"
Pendergast shuddered involuntarily. "My dissembling has its limits. Perhaps a Pernod or Campari?"
"No, thanks." D'Agosta grinned.
"I take it you received my letter."
"That's right. And I've been on the case ever since."
"Progress?"
"Precious little. I paid a visit to your great-aunt. But that can wait a bit. Right now, my friend, you have some serious explaining to do."
"Naturally." Pendergast motioned him to a seat and took a chair opposite. "I recall we parted in haste on a mountainside in Tuscany."
"You could say that. I'll never forget the last time I saw you, surrounded by a pack of boar-hunting dogs, every one eager to take a chunk out of you."
Pendergast nodded slowly, and his eyes seemed to go far away. "I was captured, bound, sedated, and carried back to the castle. Our corpulent friend had me transported deep into the tunnels beneath. There he chained me in a tomb whose former occupant had been unceremoniously swept out. He proceeded-in the most genteel way, of course-to wall me in."
"Good God." D'Agosta shuddered. "I brought the Italian police in to search for you the next morning, but it was no use. Fosco had removed all traces of our stay. The Italians thought I was a lunatic."
"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.