p&c.brimstone-第116部分

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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　weled　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　adenuncia　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　hisevening　constitutional　and；　puffing　slightly；　returned　to　the　main　diningsalotto　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　fortable　chair。　For　the　past　few　days；　the　walls　of　the　castle　had　rung　with　noise　and　excitement。　Now；　by　parison；　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　wasnot　alone。　He　had　Pendergast　for　pany…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。　
　He　sipped　the　port；　sank　back　in　the　chair；　basking　in　the　reflections　of　a　successful　oute。　There　was；　of　course；　one　loose　end：　Sergeant　D'Agosta。　Fosco　reflected　on　the　fury；　the　impotent　murderous　rage；　on　the　policeman's　face　as　he'd　been　led　off　the　grounds。　Fosco　knew　this　rage　would　soon　fade。　And　in　its　place　would　e　first　resignation；　then　uncertainty；　and　then…ultimately…fear。　Because　by　now　D'Agosta　surely　must　know　the　kind　of　man　he　was　dealing　with。　He；　Fosco；　would　not　forget。　He　would　snip　off　that　loose　end；　finish　the　business；　make　D'Agosta　repay　the　debt　he　incurred　for　shooting　Pinchetti；　and　in　so　doing　retrieve　his　clever　little　invention。　
　But　there　was　no　hurry。　No　hurry　at　all。　
　As　he　sipped　his　port；　Fosco　realized　there　was；　in　fact；　a　second　loose　end。　Viola；　Lady　Maskelene。　He　thought　of　her；　tending　her　bit　of　vineyard；　strong　limbs　made　tawny　by　the　Mediterranean　sun。　Her　bearing；　her　movements；　had　a　mix　of　good　breeding；　catlike　athleticism；　and　sexuality　he　found　deliciously　intoxicating。　Her　conversation　sparkled　like　no　other　woman's　he　had　met。　She　was　bursting　with　vitality。　She　would　bring　warmth　to　any　place　she　visited…even　Castel　Fosco　。　。　。　
　A　faint　sound；　like　the　scurry　of　dead　leaves　on　stone；　came　from　the　darkness　beyond　the　room。　
　Fosco　paused　in　mid…sip。　
　Slowly；　he　put　the　glass　down；　stood；　and　walked　to　the　main　entrance　to　thesalotto　。　Beyond　lay　the　long　gallery；　lit　only　by　the　moon　and　the　occasional　wall　sconce。　Long　ranks　of　suited　armor　lined　the　walls；　glowing　faintly　in　the　pallid　light。　
　Nothing。　
　Fosco　turned　thoughtfully。　The　old　castle　was　full　of　rats；　it　was　high　time　he　had　the　head　gardener　in　again　to　deal　with　them。　
　He　began　walking　back　toward　the　fire；　feeling　a　chill　that　could　not　entirely　be　explained　by　the　cool　air。　
　Then　he　stopped　again。　There　was　one　thing；　he　knew；　that　would　put　him　in　fine　high　spirits。　
　Taking　a　tack　away　from　the　fire；　he　made　for　the　small　doorway　that　led　into　his　private　workshop。　He　crossed　the　dark　room；　threading　his　way　through　a　maze　of　lab　tables　and　freestanding　equipment；　until　he　reached　the　wooden　paneling　of　the　rear　wall。　He　knelt；　ran　one　fat　hand　along　the　polished　wainscoting；　found　a　tiny　detent。　He　pressed　it。　One　of　the　wooden　panels　above　his　head　popped　ajar　with　a　faint　snick。　Rising；　the　count　pulled　the　panel　wide；　exposing　a　large　safe　retrofitted　into　the　stonework　of　the　wall。　He　punched　a　code　into　the　safe's　keypad；　and　its　door　sprung　open。　Carefully；　reverently；　the　count　reached　inside　and　pulled　out　the　small；　coffin…shaped　wooden　case　that　held　the　Stormcloud　Stradivarius。　
　He　carried　the　case　into　the　diningsalotto　and　placed　it　on　the　table　against　the　wall；　well　away　from　the　heat　of　the　fire；　leaving　it　closed；　so　it　would　slowly　accustom　itself　to　the　change　in　temperature。　Then　he　returned　to　his　seat。　pared　to　the　chill　of　the　lab；　it　was　deliciously　warm　before　the　fire。　He　took　another　sip　of　port；　thinking　about　what　he　would　play。　A　Bach　chaconne？　A　flashy　Paganini？　No：　someth