He clasped his hands behind his back, turned. “And now, for the real reason we came to Cremona. Stick close behind me, please, and don’t get lost.”
Pendergast led the way through a maze of back passages and narrow staircases to a side alley behind the palazzo. There they paused at least a minute while Pendergast made a careful inspection of the alley and surrounding buildings. Then, moving very quickly, he led D’Agosta through a winding series of ever more tortuous medieval streets, the ancient brick and stone buildings crowding in above. Some of the streets were so narrow they were dark despite the midday sun. Now and then, Pendergast would duck into a doorway or side alley and make another visual scan.
“What’s up?” D’Agosta asked at one point.
“Just caution, Vincent; habitual caution.”
They finally arrived at a street so narrow it could hardly admit a bicycle. It twisted into a dead end at what appeared to be a deserted shopfront, a plate-glass window rudely affixed to a medieval stone arch. The plate glass was cracked and taped and opaque with dirt. A metal grate had been fitted and locked over the front, where it seemed to have rusted in place.
Pendergast slid his hand through the grate and pulled a string. There was a small tinkle in the shop beyond.
“Would it compromise your investigation completely if you told me who we’re visiting now?”
“This is the laboratory and workshop of il dottor Luigi Spezi, one of the world’s foremost experts on Stradivari violins. He is a bit of a Renaissance man himself, being a scientist and engineer as well as a fine musician. His re-creations of the Stradivari violins are among the best in the world. But I warn you: he is known to be a little cranky.”
Pendergast pulled again, and a voice rumbled from the back. “Non lo voglio. Va’ via!”
Pendergast rang again, insistently.
A gray shape materialized behind the glass: an enormous, stooped man in a leather apron with long gray hair and a gray mustache. He waved both hands at Pendergast in a shooing motion. “Che cazz’! Via, ho detto!”
Pendergast took out a business card, wrote a single word on the back, and slipped it through the mail slot in the door. It fluttered to the floor. The man picked it up, read the back, and went very still for a moment. He looked up at Pendergast, looked down at the card—and then began the laborious process of unlocking the door and raising the grate. Within a minute, they had stooped beneath the arch and were standing in his shop.
D’Agosta looked around curiously. The walls of the shop were almost completely covered with the hanging bellies, backplates, and purflings of violins in various stages of carving. It had a pleasant smell of wood, sawdust, varnish, oil, and glue.
The man stared at Pendergast as if he were staring at a ghost. He was wearing a dirty leather apron, and he removed a pair of sawdust-covered glasses in order to peer at the agent more closely.
“So, Aloysius Pendergast, Ph.D.,” he said in almost flawless English. “You have gotten my attention. What is it you want?”
“Is there a place where we can talk?”
They followed him through the confines of the narrow shop—perhaps eight feet wide—to a much larger space in the back. Spezi indicated for them to sit on a long bench. He himself perched against the corner of a worktable, folded his hands, and stared.
In the rear wall, D’Agosta could see a stainless-steel door, grossly out of place, with a single small window. On the far side of the window was a gleaming white laboratory, racks of computer equipment and CRTs bathed in unpleasant fluorescent light.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dottor Spezi,” Pendergast said. “I know you are a very busy man, and I can assure you we will not waste your time.”
The man bowed his head, mollified slightly.
“This is my associate, Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta of the Southampton Police Department, New York.”
“Very pleased.” The man leaned forward and shook his hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip. Then he sat back again and waited.
“I propose an exchange of information,” Pendergast said.
“As you wish.”
“You tell me what you know of Stradivari’s secret formulas. I will tell you what I know of the existence of the violin mentioned on my card. Naturally, I will keep your information secret. I will write nothing down and speak to no one about it, except to my associate, who is a man of complete discretion.”
D’Agosta watched the man’s deep pale eyes stare back at them. He appeared to be thinking about, perhaps even struggling with, the proposal. Finally he nodded curtly.
“Very well, then,” said Pendergast. “I wonder if you could answer some questions about your work.”
“Yes, but first: the violin. How in the world—?”