“The Fiat,” he said. “Our rented car. It’s gone.”
“What model?” Esposito asked.
“A Stylo, black. License IGP 223.”
Esposito turned to one of his men and barked an order.
The castle seemed deserted, almost preternaturally quiet. The colonnello nodded to his men, then led the way quickly up the stone steps to the banded doors.
This time, the doors to the inner ward did not open by themselves. In fact, it took five minutes—and increasingly agitated raps by the colonnello—before they groaned slowly open. There, on the far side, stood Fosco. His gaze traveled over the knot of policemen, coming to rest at last on D’Agosta. He smiled.
“Why, my heavens! It’s Sergeant D’Agosta. How are you finding Italy?”
D’Agosta did not reply. Just the sight of the grotesque count brought on a rush of loathing. Keep it cool, he reminded himself.
Fosco was puffing just a bit but otherwise seemed his jovial, unflappable self. “Please excuse my delay in responding. I wasn’t expecting any company today.” Then he turned toward the colonnello. “But we haven’t yet been introduced. I am Fosco.”
“I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito of the Nucleo Investigativo,” Esposito said brusquely. “We have a warrant to search these premises. I would ask you to step aside, sir.”
“A warrant!” Surprise bloomed on the count’s face. “What’s it about?”
Esposito ignored him, walking past, barking orders to his men. He turned to the count. “My men will need access to all parts of the castle.”
“Of course!” The count hastened across the lawn of the inner ward, past the purling fountain, and into the fastness of the dark and brooding keep, putting on a remarkable front of surprise and alarm, mingled with subservient cooperation.
D’Agosta maintained a stony silence, keeping his canvas bag well away from Fosco. He noticed that, this time, none of the massive doors scraped closed behind them.
The count led the way down the central gallery and into a room D’Agosta hadn’t seen before: a large and elegant library, its walls covered with ancient volumes, leather spines stamped and gilded. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth.
“Please, gentlemen,” Fosco said, ushering them in. “Have a seat. Can I offer you sherry? A cigar?”
“I’m afraid there is no time for pleasantries,” Esposito said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper bearing official stamps, laid it on the table. “Here is the warrant. We will search the basements and cellars first, then work our way up.”
The count had taken a cigar from a carved wooden box. “Of course I shall cooperate, but I’d like to know what it’s about.”
“Sergeant D’Agosta has leveled very grave charges against you.”
“Against me?” the count said. He glanced at D’Agosta. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Kidnapping, attempted murder—and the accusation that you are still holding Pendergast.”
The surprise on Fosco’s face deepened. “But this—this is outrageous!” He lowered the cigar, looking from D’Agosta to Esposito and back again. “Sergeant, is this true? Do you make such accusations?”
“Let’s go,” said D’Agosta impatiently. Although he kept his tone level, he seethed inwardly at the masterful acting. The count truly looked like a man struggling with shock and disbelief.
“Well. If that is the case, who am I to protest?” Fosco examined the cigar, snipped off the end with a tiny silver clipper, lit it. “But you may put away that warrant, Officer. I give you and your men free run of the castle. Every door is open to you. Search where you will. Please allow me to assist you in any way I can.”
Esposito turned briskly to some of the carabinieri, speaking in Italian. The men saluted, fanned out, disappeared.
Esposito turned back to D’Agosta. “Sergeant, perhaps you could take us to the room where you were incarcerated for the night. Count, you will accompany us.”
“I would insist upon it. The Foscos are an ancient and noble family, and we value our honor above all else. These charges must be addressed, and settled, immediately.” He glanced back at D’Agosta with just a trace of indignation.
D’Agosta led the way down the gallery, through the drawing room, and into the long procession of elegant chambers. The count followed, walking in his peculiar light-footed way, pointing out various works of art and sights of interest for the colonnello, who ignored him. The remaining two carabinieri brought up the rear.
Then came a point where D’Agosta lost his way. He looked around, stepped forward, stopped again. There had been a door in this stuccoed wall—hadn’t there?
“Sergeant?” Esposito said.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Fosco volunteered.