“My goodness,” Fosco said, staring with great interest. “What is that?”
“The sergeant tells us it is a microwave weapon,” Esposito said. “Designed by you, and used by you, to burn to death Mr. Locke Bullard, a peasant from Abetone, and two other people back in the United States.”
Fosco looked first at the colonnello, then at D’Agosta, astonishment and then—pity?—on his face. “The sergeant says this?”
“Correct.”
“A machine, you say? That zaps people, turns them into smoking piles of ash? That I built?” He spread his hands, astonishment on his face. “I should like to see a demonstration.”
“Sergeant, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate the device for us and the count?”
D’Agosta looked down at the weapon, turned it over in his hands. Fosco’s skeptical tone went unrefuted by the colonnello, and no wonder: the device looked almost cartoonish, a Flash Gordon confection.
“I don’t know how to use it,” D’Agosta said.
“Try,” said Esposito, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
It occurred to D’Agosta that if he could get it working, it might be his only chance to turn the tide. It was his last chance.
He pointed it toward the fireplace hearth, where—as if placed as a deliberate challenge—sat a fresh pumpkin. He tried to clear his mind, tried to remember precisely what Fosco had done before. He turned a knob, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He spun more dials, pressed a button, aimed, pulled the trigger.
Still nothing.
For all he knew, it had been damaged during the escape, when he tossed it into the bushes. He fiddled with the dials, pulling the trigger again and again, hoping for the low hum he’d heard during the demonstration. But the machine remained silent, cold.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” said Esposito quietly.
Slowly, very slowly, D’Agosta replaced it in the canvas bag. He could hardly bring himself to look at the colonnello. The man was staring at him, his face a mask of skepticism. No, not just skepticism: pure disbelief, anger—and pity.
From over Esposito’s shoulder, Fosco also stared. Then—very slowly and deliberately—Fosco reached into his collar, drew out a chain with a medallion at the end, and draped it carefully over his shirtfront, patting it familiarly with a plump hand.
With a sudden, burning shock of recognition, D’Agosta recognized the medallion: the lidless eye over a phoenix rising from the ashes. Pendergast’s own chain. Fosco’s private message was all too terribly clear.
“You bastard—!” And D’Agosta lunged for the count.
In a moment, the carabinieri leaped on D’Agosta and pulled him back, restraining him against a far wall of the library. The colonnello quickly placed himself between D’Agosta and Fosco.
“The son of a bitch! That’s Pendergast’s chain! There’s your proof! He killed Pendergast and took it!”
“Are you all right?” Esposito asked the count, ignoring D’Agosta.
“Quite all right, thank you,” Fosco said, sitting back and smoothing his capacious front. “I was startled, that is all. To settle the question once and for all, so there can be no doubt—” He turned the disc over, and there, on the reverse of the medallion, evidently worn by time, was an intricate engraving of the count’s own crest.
Esposito looked at the crest, then turned to stare at D’Agosta, dark eyes glittering. D’Agosta, clamped in the arms of six men, could barely move. He tried to regain control of himself, his voice. The way the count had said So there can be no doubt, with that peculiar emphasis on the words no doubt . . . It was a 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.