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 welcomed 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 a denuncia 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 his evening constitutional and, puffing slightly, returned to the main dining salotto 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 comfortable chair. For the past few days, the walls of the castle had rung with noise and excitement. Now, by comparison, 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 was not alone. He had Pendergast for company—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 outcome. 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 come 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.