The bird’s only response was to bury its massive black bill within a fluff of fake beak feathers, as if rendered timid by the compliment.
“You must forgive Bucephalus!” Fosco said, tut-tutting. “He is not partial to strangers. He is slow to make friends and screams when displeased—ah, my friend, such screams as you would not believe! I have been forced to take the two apartments adjoining this and keep them unoccupied, at great personal expense. Mere walls, you see, are no defense against the lungs of this magnificent creature!”
The robotic cockatoo gave no acknowledgment of this panegyric, continuing to eye Pendergast motionlessly.
“But they are all quite fond of opera. As Congreve said, music hath charms et cetera. Perhaps you heard my poor singing. Did you recognize the piece?”
Pendergast nodded. “Pollione’s aria from Norma, ‘Abbandonarmi così potresti.’”
“Ah! Then you liked it.”
“I said I recognized it. Tell me, Count, did you build these robots yourself?”
“Yes. I am a lover of animals and gadgets. Would you like to see my canaries? The real ones, I mean: I rarely distinguish between my own children and those of nature.”
“Thank you, no.”
“I should have been born an American, a Thomas Edison, where my inventiveness would have been encouraged. But instead I was born into the stifling, decaying Florentine aristocracy, where skills such as mine are useless. Where I come from, counts are supposed to keep both feet firmly in the eighteenth century, if not earlier.”
Pendergast stirred. “May I trouble you with some questions, Count Fosco?”
The count waved his hand. “Let us do away with this ‘Count’ business. We are in America, and here I am Isidor. May I call you Aloysius?”
There was a short silence before Pendergast spoke again, voice cool. “If it’s all the same to you, Count, I would prefer to keep this interview on a formal level.”
“As you like. I see the good Pinketts supplied you with refreshment. He’s a treasure, don’t you think? The English lorded it over the Italians for so many centuries that it gives me pleasure to have at least one Englishman under my thumb. You’re not English, are you?”
“No.”
“Well then, we can speak freely of the English. Bah! Imagine, the only composer of note they ever produced was a man named Byrd.” The count settled himself into a wing chair opposite, and as he did so, Pendergast noted again how lightly and easily the enormous man seemed to move, how delicately he seated himself.
“My first question, Count Fosco, involves the dinner party. When did you arrive?”
The count placed his white hands together reverently, as if about to pray, and sighed. “Grove wanted us at seven. And on a Monday night, too—very unlike him. We came straggling in, fashionably late, between seven-thirty and eight. I was the first to arrive.”
“What was Grove’s mental state?”
“Very poor, I should say. As I told you, he seemed nervous, high-strung. No so much that he couldn’t entertain. He had a cook, but he prepared the main dishes himself. He was quite a good chef. He prepared an exquisite sole, lightly grilled over the fire, with lemon. Nothing more, nothing less. Perfection. Then he followed with—”
“I already have the menu, thank you. Did he give any indication why he was nervous?”
“No. In fact, he seemed to be at great pains to hide it. His eyes darted everywhere. He locked the door after each guest was let in. He hardly drank, which was quite out of character. He was a man who normally liked a good claret, and even on this occasion, he served some excellent wines, starting with Tocai from Friuli and then a ’90 Petrus, truly magnificent.”
Chateau Petrus 1990, considered the best since the fabled ’61, was one of Pendergast’s own most prized wines; he had a dozen bottles of the $2,000 Pomerol laid down in his cellar in the Dakota. He chose not to mention this fact.
The count continued his description with great good humor and volubility. “Grove also opened, quite spontaneously, a wine from the Castello di Verrazzano, their so-called bottiglia particolare, the one with the silk label. Exceptional.”
“Did you know the other guests?”
The count smiled. “Lady Milbanke I know quite well. Vilnius I’d met a few times. Jonathan Frederick I knew only from his writings.”
“What did you talk about at dinner?”
The smile widened. “It was most peculiar.”
“Yes?”
“The first part of the dinner was taken up with a conversation about the Georges de la Tour painting you saw in my sitting room. What do you think of it, Agent Pendergast?”
“Shall we stay on the subject, Count Fosco?”
“This is the subject. Bear with me. Do you think it’s a de la Tour?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”