Dienphong waited for the inevitable expostulation from Carlton, but this time the agent in charge said nothing.
“The pitting on the cross,” Pendergast said, “might suggest to you something?”
“Not so far.”
“Speculations?”
“I never speculate, Mr. Pendergast.”
“An intense electron beam could cause it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but an electron beam would have to propagate through a vacuum. Air would disperse it in, say, a millimeter or two. As I said, it might have been in the infrared, microwave, or X-ray spectrum, except that it would take a transmitter of several tons to generate a beam that intense.”
“Quite so. What do you think, Doctor, of the theory being pushed by the New York Post?”
Dienphong paused briefly at this sudden change of tack. “I am not in the habit of taking my theories from the pages of the Post.”
“They’ve published speculation that the devil took his soul.”
There was a brief silence, and then there was a smattering of nervous chuckles. Pendergast was evidently making a joke. Or was he? He didn’t seem to be laughing.
“Mr. Pendergast, that’s a theory I don’t subscribe to.”
“No?”
Dienphong smiled. “I am a Buddhist. The only devil we believe in is the one inside the human heart.”
{ 18 }
Not much scanning of the crowd streaming into the Metropolitan Opera House was needed to locate Count Isidor Fosco: his huge presence, striking a dramatic pose beside the Lincoln Center fountain, was unmistakable. Pendergast drifted toward him with the crowd. All around, men in tuxedos and women in pearl necklaces were babbling excitedly. It was opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, and the program was Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia. The count was wearing white tie and tails, beautifully tailored to his enormously fat figure. The cut was old-fashioned, and in place of the usual white waistcoat, Fosco was sporting one in gorgeous Hong Kong silk brocaded in white and dove gray. A gardenia was stuck in his buttonhole, his handsome face was patted and shaved and powdered to pink perfection, and his thick mane of gray hair was brushed back into leonine curls. His small, plump hands were perfectly fitted in gray kid gloves.
“My dear Pendergast, I was hoping you’d come in white tie!” Fosco said, rejoicing. “I cannot understand why people dress down so barbarously on a night such as this.” He waved a dismissive hand at the tuxedoed patrons streaming past them into the hall. “There are only three occasions left to truly dress up in these dark days: at one’s nuptials, at one’s funeral, and at opening night at the opera. By far the happiest of these three is the last.”
“That depends on your point of view,” said Pendergast dryly.
“You are happily married, then?”
“I was referring to the other occasion.”
“Ah!” Fosco laughed silently. “You are right, Pendergast. I’ve never seen a more contented smile on some people than at their own wake.”
“I was referring to the deceased’s heirs.”
“You wicked fellow. Shall we go inside? I hope you don’t mind sitting in the pit—I avoid the boxes because the acoustics are muddy. We have tickets for row N, center right, which I have found from experimentation to be the acoustical sweet spot in this hall, particularly seats twenty-three through thirty-one. But look, there go the houselights: we had better sit down.” And with his giant head held erect, chin raised, Fosco moved swiftly through the milling crowd, which parted instinctively. For his part, Fosco looked neither to the right nor to the left as they moved through the central doors, brushing past several ushers offering programs and sweeping down the central aisle to row N. Fosco waited at the end of the row, gesturing a dozen people out of their seats and into the far aisle so he could make his way undisturbed. The count had purchased three seats for himself, and he seated himself in the center one, stretching his arms on the upturned seats on either side.
“Forgive me if we don’t sit jowl-to-jowl, my dear Pendergast. My corpulence demands its space and will not be reined in.” He slipped a small pair of bejeweled, pearl-inlaid opera glasses out of his waistcoat and placed them on the empty seat next to him. A more powerful brass spyglass also made an appearance and was arranged on the other seat.
The great house was filling up, and there was an air of excitement. From the orchestra pit came the murmur of instruments tuning, playing snatches of the opera to come.
Fosco leaned toward Pendergast, placing a neat gloved hand on his arm. “No one who loves music can fail to be moved by Lucrezia Borgia. But wait—what is this?” He peered more closely at Pendergast. “You are not wearing earplugs, are you, sir?”
“Not plugs, no. These merely attenuate the sound—my hearing is exceptionally acute, and any volume above a normal conversation is quite painful to me. Fear not, the music will get through all too well, I assure you.”