p&c.brimstone-第7章

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ozen　small　sofas　and　wing　chairs　were　arranged　across　a　thick　Persian　carpet。　In　one　of　the　chairs；　sitting　before　the　fire；　was　a　young　woman；　paging　through　an　oversize　book　of　lithographs。　She　was　wearing　a　pinafore　over　a　white　dress　and　black　stockings；　and　as　she　turned　another　page；　the　firelight　shone　on　her　slender　limbs；　her　dark　hair　and　eyes。　On　a　low　table　nearby　sat　a　tea　service；　laid　out　for　two。　
　Pendergast　cleared　his　throat　gently　and　the　girl　looked　up。　Her　eyes　went　from　the　FBI　agent　to　Wren；　and　for　a　moment；　fear　flashed　through　them。　But　then　recognition　spread　across　her　features。　She　put　the　book　aside；　stood　up；　smoothed　her　pinafore；　and　waited　for　the　two　men　to　approach。　
　〃How　are　you；　Constance？〃　Wren　asked　in　as　soothing　a　croak　as　he　could　manage。　
　〃Very　well；　Mr。　Wren；　thank　you。〃　Constance　gave　a　small　curtsy。　〃And　yourself？〃　
　〃Busy；　very　busy。　My　books　take　up　all　my　time。〃　
　〃I　shouldn't　think　one　would　speak　grudgingly　of　such　a　noble　occupation。〃　Constance's　tone　was　grave；　but　the　faintest　of　smiles　touched　her　lips…in　amusement？　condescension？…and　was　gone　again　before　Wren　could　be　sure。　
　〃No；　no；　of　course　not。〃　Wren　tried　not　to　stare。　How；　in　such　a　short　time；　could　he　have　forgotten　that　studied　voice　with　its　quaint　constructions？　How　could　he　forget　those　eyes；　so　very　ancient；　yet　set　in　such　a　young　and　beautiful　face？　He　cleared　his　throat。　〃So　tell　me；　Constance；　how　you　pass　your　days。〃　
　〃Rather　tranquilly。　In　the　mornings；　I　read　Latin　and　Greek；　under　the　direction　of　Aloysius。　My　afternoons　are　my　own；　and　I　generally　spend　them　browsing　the　collections；　correcting　the　occasional　inaccurate　label　I　happen　to　e　across。〃　
　Wren　darted　a　quick　look　at　Pendergast。　
　〃We　have　a　late　tea；　during　which　Aloysius　generally　reads　to　me　from　the　newspapers。　After　dinner；　I　practice　the　violin。　Wretchedly。　Aloysius　suffers　me　to　believe　he　finds　my　playing　bearable。〃　
　〃Dr。　Pendergast　is　the　most　honest　of　people。〃　
　〃Let　us　say　Dr。　Pendergast　is　the　most　tactful　of　people。〃　
　〃Be　that　as　it　may；　I'd　love　to　hear　you　play　sometime。〃　
　〃I　would　be　delighted。〃　And　Constance　curtsied　again。　
　Wren　nodded；　turned　to　leave。　
　〃Mr。　Wren？〃　Constance　called　after　him。　
　Wren　turned；　beetled　eyebrows　raised　in　query。　
　She　looked　back　at　him。　〃Thank　you　again。　For　everything。〃　
　Pendergast　quietly　shut　the　doors　to　the　library　and　acpanied　Wren　back　down　the　echoing　galleries。　
　〃You　read　her　thenewspapers　？〃　Wren　asked。　
　〃Just　selected　articles；　of　course。　It　seemed　the　easiest　form　of…how　best　to　put　it？…social　depression。　We're　now　up　to　the　1960s。〃　
　〃And　her　nocturnal；　ah；　rambles？〃　
　〃Now　that　she's　under　my　care；　there's　no　need　for　foraging。　And　I've　decided　on　the　site　of　her　recuperation：　my　great…aunt's　estate　on　the　Hudson。　It's　deserted　these　days。　It　should　be　a　good　reintroduction　to　sunlight；　if　handled　gently　enough。〃　
　〃Sunlight。〃　Wren　repeated　the　word　slowly；　as　if　tasting　it。　〃It　still　seems　impossible　she　was　there　all　that　time；　after　what　happened；　in　those　tunnels　down　by　the　river　access。　I　keep　wondering　why　she　revealed　herself　to　me。〃　
　〃Perhaps　she'd　grown　to　trust　you。　She'd　watched　you　at　work　long　enough；　over　the　summer。　You　clearly　loved　the　collections；　which　are　precious　to　her　as　well。　Or　perhaps　she　had　just　reached　the　point　where　human　contact　was　necessary；　no　matter　what　the　risk。〃　
　Wren　shook　his　head。　〃Are　you　sure；　really　sure；　she's　only　nineteen　years　old？〃　
　〃That　question　is　more　difficult　than　it　sounds。　Physically；　her　body　is　that　of　a　nineteen…year…old。〃　
　They　had　reached　the　front　door；　and　Wren　waited　for　Pendergast　to　unlock　it。　〃Thank　you；　Wren；〃　the　FBI　agent　said；　opening　the　door。　Night　air　rushed　in；　carrying　with　it　the　faint　sounds　of　traffic。　
　Wren　stepped　through　the　door；　paused；　turned　back。　〃Have　you　decided　what　you're　going　to　do　about　her？〃　
　For　a　moment；　Pendergast　did　not　reply。　Then　he　nodded　silently。　
　　　
　8　
　
　The　Renaissance　Salon　of　the　Metropolitan　Museum　of　Artwas　one　of　the　museum's　most　remarkable　spaces。　Taken　piece　by　piece；　stone　by　stone；　from　the　ancient　Palazzo　Dati　of　Florence　and　reassembled　in　Manhattan；　it　re…created　in　perfect　detail　a　late　Renaissancesalone。　It　was　the　most　imposing　and　austere　of　all　the　grand　galleries　in　the　museum；　and　for　this　reason；　it　was　chosen　for　the　memorial　service　of　Jeremy　Grove。　
　D'Agosta　felt　like　an　idiot　in　his　cop's　uniform；　with　its　Southampton　P。D。　patch　in　gold　and　blue　and　its　lowly　sergeant's　stripes。　People　turned　toward　him　quickly；　stared　as　if　he　was　some　kind　of　freak；　and　then　just　as　quickly　dismissed　him　as　hired　help　and　turned　away。　
　As　he　followed　Pendergast　into　the　hall；　D'Agosta　was　surprised　to　see　a　long　table　groaning　with　food；　and　another　sporting　enough　bottles　of　wine　and　liquor　to　lay　low　a　herd　of　rhinos。　Some　memorial　service。　More　like　an　Irish　wake。　D'Agosta　had　been　to　a　few　of　those　during　his　NYPD　days　and　felt　lucky　to　have　survived　them。　They'd　obviously　set　this　whole　thing　up　with　remarkable　speed…Grove　had　been　dead　only　two　days。　
　The　room　was　crowded。　There　were　no　chairs：　people　were　meant　to　mingle；　not　sit　reverentially。　Several　television　crews　had　set　up　their　gear　near　a　carpet…covered　stage；　which　was　bare　save　for　a　small　podium。　A　harpsichord　stood　in　a　far　corner　of　the　salon；　but　it　was　barely　audible　over　the　noise　of　the　crowd。　If　there　was　anybody　shedding　tears　over　Grove；　they　were　hiding　it　pretty　well。　
　Pendergast　leaned　over。　〃Vincent；　if　you　are　interested　in　any　estibles；　now　is　the　time　to　act。　With　a　crowd　like　this；　they　won't　last　long。〃　
　〃estibles？　You　mean　that　food　on　the　table？　No；　thanks。〃　His　dalliance　with　the　literary　world　had　taught　him　that　events　like　these　served　things　like　fish　eggs　and　cheese　that　smelled　so　bad　it　encouraged　you　to　check　the　bottom　of　your　shoes。　
　〃Then　shall　we　circulate？〃　Pendergast　began　moving　sylphlike　through　the　crowd。　Now　a　lone　man　mounted　the　stage：　impeccably　dressed；　tall；　hair　carefully　groomed　back；　face　glistening　with　a　professional　makeup　job。　The　crowd　hushed　even　before　he　reached　the　microphone。　
　Pendergast　took　D'Agosta's　elbow。　〃Sir　Gervase　de　Vache；　director　of　the　museum。〃　
　The　man　plucked　the　microphone　from　the　podium；　his　elegant　figure　straight　and　dignified。　
　〃I　wele　you　all；〃　he　said；　apparently　feeling　it　unnecessary　to　introduce　himself。　〃We　are　here　to　memorialize　our　friend　and　colleague　Jeremy　Grove…but　as　he　would　have　wanted　it：　with　food；　drink；　music；　and　good　cheer；　not　long　faces　and　lugubrious　speeches。〃　He　spoke　with　a　trace　of　a　French　accent。　
　Although　Pendergast　had　stopped　the　moment　the　director　gained　the　stage；　D'Agosta　noticed　that　the　FBI　agent　was　still　scouring　the　room　with　his　restless　eyes。　
　〃I　first　met　Jeremy　Grove　some　twenty　years　ago；　when　he　reviewed　our　Monet　exhibition　forDowntown　。　It　was…how　shall　I　say　it？…a　classic　Grove　review。〃　
　There　was　a　ripple　of　knowing　laughter。　
　〃Jeremy　Grove　was；　above　all　else；　a　man　who　told　the　truth　as　he　saw　it；　unflinchingly　and　with　style。　His　rapier　wit　and　irreverent　sallies　enlivened　many　a　dinner　party　。　。　。〃　
　D'Agosta　tuned　out。　Pendergast　was　still　ceaselessly　scanning　the　room；　and　now　he　began　moving　again；　slowly；　like　a　shark　that　has　just　scented　blood　in　the　water。　D'Agosta　followed。　He　liked　to　watch　Pendergast　in　action。　There；　at　the　liquor　table；　pouring　himself　a　stiff　drink；　was　a　striking　young　man　dressed　entirely　in　black；　with　a　neat　goatee。　He　had　exceptionally　large；　deep；　liquid　eyes；　and　fingers　that　were　even　more　spidery　than　Pendergast's。　
　〃Maurice　Vilnius；　the　abstract　expressionist　painter；〃　Pendergast　murmured。　〃One　of　many　beneficiaries　of　Grove's　ministrations。〃　
　〃What's　that　supposed　to　mean？〃　
　〃I　recall　a　review　Grove　wrote　of　Vilnius's　paintings　some　years　back。　The　phrase　that　best　sticks　in　my　mind　is：These　paintings　are　so　bad　they　inspire　respect；　even　awe。　It　takes　a　special　kind　of　talent　to　produce　mediocrity　at　this　level。　Vilnius　has　such　talent　in　abundance。　〃　
　D'Agosta　swallowed　a　laugh。　〃That's　worth　killing　over。〃　He　hastily　put　his　face　in　order；　Vilnius　had　turned　to　see　them　approach。　
　〃Ah；　Maurice；　how　are　you？〃　Pendergast　asked。　
　The　painter　raised　two　very　black　eyebrows。　As　a　fellow　sufferer　of　bad　reviews；　D'Agosta　had　expected　to　see　anger；　or　at　least　resentment；　on　the　flushed　face。　Instead；　it　wore　a　broad　smile。　
　〃Have　we　met？〃　
　〃My　name's　Pendergast。　We　met　briefly　at　your　opening　at　Galerie　Dellitte　last　year。　Beautiful　work。　I've　been　considering　acquiring　a　piece　for　my　apartment　in　the　Dakota。〃　
　Vilnius　's　smile　grew　broader。　〃Delighted。〃　He　spoke　with　a　Russian　accent。　〃e　by　anytime。　e　by　today。　It　would　make　my　fifth　sale　this　week。〃　
　〃Indeed？〃　D'Agosta　noticed　Pendergast　was　careful　to　keep　surprise　from　his　voice。　In　the　background；　the　director's　voice　droned　on：〃。　。　。　a　man　of　courage　and　determination；　who　did　not　go　gently　into　that　good　night　。　。　。〃　
　〃Maurice；〃　Pendergast　continued；　〃I'd　like　to　speak　with　you　about　Grove's　last…〃　
　Suddenly；　a　middle…aged　woman　came　up　to　Vilnius；　her　cadaverous　figure　draped　in　a　sequined　dress。　In　tow　was　a　tall　man　in　a　black　tuxedo；　his　bald　head　polished　to　gemstone　brilliance。　
　The　woman　tugged　at　Vilnius's　sleeve。　〃Maurice；　darling；　I　justhad　to　congratulate　you　in　person。　That　new　review　is　simply　wonderful。　Andso　long　overdue。〃　
　〃You've　seen　it　already？〃　Vilnius　replied；　turning　toward　these　new　arrivals。　
　〃Just　this　afternoon；〃　the　tall　man　replied。　〃A　proof　copy　was　faxed　to　my　gallery。〃　
　〃。　。　。　and　now；　one　of　Jeremy's　beloved　sonatas　by　Haydn　。　。　。〃　
　People　continued　talking；　ignoring　the　man　at　the　podium。　Vilnius　glanced　back　toward　Pendergast　for　a　moment。　〃Nice　to　have　met　you　again；　Mr。　Pendergast；〃　he　said；　drawing　a　card　from　his　pocket　and　handing　it　to　the　FBI　agent。　〃Please　drop　by　the　studio　anytime。〃　Then　he　turned　back　to　the　woman　and　her　escort。　As　they　walked　away；　D'Agosta　could　hear　Vilnius　saying；　〃It's　remarkable　to　me　how　quickly　news　spreads。　The　review　isn't　even　due　to　be　published　for　another　day。〃　
　D'Agosta　looked　at　Pendergast。　He；　too；　was　watching　Vilnius　walk　away。　〃Interesting；〃　he　murmured　under　his　breath。　
　They　drifted　back　into　the　crowd。　De　Vache　had　concluded　his　speech；　and　the　noise　level　had　risen　once　again。　The　harpischord　had　resumed　but　was　now　pletely　inaudible　over　the　drinking；　eating；　and　gossiping。　
　Suddenly；　Pendergast　took　off　at　high　speed；　arrowing　through　the　crowd。　D'Agosta　realized　his　aim　was　the　director　of　the　Met；　stepping　down　from　the　stage。　
　De　Vache　paused　at　their　approach。　〃Ah；　Pendergast。　Don't　tell　meyou're　on　the　case。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　
　The　Frenchman　pursed　his　lips。　〃Is　this　official？　Or　were　you　perhaps　a　friend　of　his？〃　
　〃Did　Grovehave　any　friends？〃　
　De　Vache　chuckled。　〃True；　very　true。　Friendship　was　a　stranger　to　Jeremy；　something　he　kept　at　arm's　length。　The　last　time　I　met　him　was…let　me　see…at　a　dinner　party。　I　recall　he　asked　the　man　across　from　him…a　perfectly　harmless　old　gentleman　wit