p&c.brimstone-第55部分

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　grasping　it　quickly。　
　〃It　was　with　Mr。　Beckmann's　effects。〃　
　〃This　is　the　book　I　gave　him。〃　As　he　opened　the　flyleaf　to　the　dedication　page；　the　photograph　slipped　out。　〃What's　this？〃　he　asked　as　he　picked　it　up。　
　Pendergast　said　nothing；　asked　no　questions。　
　〃There　he　is；〃　Ponsonby　said；　pointing　at　the　photo。　〃That's　just　how　I　remember　him。　This　must　have　been　taken　in　Florence　in　the　fall。〃　
　〃Florence？〃　said　Pendergast。　〃It　could　have　been　taken　anywhere　in　Italy。〃　
　〃No；　I　recognize　that　fountain　behind　them。　It's　the　one　in　Piazza　Santo　Spirito。　Always　a　big　hangout　for　students。　And　there；　behind；　you　can　just　see　theportone　of　the　Palazzo　Guadagni；　which　is　a　shabby　studentpensione。　I　say　the　fall　because　they're　dressed　that　way；　although　I　suppose　it　could　have　also　been　in　spring。〃　
　Pendergast　retrieved　the　picture；　then　asked　offhandedly；　〃The　other　students　in　the　photograph　were　also　from　Princeton？〃　
　〃I've　never　seen　any　of　them　before。　He　must　have　met　them　in　Florence。　Like　I　said；　the　Piazza　Santo　Spirito　was　a　gathering　place　for　foreign　students。　Still　is。〃　He　closed　the　book。　His　face　looked　very　tired　and　his　voice　cracked。　〃Ranier　。　。　。　Ranier　hadsuch　promise。〃　
　〃We　are　all　born　with　promise；　Professor。〃　Pendergast　stood　up；　then　hesitated。　〃You　may　keep　the　book；　if　you　wish。〃　
　But　Ponsonby　didn't　seem　to　hear。　His　shoulders　were　bent；　and　he　caressed　the　spine　with　a　trembling　hand。　
　As　they　drove　back　to　New　York　in　the　gathering　dusk；　D'Agosta　stirred　restlessly　in　the　front　passenger　seat。　〃Amazing　how　you　extracted　all　that　information　from　the　professor　without　his　even　knowing　it。〃　And　itwas　amazing；　though　also　a　little　sad：　despite　the　professor's　arrogance　and　high…handedness；　he'd　seemed　terribly　moved　by　the　death　of　a　favorite　student；　even　one　not　seen　for　three　decades。　
　Pendergast　nodded。　〃One　rule；　Vincent：　the　more　unwilling　the　subject　is　to　release　information；　the　better　the　information　is；　once　released。　And　Dr。　Ponsonby's　information　was　as　good　as　gold。〃　His　eyes　gleamed　in　the　dark。　
　〃It　looks　like　they　met　up　in　Florence　in　the　fall　of　'74。〃　
　〃Exactly。　Something　happened　to　them　there；　something　so　extraordinary　it　resulted　in　at　least　two　murders；　thirty　years　later。〃　He　turned　to　D'Agosta。　〃Do　you　know　the　saying；　Vincent；　'All　roads　lead　to　Rome'？〃　
　〃Shakespeare？〃　
　〃Very　good。　In　this　case；　however；　it　appears　all　roads　lead　to　Florence。　And　that　is　precisely　whereour　road　should　lead。〃　
　〃To　Florence？〃　
　〃Precisely。　No　doubt　Bullard　himself　is　on　his　way　there；　if　he's　not　there　already。〃　
　〃I'm　glad　there's　not　going　to　be　any　argument　about　my　ing　along；〃　D'Agosta　said。　
　〃I　wouldn't　have　it　any　other　way；　Vincent。　Your　police　instincts　are　first…rate。　Your　marksmanship　is　astonishing。　I　know　I　can　trust　you　in　a　tight　spot。　And　the　chances　of　ourselves　ending　up　in　just　such　a　spot　are　rather　good；　I'm　afraid。　So　if　you　wouldn't　mind　sliding　out　the　laptop　again；　we'll　book　our　tickets　now。　First　class；　if　you　don't　mind；　open　return。〃　
　〃Leaving　when？〃　
　〃Tomorrow　morning。〃　
　　　
　48　
　
　D'Agosta　let　the　cab　drop　him　off　at　136th　Street　and　Riverside。　After　what　happened　on　his　first　visit　to　Pendergast's　crumbling　old　mansion；　there　was　no　way　in　hell　he　was　going　to　trust　public　transportation。　Still；　caution　prompted　him　to　get　off　a　block　early。　Somehow　he　felt　Pendergast　would　prefer　it　that　way。　
　He　dragged　the　lone　suitcase　out　of　the　backseat；　handed　fifteen　dollars　to　the　driver。　〃Keep　the　change；〃　he　said。　
　〃Whatever。〃　And　the　cabbie　sped　away。　Seeing　D'Agosta　and　his　luggage　outside　the　hotel；　he'd　clearly　been　hoping　for　an　airport　fare…and　he　hadn't　been　at　all　pleased　to　find　out　the　actual　destination　was　Harlem。　
　D'Agosta　watched　the　cab　take　the　next　corner　at　speed　and　vanish　from　sight。　Then　he　scanned　Riverside　Drive　carefully；　up　and　down；　checking　the　windows；　the　stoops；　the　dark　areas　between　the　lampposts。　Everything　seemed　quiet。　Hefting　the　suitcase；　he　began　trotting　north。　
　It　had　taken　about　half　an　hour　to　prepare　for　the　trip。　He　hadn't　bothered　to　call　his　wife…as　it　was；　the　next　time　he　heard　from　her　would　probably　be　through　a　lawyer。　Chief　MacCready　of　the　Southampton　P。D。　was　delighted　to　hear　he'd　be　taking　an　unscheduled　trip　as　part　of　his　modified　duty　with　the　FBI。　The　chief　was　in　increasingly　hot　water　over　the　slow　progress　of　the　case；　and　this　gave　him　a　bone　to　throw　the　local　press　SPD　officer　sent　to　Italy　to　follow　hot　lead。　Given　a　dawn　departure；　Pendergast　had　suggested　they　both　spend　the　night　in　New　York　at　his　place　on　Riverside　Drive。　And　now　here　he　was；　luggage　in　hand；　just　hours　away　from　standing　on　his　family's　ancestral　soil。　It　was　both　an　exhilarating　and　a　sobering　thought。　
　The　one　thing　he'd　miss；　he　thought　as　he　neared　the　end　of　the　block；　was　his　blossoming　relationship　with　Laura　Hayward。　Though　the　frantic　pace　of　the　last　few　days　had　mostly　kept　them　apart；　D'Agosta　realized　he'd　begun　to　feel；　for　the　first　time　in　almost　twenty　years；　that　constant；　low…frequency　tingle　of　courtship。　When　he'd　called　her　from　the　hotel　to　say　he　was　acpanying　Pendergast　to　Italy　in　the　morning；　the　line　had　gone　silent　for　several　seconds。　Then　she'd　said　simply；　〃Watch　your　ass；　Vinnie。〃　He　hoped　to　hell　this　little　jaunt　wouldn't　throw　a　monkey　wrench　into　things。　
　Ahead；　the　Beaux　Arts　mansion　at　891　Riverside　rose　up；　the　sharp　ramparts　of　its　widow's　walk　pricking　the　night　sky。　He　crossed　the　street；　then　slipped　through　the　iron　gate　and　made　his　way　down　the　carriageway　to　the　porte…cochère。　His　knock　was　answered　by　Proctor；　who　wordlessly　escorted　him　through　echoing　galleries　and　tapestried　chambers　to　the　library。　It　appeared　to　be　lit　only　by　a　large　fire　that　blazed　on　the　hearth。　Peering　into　the　grand；　book…lined　room；　he　made　out　Pendergast　near　the　far　wall。　The　agent　had　his　back　to　the　door　and　was　standing　before　a　long　table；　writing　something　on　a　sheet　of　cream…colored　paper。　D'Agosta　could　hear　the　crackling　of　the　fire；　the　scratch　of　the　pen。　Constance　was　nowhere　to　be　seen；　but　he　thought　he　made　out…just　at　the　threshold　of　hearing…the　distant；　mournful　sound　of　a　violin。　
　D'Agosta　cleared　his　throat；　knocked　on　the　door　frame。　
　Pendergast　turned　quickly　at　the　sound。　〃Ah；　Vincent。　e　in。〃　He　slipped　the　sheet　of　paper　into　a　small　wooden　box；　inlaid　with　mother…of…pearl；　that　lay　on　the　table。　Then　he　closed　the　box　carefully　and　pushed　it　to　one　side。　It　almost　seemed　to　D'Agosta　as　if　Pendergast　was　careful　to　shield　its　contents　from　view。　
　〃Would　you　care　for　some　refreshment？〃　he　asked；　stepping　across　the　room。　〃Cognac；　Calvados；　Armagnac；　Budweiser？〃　Though　the　voice　was　Pendergast's　usual　slow；　buttery　drawl；　there　was　a　strange　brightness　to　his　eyes　D'Agosta　had　not　seen　before。　
　〃No；　thanks。〃　
　〃Then　I'll　help　myself；　with　your　indulgence。　Please　have　a　seat。〃　And　moving　to　a　sideboard；　Pendergast　poured　two　fingers　of　amber　liquid　into　a　large　snifter。　
　D'Agosta　watched　him　carefully。　There　was　something　unusual　about　his　movements；　a　strange　hesitancy；　that…bined　with　Pendergast's　expression…troubled　D'Agosta　in　a　way　he　could　not　quite　describe。　
　〃What's　happened？〃　he　asked　instinctively。　
　Pendergast　did　not　immediately　respond。　Instead；　he　replaced　the　decanter；　picked　up　the　snifter；　and　took　a　seat　in　a　leather　sofa　across　from　D'Agosta。　He　sipped　meditatively；　sipped　again。　
　〃Perhaps　Ican　tell　you；〃　he　said　at　last　in　a　low　voice；　as　if　arriving　at　a　decision。　〃In　fact；　if　any　other　living　person　is　to　know；　I　suppose　that　person　should　be　you。〃　
　〃Know　what？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　
　〃It　arrived　half　an　hour　ago；〃　Pendergast　said。　〃It　couldn't　possibly　have　e　at　a　worse　time。　Nevertheless；　it　can't　be　helped；　we've　e　too　far　with　this　case　to　change　direction　now。〃　
　〃Whatarrived？〃　
　〃That。〃　And　Pendergast　nodded　at　a　folded　letter　on　the　table　lying　between　them。　〃Go　ahead；　pick　it　up；　I've　already　taken　the　necessary　precautions。〃　
　D'Agosta　didn't　know　exactly　what　was　meant　by　that；　but　he　leaned　over；　picked　up　the　letter；　and　unfolded　it　gingerly。　The　paper　was　a　beautiful　linen；　apparently　hand…pressed。　At　the　top　of　the　sheet　was　an　embossed　coat　of　arms：　a　lidless　eye　over　two　moons；　with　a　crouching　lion　beneath。　At　first；　D'Agosta　thought　the　sheet　was　empty。　But　then　he　made　out；　in　a　beautiful；　old…fashioned　script；　a　small　date　in　the　middle　of　the　page：January　28　。　It　appeared　to　have　been　written　with　a　goose　quill。　
　D'Agosta　put　it　down。　〃I　don't　understand。〃　
　〃It's　from　my　brother；　Diogenes。〃　
　〃Your　brother？〃　D'Agosta　said；　surprised。　〃I　thought　he　was　dead。〃　
　〃He　is　dead　to　me。　At　least；　he　has　been　until　recently。〃　
　D'Agosta　waited。　He　knew　better　than　to　say　more。　Pendergast's　sentences　had　grown　hesitant；　almost　broken；　as　if　he　found　the　subject　intolerably　repellent。　
　Pendergast　took　another　sip　of　Armagnac。　〃Vincent；　a　line　of　madness　has　run　through　my　family　for　many　generations　now。　Sometimes　this　madness　has　taken　a　benign　or　even　beneficial　form。　More　frequently；　I　fear；　it　has　manifested　itself　through　aston