monitor my movements, as part of his preparation for the crime. I regret to say I was completely unaware of it. I had always believed myself the biggest impediment to his success and that someday he would attempt to kill me. But I was wrong-foolishly wrong. The opposite was true. When Diogenes learned of my peril, he launched a daring rescue. He entered the castle, disguised as a local-he is more the master of disguise than I am-and freed me from the tomb."
D'Agosta was seized by a sudden thought. "Wait. His eyes are two different colors, right?"
Pendergast nodded again. "One is hazel, the other a milky blue."
"I saw him. On the hillside there, above Fosco's castle. Just after we were separated. He was standing in the shadow of a rock ledge, watching the proceedings, as calm as if it was the first race at Aqueduct."
"That was him. After freeing me from my imprisonment, he transported me to a private clinic outside Pisa, where I recuperated from dehydration, exposure, and the wounds inflicted by Fosco's dogs."
"I still don't get it. If he hated you-if he planned to commit this so-called perfect crime-why not just leave you walled up?"
Pendergast smiled again, but this time the smile held no mirth. "You must always remember, Vincent, that we are dealing with a uniquely deviant criminal mind. How little I understood his real plans."
At this, Pendergast abruptly rose and went to the kitchen. A moment later, D'Agosta heard the clink of ice in a glass. When the agent returned, he held a bottle of Lillet in one hand and a tumbler in the other.
"Are you sure I can't interest you in a drink?"
"No. Now tell me, for God's sake, what you mean."
Pendergast splashed a few fingers of Lillet into the glass. "If I had died, I would have ruined everything for Diogenes. You see, Vincent, I am the primary object of his crime."
"You? You're going to be the victim? Then why-?"
"I am not going to be the victim. I already am the victim."
"What?"
"The crime has commenced. It is being successfully executed as we speak."
"You're not serious."
"I have never been more serious in my life." Pendergast took a long gulp of Lillet, refilled the glass. "Diogenes disappeared during my recovery at the private clinic in Pisa. As soon as I recovered, I returned to New York, incognito. I knew his plans were almost mature, and New York seemed the best place to mount the effort to stop him. I had little doubt the crime would take place here. This city offers the greatest anonymity, the best opportunities to hide, adopt an alter ego, develop his plan of attack. And so now-aware that my brother had been keeping tabs on my movements-I remained 'dead' as a way to move about unseen. It meant keeping all of you in the dark. Even Constance." At this, a stab of pain crossed Pendergast's face. "I regret that more than I can say. Still, it seemed the most prudent way to proceed."
"And so you became a doorman."
"The position allowed me to keep an eye on you and, through you, others important to me. I have a better chance of hunting Diogenes from the shadows. And I would not have revealed myself had certain events not forced my hand prematurely."
"What events?"
"The hanging of Charles Duchamp."
"That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?"
"Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall."
"What's the connection?"
"Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest-in fact, my only -childhood friend. He's the only person from my youth I've remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes."
"It couldn't be a coincidence?"
"Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It's a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father's died of a bite from that same spider when he was
D'Agosta was seized by a sudden thought. "Wait. His eyes are two different colors, right?"
Pendergast nodded again. "One is hazel, the other a milky blue."
"I saw him. On the hillside there, above Fosco's castle. Just after we were separated. He was standing in the shadow of a rock ledge, watching the proceedings, as calm as if it was the first race at Aqueduct."
"That was him. After freeing me from my imprisonment, he transported me to a private clinic outside Pisa, where I recuperated from dehydration, exposure, and the wounds inflicted by Fosco's dogs."
"I still don't get it. If he hated you-if he planned to commit this so-called perfect crime-why not just leave you walled up?"
Pendergast smiled again, but this time the smile held no mirth. "You must always remember, Vincent, that we are dealing with a uniquely deviant criminal mind. How little I understood his real plans."
At this, Pendergast abruptly rose and went to the kitchen. A moment later, D'Agosta heard the clink of ice in a glass. When the agent returned, he held a bottle of Lillet in one hand and a tumbler in the other.
"Are you sure I can't interest you in a drink?"
"No. Now tell me, for God's sake, what you mean."
Pendergast splashed a few fingers of Lillet into the glass. "If I had died, I would have ruined everything for Diogenes. You see, Vincent, I am the primary object of his crime."
"You? You're going to be the victim? Then why-?"
"I am not going to be the victim. I already am the victim."
"What?"
"The crime has commenced. It is being successfully executed as we speak."
"You're not serious."
"I have never been more serious in my life." Pendergast took a long gulp of Lillet, refilled the glass. "Diogenes disappeared during my recovery at the private clinic in Pisa. As soon as I recovered, I returned to New York, incognito. I knew his plans were almost mature, and New York seemed the best place to mount the effort to stop him. I had little doubt the crime would take place here. This city offers the greatest anonymity, the best opportunities to hide, adopt an alter ego, develop his plan of attack. And so now-aware that my brother had been keeping tabs on my movements-I remained 'dead' as a way to move about unseen. It meant keeping all of you in the dark. Even Constance." At this, a stab of pain crossed Pendergast's face. "I regret that more than I can say. Still, it seemed the most prudent way to proceed."
"And so you became a doorman."
"The position allowed me to keep an eye on you and, through you, others important to me. I have a better chance of hunting Diogenes from the shadows. And I would not have revealed myself had certain events not forced my hand prematurely."
"What events?"
"The hanging of Charles Duchamp."
"That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?"
"Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall."
"What's the connection?"
"Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest-in fact, my only -childhood friend. He's the only person from my youth I've remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes."
"It couldn't be a coincidence?"
"Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It's a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father's died of a bite from that same spider when he was
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