The count turned a triumphant smile on Pendergast。 〃It was quite simple。 I went to the Dakota and made inquiries there。〃
〃They are under strict orders not to divulge my other addresses。〃
〃But they were no match for Fosco！ I've always been interested in this profession of yours。 I read all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in my youth。 Dickens； Poe。 And the sublime Wilkie Collins！ Have you readThe Woman in White ？〃
〃Naturally。〃
〃A tour de force！ In my next life； perhaps； I'll choose to be a detective。 Being a count from an ancient family is rather boring。〃
〃The two are not mutually exclusive。〃
〃Well put！ We have all kinds of detectives these days； everyone from English lords to Navajo policemen。 Why not a count from the lineage of Dante and Beatrice？ I must confess； this case with Grove fascinates me； and not only because I was a guest at the…dare I say？…last supper。 One week ago tonight； alas。 I feel for the poor man； naturally； but it is a rather delicious mystery。 I am at your assistance in the matter。〃
〃I thank you； but I must confess it's unlikely I'll need your assistance。〃
〃Quite right！ I am speaking now…if I may…as a friend。 I only wish to offer you my services as someone with a particular knowledge of art and music； and perhaps society。 And in that last regard； I'd like to think I've already been helpful with the question of the dinner party。〃
〃You were。〃
〃Thank you。〃 The count patted his gloved hands together； as excited as a small boy。
The lights darkened。 A hush fell on the house。 Fosco turned his attention to the stage； practically wriggling with excitement。 The concertmaster appeared and sounded the A； the orchestra tuned to it； then all fell silent。 The conductor came out to a thunderous burst of applause。 Taking his position at the podium； he raised his baton； brought it sharply down； and the overture began。
Fosco listened with rapt attention； smiling and nodding his head from time to time； not a note of Donizetti's luxurious music lost on him。 When the curtain rose on the first act； a murmur and scattered applause filled the hall； a look of annoyance darkened Fosco's face as he cast a disapproving glance at his neighbors。
There he sat； like a giant in the darkened hall； from time to time raising the opera glasses or spyglass to observe the scene。 When the people near him applauded the close of an aria without any regard for the music to follow； Fosco raked them with a look of reproof and even held up his hands in forbearance； with a sad but passionate shake of his head。 After the more plex and difficult passages of music； which went unnoticed by his neighbors； he held up his gloved hands and patted them lightly together with relish； sometimes murmuring 〃Brava！〃 After a while； Fosco's enormous presence； his deep enthusiasm； and his evident connoisseurship began to municate itself to the people seated around them。 Many an eruption of applause in appreciation for some particular turn of the music originated in row N； right center； with the soft patting of Fosco's plump； kid…gloved hands。
The first act drew to a close with huge huzzahs； a storm of applause； and shouts of 〃Bravi！〃 led by Fosco； so vociferous that even the conductor's attention was drawn to him。 When the uproar had at last died down； Fosco turned to Pendergast； wiping the sweat from his brow with an oversize handkerchief。 He was breathing hard； blowing； damp with perspiration。
〃You see； you see！〃 he cried； pointing with a cry of self…vindication。 〃Youare enjoying yourself。〃
〃And what gave rise to that deduction？〃
〃You cannot hide from Fosco！ I saw you nodding in time just now to 'Vieni！ La mia vendetta。'〃
But Pendergast said nothing； merely inclining his head slightly as the houselights came up and the intermission began。
19
Nigel Cutforth threw back the covers and sat up in an emptybed。 Eliza had taken exception to his little trip to Thailand and had gone off to stay with a girlfriend in the Village。 Good fucking riddance。
He looked around。 The bedside clock glowed 10：34 in red letters。Jesus； only 10：30？ His plane left at six in the morning； and around eight he'd knocked back two fingers of gin and crawled into bed； desperate for a little sleep。 But sleep had been slow to e。 And now here he was； suddenly wide awake； sitting up in bed； heart beating hard。 Christ； it was hot。 He flapped the covers； trying to stir up the dead air of the room； but it seemed only to draw the heat closer around him。 With another curse； he flicked on the light； swung his legs over the bed； and put his feet on the floor。 At the rate he was going； the jet lag to Bangkok would be so bad he might just have to extend his vacation another week。 But that would be hard to pull off： the fall was a big time in the cutthroat music business； and you had to stay vigilant。
He stood up； padded across the floor； and checked the thermostat。 It was off； as he knew it would be； but the thermometer itself registered eighty…five degrees。 He put his hand over the forced…air grating； but it felt cool to the touch。 No heat there。
Heat。 It was just what Grove had plained about。
He reminded himself again that this was the twenty…first century and that Grove had been insane in the closing days of his sorry life。 He walked over to the balcony； ran back the heavy curtains； unlocked and slid open the glass door。 A wele stream of cool October air washed over him； and the faint sounds of traffic rose from below。 Cutforth breathed deeply and stepped out onto the balcony； feeling sanity return。 There was New York： solid； modern； rational New York。 The buildings of Midtown stood like glowing ramparts against the night sky； and Fifth Avenue was like a brilliant stripe of moving light； changing from white to red as it passed below his window。 He breathed again and； feeling the sweat chill on his skin； stepped back inside。 The heat within seemed worse than ever； and now he felt a prickling sensation beginning to creep over his scalp and face and move down his limbs。 It was very odd； like nothing he'd ever felt before； this sensation of heat and cold at the same time。
He was getting sick。 That's what was happening。 An early case of the flu。
He put on his slippers and walked out the bedroom； across the living room； to the wet bar。 He jerked open the cabinet doors； pulled out the bottle of Bombay Sapphire； some ice； and a jar of olives； and mixed himself another drink。 A Xanax； three Tylenol capsules； five vitamin C tablets； two fish…liver…oil pills； a selenium tablet； and three tabs of coral calcium followed； each washed down with a generous gulp of gin。 After finishing the glass； he mixed himself another and went to the floor…to…ceiling windows of the living room。 These windows looked east； past Madison and Park to the 59th Street Bridge and Roosevelt Island。 Beyond lay the dark wasteland of Queens。
Cutforth was finding it hard to think。 His skin was crawling with unpleasant sensations； as if he was covered with spiders that were scuttling around and nipping at him。 Or bees； maybe： he felt like he was wearing one of those human bee cloaks； and the bees were moving around； not exactly stinging him； but prickling him with their dry hairy legs。
Grove had been crazy； he had to remind himself。 Grove lost it pletely； he'd succumbed to his own fantasies。 Not surprising； given the kind of life he'd led。 And then there was that other thing： the thing Cutforth never；ever wanted to think about again 。 。 。
He shook this thought away furiously and took another slug of gin； feeling the liquor and the sedative starting to kick in。 Under any other circumstance； it would be delightful； relaxing； a sensation of slowly drifting down。 But it didn't seem to be doing anything about that itchy； hot； crawling sensation on his skin。 He rubbed a hand on his arm。 Dry and hot： his skin felt like sandpaper。
Grove had plained about a strange sensation of heat； too。 That and the smell。
He tossed back the drink with a shaking hand。Don't get paranoid； Nigel dear。 He was getting sick； that was all。 He hadn't had his flu shot； and it was hitting him early this year。 Great timing； on the eve of his departure for Thailand。
〃Fuck；〃 he said out loud。 The drink was gone。 Should he mix himself yet another？ Why the hell not？ He reached for the bottle； grasped it； filled the glass； and set it back down on the bar。
I am ing。
Cutforth spun around。 The apartment was empty。
Who the fuck had spoken？ It was a low voice； lower than a whisper； more like a vibration； sensed rather than heard。
He swallowed； licked dry lips。 〃Who's there？〃 His tongue felt thick and foreign； and he could barely get out the words。
No answer。
He turned； his full drink slopping over the sides of the glass and running down his hand。 He raised the glass and sucked at it greedily。 It couldn't be。 He'd never believed in anything and wasn't about to start now。 God didn't exist； the devil didn't exist； life was just some random shitstorm； and when you were dead； you were dead。
Maledicat dominus。
He jerked his head up； drink sloshing wildly。 What was that； Latin？ Was this some kind of joke？ Where was it ing from？ One of his crazy rap clients；