Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(59)
“Crimes are interesting only when they are inexplicable. Unfortunately, few remain so.”
“Unfortunately?”
“I was speaking from an aesthetic point of view.”
The count turned to Pendergast. “This young lady is exceptional.”
“And what is your interest in the case, Count, besides mere fascination?” Constance asked.
“I wish to help.”
“Count Fosco has already been helpful,” said Pendergast.
“And, as you shall see, I will be more helpful still! But first I must tell you how enchanted I am with this estate. Your great-aunt’s, did you say? So picturesque! Falling into ruin and neglect, mysterious, haunted. It reminds me of Piranesi’s engraving Veduta degli Avanzi delle Terme di Tito, the Ruins of the Baths of Titus. I much prefer a building in neglect and ruin—much of my own castello in Tuscany is in a delightful state of dilapidation.”
D’Agosta wondered what the castle of a count looked like.
“As promised, I brought lunch,” the count boomed. “Pinketts!” He clapped his hands and his driver, who was about as English as they come, unstrapped the huge wicker trunk and hefted it down the path, then proceeded to arrange a linen tablecloth, bottles of wine, cheeses, prosciutto, salami, silverware, and glasses on a stone table beneath the shade of an enormous copper beech.
“This is kind of you, Count,” said Pendergast.
“Yes, I am kind, especially when you see the Villa Calcinaia ’97 Chianti Classico Riserva I’ve brought, made by my neighbor, the good count Capponi. But I have something else for you. Something even better than wine, caviar, and fois gras. If such a thing is possible.” The black eyes in his smooth, handsome face sparkled with pleasure.
“And that is?”
“In good time, in good time.” The count began arranging, with fussy attention, the things on the table, uncorking and decanting a bottle of red wine, letting the anticipation build. At last, he turned with a conspiratorial grin. “By chance, I have made a discovery of the first importance.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Does the name Ranier Beckmann mean anything to you, Sergeant?”
“We found that name on Bullard’s computer. The guy he was trying to locate.”
The count nodded as if he’d known it all along. “And?”
“Bullard had done an Internet search for a Ranier Beckmann, without success. Grove also seems to have been looking for Beckmann. But we don’t know why.”
“I was at a luncheon party yesterday and was seated beside Lady Milbanke. She told me—between frequent displays of her new necklace—that a few days before Jeremy Grove was murdered, he had asked if she could recommend a private detective. Turned out she could—scandalous people often can. I then went to this gentleman myself and soon pried from him the fact that Grove hired him . . . to find a certain Ranier Beckmann.”
He paused dramatically. “Grove was in a panic to find this man. When the detective asked him for details, he could provide none at all. None. The detective stopped his investigation when he heard of Grove’s death.”
“Interesting,” D’Agosta said.
“It would be interesting to see if the name Beckmann turned up among Cutforth’s effects, as well,” Pendergast said.
D’Agosta removed his cell, dialed Hayward’s direct line.
“Hayward here,” came the cool voice.
“It’s Sergeant D’Agosta. Vinnie. Have your people finished inventorying Cutforth’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“The name Ranier Beckmann turn up, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, it did.” D’Agosta heard a rustling of paper. “We found a notebook with his name written on the first page, in Cutforth’s hand.”
“The rest of the notebook?”
“Blank.”
“Thanks.” D’Agosta closed the phone and related what he’d heard.
Pendergast’s face tensed with excitement. “This is precisely the thread we’ve been looking for. Grove, Cutforth, Bullard. Why were all three looking for Beckmann? Perhaps we should find this Beckmann and see what he has to tell us.”
“You may find that a difficult proposition, my friend,” said the count.
Pendergast glanced at him. “And why is that?”
“Because the private investigator told me something else. That he was unable to find any information at all on this Ranier Beckmann. No present or past address, no employment history, no family information. Nothing. But I leave that to you.” The count, beaming with his success, extended his white hands. “And now, business concluded, let us be seated and enjoy our lunch.” He turned and bowed to Constance. “May I be permitted to seat you here, on my right? I feel we have much to talk about.”
{ 29 }
Even before entering, Harriman had formed a clear picture of Von Menck’s sitting room in his mind. He figured he’d find it carpeted in Persian rugs, decked out with astrological charts, ancient pentacles, and perhaps Tibetan durgas made of human long bones. The room alone, he hoped, would make great copy. Thus he was crestfallen when the door drew back at his knock to reveal a simple, almost spartan study. There was a small fireplace, comfortable leather chairs, lithographs of Egyptian ruins on the walls. There were, in fact, only two clues that this room was not just another middle-class parlor: the wall of glass-fronted bookcases, bulging with books and manuscripts and papers, and the Emmy for Best Documentary that sat neglected on the desk beside the telephone and old-fashioned Rolodex.