D’Agosta complied, shocked at the agent’s uncharacteristically haggard appearance. It was the only time he remembered ever seeing Pendergast unshaven. And, for once, the man’s suit jacket was unbuttoned.
“I got the details you wanted,” D’Agosta said, holding up a manila folder. “Thanks to Captain Hayward.” He dropped it on the table, flipped it open.
“Proceed.”
“Witnesses say the shooter was an old woman. She got on the train with a first-class ticket to Yonkers, paid in cash. Gave the name Jane Smith.” He snorted. “Just as the train was pulling out of Penn Station, while it was still underground, she entered the first-class berth of a passenger named… Eugene Hofstader. Pulled a gun and fired four shots. Forensics recovered two .44-40 rounds embedded in the walls and another on the tracks outside. Get this: they were antique rounds—probably shot from a nineteenth-century revolver, a Colt perhaps.”
Pendergast turned to Wren. “Check to see if we’re missing a Colt Peacemaker or similar revolver from the collection, along with any .44-40 rounds, please.”
Wordlessly, Wren stood up and left the room. Pendergast glanced back at D’Agosta. “Go on.”
“The old woman vanished, although no one saw her get off the train, which was sealed almost immediately following the shooting. If she was wearing a disguise and discarded it, it was never found.”
“Did the man leave anything behind?”
“You bet: a valise and a garment bag full of clothes. No papers or documents, or even a clue to his true identity. All labels had been carefully razored off the clothing. But the valise…”
“Yes?”
“They brought it into the evidence room, and when the warrant came down, they opened it up. Apparently, the evidence officer took one look and, well, whatever happened next he had to be sedated. A hazmat team was called in, and the stuff is now under lock and key—nobody seems to know where.”
“I see.”
“I guess we’re talking about Diogenes here,” said D’Agosta, slightly annoyed that he’d been sent out on the assignment with less-than-complete information.
“That is correct.”
“So who’s this old lady who shot at him?”
The agent gestured toward the table at the center of the room. “When Proctor returned here last night, he found Constance missing, along with a few articles of clothing. In her room, he found her pet mouse, its neck broken. Along with that note and the rosewood box.”
D’Agosta walked over, picked up the indicated note, read it quickly. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a sick fuck…”
“Open the box.”
He opened the small antique box a little gingerly. It was empty, a long dimple left in the purple velvet interior by some object, now gone. A faded label on the inside cover read Sweitzer Surgical Instrument Company.
“A scalpel?” he asked.
“Yes. For Constance to cut her wrists with. She seems to have taken it for another purpose.”
D’Agosta nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. The old woman was Constance.”
“Yes.”
“I hope she succeeds.”
“The thought of their meeting again is too terrible to contemplate,” Pendergast replied, his face grim. “I must catch up with her—and stop her. Diogenes has been preparing for this escape for years, and we have no hope of tracing him… unless, of course, he wishes to be traced. Constance, on the other hand, will not be trying to conceal her tracks. I must follow her… and there is always a chance that, in finding her, I will find him as well.”
He turned to an iBook sitting open on the table, began typing. A few minutes later, he looked over. “Constance boarded a flight to Florence, Italy, at five o’clock this afternoon, out of Logan Airport in Boston.” He turned. “Proctor? Pack my things and book a ticket to Florence, if you please.”
“I’m coming with you,” said D’Agosta.
Pendergast looked back at him, his face gray. “You may accompany me to the airport. But as for going with me—no, Vincent, you will not. You have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for. Besides, this is a… family matter.”
“I can help you,” said D’Agosta. “You need me.”
“Everything you say is true. And yet I must, and I will, do this alone.”
His tone was so cold and final that D’Agosta realized any reply was useless.
70
Diogenes Pendergast, a.k.a. Mr. Gerald Boscomb, passed the Palazzo Antinori and turned into the Via Tornabuoni, breathing in the damp winter air of Florence with a certain bitter nostalgia. So much had happened since he was last here, mere months ago, when he had been filled with plans. Now he had nothing—not even his clothes, which he had abandoned on the train.