p&c.brimstone-第7节

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llower　of　Raphael。　Grove　was　able　to　prove　it　as　the　hand　of　the　master　himself；　turned　around　and　sold　it　for　thirty　million　dollars　to　the　Met。〃　
　〃Nice。〃　
　〃Indeed。　Anyway；　while　living　in　Florence；　Grove　had　bee　quite　devout。　In　an　intellectual　kind　of　way；　as　some　people　do。　He　loved　to　engage　me　in　discussion。　There　is；　Mr。　Pendergast；　such　a　thing　as　a　Catholic　intellectual；　and　that　was　Grove。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　
　〃He　was　very　happily　married。　He　adored　his　wife。　And　then；　quite　abruptly；　she　left　him；　ran　off　with　another　man。　To　say　that　Grove　was　devastated　is　not　saying　enough。　He　was　destroyed。　And　he　focused　his　anger　on　God。〃　
　〃I　see；〃　Pendergast　replied。　
　〃Grove　felt　betrayed　by　God。　He　became　。　。　。　well；　you　certainly　couldn't　call　him　an　atheist　or　an　agnostic。　Rather；　he　picked　a　fight　with　God。　He　deliberately　embarked　on　a　life　of　sin　and　violence　against　God；　which　in　reality　was　a　life　of　violence　against　his　own　higher　self。　He　became　an　art　critic。　Criticism　is　a　profession　which　allows　one　a　certain　license　to　be　vicious　outside　the　bounds　of　normal　civilized　behavior。　One　would　never　tell　another　person　in　private　that　his　painting　was　a　revolting　piece　of　trash；　but　the　critic　thinks　nothing　of　making　the　same　pronouncement　to　the　world　as　if　he　were　performing　a　high　moral　duty。　There　is　no　profession　more　ignoble　than　that　of　the　critic…except　perhaps　that　of　the　physician　presiding　at　an　execution。〃　
　〃You're　right　there；〃　said　D'Agosta　with　feeling。　〃Those　who　can't　do；　teach；　and　those　who　can't　teach；　critique。〃　
　Father　Cappi　laughed。　〃Very　true；　Sergeant　D'Agosta。〃　
　〃Sergeant　D'Agosta　is　a　writer　of　mysteries；〃　explained　Pendergast。　
　〃Is　that　so！　I　love　detective　stories。　Give　me　a　title。〃　
　〃Angels　of　Purgatoryis　his　latest。〃　
　〃I'll　buy　it　immediately。〃　
　D'Agosta　mumbled　his　thanks。　For　the　second　time　that　day；　he　found　himself　feeling　embarrassed。　He　would　have　to　talk　to　Pendergast　about　sounding　off　about　his　abortive　writing　career。　
　〃Suffice　to　say；〃　the　priest　continued；　〃Grove　made　a　splendid　critic。　He　surrounded　himself　with　the　most　degraded；　selfish；　and　cruel　people　he　could　find。　Everything　he　did　was　excessive…drinking；　eating；　sex；　money；　gossip。　He　gave　dinner　parties　like　a　Roman　emperor；　and　he　was　often　on　television；　savaging　this　person　or　that…in　the　most　charming　way；　of　course。　His　articles　in　theNew　York　Review　of　Books　were　avidly　read。　Naturally　he　was　a　huge　hit　in　New　York　City　society。〃　
　〃And　your　relationship　to　him？〃　
　〃He　couldn't　forgive　me　for　what　I　represented。　Our　relationship　simply　couldn't　continue。〃　
　〃When　was　this？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　
　〃Grove's　wife　ran　off　in　1974；　and　we　had　our　falling…out　shortly　thereafter。　I　haven't　heard　from　him　since。　Not　until　this　morning；　that　is。〃　
　〃The　message？〃　
　The　priest　removed　a　microcassette　recorder　from　his　pocket。　〃I　made　a　copy　before　turning　it　over　to　the　police。〃　
　Holding　it　up　in　one　hand；　he　pressed　the　play　button。　There　was　a　beep。　Then：　
　Bernard？　Bernard！　It's　Jeremy　Grove。　Are　you　there？　Pick　up　the　phone；　for　God's　sake！　
　The　voice　was　high；　strained；　tinny。　
　Listen；　Bernard；　I　need　you　here；　now。　You've　got　to　e。　Southampton；　3001　Dune　Road。　e　immediately。　It's　。　。　。　it's　horrible。　Bring　a　cross；　Bible；　holy　water。　My　God；　Bernard；　he's　ing　for　me。　Do　you　hear？　He's　ing　for　me！　I　need　to　confess；　I　need　forgiveness；　absolution　。　。　。　For　the　love　of　God；　Bernard；　pick　up　the　phone…　
　His　voice　was　cut　off　by　the　message　machine　using　up　its　allotted　time。　The　harsh　voice　echoed　into　silence　in　the　bare；　whitewashed　room。　D'Agosta　felt　a　shiver　of　horror。　
　〃Well；〃　said　Pendergast　after　a　moment。　〃I'd　be　curious　to　hear　your　thoughts　on　that；　Father。〃　
　Father　Cappi's　face　was　grim。　〃I　believe　he　felt　damnation　was　upon　him。〃　
　〃Damnation？　Or　the　devil？〃　
　Cappi　shifted　unfortably。　〃For　whatever　reason；　Jeremy　Grove　knew　his　death　was　imminent。　He　wanted　to　obtain　forgiveness　before　the　end。　That　was　even　more　important　to　him　than　calling　the　police。　Grove；　you　see；　never　stopped　believing。〃　
　〃Are　you　familiar　with　the　physical　evidence　at　the　scene　of　the　crime：　the　burned　hoofprint；　the　traces　of　sulfur　and　brimstone；　the　peculiar　heating　of　the　body？〃　
　〃I　was　told；　yes。〃　
　〃How　do　you　explain　it？〃　
　〃The　work　of　a　mortal　man。　Grove's　killer　wished　to　make　a　statement　about　what　kind　of　man　Grove　was。　Hence　the　hoofprint；　brimstone；　and　all　the　rest。〃　Father　Cappi　slid　the　tape　recorder　back　into　his　cassock。　〃There's　nothing　mysterious　about　evil；　Mr。　Pendergast。　It's　here　all　around　us；　I　see　it　every　day。　And　I　somehow　doubt　the　real　devil；　whatever　form　he　might　take；　would　wish　to　draw　such　unwele　attention　to　his　way　of　doing　business。〃　
　　　
　7　
　
　In　the　first　darkness　following　sunset；　the　man　known　only　asWren　walked　up　the　broad；　trash…strewn　thoroughfare　of　upper　Riverside　Drive。　To　his　left　lay　the　black　outlines　of　Riverside　Park　and　the　Hudson　River　beyond；　to　his　right；　the　vast　hulks　of　once…great　mansions；　now　empty　and　decaying。　Wren's　shadow　flitted　from　streetlamp　to　streetlamp　as　the　last　touch　of　red　left　the　incarnadine　sky。　Despite　the　gentrification　creeping　up　from　southern　Manhattan　；　this　remained　a　dangerous　neighborhood；　one　in　which　few　would　wish　to　be　caught　after　dark。　But　there　was　something　about　Wren…the　cadaverousness　of　his　features；　perhaps；　or　his　quick；　stealthy　scuttle　of　a　walk；　or　the　wild　shock　of　white　hair；　unnaturally　thick　for　a　man　of　his　years…that　kept　predators　at　bay。　
　Now　Wren　stopped　before　a　large　Beaux　Arts　mansion　that　fronted　Riverside　Drive　from　137th　to　138th　Streets。　The　four…story　pile　was　surrounded　by　a　tall　spiked…iron　fence；　furred　in　rust。　Beyond　the　fence；　the　lawn　was　overgrown　with　weeds　and　ancient　ailanthus　bushes。　The　mansion　itself　seemed　in　decrepitude：　windows　securely　boarded　up　with　tin；　slate　roof　tiles　chipped；　widow's　walk　missing　half　its　metal　posts。　
　The　iron　gate　blocking　the　entrance　was　ajar。　Without　pausing；　Wren　slipped　through　the　opening　and　down　the　cobbled　drive　to　the　porte…cochère。　Here；　trash　had　accumulated　in　the　corners；　blown　by　the　wind　into　fantastic　shapes。　In　the　blackness　beneath　the　carriageway　entrance　was　set　a　lone　oaken　door；　festooned　with　graffiti　but　solid…looking　nonetheless。　Wren　raised　his　bony　hand；　rapped　once；　then　again。　
　The　echo　of　his　knock　was　lost　in　the　vast　spaces　within。　For　a　minute；　perhaps　two；　all　remained　still。　Then　there　was　the　rasp　of　a　heavy　lock　being　turned；　and　the　door　slowly　creaked　open。　Yellow　light　filtered　out。　Pendergast　stood　in　the　doorway；　one　hand　on　the　knob；　the　paleness　of　his　features　enhanced　by　the　incandescent　glow　of　the　hallway。　Without　a　word；　he　ushered　Wren　in；　then　closed　and　locked　the　door　behind　them。　
　Wren　followed　the　FBI　agent　through　the　marbled　entranceway　and　into　a　long；　wood…paneled　gallery。　Then　he　stopped　abruptly。　The　last　time　he　had　seen　this　house　was　during　the　summer；　when　he'd　spent　several　weeks　cataloging　the　mansion's　vast　collections　while　Pendergast　was　taking　his　vacation　in　Kansas。　At　the　time；　the　inside　of　the　house　had　been　as　much　a　ruin　as　the　outside：　paneling　torn　away；　floorboards　ripped　up；　plaster　and　lath　exposed；　the　by…products　of　an　intense　search。　Along　with　Pendergast；　Wren　was　one　of　only　four…no；　that　would　be　five…living　beings　who　knew　the　results　of　that　search；　and　what　those　results　meant。　
　But　now　the　chestnut　wainscoting　shone　with　fresh　polish；　the　walls　had　been　replastered　and　covered　in　muted　Victorian　wallpaper；　and　everywhere；　brass　and　copper　fittings　glowed　in　the　dim　light。　In　dozens　of　inlaid　nooks　and　on　marble　plinths　sat　specimens　from　a　magnificent　collection：　meteorites；　gemstones；　rare　butterflies；　fossils　of　long…extinct　species。　Within　this　house；　a　cabinet　of　curiosities　unmatched　by　any　other　had　been　restored　to　a　magnificence　it　had　not　enjoyed　in　a　hundred　years。　Yet　it　was　a　cabinet　destined　to　remain　hidden　from　the　world。　
　〃I　love　what　you've　done　with　the　place；〃　Wren　said；　waving　his　hand　around　the　room。　
　Pendergast　inclined　his　head。　
　〃I'm　amazed　you　acplished　it　so　quickly。　Just　two　months　ago　the　house　was　a　shambles。〃　
　Pendergast　began　leading　the　way　down　the　gallery。　〃Cajun　craftsmen　and　carpenters　from　south　of　the　Bayou　Têche　served　my　family　well　in　earlier　years。　They　proved　themselves　invaluable　once　again。　Though　they　did　not　approve　of　the…shall　we　say…environs？〃　
　Wren　chuckled　faintly；　tunelessly。　〃I　have　to　agree　with　them。　It　seems　odd；　you　taking　up　residence　here；　when　you　have　such　a　delightful　place　down　at　the　Dakota　that's…〃　He　stopped　in　midsentence；　eyes　widening　in　understanding。　〃Unless　。　。　。　？〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　〃Yes；　Wren。　That　is　the　reason。　One　of　them；　anyway。〃　
　They　were　now　passing　into　a　vast　reception　hall；　its　domed　ceiling　repainted　a　Wedgwood　blue。　Rippled　glass　cabinets　lined　the　walls；　full　of　more　artifacts；　beautifully　displayed。　Small　mounted　dinosaur　skeletons　and　taxidermied　animals　were　arrayed　around　the　parquet　floor。　Wren　plucked　at　Pendergast's　sleeve。　〃How　is　she？〃　
　Pendergast　sto