Brimstone

Pendergast nodded.

"And that, Mr. Pendergast, is all I can tell you." The man's face glittered with feverish intensity. "And now let us speak of this ." He opened his hand and smoothed the crumpled business card. And for the first time, D'Agosta glimpsed what Pendergast had written on it.

It was the word Stormcloud .

{ 62 }

The man held out the card in a trembling hand.

Pendergast nodded in return. "Perhaps the best way to start would be for you to tell Sergeant D'Agosta what you know of its history."

Spezi turned to D'Agosta, his face filling with regret. "The Stormcloud was Stradivari's greatest violin. It was played by a string of virtuosi in an almost unbroken line from Monteverdi to Paganini and beyond. It was present at some of the greatest moments in the history of music. It was played by Franz Clement at the premiere of Beethoven's violin concerto. It was played by Brahms himself at the premiere of his Second Violin Concerto, and by Paganini for the first Italian performance of all twenty-four of his caprices. And then, just before World War I-on the death of the virtuoso Luciano Toscanelli, may God curse him-it disappeared. Toscanelli went insane at the end of his days and, some say, destroyed it. Others say it was lost in the Great War."

"It wasn't."

Spezi straightened abruptly. "You mean it still exists ?"

"A few more questions if I may, Dottore. What do you know of the ownership of the Stormcloud?"

"That was one of its mysteries. It was always owned by the same family, apparently, who it was said purchased the instrument directly from Stradivari himself. It was passed down from father to son only in name, being on continuous loan to a string of virtuosi. That's normal, of course: most of the Strads today are owned by wealthy collectors who turn them over to virtuosi to play on long-term loan. Just so with the Stormcloud. When the virtuoso who was playing it died-or if he had the misfortune to give a bad concert-it was taken away by the family that owned it and given to another. There would have been intense competition for it. No doubt that is the reason the family remained anonymous-they didn't want to be harried and importuned by aspiring violinists. They made secrecy of their identity a strict condition of playing the violin."

"No virtuoso ever broke the silence?"

"Not as far as I know."

"And Toscanelli was the last virtuoso to play it."

"Yes, Toscanelli. The great and terrible Toscanelli. He died a syphilitic wreck in 1910, under strange and mysterious circumstances. The violin was not beside his body and was never found."

"Who should the violin have gone to after Toscanelli?"

"A good question. Perhaps the Russian child prodigy, young Count Ravetsky. Murdered in the revolution, though-a great loss. What a terrible century that was. And now, Mr. Pendergast-I am almost expiring from curiosity."

Pendergast reached into his pocket and slipped out a glassine envelope, held it up to the light. "A fragment of horsehair from the bow of the Stormcloud."

The man reached out with trembling fingers. "May I?"

"I promised an exchange. It's yours."

The man opened it, removed the horsehair with a pair of tweezers, placed it on a microscope stage. A moment later the image appeared on a computer screen.

"It's definitely horsehair from a violin bow-you can see the grains of rosin, here, and the damage that playing has done to the microscopic scales on the shaft, there." He straightened. "Of course, any bow with the Stormcloud almost certainly isn't the original, and even if it was, the horsehair must have been replaced a thousand times. This is hardly proof."

"I'm well aware of that. It was only the first clue that led me on a string of deductions, the conclusion of which was that the Stormcloud still exists. It is here, Dottore, in Italy."

"If only it were so! Where did you get this hair?"

"From a crime scene in Tuscany."

"For God's sake, man: who has it? "

"I don't yet know for certain."

"How will you find out?"

"First, I need to learn the name of the family that originally owned it."

Spezi thought for a moment. "I'd start with Toscanelli's heirs-he was said to have had a dozen children from almost as many mistresses. God knows, one might still be alive somewhere-and now that I think of it, it seems to me there's a granddaughter or some such here in Italy. He was a notorious womanizer, drinker of absinthe, indiscreet in his later years. Perhaps he told one of his mistresses, who then might have passed it on to her issue."

"An excellent suggestion." Pendergast rose. "You have been most generous, Dottore. When I do learn more about the Stormcloud's whereabouts, I promise I shall share the facts with you. For now, I thank you for your time."

Pendergast led the way back out through the narrow streets with the same caution he'd shown in approaching Spezi's workshop. By the time they'd reached the café, however, he seemed to have satisfied himself on some point, and suggested they stop for another espresso. Standing at the bar, he turned to D'Agosta with a smile.

"And now, my dear Vincent-do you have a theory?"

D'Agosta nodded. "Most of one, anyway."

"Excellent! Don't tell me yet. Let us continue our investigations in silence just a little longer. The time will soon come when we need to share our conclusions."

"Fine by me."

D'Agosta sipped the bitter drink. He wondered if it was possible to get a cup of decent American coffee somewhere in Italy instead of this poisonous black stuff that stripped the inside of your throat and boiled in your stomach for hours afterward.

Pendergast tossed his off, then leaned against the bar. "Can you imagine, Vincent, what the Renaissance would have been like had Michelangelo’s David been carved in green marble?"

{ 63 }

Captain of Detectives Laura Hayward sat in the orange plastic chair, coffee going cold in its Styrofoam cup. She was acutely aware of being both the youngest person, and the only female, in this room full of high-ranking police officers. The walls of the conference room were painted the usual pale puce. A picture of Rudolph Giuliani decorated one wall, framed together with a picture of the Twin Towers and, below, a list of police officers killed in the attacks. No picture of the current mayor, president of the U.S., or anyone else.

Hayward liked that.

Commissioner of Police Henry Rocker sat at the head of the table, his large hand permanently closed around a huge mug of black coffee, his permanently tired face gazing down the middle of the table. To his right sat Milton Grable, captain of patrol for the precinct in which Cutforth had been murdered and the tent city erected.

Hayward checked her watch. It was 9A.M. sharp.

"Grable?" Rocker said, opening the meeting.

Grable cleared his throat, shuffled some papers. "As you know, Commissioner, this tent city is becoming a problem. A big problem."

The only acknowledgment of this, it seemed to Hayward, was that the dark circles under Rocker's eyes grew darker.

"We got a couple hundred people living across the street from the most exclusive neighborhood in my precinct-the whole city, in fact-and they're trashing the park, pissing in the bushes, shitting everywhere-" His eyes darted to Hayward. "Sorry, ma'am."