Dance Of Death

There is only one man in the world who meets your particular requirements:

Eli Gli

Little West 12th Street, Greenwich Village, New York

THIRTY-EIGHT

A brilliant moon, huge and intensely white, seemed to gild the vast expanse of sea far, far below. Looking out her window, Viola Maskelene could see a long white wake like a pencil laid across the burnished water, at the head of which was an enormous ocean liner, looking like a toy boat from 33,000 feet. It was the Queen Mary, she thought, on its way to New York from Southampton.

She gazed at it, feeling the enchantment of it, imagining the thousands of people below on that great ship in the middle of the ocean, eating, drinking, dancing, making love-an entire world on a ship so small it seemed she could hold it in her hand. She watched until it vanished on the far horizon. Fu

She settled back in her seat, wondering how to amuse herself next. This was the second leg of her journey from Italy, having changed planes in London, and she'd already read her book and flipped through the trashy in-flight magazine. The first-class cabin was almost empty, and as it was almost 2 A.M. London time, what few passengers shared the cabin were asleep. She had the flight attendant to herself. She caught the woman's eye.

"Can I be of assistance, Lady Maskelene?"

She winced at the use of her title. How in the world did they all seem to know? "Champagne. And if you don't mind, please don't call me Lady Maskelene. It makes me feel like an old bag. Call me Viola instead."

"My apologies. I'll bring the champagne right away."

"Thanks ever so."

While Viola waited, she rummaged in her purse and withdrew the letter she had received at her house on the Italian island of Capraia three days before. It already showed signs of being opened and closed one too many times, but she read it again, anyway.

My dear Viola,

This letter will no doubt come as a shock to you, and for that I'm sorry. I find myself in the same position as Mark Twain in having to a

That terrible experience is the reason for this letter. I realized during those dreadful hours of near-death how short life is, how fragile, and how we must none of us let slip those rare opportunities for happiness. When we met by chance on Capraia scant hours before that experience began, I was taken by surprise-and so, if you'll pardon my saying so, were you. Something happened between us. You made an indelible impression on me, and I entertain hopes that I made a not dissimilar impression on you. I would therefore like to invite you to stay with me in New York forten days, so that we may get to know each other better. To see, in effect, if indeed that impression is as indelible, and as favorable, as I strongly believe it to be.

At this, Viola had to smile; the old-fashioned, somewhat awkward wording was so like Pendergast that she could almost hear his voice. But the fact was, this was an extraordinary letter, unlike any she had ever received. Viola had been approached by many different men in many different ways, but never quite like this. Something happened between us. It was true. Even so, most women would be surprised and even shocked to receive an invitation like this. Somehow, even on one meeting, Aloysius already knew her well enough to understand that such a letter would not displease her. On the contrary…

She returned her attention to the letter.

If you accept this admittedly unconventional invitation, please arrange to be on the January 27 British Airways Flight 822 from Gatwick to Ke

When you arrive at Ke

Diogenes. She found herself smiling, remembering how Aloysius had said on Capraia that eccentric names ran in his family. He wasn't kidding-who would ever name their child Diogenes?

You will recognize him instantly because of his strong resemblance to me-except that he sports a neatly trimmed beard. What is most striking about him is that, due to a childhood accident, he has eyes of two different colors: one hazel, the other a milky blue. He will carry no sign and he, of course, does not know what you look like, so you will have to find him yourself. I wouldn't trust you with anyone less than my brother, who is utterly discreet.

Diogenes will escort you to my cottage out on Long Island, in a little town on Gardiners Bay, where I will be waiting for you. This will allow us several days in each other's company. The cottage is well equipped but rustic, with a splendid view of Shelter Island across the bay. You will naturally have your own chambers, and we will comport ourselves with propriety-unless, of course, circumstances dictate otherwise.

At this, Viola giggled out loud. He was so old-fashioned, and yet here he was, basically propositioning her in a way that wasn't even subtle-but managing to do it tastefully, with the driest sense of humor.

In three days following your arrival, the case I've been involved in will conclude. We will then emerge and I will once again show myself to the living, with (I trust) you on my arm. We will proceed to enjoy a splendid week of theater, music, art, and culinary exploration in New York City before your return to Capraia.

Viola, I beg you again, tell no one of this. Please give me your answer by old-fashioned telegram to the following address:

A. Pendleton

15 Glover's Box Road

The Springs, NY 10511

and sign it, "A

You will make me very happy if you accept my invitation. I know I am not very clever with sentiment and flowery phraseology-that is not my way. I will save further demonstrations of affection for when we meet in person.

Sincerely,

Aloysius

Again, Viola had to smile. She could almost hear Pendergast, with his elegant but rather severe air, speaking the sentences. A

She folded up the letter and took out the second one. It was a telegram, and it read simply:

Delighted you are coining! Confirmed my brother will meet you. I know I can trust you to be discreet. Fondly, A.X.L.P.

She carefully put both letters back into her handbag and sipped the champagne, her mind drifting back to that meeting on Capraia. She remembered how she had been digging manure into her vineyard when she saw a man in a black suit approaching, picking his way gingerly among the clods, accompanied by an American policeman in mufti. It was such an odd sight it had almost made her laugh. They had called out to her, thinking she was a peasant laborer. And then they'd drawn closer and she had looked at Pendergast's strange and beautiful face for the first time. Nothing like that sudden, queer feeling had happened to her before. She could read the same experience in his face, despite his efforts to conceal it. It had been a short visit- an hour's talk over glasses of white wine on her terrace overlooking the sea-and yet her mind had returned again and again to that afternoon, as if something momentous had happened.