p&c.brimstone-第11部分

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　Pendergast　nodded。　
　〃Milbanke　and　Frederick　were　at　the　last　dinner　party；　and　the　calls　were　probably　about　organizing　it。　We　have　no　idea　why　he　called　Bullard。　We　don't　have　any　evidence　that　he　ever　met　the　guy。　Cutforth　is　also　a　cipher。　He's　some　kind　of　record　producer；　again　no　indication　that　he　and　Grove　ever　crossed　paths。　Yet　in　both　cases；　Grove　had　their　private　numbers。〃　
　〃What　about　all　these　calls　to　directory　information？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　〃He　must　have　called　at　least　a　dozen　different　cities。〃　
　〃As　far　as　we　can　tell；　he　was　trying　to　track　down　somebody　by　the　name　of　Beckmann。　Ranier　Beckmann。　His　Internet　search　activity　bears　this　out；　too。〃　
　Pendergast　laid　down　a　dirty　napkin　he　had　been　examining。　〃Excellent　work；　Lieutenant。　Do　you　mind　if　we　interview　some　of　these　people　as　well？〃　
　〃Be　my　guest。〃　
　D'Agosta　and　Pendergast　climbed　into　the　agent's　Rolls；　idling　ostentatiously　in　front　of　the　police　station；　the　driver　in　full　livery。　As　the　powerful　vehicle　accelerated　away　from　the　station；　Pendergast　slipped　a　leather　notebook　from　his　pocket；　opened　it　to　a　fresh　page；　and　began　making　notations　with　a　gold　pen。　〃We　seem　to　have　an　embarrassment　of　suspects。〃　
　〃Yeah。　Like　about　everyone　Grove　ever　knew。〃　
　〃With　the　possible　exception　of　Maurice　Vilnius。　Even　so；　I　suspect　the　list　will　shorten　itself　rather　quickly。　Meanwhile；　we　have　our　work　cut　out　for　us　tomorrow。〃　He　handed　the　list　to　D'Agosta。　〃You　speak　with　Milbanke；　Bullard；　and　Cutforth。　I'll　take　Vilnius；　Fosco；　and　Montcalm。　And　here　are　some　identification　cards　from　the　FBI　Southern　District　of　Manhattan　Field　Office。　If　anybody　objects　to　the　questions；　give　them　one　of　these。〃　
　〃Anything　in　particular　I　should　be　looking　for？〃　
　〃Strictly　routine　police　work。　We've　reached　the　point　in　the　case　where　we　must　regrettably　put　on　those　old…fashioned　gumshoes。　Isn't　that　how　they　say　it　in　those　detective　novels　you　used　to　write？〃　
　D'Agosta　managed　a　wry　smile。　〃Not　exactly。〃　
　　　
　10　
　
　Nigel　Cutforth；　sitting　in　his　Bauhaus…style　breakfast　nook1；052　feet　above　Fifth　Avenue；　lowered　the　latest　issue　ofBillboard　and　sniffed　the　air。　What　was　it　with　the　ventilation　in　his　apartment　these　past　few　days？　This　was　the　third　time　that　sulfurous　stink　had　e　up　into　his　apartment。　Twice　those　yahoos　from　building　maintenance　had　e　up；　and　twice　they'd　found　nothing。　
　Cutforth　slapped　down　the　paper。　〃Eliza！〃　
　Eliza　was　Cutforth's　second　wife…he'd　finally　dumped　the　old　bag　who　had　worn　herself　out　bearing　him　children　and　found　something　fresher…and　there　she　stood　in　the　doorway；　in　her　exercise　tights；　brushing　her　long　blonde　hair　with　her　head　tilted　to　one　side。　Cutforth　could　hear　the　crackle　of　static。　
　〃There's　that　smell　again；〃　he　said。　
　〃I've　got　a　nose；　too；〃　she　said；　swinging　one　mass　of　hair　back　and　pulling　another　forward。　
　There　was　a　time　not　so　long　before　when　Cutforth　liked　watching　her　mess　with　her　hair。　Now　it　was　beginning　to　get　on　his　nerves。　She　wasted　half　an　hour　a　day　on　it；　at　least。　
　As　she　continued　brushing；　Cutforth　felt　his　irritation　rise。　〃I　paid　five　and　a　half　mil　for　this　apartment；　and　it　smells　like　a　goddamn　science　experiment。　Why　don't　you　call　maintenance？〃　
　〃The　phone's　right　there；　next　to　your　elbow。〃　
　Cutforth　didn't　care　for　the　tone　she　was　taking　with　him。　
　She　swung　the　last　part　of　her　hair　back；　shook　it　out；　straightened。　〃I've　got　my　spin　workout　in　fifteen　minutes。　I'm　already　late。〃　
　With　that；　she　vanished　from　the　doorway。　Cutforth　could　hear　her　banging　the　hall　closet；　getting　on　her　tennis　shoes。　A　moment　later　there　was　the　hum　of　the　elevator　in　the　hall　beyond；　and　she　was　gone。　
　He　stared　at　the　closed　door；　trying　to　remind　himself　that　he'd　wanted　something　fresher；　that　he'd　gotten　something　fresher。　Too　fucking　fresh；　in　fact。　
　He　sniffed　again。　If　anything；　the　smell　was　worse。　It　would　be　a　bitch　getting　maintenance　up　here　a　third　time。　Building　management　was　useless；　they　did　something　only　if　you　yelled　loud　enough。　But　there　were　only　two　apartments　on　this　floor…the　other　had　been　purchased　but　not　yet　occupied…and　nobody　on　the　other　floors　had　seemed　to　smell　anything。　So　Cutforth　was　the　only　one　yelling。　
　He　stood　up；　feeling　a　prickle　of　disquiet。　Grove　had　plained　of　a　bad　smell　in　that　bizarre　call　of　his…that；　and　about　a　hundred　other　strange　things。　He　shook　his　head；　trying　to　clear　the　clouds　of　apprehension　that　were　slowly　gathering。　He　was　letting　that　old　pillow…biter　and　his　crazy　worries　get　to　him。　
　Was　it　ing　from　the　vents？　He　moved　around；　testing　the　air。　It　was　stronger　in　the　living　room；　even　stronger　in　the　library。　He　followed　it　to　the　door　of　the　control　room；　sniffing　like　a　dog。　Stronger；　ever　stronger。　He　unlocked　the　door；　entered　the　room；　flicked　on　the　light；　and　looked　around。　There　was　his　beautiful　64…channel　Studer；　his　RAID…striped　hard　disk　recording　system；　and　his　racks　of　audio　processing　gear。　On　the　far　wall　were　several　glass　cases　containing　his　treasured　collections。　The　guitar　Mick　Jagger　had　smashed　at　Altamont：　Keith　Richards's　prized　1950　Telecaster；　dating　from　the　first　year　of　mass　production；　still　sporting　its　original　pickups。　The　scribbled　music　sheets　to　〃Imagine；〃　with　the　coffee　stains　and　obscene　doodles　in　the　margins。　His　wife　said　the　control　room　looked　like　Planet　Hollywood。　That　really　pissed　him　off。　This　space　was　one　of　the　greatest　collections　of　rock　memorabilia　anywhere。　The　place　where　he'd　discovered　the　Suburban　Lawnmowers　from　an　over…the…transom　four…track　demo　mailed　from　Cincinnati。　This　is　where　he'd　first　heard　the　sounds　of　Rappah　Jowly　and　felt　that　special　creeping　sensation　go　up　his　spine。　Cutforth　had　an　ear。　He　had　a　knack　of　recognizing　a　big…money　sound。　He　didn't　know　where　the　ear　came　from；　and　he　didn't　care。　It　worked；　and　that's　all　that　mattered。　
　Planet　Hollywood；　my　ass。　Where　the　hell　is　that　smell　ing　from？　
　Cutforth　followed　his　nose　toward　the　plate…glass　window　looking　into　the　studio。　It　was　definitely　in　there。　Some　piece　of　equipment　frying；　perhaps。　
　He　opened　the　heavy　soundproofed　door。　As　he　did　so；　the　smell　washed　over　him　like　an　oily　fog。　He　hadn't　noticed　through　the　glass；　but　there　was　a　light　haze　in　the　air　here。　And　it　wasn't　just　that　sulfurous　smell；　there　was　something　a　lot　worse　now。　It　reminded　him　of　a　pig　wallow　on　a　hot　summer　day。　
　He　glanced　around　the　studio　quickly；　at　the　B？sendorfer　piano　and　his　beloved　Neumann　microphones；　at　the　isolation　chambers；　the　acoustically　tiled　walls。　
　Had　some　motherfucker　been　messing　with　his　studio？　
　Cutforth　searched　the　room　with　his　eyes；　anger　vying　with　fear。　It　was　impossible　anyone　had　gotten　into　his　apartment。　It　had　state…of…the…art　security。　When　you　dealt　with　gangstas　and　others　who　settled　business　differences　with　lead　instead　of　lawyers；　you　had　to　have　good　security。　
　He　glanced　around。　Everything　seemed　to　be　in　its　place。　The　recording　equipment　was　off。　He　laid　his　hand　on　the　row　of　mic　preamps：　cool；　the　rows　of　LEDs　all　dark。　But　what　was　this？　Over　in　the　far　corner　there　was　something　lying　on　the　floor。　
　He　stepped　over；　bent　close　to　the　blond　wood；　picked　it　up。　It　was　a　tooth。　Or　more　like　a　tusk。　Like　a　boar's　tusk。　With　blood　on　it；　still　wet。　And　a　knot　of　bloody　gristle　at　one　end。　
　He　dropped　it　in　violent　disgust。　
　Some　fucker　has　been　in　here。　
　Cutforth　swallowed；　backed　away。　It　was　impossible。　No　one　could　get　in。　Hadn't　he　just　unlocked　the　door　himself？　Maybe　it　had　happened　yesterday；　when　he'd　shown　that　promoter　around；　a　guy　he　really　didn't　know。　You　dealt　with　a　lot　of　weird　people　in　this　business。　He　quickly　got　a　cloth；　picked　up　the　tooth　with　it；　practically　ran　to　the　kitchen；　dropped　it　down　the　garbage　disposal；　and　turned　it　on；　listening　to　the　raw　grinding　noise。　The　thing　exhaled　a　bad　smell　and　he　averted　his　face。　
　A　shrill　buzzer　sounded；　and　he　just　about　jumped　through　the　wall。　Taking　deep　breaths；　he　went　to　the　inter；　pressed　the　buzzer。　
　〃Mr。　Cutforth？　There's　a　police　officer　to　see　you。〃　
　Cutforth　peered　into　the　tiny　video　screen　beside　the　inter　and　saw　a　forty…something　cop　standing　in　the　lobby；　shifting　from　foot　to　foot。　
　〃On　a　Saturday？　What　does　he　want？〃　
　〃He　won't　say；　sir。〃　
　Cutforth　finally　got　his　breathing　under　control。　The　thought　of　a　cop　in　his　apartment　right　now　was　almost　inviting。　〃Send　him　up。〃　
　On　closer　inspection；　the　officer　looked　just　like　any　Italian…American　cop；　with　the　working…class　Queens　accent　to　boot。　Cutforth　settled　the　cop　on　the　living　room　sofa　and　took　a　chair　opposite。　The　guy　had　Southampton　on　his　patch；　which　confirmed　what　Cutforth　already　suspected。　This　was　about　Grove。　He　had　caller　ID；　he　should　never　have　answered　that　crazy　son　of　a　bitch's　phone　call。　
　The　cop　took　out　a　notebook　and　pen；　displayed　a　microcassette　recorder。　
　〃No　taping；〃　said　Cutforth。　
　The　cop　shrugged；　returned　it　to　his　pocket。　〃Funny　smell　in　here。〃　
　〃Ventilation　problems。〃　
　The　cop　turned　the　pages　of　his　notebook；　got　himself　all　positioned　and　ready　to　go。　Cutforth　settled　back　in　the　chair；　crossing　his　arms。　〃Okay；　Officer　Dee…Agusta；　what　can　I　do　for　you？〃　
　〃Did　you　know　Jeremy　Grove？〃　
　〃No。〃　
　〃He　called　you　very　early　on　the　morning　of　October　16。〃　
　〃Did　he？〃　
　〃That's　what　I'm　asking　you。〃　
　Cutforth　uncrossed　his　arms；　crossed　and　recrossed　his　legs；　already　regretting　having　let　the　cop　up。　The　only　redeeming　thing　was；　the　cop　didn't　look　too　bright。　
　〃The　answer's　yes；　he　did　call　me。〃　
　〃What　did　you　talk　about？〃　
　〃Do　I　have　to　answer　these　questions？〃　
　〃No…at　least　not　at　this　moment。　If　you　wish；　we　could　arrange　something　more　formal。〃　
　Cutforth　didn't　like　the　sound　of　that。　He　thought　quickly。　〃There's　nothing　to　hide。　I　have　a　collection　of　musical　instruments；　rock　memorabilia；　that　sort　of　thing。　He　was　interested　in　buying　something。〃　
　〃What？〃　
　〃Just　a　letter。〃　
　〃Show　it　to　me。〃　
　Cutforth　managed　to　suppress　any　look　of　surprise。　He　stood　up。　〃Follow　me。〃　
　They　went　back　into　the　control　r