preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第23部分

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　attention　to　his　ham…and…cheese　sandwiches。　He　was　glad　he　didn't　have　to　do　this　sort　of　thing　for　a　living。　How　could　they　bear　it？　Standing　around；　chatting　aimlessly　with　people　you'd　never　seen　before　and　would　never　see　again；　trying　to　cough　up　a　vestige　of　interest　in　their　vapid　opinions；　all　to　a　background　obbligato　of　speechifying。　It　seemed　inconceivable　to　him　that　there　were　people　who　actually　liked　going　to　parties　like　this。
　。　。　。　our　closest　living　relatives　。　。　。
　Smithback　was　returning　already。　His　tuxedo　front　was　splattered　with　fish　eggs　and　crème　fra？che。　He　looked　stricken。
　〃Have　an　accident？〃　asked　Pendergast　dryly。
　〃You　might　call　it　that。〃
　O'Shaughnessy　glanced　over　and　saw　Nora　heading　straight　for　the　retreating　Smithback。　She　did　not　look　happy。
　〃Nora…〃　Smithback　began　again。
　She　rounded　on　him；　her　face　furious。　〃How　could　you？　I　gave　you　that　information　in　confidence。〃
　〃But　Nora；　I　did　it　for　you。　Don't　you　see？　Now　they　can't　touch…〃
　〃You　moron。　My　long…term　career　here　is　ruined。　After　what　happened　in　Utah；　and　with　the　Lloyd　Museum　closing；　this　job　was　my　last　chance。　And　you　ruined　it！〃
　〃Nora；　if　you　could　only　look　at　it　my　way；　you'd…〃
　〃You　promised　me。　And　I　trusted　you！　God；　I　can't　believe　it；　I'm　totally　screwed。〃　She　looked　away；　then　whirled　back　with　redoubled　ferocity。　〃Was　this　some　kind　of　revenge　because　I　wouldn't　rent　that　apartment　with　you？〃
　〃No；　no；　Nora；　just　the　opposite；　it　was　to　help　you。　I　swear；　in　the　end　you'll　thank　me…〃
　The　poor　man　looked　so　helpless；　O'Shaughnessy　felt　sorry　for　him。　He　was　obviously　in　love　with　the　woman…and　he　had　just　as　obviously　blown　it　pletely。
　Suddenly　she　turned　on　Pendergast。　〃And　you！〃
　Pendergast　raised　his　eyebrows；　then　carefully　placed　a　blini　back　on　his　plate。
　〃Sneaking　around　the　Museum；　picking　locks；　fomenting　suspicion。　You　started　all　this。〃
　Pendergast　bowed。　〃If　I　have　caused　you　any　distress；　Dr。　Kelly；　I　regret　it　deeply。〃
　〃Distress？　They're　going　to　crucify　me。　And　there　it　all　was；　in　today's　paper。　I　could　kill　you！　All　of　you！〃
　Her　voice　had　risen；　and　now　people　were　looking　at　her　instead　of　at　the　man　at　the　podium；　still　droning　on　about　classifying　his　great　apes。
　Then　Pendergast　said；　〃Smile。　Our　friend　Brisbane　is　watching。〃
　Nora　glanced　over　her　shoulder。　O'Shaughnessy　followed　the　glance　toward　the　podium　and　saw　a　well…groomed　man…tall；　glossy；　with　slicked…back　dark　hair…staring　at　them。　He　did　not　look　happy。
　Nora　shook　her　head　and　lowered　her　voice。　〃Jesus；　I'm　not　even　supposed　to　be　talking　to　you。　I　can't　believe　the　position　you've　put　me　in。〃
　〃However；　Dr。　Kelly；　you　and　I　do　need　to　talk；〃　Pendergast　said　softly。　〃Meet　me　tomorrow　evening　at　Ten　Ren's　Tea　and　Ginseng　pany；　75　Mott　Street；　at　seven　o'clock。　If　you　please。〃
　Nora　glared　at　him　angrily；　then　stalked　off。
　Immediately；　Brisbane　glided　over　on　long　legs；　planting　himself　in　front　of　them。　〃What　a　pleasant　surprise；〃　he　said　in　a　chill　undertone。　〃The　FBI　agent；　the　policeman；　and　the　reporter。　An　unholy　trinity　if　ever　I　saw　one。〃
　Pendergast　inclined　his　head。　〃And　how　are　you；　Mr。　Brisbane？〃
　〃Oh；　top　form。〃
　〃I'm　glad　to　hear　it。〃
　〃I　don't　recall　any　of　you　being　on　the　guest　list。　Especially　you；　Mr。　Smithback。　How　did　you　slither　past　security？〃
　Pendergast　smiled　and　spoke　gently。　〃Sergeant　O'Shaughnessy　and　I　are　here　on　law　enforcement　business。　As　for　Mr。　Smithback…well；　I'm　sure　he　would　like　nothing　more　than　to　be　tossed　out　on　his　ear。　What　a　marvelous　follow…up　that　would　make　to　his　piece　in　today's　edition　of　the　Times。〃
　Smithback　nodded。　〃Thank　you。　It　would。〃
　Brisbane　stood　still；　the　smile　frozen　on　his　face。　He　looked　first　at　Pendergast；　then　at　Smithback。　His　eyes　raked　Smithback's　soiled　tux。　〃Didn't　your　mother　teach　you　that　caviar　goes　in　the　mouth；　not　on　the　shirt？〃　He　walked　off。
　〃Imbecile；〃　Smithback　murmured。
　〃Don't　underestimate　him；〃　replied　Pendergast。　〃He　has　Moegen…Fairhaven；　the　Museum；　and　the　mayor　behind　him。　And　he　is　no　imbecile。〃
　〃Yeah。　Except　that　I'm　a　reporter　for　the　New　York　Times。〃
　〃Don't　make　the　mistake　of　thinking　even　that　lofty　position　will　protect　you。〃
　。　。　。　and　now；　without　more　ado；　let　us　unveil　the　Museum's　latest　creation；　the　Hall　of　Primates　。　。　。
　O'Shaughnessy　watched　as　a　ribbon　beside　the　podium　was　cut　with　an　oversized　pair　of　scissors。　There　was　a　smattering　of　applause　and　a　general　drift　toward　the　open　doors　of　the　new　hall　beyond。　Pendergast　glanced　at　him。　〃Shall　we？〃
　〃Why　not？〃　Anything　was　better　than　standing　around　here。
　〃Count　me　out；〃　said　Smithback。　〃I've　seen　enough　exhibitions　in　this　joint　to　last　me　a　lifetime。〃
　Pendergast　turned　and　grasped　the　reporter's　hand。　〃I　am　sure　we　shall　meet　again。　Soon。〃
　It　seemed　to　O'Shaughnessy　that　Smithback　fairly　flinched。
　Soon　they　were　through　the　doors。　People　drifted　along　the　spacious　hall；　which　was　lined　with　dioramas　of　stuffed　chimpanzees；　gorillas；　orangutans；　and　various　monkeys　and　lemurs；　displayed　in　their　native　habitats。　With　some　surprise；　O'Shaughnessy　realized　the　dioramas　were　fascinating；　beautiful　in　their　own　way。　They　were　like　magic　casements　opening　onto　distant　worlds。　How　had　these　morons　done　it？　But　of　course；　they　hadn't　done　it…it　was　the　curators　and　artists　who　had。　People　like　Brisbane　were　the　deadwood　at　the　top　of　the　pile。　He　really　needed　to　e　here　more　often。
　He　saw　a　knot　of　people　gathering　around　one　case；　which　displayed　a　hooting　chimpanzee　swinging　on　a　tree　limb。　There　was　whispered　conversation；　muffled　laughter。　It　didn't　look　any　different　from　the　other　cases；　and　yet　it　seemed　to　have　attracted　half　the　people　in　the　hall。　O'Shaughnessy　wondered　what　was　so　interesting　about　that　chimpanzee。　He　looked　about。　Pendergast　was　in　a　far　corner；　examining　some　strange　little　monkey　with　intense　interest。　Funny　man。　A　little　scary；　actually；　when　you　got　right　down　to　it。
　He　strolled　over　to　check　out　the　case；　standing　at　the　fringe　of　the　crowd。　There　were　more　murmurs；　some　stifled　laughter；　some　disapproving　clucks。　A　bejeweled　lady　was　gesturing　for　a　guard。　When　people　noticed　O'Shaughnessy　was　a　cop；　they　automatically　shuffled　aside。
　He　saw　that　an　elaborate　label　had　been　attached　to　the　case。　The　label　was　made　from　a　plaque　of　richly　grained　oak；　on　which　gold　letters　were　edged　in　black。　It　read：
　　
　ROGER　C。　BRISBANE　III
　FIRST　VICE　PRESIDENT
　
　THIRTEEN
　　
　THE　BOX　WAS　made　of　fruitwood。　It　had　lain；　untouched　and　unneeded；　for　many　decades；　and　was　now　covered　in　a　heavy　mantle　of　dust。　But　it　had　only　taken　one　swipe　of　a　soft　velour　cloth　to　remove　the　sediment　of　years；　and　a　second　swipe　to　bring　out　the　rich；　mellow　sheen　of　the　wood　beneath。
　Next；　the　cloth　moved　toward　the　brass　corners；　rubbing　and　burnishing。　Then　the　brass　hinges；　shined　and　lightly　oiled。　Finally　came　the　gold　nameplate；　fastened　to　the　lid　by　four　tiny　screws。　It　was　only　when　every　inch；　every　element；　of　the　box　had　been　polished　to　brilliance　that　the　fingers　moved　toward　the　latch；　and…trembling　slightly　with　the　gravity　of　the　moment…unsnapped　the　lock；　lifted　the　lid。
　Within；　the　tools　gleamed　from　their　beds　of　purple　velvet。　The　fingers　moved　from　one　to　the　next；　touching　each　lightly；　almost　reverently；　as　if　they　could　impart　some　healing　gift。　As　indeed　they　could…and　had…and　would　again。
　First　came　the　large　amputation　knife。　Its　blade　curved　downward；　as　did　all　American　amputation　knives　made　between　the　Revolutionary　and　Civil　Wars。　In　fact；　this　particular　set　dated　from　the　1840s；　crafted　by　Wiegand　&　Snowden　of　Philadelphia。　An　exquisite　set；　a　work　of　art。
　The　fingers　moved　on；　a　solitary　ring　of　cat's…eye　opal　winking　conspiratorially　in　the　subdued　light：　metacarpal　saw；　Catlin　knife；　bone　forceps；　tissue　forceps。　At　last；　the　fingers　stopped　on　the　capital　saw。　They　caressed　its　length　for　a　moment；　then　teased　it　from　its　molded　slot。　It　was　a　beauty：　long；　built　for　business；　its　heavy　blade　breathtakingly　sharp。　As　with　the　rest　of　the　tools；　its　handle　was　made　of　ivory　and　gutta…percha；　it　was　not　until　the　1880s；　when　Lister's　work　on　germs　was　published；　that　surgical　instruments　began　to　be　sterilized。　All　handles　from　that　point　on　were　made　of　metal：　porous　materials　became　mere　collector's　items。　A　pity；　really；　the　old　tools　were　so　much　more　attractive。
　It　was　a　fort　to　know　that　there　would　be　no　need　for　sterilization　here。
　The　box　contained　two　trays。　With　worshipful　care；　the　fingers　removed　the　upper　tray…the　amputation　set…to　expose　the　still　greater　beauty　of　the　neurosurgical　set　below。　Rows　of　skull　trephines　lay　beside　the　more　delicate　saw　blades。　And　encircling　the　rest　was　the　greatest　treasure　of　all：　a　medical　chain　saw；　a　long；　thin　band　of　metal　covered　in　sharp　serrated　teeth；　ivory　hand　grips　at　each　end。　It　actually　belonged　among　the　amputation　tools；　but　its　great　length　consigned　it　to　the　lower　tray。　This　was　the　thing　to　use　when　time；　not　delicacy；　was　of　the　essence。　It　was　a　horrifying…looking　tool。　It　was　consummately　beautiful。
　The　fingers　brushed　each　item　in　turn。　Then；　carefully；　the　upper　tray　was　lowered　back　into　position。
　A　heavy　leather　strop　was　brought　from　a　nearby　table　and　laid　before　the　open　box。　The　fingers　rubbed　a　small　amount　of　neat's…foot　oil　into　the　strop；　slowly；　without　hurry。　It　was　important　that　there　no　longer　be　any　hurry。　Hurry　had　always　meant　mistakes；　wasted　effort。
　At　last；　the　fingers　returned　to　the　box；　selected　a　knife；　brought　it　to　the　light。　Then…with　lingering；　loving　care…laid　it　against　the　leather　strop　and　began　stroking　back　and　forth；　back　and　forth。　The　leather　seemed　almost　to　purr　as　the　blade　was　stropped。
　To　sharpen　all　the　blades　in　the　surgical　set　to　a　razor　edge　would　take　many　hours。　But　then；　there　would　be　time。
　There　would；　in　fact；　be　nothing　but　time。
　
　The　Appointed　Time
　
　ONE
　　
　PAUL　KARP　COULD　hardly　believe　he　was　actually　going　to　get　some。　Finally。　Seventeen　years　old　and　now　finally　he　was　going　to　get　some。
　He　pulled　the　girl　deeper　into　the　Ramble。　It　was