preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第50部分

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ic　folders。　It　was　strange：　the　man　said　his　father　only　used　the　safe　for　storing　things　of　the　grandfather。　But　plastic　was　a　recent　invention；　right？　Surely　later　than　1942。　Curious；　he　plucked　up　one　of　the　volumes　and　flipped　it　open。
　Within；　he　saw　a　dark…ruled　page；　full　of　old；　handwritten　entries。　The　page　was　sooty；　partially　burned；　its　edges　crumbling　away　into　ash。
　He　glanced　around。　The　proprietor　of　the　shop　had　moved　away；　and　was　rummaging　inside　a　cardboard　box。
　Eagerly　O'Shaughnessy　snatched　both　the　plastic　volume　and　its　mate　from　the　safe。　Then　he　blew　out　the　candle　and　stood　up。
　〃Nothing　much　of　interest；　I'm　afraid。〃　He　held　up　the　volumes　with　feigned　nonchalance。　〃But　as　a　formality；　I'd　like　to　take　these　down　to　our　office；　just　for　a　day　or　two。　With　your　permission；　of　course。　It'll　save　you　and　me　lots　of　paperwork；　court　orders；　all　that　kind　of　thing。〃
　〃Court　orders？〃　the　man　said；　a　worried　expression　ing　over　his　face。　〃Sure；　sure。　Keep　them　as　long　as　you　want。〃
　Outside　on　the　street；　O'Shaughnessy　paused　to　brush　dust　from　his　shoulders。　Rain　was　threatening；　and　lights　were　ing　on　in　the　shotgun　flats　and　coffeehouses　that　lined　the　street。　A　peal　of　distant　thunder　sounded　over　the　hum　of　traffic。　O'Shaughnessy　turned　up　the　collar　of　his　jacket　and　tucked　the　volumes　carefully　under　one　arm　as　he　hurried　off　toward　Third　Avenue。
　From　the　opposite　sidewalk；　in　the　shadow　of　a　brownstone　staircase；　a　man　watched　O'Shaughnessy　depart。　Now　he　came　forward；　derby　hat　low　over　a　long　black　coat；　cane　tapping　lightly　on　the　sidewalk；　and…after　looking　carefully　left　and　right…slowly　crossed　the　street；　in　the　direction　of　New　Amsterdam　Chemists。
　
　THREE
　　
　BILL　SMITHBACK　LOVED　the　New　York　Times　newspaper　morgue：　a　tall；　cool　room　with　rows　of　metal　shelves　groaning　under　the　weight　of　leather…bound　volumes。　On　this　particular　morning；　the　room　was　pletely　empty。　It　was　rarely　used　anymore　by　other　reporters；　who　preferred　to　use　the　digitized；　online　editions；　which　went　back　only　twenty…five　years。　Or；　if　necessary；　the　microfilm　machines；　which　were　a　pain　but　relatively　fast。　Still；　Smithback　found　there　was　nothing　more　interesting；　or　so　curiously　useful；　as　paging　through　the　old　numbers　themselves。　You　often　found　little　strings　of　information　in　successive　issues…or　on　adjoining　pages…that　you　would　have　missed　by　cranking　through　reels　of　microfilm　at　top　speed。
　When　he　proposed　to　his　editor　the　idea　of　a　story　on　Leng；　the　man　had　grunted　nonmittally…a　sure　sign　he　liked　it。　As　he　was　leaving；　he　heard　the　bug…eyed　monster　mutter：　〃Just　make　damn　sure　it's　better　than　that　Fairhaven　piece；　okay？　Something　with　marrow。〃
　Well；　it　would　be　better　than　Fairhaven。　It　had　to　be。
　It　was　afternoon　by　the　time　he　settled　into　the　morgue。　The　librarian　brought　him　the　first　of　the　volumes　he'd　requested；　and　he　opened　it　with　reverence；　inhaling　the　smell　of　decaying　wood　pulp；　old　ink；　mold；　and　dust。　The　volume　was　dated　January　1881；　and　he　quickly　found　the　article　he　was　looking　for：　the　burning　of　Shottum's　cabinet。　It　was　a　front…page　story；　with　a　handsome　engraving　of　the　flames。　The　article　mentioned　that　the　eminent　Professor　John　C。　Shottum　was　missing　and　feared　dead。　Also　missing；　the　article　stated；　was　a　man　named　Enoch　Leng；　who　was　vaguely　billed　as　a　boarder　at　the　cabinet　and　Shottum's　〃assistant。〃　Clearly；　the　writer　knew　nothing　about　Leng。
　Smithback　paged　forward　until　he　found　a　follow…up　story　on　the　fire；　reporting　that　remains　believed　to　be　Shottum　had　been　found。　No　mention　was　made　of　Leng。
　Now　working　backward；　Smithback　paged　through　the　city　sections；　looking　for　articles　on　the　Museum；　the　Lyceum；　or　any　mention　of　Leng；　Shottum；　or　McFadden。　It　was　slow　going；　and　Smithback　often　found　himself　sidetracked　by　various　fascinating；　but　unrelated；　articles。
　After　a　few　hours；　he　began　to　get　a　little　nervous。　There　were　plenty　of　articles　on　the　Museum；　a　few　on　the　Lyceum；　and　even　occasional　mentions　of　Shottum　and　his　colleague；　Tinbury　McFadden。　But　he　could　find　nothing　at　all　on　Leng；　except　in　the　reports　of　the　meetings　of　the　Lyceum；　where　a　〃Prof。　Enoch　Leng〃　was　occasionally　listed　among　the　attendees。　Leng　clearly　kept　a　low　profile。
　This　is　going　nowhere；　fast；　he　thought。
　He　launched　into　a　second　line　of　attack；　which　promised　to　be　much　more　difficult。
　Starting　in　1917；　the　date　that　Enoch　Leng　abandoned　his　Doyers　Street　laboratory；　Smithback　began　paging　forward；　looking　for　any　murders　that　fit　the　profile。　There　were　365　editions　of　the　Times　every　year。　In　those　days；　murders　were　a　rare　enough　occurrence　to　usually　land　on　the　front　page；　so　Smithback　confined　himself　to　perusing　the　front　pages…and　the　obituaries；　looking　for　the　announcement　of　Leng's　death　which　would　interest　O'Shaughnessy　as　well　as　himself。
　There　were　many　murders　to　read　about；　and　a　number　of　highly　interesting　obituaries；　and　Smithback　found　himself　fascinated…too　fascinated。　It　was　slow　going。
　But　then；　in　the　September　10；　1918；　edition；　he　came　across　a　headline；　just　below　the　fold：　Mutilated　Body　in　Peck　Slip　Tenement。　The　article；　in　an　old…fashioned　attempt　to　preserve　readers'　delicate　sensibilities；　did　not　go　into　detail　about　what　the　mutilations　were；　but　it　appeared　to　involve　the　lower　back。
　He　read　on；　all　his　reporter's　instincts　aroused　once　again。　So　Leng　was　still　active；　still　killing；　even　after　he　abandoned　his　Doyers　Street　lab。
　By　the　end　of　the　day　he　had　netted　a　half…dozen　additional　murders；　about　one　every　two　years；　that　could　be　the　work　of　Leng。　There　might　have　been　others；　undiscovered；　or　it　might　be　that　Leng　had　stopped　hiding　the　bodies　and　was　simply　leaving　them　in　tenements　in　widely　scattered　sections　of　the　city。　The　victims　were　always　homeless　paupers。　In　only　one　case　was　the　body　even　identified。　They　had　all　been　sent　to　Potter's　Field　for　burial。　As　a　result；　nobody　had　remarked　on　the　similarities。　The　police　had　never　made　the　connection　among　them。
　The　last　murder　with　Leng's　modus　operandi　seemed　to　occur　in　1935。　After　that；　there　were　plenty　of　murders；　but　none　involving　the　〃peculiar　mutilations〃　that　were　Leng's　signature。
　Smithback　did　a　quick　calculation：　Leng　appeared　in　New　York　in　the　1870s…probably　as　a　young　man　of；　say；　thirty。　In　1935；　he　would　have　been　about　seventy。　So　why　did　the　murders　cease？
　The　answer　was　perfectly　obvious：　Leng　had　died。　He　hadn't　found　an　obituary；　but　then；　Leng　had　kept　such　a　low　profile　that　an　obituary　would　have　been　highly　unlikely。
　So　much　for　Pendergast's　theory；　thought　Smithback。
　And　the　more　he　thought　about　it；　the　more　he　felt　sure　that　Pendergast　couldn't　really　believe　such　an　absurd　thing。　No；　Pendergast　was　throwing　this　out　as　a　red　herring　for　some　devious　purpose　of　his　own。　That　was　Pendergast　through　and　through…artful；　winding；　oblique。　You　never　knew　what　he　was　really　thinking；　or　what　his　plan　was。　He　would　explain　all　this　to　O'Shaughnessy　the　next　time　he　saw　him；　no　doubt　the　cop　would　be　relieved　to　hear　Pendergast　hadn't　gone　off　the　deep　end。
　Smithback　scanned　another　year's　worth　of　obituaries；　but　nothing　on　Leng　appeared。　Figures：　the　guy　just　cast　no　shadow　at　all　on　the　historical　record。　It　was　almost　creepy。
　He　checked　his　watch：　quitting　time。　He'd　been　at　it　for　ten　straight　hours。
　But　he　was　off　to　a　good　start。　In　one　stroke；　he'd　uncovered　another　half…dozen　unsolved　murders　which　could　likely　be　attributed　to　Leng。　He　had　maybe　two　more　days　before　his　editor　started　demanding　results。　More；　if　he　could　show　his　work　was　turning　up　some　nuggets　of　gold。
　He　eased　himself　out　of　the　fortable　chair；　rubbed　his　hands　together。　Now　that　he'd　bed　the　public　record；　he　was　ready　to　take　the　next　step：　Leng's　private　record。
　One　thing　the　day's　research　had　revealed　was　that　Leng　had　been　a　guest　researcher　at　the　Museum。　Smithback　knew　that；　back　then；　all　visiting　scientists　had　to　undergo　an　academic　review　in　order　to　gain　unfettered　access　to　the　collections。　The　review　gave　such　details　as　the　person's　age；　education；　degrees；　fields　of　specialty；　publications；　marital　status；　and　address。　This　might　lead　to　other　treasure　troves　of　documents…deeds；　leases；　legal　actions；　so　forth。　Perhaps　Leng　could　hide　from　the　public　eye…but　the　Museum's　records　would　be　a　different　story。
　By　the　time　Smithback　was　done；　he　would　know　Leng　like　a　brother。
　The　thought　gave　him　a　delicious　shudder　of　anticipation。
　
　FOUR
　　
　O'SHAUGHNESSY　STOOD　ON　the　steps　outside　the　Jacob　Javits　Federal　Building。　The　rain　had　stopped；　and　puddles　lay　here　and　there　in　the　narrow　streets　of　lower　Manhattan。　Pendergast　had　not　been　at　the　Dakota；　and　he　was　not　here；　at　the　Bureau。　O'Shaughnessy　felt　an　odd　blend　of　emotions：　impatience；　curiosity；　eagerness。　He'd　been　almost　disappointed　that　he　couldn't　show　his　find　to　Pendergast　right　away。　Pendergast　would　surely　see　the　value　of　the　discovery。　Maybe　it　would　be　the　clue　they　needed　to　break　the　case。
　He　ducked　behind　one　of　the　building's　granite　pillars　to　inspect　the　journals　once　again。　His　eye　ran　down　the　columned　pages；　the　countless　entries　of　faded　blue　ink。　It　had　everything：　names　of　purchasers；　lists　of　chemicals；　amounts；　prices；　delivery　addresses；　dates。　Poisons　were　listed　in　red。　Pendergast　was　going　to　love　this。　Of　course；　Leng　would　have　made　his　purchases　under　a　pseudonym；　probably　using　a　false　address…but　he　would　have　had　to　use　the　same　pseudonym　for　each　purchase。　Since　Pendergast　had　already　piled　a　list　of　at　least　some　of　the　rare　chemicals　Leng　had　used；　it　would　be　a　simple　matter　to　match　that　with　the　purchases　in　this　book；　and；　through　that；　discover　Leng's　pseudonym。　If　it　was　a　name　Leng　used　in　other　transactions；　this　little　book　was　going　to　take　them　very　far　indeed。
　O'Shaughnessy　glanced　at　the　volumes　another　minute；　then　tucked　them　back　beneath　his　arm　and　began　walking　thoughtfully　down　Broadway；　toward　City　Hall　and　the　subway。　The　volumes　covered　the　years　1917　through　1923；　antedating　the　fire　that　burned　the　chemist's　shop。　Clearly；　they'd　been　the　on