preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第59部分

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nder　paneled　office。　The　door　was　half　open；　and　beyond　sat　a　small　woman　at　a　desk。　She　rose　at　their　approach。
　〃We're　here　to　see　Dr。　Collopy；〃　said　Custer；　looking　around；　wondering　why　a　secretary　had　such　a　fancy　office。
　〃I'm　sorry；　sir；〃　the　woman　said。　〃Dr。　Collopy's　not　here。〃
　〃He's　not？〃　Custer　and　Manetti　said　in　chorus。
　The　secretary　shook　her　head；　looking　flustered。　〃He　hasn't　been　back　since　lunch。　Said　he　had　some　important　business　to　take　care　of。〃
　〃But　lunch　was　hours　ago；〃　Custer　said。　〃Isn't　there　some　way　he　can　be　reached？〃
　〃There's　his　private　cell　phone；〃　the　secretary　said。
　〃Dial　it。〃　Custer　turned　to　Manetti。　〃And　you；　call　around　to　some　of　the　other　top　brass。　See　if　they　know　where　this　Collopy　is。〃
　Manetti　moved　off　to　another　desk；　picked　up　a　phone。　The　large　office　fell　silent；　save　for　the　beep　of　numbers　being　dialed。　Custer　looked　around。　The　space　was　paneled　in　very　dark　wood；　and　it　was　chock…full　of　bleak　oil　paintings　and　forbidding…looking　displays　parked　behind　glass…fronted　cabinets。　Christ；　it　was　like　a　house　of　horrors。
　〃The　cell　phone's　turned　off；　sir；〃　the　secretary　said。
　Custer　shook　his　head。　〃Isn't　there　any　other　number　you　can　call？　His　house；　for　example？〃
　The　secretary　and　Manetti　exchanged　looks。　〃We　aren't　supposed　to　call　there；〃　she　said；　looking　even　more　flustered。
　〃I　don't　care　what　you're　supposed　to　do。　This　is　urgent　police　business。　Call　his　house。〃
　The　secretary　unlocked　a　desk　drawer；　rummaged　through　a　file　of　index　cards；　plucked　one　out。　She　looked　at　it　a　moment；　shielding　it　from　Custer's　and　Manetti's　view。　Then　she　replaced　the　card；　locked　the　drawer；　and　dialed　a　number。
　〃Nobody's　picking　up；〃　she　said　after　a　moment。
　〃Keep　ringing。〃
　Half　a　minute　went　by。　Finally；　the　secretary　replaced　the　phone　in　its　cradle。　〃There's　no　answer。〃
　Custer　rolled　his　eyes。　〃All　right；　listen。　We　can't　waste　any　more　time。　We　have　good　reason　to　believe　that　the　key　to　the　serial　killer　known　as　the　Surgeon…perhaps　even　the　killer　himself…will　be　found　here　in　the　Museum。　Time　is　of　the　essence。　I'm　going　to　personally　supervise　a　thorough　search　of　the　Archives。　Lieutenant　Detective　Piles　will　be　in　charge　of　questioning　certain　staff　members。〃
　Manetti　was　silent。
　〃With　the　Museum's　cooperation；　I　think　we　can　get　through　this　by　midnight；　if　not　sooner。　We'll　need　a　room　for　interrogation。　We　will　require　power　for　our　recording　machinery；　a　sound　engineer；　and　an　electrician。　I　will　require　identification　from　everyone；　and　access　to　personnel　files　on　an　ongoing　basis。〃
　〃Just　which　staff　members　are　you　going　to　question？〃　Manetti　asked。
　〃We　will　determine　that　from　the　files。〃
　〃We　have　two　thousand　five　hundred　employees。〃
　This　temporarily　floored　Custer。　Twenty…five　hundred　people　to　run　a　museum？　What　a　welfare　program。　He　took　a　breath；　carefully　reposing　his　features。　〃We　will　deal　with　that。　As　a　start；　we'll　need　to　interview；　let's　see　。　。　。　night　watchmen　who　might　have　noticed　any　unusual　ings　or　goings。　And　that　archaeologist　who　excavated　those　skeletons；　found　the　others　down　on　Doyers　Street；　and…〃
　〃Nora　Kelly。〃
　〃Right。〃
　〃The　police　have　already　spoken　with　her；　I　believe。〃
　〃So　we'll　be　speaking　with　her　again。　And　we'll　want　to　talk　to　the　head　of　security…that's　you…about　your　security　arrangements；　in　the　Archives　and　elsewhere。　I　want　to　question　everyone　connected　with　the　Archives　and　the　discovery　of；　ah；　Mr。　Puck's　body。　How's　that　for　a　start？〃　He　gave　a　quick；　artificial　smile。
　There　was　a　silence。
　〃Now；　direct　me　to　the　Archives；　please。〃
　For　a　moment；　Manetti　just　stared　at　him；　as　if　the　situation　was　beyond　his　powers　of　prehension。
　〃Direct　me　to　the　Archives；　Mr。　Manetti；　and　make　it　now；　if　you　please。〃
　Manetti　blinked。　〃Very　well；　Captain。　If　you'll　follow　me。〃
　As　they　walked　down　the　storied　halls；　cops　and　administrators　in　tow；　Custer　felt　a　huge　swelling　of　excitement　at　his　newly　found　self…confidence。　He'd　finally　discovered　his　true　calling。　Homicide　was　where　he　should　have　been　all　along。　It　was　obvious　he　was　a　natural；　he　had　a　knack　for　the　work。　His　being　put　in　charge　of　this　case　had　not　been　a　fluke。　It　had　been　destiny。
　
　FIVE
　　
　SMITHBACK　STOOD　IN　the　dark　hall；　struggling　to　control　his　fright。　It　was　fright　that　was　his　problem　here；　not　locked　doors。　Clearly；　at　least　one　of　them　must　be　unlocked：　he　had　just　e　through　it。
　As　deliberately　as　he　could；　he　went　down　the　hall　once　again；　trying　all　the　doors；　shaking　harder　this　time；　even　at　the　cost　of　making　some　noise；　pushing　at　the　jambs；　making　sure　they　weren't　simply　stuck。　But　no；　it　wasn't　his　imagination。　They　were　all　securely　locked。
　Had　somebody　locked　the　door　behind　him？　But　that　was　impossible：　the　room　had　been　empty。　A　gust　of　wind　had　closed　it。　He　shook　his　head；　searching　unsuccessfully　for　amusement　in　his　own　paranoia。
　The　doors；　he　decided；　must　lock　automatically　when　shut。　Maybe　that　was　a　feature　of　old　houses　like　this。　No　problem：　he　would　find　another　way　out　of　the　house。　Downstairs；　through　the　reception　hall　and　out　a　first　floor　window　or　door。　Perhaps　out　the　porte…cochère　door；　which　had　every　appearance　of　being　functional…in　fact　it　was　probably　the　very　door　used　by　the　custodian。　Relief　coursed　through　him　at　this　thought。　It　would　be　easier；　it　would　save　him　the　trouble　of　having　to　climb　back　down　that　outside　wall。
　All　he　had　to　do　was　find　his　way　to　it　through　the　dark　house。
　He　stood　in　the　hall；　waiting　for　his　heartbeat　to　slow。　The　place　was　so　quiet；　so　unusually　quiet；　that　he　found　his　ears　alert　for　the　faintest　sound。　The　silence；　he　told　himself；　was　a　good　sign。　No　custodian　was　around。　He　probably　came　only　once　a　week；　at　most；　or　maybe　only　once　a　year；　given　all　the　dust　in　the　place。　Smithback　had　all　the　time　in　the　world。
　Feeling　a　little　sheepish；　he　made　his　way　back　to　the　head　of　the　stairs　and　peered　down。　The　carriage　door；　it　seemed　to　him；　should　be　to　the　left；　somewhere　off　the　reception　hall。　He　descended　the　stairs　and　paused　warily　at　the　bottom；　peering　again　at　the　strange；　endless　displays。　Still；　no　sound。　The　place　was　clearly　deserted。
　He　remembered　Pendergast's　theory。　What　if　Leng　really　had　succeeded　。　。　。　？
　Smithback　forced　himself　to　laugh　out　loud。　What　the　hell　was　he　thinking　about？　Nobody　could　live　150　years。　The　darkness；　the　silence；　the　mysterious　collections　were　getting　to　him。
　He　paused；　taking　stock。　A　passage　ran　off　from　the　hall　to　the　left；　in　what　he　thought　was　the　right　direction。　It　lay　in　plete　darkness；　yet　it　seemed　the　most　promising。　He　should　have　thought　to　bring　a　damn　flashlight。　No　matter：　he　would　try　that　first。
　Stepping　carefully；　avoiding　the　display　cases　and　sheeted　objects；　he　walked　across　the　hall　and　into　the　side　passage。　His　pupils　refused　to　dilate　further　and　the　corridor　remained　pitch　black；　the　darkness　an　almost　palpable　presence　around　him。　He　fumbled　in　his　pocket；　found　the　box　of　matches　he'd　picked　up　at　the　Blarney　Stone。　He　lit　one；　the　scraping　and　flaring　of　the　match　unpleasantly　loud　in　the　still　air。
　The　flickering　light　revealed　a　passage　leading　into　another　large　room；　also　crammed　with　wooden　cabinets。　He　took　a　few　steps　forward　until　the　matchlight　died　away。　Then　he　went　on　as　far　as　he　dared　into　the　blackness；　felt　around　with　his　hand；　found　the　doorframe　of　the　room；　drew　himself　forward　again。　Once　he　was　inside；　he　lit　another　match。
　Here　was　a　different　kind　of　collection：　rows　and　rows　of　specimens　in　jars　of　formaldehyde。　He　caught　a　quick　glimpse　of　rows　of　gigantic；　staring　eyeballs　in　jars…whale　eyeballs？　Trying　not　to　waste　the　light；　he　hurried　forward；　stumbling　over　a　large　glass　jeroboam　on　a　marble　pedestal；　filled　with　what　looked　like　a　huge　floating　bag。　As　he　got　back　on　his　feet　and　lit　another　match；　he　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　label：　Mammoth　stomach；　containing　its　last　meal；　from　the　icefields　of　Siberia　。　。　。
　He　went　quickly　on；　passing　as　fast　as　he　could　between　the　rows　of　cabinets；　until　he　arrived　at　a　single　wooden　door；　battered　and　scarred。　There　was　a　sudden　sharp　pain　as　the　match　burned　his　fingers。　Cursing；　he　dropped　it；　then　lit　another。　In　the　renewed　flare　of　light；　he　opened　the　door。　It　led　into　a　huge　kitchen；　tiled　in　white　and　black。　There　was　a　deep　stone　fireplace　set　into　one　wall。　The　rest　of　the　room　was　dominated　by　a　huge　iron　stove；　a　row　of　ovens；　and　several　long　tables　set　with　soapstone　sinks。　Dozens　of　pots　of　greenish　copper　were　suspended　from　ceiling　hooks。　Everything　looked　decayed；　covered　with　a　thick　layer　of　dust；　cobwebs；　and　mouse　droppings。　It　was　a　dead　end。
　The　house　was　huge。　The　matches　wouldn't　last　forever。　What　would　he　do　when　they　ran　out？
　Get　a　grip；　Smithback；　he　told　himself。　Clearly；　no　one　had　cooked　in　this　kitchen　in　a　hundred　years。　Nobody　lived　in　the　house。　What　was　he　worrying　about？
　Relying　on　memory；　without　lighting　any　more　matches；　he　backtracked　into　the　large　room；　feeling　his　way　along　the　glass…fronted　cases。　At　one　point　he　felt　his　shoulder　brush　against　something。　A　second　later；　there　was　a　tremendous　crash　at　his　feet；　and　the　sudden　biting　stench　of　formaldehyde。　He　waited；　nerves　taut；　for　the　echoes　to　abate。　He　prepared　to　light　a　match；　thought　better　of　it…was　formaldehyde　flammable？　Better　not　experiment　now。　He　took　a　step；　and　his　stockinged　foot　grazed　something　large；　wet；　and　yielding。　The　specimen　in　the　jar。　He　gingerly　stepped　around　it。
　There　had　been　other　doors　set　into　the　passageway　beyond。　He　would　try　them　one　at　a　time。　But　first；　he　paused　to　remove　his　socks；　which　were　sodden　with　formaldehyde。　Then；　stepping　into　the　passageway；　he　ventured　another　match。　He　could　see　four　doors；　two　on　the　left　wall；　two　on　the　right。
　He　opened　the　closest；　found　an　ancient；　zinc…lined　bathroom。　Sitting　in　the　middle　of　the　tiled　floor　was　the　grinning　skull　of　an　allosaurus。　The　second　door　fronted　a　large　closet　full　of　stuffed　birds；　the　third；　yet　another　closet；　this　one　full　of　stuffed　lizards。　The　fourth　opened　into　a　scullery；　its　walls　pocked