The Cabinet of Curiosities (40 page)

“Strange, he thought you knew all about the procedure. Now, that’s what I mean here, O’Neal: sloppy. Very sloppy. Well, from now on, we will be
requiring
a monthly file check.” Smithback narrowed his eyes, strode over to a filing cabinet, pulled on a drawer. It was, as he expected, locked.

“It’s locked,” said the guard.

“I can
see
that. Any idiot can see that.” He rattled the handle. “Where’s the key?”

“Over there.” The poor guard nodded toward a wall box. It, too, was locked.

It occurred to Smithback that the climate of fear and intimidation the new Museum administration had fostered was proving most helpful. The man was so terrified, the last thing he would think of doing was challenging Smithback or asking for his ID.

“And the key to that?”

“On my chain.”

Smithback looked around again, his quick eyes taking in every detail under the pretense of looking for further violations. The filing cabinets had labels on them, each with a date. The dates seemed to run back to 1865, the founding year of the Museum.

Smithback knew that any outside researchers who were issued a pass to the collections would have to have been approved by a committee of curators. Their deliberations, and the files the applicant had to furnish, should still be in here. Leng almost certainly had such a collections pass. If his file were still here, it would contain a wealth of personal information: full name, address, education, degrees, research specialization, list of publications—perhaps even copies of some of those publications. It might even contain a photograph.

He rapped with a knuckle on the cabinet marked
1880.
“Like this file. When was the last time you file-checked this drawer?”

“Ah, as far as I know, never.”

“Never?”
Smithback sounded incredulous.“Well, what are you waiting for?”

The guard hustled over, unlocked the wall cabinet, fumbled for the right key, and unlocked the drawer.

“Now let me show you how to do a file check.” Smithback opened the drawer and plunged his hands into the files, rifling them, stirring up a cloud of dust, thinking fast. A yellowed index card was poking from the first file, and he whipped it out. It listed every file in the drawer by name, alphabetized, dated, cross-referenced. This was beautiful. Thank God for the early Museum bureaucrats.

“See, you start with this index card.” He waved it in the guard’s face.

The guard nodded.

“It lists every file in the cabinet. Then you check to see if all the files are there. Simple. That’s a file check.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smithback quickly scanned the list of names on the card. No Leng. He shoved the card back and slammed the drawer.

“Now we’ll check 1879. Open the drawer, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smithback drew out the 1879 index card. Again, no Leng was listed. “You’ll need to institute much more careful procedures down here, O’Neal. These are extremely valuable historical files. Open the next one. ’78.”

“Yes, sir.”

Damn. Still no Leng.

“Let’s take a quick look at some of the others.” Smithback had him open up more cabinets and check the yellow index cards on each, all the while giving O’Neal a steady stream of advice about the importance of file-checking. The years crept inexorably backward, and Smithback began to despair.

And then, in 1870, he found the name.
Leng.

His heart quickened. Forgetting all about the guard, Smithback flipped quickly through the files themselves, pausing at the Ls. Here he slowed, carefully looked at each one, then looked again. He went through the Ls three times. But the corresponding Leng file was missing.

Smithback felt crushed. It had been such a good idea.

He straightened up, looked at the guard’s frightened, eager face. The whole idea was a failure. What a waste of energy and brilliance, frightening this poor guy for nothing. It meant starting over again, from scratch. But first, he’d better get his ass out of there before Bulger returned, disgruntled, spoiling for an argument.

“Sir?” the guard prompted.

Smithback wearily closed the drawer. He glanced at his watch. “I have to be getting back. Carry on. You’re doing a good job here, O’Neal. Keep it up.” He turned to go.

“Mr. Fannin?”

For a moment Smithback wondered who the man was talking to. Then he remembered. “Yes?”

“Do the carbons need a file check also?”

“Carbons?” Smithback paused.

“The ones in the vault.”

“Vault?”

“The vault. Back there.”

“Er, yes. Of course. Thank you, O’Neal. My oversight. Show me the vault.”

The young guard led the way through a rear door to a large, old safe with a nickel wheel and a heavy steel door. “In here.”

Smithback’s heart sank. It looked like Fort Knox. “Can you open this?”

“It’s not locked anymore. Not since the high-security area was opened.”

“I see. What are these carbons?”

“Duplicates of the files back there.”

“Let’s take a look. Open it up.”

O’Neal wrestled the door open. It revealed a small room, crammed with cabinets.

“Let’s take a look at, say, 1870.”

The guard glanced around. “There it is.”

Smithback made a beeline for the drawer, yanking it open. The files were on some early form of photocopy paper, like glossy sepia-toned photographs, faded and blurred. He quickly pawed through to the Ls.

There it was.
A security clearance for Enoch Leng, dated 1870: a few sheets, tissue-thin, faded to light brown, covered in long spidery script. With one swift stroke Smithback slipped them out of the file and into his jacket pocket, covering the motion with a loud cough.

He turned around. “Very good. All this will need to be file-checked, too, of course.”

He stepped out of the vault. “Listen, O’Neal, other than the file check, you’re doing a fine job down here. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fannin. I try, I really do—”

“Wish I could say the same for Bulger. Now there’s someone with an
attitude.
”

“You’re right, sir.”

“Good day, O’Neal.” And Smithback beat a hasty retreat.

He was just in time. In the hall, he again passed Bulger, striding back, his face red and splotchy, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, lips and belly thrust forward aggressively, keys swaying and jingling. He looked
pissed.

As Smithback made for the nearest exit, it almost felt as if the pilfered papers were burning a hole in the lining of his jacket.

S
AFELY ON THE STREET,
S
MITHBACK DUCKED THROUGH THE
S
EVENTY
-seventh Street gate into Central Park and settled on a bench by the lake. The brilliant fall morning was already warming into a lovely Indian summer day. He breathed in the air and thought once again of what a dazzling reporter he was. Bryce Harriman couldn’t have gotten his hands on these papers if he had a year to do it and all the makeup people of Industrial Light and Magic behind him. With a sense of delicious anticipation, he removed the three sheets from his pocket. The faint scent of dust reached his nose as sunlight hit the top page.

It was an old brown carbon, faint and difficult to read. At the top of the first sheet was printed:
Application for Access to the Collections: The New York Museum of Natural History

Applicant:
Prof. Enoch Leng, M. D., Ph. D. (Oxon.), O. B. E., F. R. S. &tc.

Recommender:
Professor Tinbury McFadden, Department of Mammalogy

Seconder:
Professor Augustus Spragg, Department of Ornithology

The applicant will please describe to the committee, in brief, the purposes of his application:

The applicant, Dr. Enoch Leng, wishes access to the collections of anthropology and mammalogy to conduct research on taxonomy and classification, and to prepare comparative essays in physical anthropology, human osteology, and phrenology.

The applicant will please state his academic qualifications, giving degrees and honors, with appropriate dates:

The applicant, Prof. Enoch Leng, graduated Artium Baccalaurei, with First Honors, from Oriel College, Oxford; Doctor of Natural Philosophy, New College, Oxford, with First Honors; Elected Fellow of the Royal Society 1865; Elected to White’s, 1868; Awarded Order of the Garter, 1869.

The applicant will please state his permanent domicile and his current lodgings in New York, if different:

Prof. Enoch Leng

891 Riverside Drive, New York

New York

Research laboratory at

Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities

Catherine Street, New York

New York

The applicant will please attach a list of publications, and will supply offprints of at least two for the review of the Committee.

Smithback looked through the papers, but realized he had missed this crucial piece.

The disposition of the Committee is presented below:

Professor is hereby given permission to the free and open use of the Collections and Library of the New York Museum of Natural History, this 27th Day of March, 1870.

Authorized Signatory: Tinbury McFadden

   Signed:
E. Leng.

Smithback swore under his breath. He felt abruptly deflated. This was thin—thin indeed. It was too bad that Leng hadn’t gotten his degree in America—that would have been much easier to follow up. But maybe he could pry the information out of Oxford over the telephone—although it was possible the academic honors were false. The list of publications would have been much easier to check, and far most interesting, but there was no way he could go back and get it now. It had been such a good idea, and he’d pulled it off so well.
Damn.

Smithback searched through the papers again. No photograph, no curriculum vitae, no biography giving place and date of birth. The only thing here at all was an address.

Damn. Damn.

But then, a new thought came to him. He recalled the address was what Nora had been trying to find. Here, at least, was a peace offering.

Smithback did a quick calculation: 891 Riverside lay uptown, in Harlem somewhere. There were a lot of old mansions still standing along that stretch of Riverside Drive: those that remained were mostly abandoned or broken up into apartments. Chances were, of course, that Leng’s house had been torn down a long time ago. But there was a chance it might still stand. That might make a good picture, even if it was an old wreck.
Especially
if it was an old wreck. Come to think of it, there might even be bodies buried about the premises, or walled up in the basement. Perhaps Leng’s own body might be there, moldering in a corner. That would please O’Shaughnessy, help Nora. And what a great capstone for his own article—the investigative journalist finding the corpse of America’s first serial killer. Of course, it was very unlikely, but even so…

Smithback checked his watch. Almost one o’clock.

Oh, God. Such a brilliant bit of detective work and all he’d really got was the damn address. Well, it was a matter of an hour or two to simply go check and see if the house was still standing.

Smithback stuffed the papers back into his pocket and strolled to Central Park West. There wasn’t much point in flagging down a cab—they’d refuse to take him that far uptown, and once there he’d never find a cab to take him home again. Even though it was broad daylight, he had no intention of doing any wandering around in that dangerous neighborhood.

The best thing to do might be to rent a car. The
Times
had a special arrangement with Hertz, and there was a branch not far away on Columbus. Now that he thought about it, if the house did still exist, he’d probably want to check inside, talk to current tenants, find out if anything unusual had come to light during renovations, that sort of thing.

It might be dark before he was through.

That did it: he was renting a car.

Forty-five minutes later, he was heading up Central Park West in a silver Taurus. His spirits had risen once again. This still could be a big story. After he’d checked on the house, he could do a search of the New York Public Library, see if he could turn up any published articles of Leng. Maybe he could even search the police files to see if anything unusual had happened in the vicinity of Leng’s house during the time he was alive.

There were still a lot of strong leads to follow up here. Leng could be as big as Jack the Ripper. The similarities were there. All it took was a journalist to make it come alive.

With enough information,
this
could be his next book.

He, Smithback, would be a shoo-in for that Pulitzer which always seemed to elude him. And even more important—well, just as important, at least—he’d have a chance to square himself with Nora. This would save her and Pendergast a lot of time wading through city deeds. And it would please Pendergast, who he sensed was a silent ally. Yes: all in all, this was going to work out well.

Reaching the end of the park, he headed west on Cathedral Parkway, then turned north onto Riverside Drive. As he passed 125th Street he slowed, scanning the addresses of the broken buildings. Six Hundred Seventy. Seven Hundred One. Another ten blocks went by. As he continued north, he slowed still further, holding his breath in anticipation.

And then his eye alighted on 891 Riverside Drive.

The house was still standing. He couldn’t believe his luck: Leng’s own house.

He gave it a long, searching look as he passed by, then turned right at the next street, 138th, and circled the block, heart beating fast.

Eight Ninety-one was an old Beaux Arts mansion that took up the entire block, sporting a pillared entryway, festooned with Baroque Revival decorations. There was even a damn coat of arms carved above the door. It was set back from the street by a small service road, forming a triangle-shaped island that adjoined Riverside Drive. There were no rows of buzzers beside the door, and the first-floor windows had been securely boarded up and covered with tin. The place, it seemed, had never been broken into apartments. Like so many old mansions along the Drive, it had simply been abandoned years before—too expensive to maintain, too expensive to tear down, too expensive to revamp. Almost all such buildings had reverted to the city for unpaid taxes. The city simply boarded them up and warehoused them.