The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Preston; Child

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Magic and the Pendergast family are synonymous. There have been magicians in my lineage for ten generations. We’ve all dabbled in it. Antoine Leng Pendergast was no exception: in fact, he was one of the most talented in the family. Surely you noticed the stage apparatus in the refectory? Not to mention the false walls, secret panels, trapdoors? Without knowing it, Fairhaven bound his victims with Leng’s trick cuffs. I recognized them right away: the American Guiteau handcuffs and Bean Prison leg-irons, fitted with a false rivet that any magician, once manacled, could remove with his fingers or teeth. To a person who knew the secret, they were about as secure as transparent tape.”

  And Pendergast began laughing softly, almost to himself.

  Nora rowed away, the splashing of the oars distorted in the low, rocky cavern. In a few moments she came to a weed-choked opening between two rocks, just large enough to admit the boat. She pushed through and was suddenly on the broad expanse of the Hudson, the vast bulk of the North River plant rising above her, the great glittering arc of the George Washington Bridge looming farther to the north. Nora took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. She could hardly believe they were still alive.

  She glanced back at the opening through which she had just come. It looked like a tangle of weeds and some boulders leaning together—nothing more.

  As she bent to the oars, the abandoned marina just coming into view against the distant gleaming towers of Midtown Manhattan, she thought she could still make out—borne on the midnight wind—the faint sound of Pendergast’s laughter.

  epilogue: Arcanum

  FALL HAD TURNED to winter: one of those crisp, sunny days of early December before the first snowfall, when the world seemed almost crystalline in its perfection. As Nora Kelly walked up Riverside Drive, holding hands with Bill Smithback, she looked out over the Hudson. Already, cakes of ice were drifting down from the upper reaches. The New Jersey Palisades were etched in stark sunlight, and the George Washington Bridge seemed to float above the river, silvery and weightless.

  Nora and Smithback had found an apartment on West End Avenue in the Nineties. When Pendergast had contacted them and asked them to meet him at 891 Riverside Drive, they had decided to walk the two miles, taking advantage of the beautiful day.

  For the first time since the hideous discovery on Catherine Street, Nora had felt a certain peace return to her life. Her work at the Museum was progressing well. All the carbon-14 dates on her Utah specimens had come back, and they were a gratifying confirmation of her theory regarding the Anasazi-Aztec connection. There had been a terrific housecleaning at the Museum, with a whole new administration put in place—except Collopy, who had somehow come through it all with his reputation and prestige intact, if not enhanced. In fact, Collopy had offered Nora an important administrative post—which she had politely declined. The unfortunate Roger Brisbane had been released: the arrest warrant voided a day before the election, after Brisbane’s lawyer provided airtight alibis for the time periods of all three copycat murders, and an angry judge pointed out there was no physical evidence linking the man to any crime. Now, Brisbane was suing the city for wrongful arrest. The papers were screaming that the Surgeon was still at large. The mayor had lost his reelection bid. Captain Custer had been busted all the way down to street cop.

  There had been a flurry of newspaper stories about the sudden disappearance of Anthony Fairhaven, but the speculation had ended with an IRS raid on his company. After that, everyone assumed tax problems were the reason for his disappearance. Word was Fairhaven had been last spotted on a beach somewhere in the Netherlands Antilles, drinking daiquiris and reading the Wall Street Journal.

  Smithback had spent two weeks at the Feversham Clinic, north of Cold Spring, where his wound had been sewn and dressed. It had healed surprisingly quickly. Pendergast had also spent several weeks recuperating at Feversham after a series of operations to his elbow and abdomen. Then he had disappeared, and neither Nora nor Smithback had heard from him. Until this mysterious summons.

  “I still can’t believe we’re up here again,” Smithback said as they walked northward.

  “Come on, Bill. Aren’t you curious to see what Pendergast wants?”

  “Of course. I just don’t see why it couldn’t be someplace else. Someplace comfortable. Like, say, the restaurant at the Carlyle.”

  “I’m sure we’ll learn the reason.”

  “I’m sure we will. But if he offers me a Leng cocktail out of one of those mason jars, I’m leaving.”

  Now the old house appeared in the distance, up the Drive. Even in the bright sunlight it seemed somehow dark: sprawling, haunted, framed by bare trees, black upper windows staring westward like empty eye sockets.

  As if at a single thought, Nora and Smithback paused.

  “You know, just the sight of that old pile still scares the bejesus out of me,” Smithback muttered. “I’ll tell you, when Fairhaven had me laid out on that operating table, and I felt the knife slice into my—”

  “Bill, please,” Nora pleaded. Smithback had grown fond of regaling her with gory details.

  He drew his arm around her. He was wearing the blue Armani suit, but it hung a little loosely now, his gaunt frame thinner for the ordeal. His face was pale and drawn, but the old humor, the mischievous twinkle, had returned to his eyes.

  They continued walking north, crossing 137th Street. There was the carriage entrance, still partially blocked by windblown piles of trash. Smithback stopped again, and Nora watched his eye travel up the facade of the building, toward a broken window on the second floor. For all his display of bravado, the writer’s face paled for a moment. Then he stepped forward resolutely, following Nora under the porte-cochère, and they knocked.

  A minute passed, then two. And then at last the door creaked open, and Pendergast stood before them. He was wearing heavy rubber gloves, and his elegant black suit was covered in plaster dust. Without a word of greeting he turned away, and they followed him through silent echoing passages toward the library. Portable halogen lamps were arrayed along the hallways, throwing cold white light onto the surfaces of the old house. Even with the light, however, Nora felt a shiver of fear as she retraced the corridors. The foul odor of decay was gone, replaced by a faint chemical wash. The interior was barely recognizable: panels had been taken off walls, drawers stood open, plumbing and gas lines exposed or removed, boards ripped from the floor. It looked as if the house had been torn apart in an unbelievably exhaustive search.

  Within the library, all the sheets had been removed from the skeletons and mounted animals. The light was dimmer here, but Nora could see that half the shelves were empty, and the floor covered with carefully piled stacks of books. Pendergast threaded his way through them to the vast fireplace in the far wall, then—at last—turned back toward his two guests.

  “Dr. Kelly,” he said, nodding to her. “Mr. Smithback. I’m pleased to see you looking well.”

  “That Dr. Bloom of yours is as much an artist as he is a surgeon,” Smithback replied, with strained heartiness. “I hope he takes Blue Cross. I have yet to see the bill.”

  Pendergast smiled thinly. A brief silence ensued.

  “So why are we here, Mr. Pendergast?” Nora asked.

  “You two have been through a terrible ordeal,” Pendergast replied as he pulled off the heavy gloves. “More than anyone should ever have to endure. I feel in large part responsible.”

  “Hey, that’s what bequests are for,” Smithback replied.

  “I’ve learned some things in the last several weeks. Far too many are already past help: Mary Greene, Doreen Hollander, Mandy Eklund, Reinhart Puck, Patrick O’Shaughnessy. But for you two, I thought perhaps hearing the real story—a story nobody else must ever know—might help exorcize the demons.”

  There was another brief pause.

  “Go ahead,” Smithback said, in an entirely different tone of voice.

  Pendergast looked from Nora, to Smithback,
then back again.

  “From childhood, Fairhaven was obsessed with mortality. His older brother died at age sixteen of Hutchinson-Guilford syndrome.”

  “Little Arthur,” Smithback said.

  Pendergast looked at him curiously. “That’s correct.”

  “Hutchinson-Guilford syndrome?” Nora asked. “Never heard of it.”

  “Also known as progeria. After a normal birth, children begin to age extremely rapidly. Height is stunted. Hair turns gray and then falls out, leaving prominent veins. There are usually no eyebrows or eyelashes, and the eyes grow too large for the skull. The skin turns brown and wrinkled. The long bones become decalcified. Basically, by adolescence the child has the body of an old man. They become susceptible to atherosclerosis, strokes, heart attacks. The last is what killed Arthur Fairhaven, when he was sixteen.

  “His brother saw mortality compressed into five or six years of horror. He never got over it. We’re all afraid of death, but for Anthony Fairhaven the fear became an obsession. He attended medical school, but after two years was forced to leave for certain unauthorized experiments he’d undertaken; I’m still looking into their exact nature. So by default he went into the family business of real estate. But health remained an obsession with him. He experimented with health foods, diets, vitamins and supplements, German spas, Finnish smoke saunas. Taking hope from the Christian promise of eternal life, he became intensely religious—but when his prayers were slow in being answered he began hedging his bets, supplementing his religious fervor with an equally profound and misplaced fervor for science, medicine, and natural history. He became a huge benefactor to several obscure research institutes, as well as to Columbia Medical School, the Smithsonian, and of course the New York Museum of Natural History. And he founded the Little Arthur Clinic, which in fact has done important work on rare diseases of children.

  “We cannot be sure, exactly, when he first learned of Leng. He spent a lot of time digging around in the Museum Archives, following up some line of research or other. At some point, he came across information about Leng in the Museum’s Archives. Whatever he found gave him two critical pieces of information: the nature of Leng’s experiments, and the location of his first lab. Here was this man who claimed to have succeeded in extending his life. You can imagine how Fairhaven must have reacted. He had to find out what this man had done, and if he had really succeeded. Of course, this is why Puck had to die: he alone knew of Fairhaven’s visits to the Archives. He alone knew what Fairhaven had been examining. This wasn’t a problem until we found the Shottum letter: but then it became essential to remove Puck. Even a casual mention by Puck of Fairhaven’s visits would have linked him directly to Leng. It would have made him suspect number one. By luring you down there, Dr. Kelly, Fairhaven figured he could kill two birds with one stone. You had proven yourself unusually dangerous and effective.

  “But I get ahead of myself. After Fairhaven discovered Leng’s work, he next wondered if Leng had succeeded—in other words, if Leng was still alive. So he began to track him down. When I myself started to hunt for Leng’s whereabouts, I often had the sense someone had walked the trail before me in the not too distant past.

  “Ultimately, Fairhaven discovered where Leng had once lived. He came to this house. Imagine his exultation when he found my great-grand-uncle still alive—when he realized that Leng had, in fact, succeeded in his attempt to prolong life. Leng had the very secret that Fairhaven so desperately wanted.

  “Fairhaven tried to make Leng divulge his secret. As we know, Leng had abandoned his ultimate project. And I now know why. Studying the papers in his laboratory, I realized that Leng’s work stopped abruptly around the first of March 1954. I wondered a long time about the significance of that date. And then I understood. That was the date of Castle Bravo.”

  “Castle Bravo?” Nora echoed.

  “The first dry thermonuclear bomb, exploded at Bikini. It ‘ran away’ to fifteen megatons, and the fireball expanded to four miles in diameter. Leng was convinced that, with the invention of the thermonuclear bomb, the human race was destined to kill itself anyway, and far more efficiently than he ever could. The march of technology had solved his problem for him. So he gave up his search for the ultimate poison. He could grow old and die in peace, knowing it was only a matter of time before his dream of curing the earth of its human plague came true.

  “So, by the time Fairhaven found him, Leng had not taken the elixir for many years—since March 1954, in fact. He had grown old. Perhaps he almost wanted to die. At any rate, he refused, even under brutal torture, to reveal his formula. Fairhaven pushed too hard and killed him.

  “But there was still another chance for Fairhaven. There was still Leng’s old lab, where crucial information—both in the form of human remains, and especially in the form of Leng’s journal—might be found. And Fairhaven knew where the lab was: underneath Shottum’s Cabinet. Of course, the lot was now covered by apartment buildings. But Fairhaven was in the perfect position to buy the land and tear down the buildings, all in the name of urban renewal. Construction workers I’ve spoken to mentioned that Fairhaven was conspicuously present at the site while the foundation was being dug. He was the second man to enter the charnel pit, after the worker who originally found the bones had fled. No doubt he found Leng’s notebook in there. Later, he was able to study the effects taken from the tunnel at his leisure. Including the bones—and that, no doubt, is why the marks on both the old corpses and the new were so similar.

  “Now, Fairhaven had Leng’s notebooks. He began trying to replicate Leng’s experiments, hoping to retrace the path Leng had taken. But of course, his attempts were amateurish, with no real understanding of Leng’s true work.”

  As Pendergast’s narrative ceased, the old house settled into a profound silence.

  “I can’t believe it,” Smithback said at last. “When I interviewed him, Fairhaven seemed so confident, so calm. So… so sane.”

  “Madness wears many disguises,” Pendergast replied. “Fairhaven’s obsession was deep, too deep and abiding to show itself openly. And one can reach the gates of hell just as easily by short steps as by large. Fairhaven seemed to think that the formula for longevity had always been destined for him. Having taken in Leng’s life essence, he now began to believe that he was Leng—Leng as he should have been. He took on Leng’s persona, his manner of dress. And the copycat killings began. But a different sort of copycat killing than the police ever imagined. Killings, by the way, that had nothing to do with your article, Mr. Smithback.”

  “Why did he try to kill you?” Smithback asked. “It was such a risk. I never understood that.”

  “Fairhaven was a man who thought far, far ahead. That was why he was so successful in business—and, of course, one reason why he was so frightened of death. When I succeeded in finding Mary Greene’s address, he realized it was only a matter of time before I found Leng’s. Whether I believed Leng was alive or dead didn’t matter—he knew I would come to Leng’s house, and then all his efforts would be ruined. It would expose the connection between the modern-day killer known as the Surgeon and the old killer named Leng. It was the same with Nora. She was hot on the trail; she’d been to visit McFadden’s daughter; she had the archaeological expertise I lacked. Clearly, it was only a matter of time before we figured out where Leng lived. We couldn’t be allowed to proceed.”

  “And O’Shaughnessy? Why kill him?”

  Pendergast bowed his head. “I will never forgive myself for that. I sent O’Shaughnessy on what I believed was a safe errand, investigating New Amsterdam Chemists, where Leng had procured his chemicals many years ago. While there, it seems O’Shaughnessy had the luck to find some old journals, listing chemical purchases in the 1920s. I call it luck, but it turned out to be quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I didn’t realize Fairhaven was on high alert, monitoring our every move. When he became aware that O’Shaughnessy not only knew where Leng bought his chemicals, but had managed to retrieve some old sale
s books—which might be extremely useful, and certainly dangerous in our hands—he had to kill him. Immediately.”

  “Poor Patrick,” said Smithback. “What a terrible way to die.”

  “Terrible, terrible indeed,” Pendergast murmured, the anguish all too clear on his face. “And the responsibility for it lies on my shoulders. It was the least I could do to see him given a proper Catholic burial and to provide his nearest relations with a modest legacy—anonymously, of course. He was a good man, and a fine officer.”

  Looking up at the rows of leather-bound books, at the worm-eaten tapestries and peeling wallpaper, Nora shivered.

  “Oh, God,” Smithback murmured at last, shaking his head. “And to think I can’t publish any of this.” Then he looked over at Pendergast. “So what happened to Fairhaven?”

  “That which he feared most, death, came at last. In a nod to Poe, I walled up the poor wretch within a basement alcove. It would not do for his body to surface.”

  This was followed by a short silence.

  “So what are you going to do with this house and all these collections?” Nora asked.

  A wan smile played about Pendergast’s lips. “Through a tortuous route of inheritance, this house and its contents have ended up in my possession. Someday, perhaps, some of these collections will find their way anonymously into the great museums of the world—but not for a very long time.”

  “And what’s happened to the house? It’s torn apart.”

  “That brings me to one final request I would make of you both.”

  “And that is—?”

  “That you come with me.”

  They followed Pendergast down winding passageways to the door leading to the porte-cochère. Pendergast opened the door. Outside, Pendergast’s Rolls was silently idling, jarring in this forlorn neighborhood.

  “Where are we going?” Smithback asked.

  “Gates of Heaven Cemetery.”

  The drive out of Manhattan, into the crisp winter hills of Westchester, took half an hour. During that time, Pendergast said nothing, sitting motionless, wrapped in his own thoughts. At last they passed through the dark metal gates and began climbing the gentle curve of a hill. Beyond lay another hill, and then another: a vast city of the dead, full of monuments and ponderous tombs. In time, the car stopped in a far corner of the cemetery, on a rise dotted with marble.