The room was almost empty.
At the door stood a manic-looking man, a large name tag displayed below his white carnation. He spotted Pendergast, rushed over, and seized his hand with almost frantic gratitude. “Harry Medoker, head of public relations. Thank you for coming, sir, thank you. I think you’ll love the new hall.”
“Primate behavior is my specialty.”
“Ah! Then you’ve come to the right place.” The PR man caught a glimpse of O’Shaughnessy and froze in the act of pumping Pendergast’s hand. “I’m sorry, Officer. Is there a problem?” His voice had lost all its conviviality.
“Yeah,” said O’Shaughnessy in his most menacing tone.
The man leaned forward and spoke in most unwelcoming tones. “This is a private opening, Officer. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. We have no need of outside security—”
“Oh yeah? Just so you know, Harry, I’m here on the little matter of the Museum cocaine ring.”
“Museum cocaine ring?” Medoker looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
“Officer O’Shaughnessy,” came Pendergast’s mild warning.
O’Shaughnessy gave the man a little clap on the shoulder. “Don’t breathe a word. Imagine how the press would run with it. Think of the Museum, Harry.” Harry.” He left the man white and shaking.
“I hate it when they don’t respect the man in blue,” said O’Shaughnessy.
For a moment, Pendergast eyed him gravely. Then he nodded toward the buffet. “Regulations may forbid drinking on the job, but they don’t forbid eating Mini au caviar.”
“Blini auwhat?”
“Tiny buckwheat pancakes topped with crème fraîche and caviar. Delectable.”
O’Shaughnessy shuddered. “I don’t like raw fish eggs.”
“I suspect you’ve never had the real thing, Sergeant. Give one a try. You’ll find them much more palatable than a Die Walküre aria, I assure you. However, there’s also the smoked sturgeon, the foie gras, the prosciutto di Parma, and the Damariscotta River oysters. The Museum always serves an excellent table.”
“Just give me the pigs in a blanket.”
“Those can be obtained from the man with the cart on the corner of Seventy-seventh and Central Park West.”
More people were trickling into the hall, but the crowd was still thin. O’Shaughnessy followed Pendergast over to the food table. He avoided the piles of sticky gray fish eggs. Instead, he took a few pieces of ham, cut a slice from a wheel of brie, and with some pieces of French bread made a couple of small ham-and-cheese sandwiches for himself. The ham was a little dry, and the cheese tasted a little like ammonia, but overall it was palatable.
“You had a meeting with Captain Custer, right?” Pendergast asked. “How did it go?”
O’Shaughnessy shook his head as he munched. “Not too good.”
“I expect there was someone from the mayor’s office.”
“Mary Hill.”
“Ah, Miss Hill. Of course.”
“Captain Custer wanted to know why I hadn’t told them about the journal, why I hadn’t told them about the dress, why I hadn’t told them about the note. But it was all in the report—which Custer hadn’t read—so in the end I survived the meeting.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Thanks for helping me finish that report. Otherwise, they’d have ripped me a new one.”
“What a quaint expression.” Pendergast looked over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder. “Sergeant, I’d like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. William Smithback.”
O’Shaughnessy turned to see a gangling, awkward-looking man at the buffet, a gravity-defying cowlick jutting from the top of his head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he seemed utterly absorbed in piling as much food onto his plate as possible, as quickly as possible. The man looked over, saw Pendergast, and started visibly. He glanced around uneasily, as if marking possible exits. But the FBI agent was smiling encouragingly, and the man named Smithback came toward them a little warily.
“Agent Pendergast,” Smithback said in a nasal baritone. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed. Mr. Smithback, I find you well.” He grasped Smithback’s hand and shook it. “How many years has it been?”
“Long time,” said Smithback, looking like it had not been nearly long enough. “What are you doing in New York?”
“I keep an apartment here.” Pendergast released the hand and looked the writer up and down. “I see you’ve graduated to Armani, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “A rather better cut than those off-the-rack Fourteenth Street job-lot suits you used to sport. However, when you’re ready to take a real sartorial step, might I recommend Brioni or Ermenegildo Zegna?”
Smithback opened his mouth to reply, but Pendergast continued smoothly. “I heard from Margo Green, by the way. She’s up in Boston, working for the GeneDyne Corporation. She asked me to remember her to you.”
Smithback opened his mouth again, shut it. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “And—and Lieutenant D’Agosta? You keep in touch with him?”
“He also went north. He’s now living in Canada, writing police procedurals, under the pen name of Campbell Dirk.”
“I’ll have to pick up one of his books.”
“He hasn’t made it big yet—not like you, Mr. Smithback—but I must say the books are readable.”
By this point, Smithback had fully recovered. “And mine aren’t?”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I can’t honestly say I’ve read any. Do you have one you could particularly recommend?”
“Very funny,” said Smithback, frowning and looking about. “I wonder if Nora’s going to be here.”
“So you’re the guy who wrote the article, right?” asked O’Shaughnessy.
Smithback nodded. “Made a splash, don’t you think?”
“It certainly got everyone’s attention,” said Pendergast dryly.
“As well it should. Nineteenth-century serial killer, kidnapping and mutilating helpless kids from workhouses, all in the name of some experiment to extend his own wretched life. You know, they’ve awarded Pulitzers for less than that.” People were arriving more quickly now, and the noise level was increasing.
“The Society for American Archaeology is demanding an investigation into how the site came to be destroyed. I understand the construction union is also asking questions. With this upcoming election, the mayor’s on the defensive. As you can imagine, Moegen-Fairhaven wasn’t terribly happy about it. Speak of the devil.”
“What?” Smithback said, clearly surprised by this sudden remark.
“Anthony Fairhaven,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the entrance.
O’Shaughnessy followed the glance. The man standing in the doorway to the hall was much more youthful than he’d expected; fit, with the kind of frame a bicyclist or rock climber might have—wiry, athletic. His tuxedo draped over his shoulders and chest with a lightness that made him look as if he’d been born in it. Even more surprising was the face. It was an open face, an honest-looking face; not the face of the rapacious money-grubbing real estate developer Smithback had portrayed in the Times article. Then, most surprising of all: Fairhaven looked their way, noticed their glance, and smiled broadly at them before continuing into the hall.
A hissing came over the PA system; “Tales from the Vienna Woods” died away raggedly. A man was at the podium, doing a sound check. He retreated, and a hush fell on the crowd. After a moment, a second man, wearing a formal suit, mounted the podium and walked to the microphone. He looked grave, intelligent, patrician, dignified, at ease. In short, he was everything O’Shaughnessy hated.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“The distinguished Dr. Frederick Collopy,” said Pendergast. “Director of the Museum.”
“He’s got a 29-year-old wife,” Smithback whispered. “Can you believe it? It’s a wonder he can even find the—Look, there she is now.” He pointed to a young and extremely attractive woman standing to o
ne side. Unlike the other women, who all seemed to be dressed in black, she was wearing an emerald-green gown with an elegant diamond tiara. The combination was breathtaking.
“Oh, God,” Smithback breathed. “What a stunner.”
“I hope the guy keeps a pair of cardiac paddles on his bedside table,” O’Shaughnessy muttered.
“I think I’ll go over and give him my number. Offer to spell him one of these nights, in case the old geezer gets winded.”
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, began Collopy. His voice was low, gravelly, without inflection. When I was a young man, I undertook the reclassification of the Pongidae, the Great Apes…
The level of conversation in the room dropped but did not cease altogether. People seemed far more interested in food and drink than in hearing this man talk about monkeys, O’Shaughnessy thought.
… And I was faced with a problem: Where to put mankind? Are we in the Pongidae, or are we not? Are we a Great Ape, or are we something special? This was the question I faced…
“Here comes Dr. Kelly,” said Pendergast.
Smithback turned, an eager, expectant, nervous look on his face. But the tall, copper-haired woman swept past him without so much as a glance, arrowing straight for the food table.
“Hey Nora! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!” O’Shaughnessy watched the writer hustle after her, then returned his 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 fraîche. 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 completely.
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 Company, 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 come 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 grain
ed 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.
The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 13
