The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Douglas Preston

  “Then I suggest you sit down, my friend.”

  Smithback sat down, amid more laughter, his feelings of triumph squashed. He had scored a hit, but they knew how to hit back.

  As the questions droned on, it slowly dawned on him just what he had done, dragging Nora’s name into the press conference. It didn’t take him nearly as long to figure out how she would feel about it.

  TWO

  DOYERS STREET WAS A short, narrow dogleg of a lane at the southeastern edge of Chinatown. A cluster of tea shops and grocery stores stood at the far end, festooned with bright neon signs in Chinese. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, whipping scraps of paper and leaves off the sidewalk. There was a distant roll of thunder. A storm was coming.

  O’Shaughnessy paused at the entrance of the deserted lane, and Nora stopped beside him. She shivered, with both fear and cold. She could see him peering up and down the sidewalk, eyes alert for any sign of danger, any possibility that they had been followed.

  “Number ninety-nine is in the middle of the block,” he said in a low voice. “That brownstone, there.”

  Nora followed the indicated direction with her eyes. It was a narrow building like all the others: a three-story structure of dirty green brick.

  “Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  Nora swallowed. “I think it’d be better if you stayed here and watched the street.”

  O’Shaughnessy nodded, then slipped into the shadow of a doorway.

  Taking a deep breath, Nora started forward. The sealed envelope containing Pendergast’s banknotes felt like a lead weight within her purse. She shivered again, glancing up and down the dark street, fighting her feeling of agitation.

  The attack on her, and Puck’s brutal murder, had changed everything. It had proven these were no mere psychotic copycat killings. It had been carefully planned. The murderer had access to the Museum’s private spaces. He had used Puck’s old Royal typewriter to type that note, luring her to the Archives. He had pursued her with terrifying coolness. She’d felt the man’s presence, mere inches away from her, there in the Archives. She’d even felt the sting of his scalpel. This was no lunatic: this was someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and why. Whatever the connection between the old killings and the new, this had to be stopped. If there was anything—anything—she could do to get the killer, she was willing to do it.

  There were answers beneath the floor of Number 99 Doyers Street. She was going to find those answers.

  Her mind returned to the terrifying chase, in particular to the flash of the Surgeon’s scalpel as it flicked toward her, faster than a striking snake. It was an image that she found herself unable to shake. Then the endless police questioning; and afterward her trip to Pendergast’s bedside, to tell him she had changed her mind about Doyers Street. Pendergast had been alarmed to hear of the attack, reluctant at first, but Nora refused to be swayed. With or without him, she was going down to Doyers. Ultimately, Pendergast had relented: on the condition that Nora keep O’Shaughnessy by her side at all times. And he had arranged for her to receive the fat packet of cash.

  She mounted the steps to the front door, steeling herself for the task at hand. She noticed that the apartment names beside the buzzers were written in Chinese. She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 1.

  A voice rasped out in Chinese.

  “I’m the one interested in renting the basement apartment,” she called out.

  The lock snapped free with a buzz, she pushed on the door, and found herself in a hallway lit by fluorescent lights. A narrow staircase ascended to her right. At the end of the hallway she could hear a door being endlessly unbolted. It opened at last and a stooped, depressed-looking man appeared, in shirtsleeves and baggy slacks, peering down the hall at her.

  Nora walked up. “Mr. Ling Lee?”

  He nodded and held the door open for her. Beyond was a living room with a green sofa, a Formica table, several easy chairs, and an elaborate red- and gold-carved bas-relief on the wall, showing a pagoda and trees. A chandelier, grossly oversized for the space, dominated the room. The wallpaper was lilac, the rug red and black.

  “Sit down,” the man said. His voice was faint, tired.

  She sat down, sinking alarmingly into the sofa.

  “How you hear about this apartment?” Lee asked. Nora could see from his expression he was not pleased to see her.

  Nora launched into her story. “A lady who works in the Citibank down the block from here told me about it.”

  “What lady?” Lee asked, more sharply. In Chinatown, Pendergast had explained, most landlords preferred to rent to their own.

  “I don’t know her name. My uncle told me to talk to her, said that she knew where to find an apartment in this area. She told me to call you.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yes. Uncle Huang. He’s with the DHCR.”

  This bit of information was greeted with a dismayed silence. Pendergast figured that having a Chinese relative would make it easier for her to get the apartment. That he worked for the Department of Housing and Community Renewal—the city division that enforced the rent laws—made it all the better.

  “Your name?”

  “Betsy Winchell.”

  Nora noticed a large, dark presence move from the kitchen into the doorway of the living room. It was apparently Lee’s wife, arms folded, three times his size, looking very stern.

  “Over the phone, you said the apartment was available. I’m prepared to take it right away. Please show it to me.”

  Lee rose from the table and glanced at his wife. Her arms tightened.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  They went back into the hall, out the front door, and down the steps. Nora glanced around quickly, but O’Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen. Lee removed a key, opened the basement apartment door, and snapped on the lights. She followed him in. He closed the door and made a show of relocking no fewer than four locks.

  It was a dismal apartment, long and dark. The only window was a small, barred square beside the front door. The walls were of painted brick, once white but now gray, and the floor was covered with old brick pavers, cracked and chipped. Nora looked at them with professional interest. They were laid but not cemented. What was beneath? Dirt? Sand? Concrete? The floor looked just uneven and damp enough to have been laid on dirt.

  “Kitchen and bedroom in back,” said Lee, not bothering to point.

  Nora walked to the rear of the apartment. Here was a cramped kitchen, leading into two dark bedrooms and a bath. There were no closets. A window in the rear wall, below grade, allowed feeble brown light from an air shaft to enter between thick steel bars.

  Nora emerged. Lee was examining the lock on the front door. “Have to fix lock,” he said in a portentous tone. “Many robber try to get in.”

  “You have a lot of break-ins?”

  Lee nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes. Many robber. Very dangerous.”

  “Really?”

  “Many robber. Many mugger.” He shook his head sadly.

  “The apartment looks safe, at least.” Nora listened. The ceiling seemed fairly soundproof—at least, she could hear nothing from above.

  “Neighborhood not safe for girl. Every day, murder, mugging, robber. Rape.”

  Nora knew that, despite its shabby appearance, Chinatown was one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. “I’m not worried,” she said.

  “Many rule for apartment,” said Lee, trying another tack.

  “Is that right?”

  “No music. No noise. No man at night.” Lee seemed to be searching his mind for other strictures a young woman would find objectionable. “No smoke. No drink. Keep clean every day.”

  Nora listened, nodding her agreement. “Good. That sounds perfect. I like a neat, quiet place. And I have no boyfriend.” With a renewed flash of anger she thought of Smithback and how he had dragged her into this mess by publishing that article. To a certain extent Smithback had be
en responsible for these copycat killings. Just yesterday, he’d had the nerve to bring up her name at the mayor’s news conference, for the whole city to hear. She felt certain that, after what happened in the Archives, her long-term prospects at the Museum were even more questionable than before.

  “Utility not include.”

  “Of course.”

  “No air-condition.”

  Nora nodded.

  Lee seemed at a loss, then his face brightened with a fresh idea. “After suicide, no allow gun in apartment.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Young woman hang herself. Same age as you.”

  “A hanging? I thought you mentioned a gun.”

  The man looked confused for a moment. Then his face brightened again. “She hang, but it no work. Then shoot herself.”

  “I see. She favored the comprehensive approach.”

  “Like you, she no have boyfriend. Very sad.”

  “How terrible.”

  “It happen right in there,” said Lee, pointing into the kitchen. “Not find body for three day. Bad smell.” He rolled his eyes and added, in a dramatic undertone: “Many worm.”

  “How dreadful,” Nora said. Then she smiled. “But the apartment is just perfect. I’ll take it.”

  Lee’s look of depression deepened, but he said nothing.

  She followed him back up to his apartment. Nora sat back down at the sofa, uninvited. The wife was still there, a formidable presence in the kitchen doorway. Her face was screwed into an expression of suspicion and displeasure. Her crossed arms looked like balsa-colored hams.

  The man sat down unhappily.

  “So,” said Nora, “let’s get this over with. I want to rent the apartment. I need it immediately. Today. Right now.”

  “Have to check reference,” Lee replied feebly.

  “There’s no time and I’m prepared to pay cash. I need the apartment tonight, or I won’t have a place to sleep.” As she spoke, she removed Pendergast’s envelope. She reached in and took out a brick of hundred-dollar bills.

  The appearance of the money brought a loud expostulation from the wife. Lee did not respond. His eyes were on the cash.

  “I have here first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and a month’s deposit.” Nora thumped the roll on the tabletop. “Six thousand six hundred dollars. Cash. Bring out the lease.”

  The apartment was dismal and the rent bordered on outrageous, which was probably why it wasn’t gone already. She hoped that hard cash was something Lee could not afford to ignore.

  There was another sharp comment from the wife. Lee ignored her. He went into the back, and returned a few minutes later, laying two leases in front of her. They were in Chinese. There was a silence.

  “Need reference,” said the wife stolidly, switching to English for Nora’s benefit. “Need credit check.”

  Nora ignored her. “Where do I sign?”

  “There,” the man pointed.

  Nora signed Betsy Winchell with a flourish on both leases, and then hand wrote on each lease a crude receipt: $6,600 received by Mr. Ling Lee. “My Uncle Huang will translate it for me. I hope for your sake there’s nothing illegal in it. Now you sign. Initial the receipt.”

  There was a sharp noise from the wife.

  Lee signed his name in Chinese; emboldened, it seemed, by the opposition of his wife.

  “Now give me the keys and we’re done.”

  “Have to make copy of keys.”

  “You give me those keys. It’s my apartment now. I’ll make the copies for you at my own expense. I need to start moving in right away.”

  Lee reluctantly handed her the keys. Nora took them, folded one of the leases into her pocket, and stood up. “Thank you very much,” she said cheerfully, holding out her hand.

  Lee shook it limply. As the door closed, Nora heard another sharp irruption of displeasure from the wife. This one sounded as if it might go on for a long time.

  THREE

  NORA IMMEDIATELY RETURNED to the apartment below. O’Shaughnessy appeared by her side as she unlocked the door. Together, they slipped into the living room, and Nora secured the door with deadbolts and chains. Then she moved to the barred window. Two nails stuck out from either side of the lintel, on which someone had once hung a makeshift curtain. She removed her coat and hung it across the nails, blocking the view from outside.

  “Cozy place,” O’Shaughnessy said, sniffing. “Smells like a crime scene.”

  Nora didn’t answer. She was staring at the floor, already working out the dig in her mind.

  While O’Shaughnessy cased the apartment, Nora made a circuit of the living room, examining the floor, gridding it off, plotting her lines of attack. Then she knelt and, taking a penknife from her pocket—a knife her brother, Skip, had given her for her sixteenth birthday and which she never traveled without—eased it between the edges of two bricks. Slowly, deliberately, she cut her way through the crust of grime and old floor wax. She rocked the knife back and forth between the bricks, gently loosening the stonework. Then, bit by bit, she began to work the closest brick from its socket. In a moment it was free. She pulled it out.

  Earth. The damp smell rose toward her nostrils. She poked her finger into it: cool, moist, a little slimy. She probed with the penknife, found it compact but yielding, with little gravel or rocks. Perfect.

  She straightened up, looked around. O’Shaughnessy was standing behind her, looking down curiously.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Checking the subflooring.”

  “And?”

  “It’s old fill, not cement.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s outstanding.”

  “If you say so.”

  She tapped the brick back into place, then stood. She checked her watch. Three o’clock, Friday afternoon. The Museum would close in two hours.

  She turned to O’Shaughnessy. “Look, Patrick, I need you to get up to my office at the Museum, plunder my field locker for some tools and equipment I’ll need.”

  O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “Nothing doing. Pendergast said I was to stay with you.”

  “I remember. But I’m here now, safe. There must be five locks on that door, I won’t be going anywhere. I’ll be a lot safer here than walking the streets. Besides, the killer knows where I work. Would you rather I went uptown and you waited here?”

  “Why go anywhere? What’s the hurry? Can’t we wait until Pendergast is out of the hospital?”

  She stared at him. “The clock’s ticking, Patrick. There’s a killer out there.”

  O’Shaughnessy looked at her. Hesitated.

  “We can’t afford to just sit around. I hope you’re not going to give me a hard time. I need those tools, and I need them now.”

  Still, hesitation.

  Nora felt her anger rise. “Just do it. Okay?”

  O’Shaughnessy sighed. “Double-lock the door behind me, and don’t open it for anybody. Not the landlord, not the fire department, not Santa Claus. Only me. Promise?”

  Nora nodded. “I promise.”

  “Good, I’ll be back ASAP.”

  She drew up a quick list of items, gave O’Shaughnessy directions, and locked the door carefully behind him, shutting out the sound of the growing storm. Slowly, she stepped away from the door, her eyes swiveling around the room, coming to rest at last on the brickwork beneath her feet. One hundred years before, Leng, for all his genius, could not have anticipated the reach of modern archaeology. She would excavate this site with the greatest care, sifting through his old laboratory layer by layer, bringing all her skills to bear in order to capture even the smallest piece of evidence. And there would be evidence, she knew that. There was no such thing as a barren archaeological site. People—wherever they went, whatever they did—always left a record.

  Taking out her penknife, she knelt and, once again, began easing the blade between the old bricks. There was a sudden peal of thunder, louder than any that had come before; she
paused, heart beating wildly with terror. She forced her feelings back under control, shaking her head ruefully. No killer was going to stop her from finding out what was beneath this floor. She wondered briefly what Brisbane would say to this work. The hell with him, she thought.

  She turned the penknife over in her hands, closed it with a sigh. All her professional life, she had unearthed and catalogued human bones without emotion—with no connection to the ancient skeletons beyond a shared humanity. But Mary Greene had proven utterly different. There, outside the girl’s house, Pendergast had thrown Mary Greene’s short life and awful death into sharp relief. For the first time, Nora realized she had excavated, handled, the bones of someone that she could understand, grieve for. More and more, Pendergast’s tale of Mary Greene was sinking in, despite her attempts to keep a professional distance. And now, she had almost become another Mary Greene.

  That made it personal. Very personal.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of wind at the door, and another, fainter, rumble of thunder. Nora rose to her knees, opened the penknife again, and began scraping vigorously at the brickwork beneath her feet. It was going to be a long night.

  FOUR

  THE WIND SHOOK the barred door, and occasional flickers of lightning and grumblings of thunder penetrated the room. Now that O’Shaughnessy had returned, the two worked together, the policeman moving the dirt, Nora focusing on uncovering the details. They labored by the light of a single yellow bulb. The room smelled strongly of decaying earth. The air was close, humid, and stifling.

  She had opened a four-square-meter dig in the living room floor. It had been carefully gridded off, and she had stepped down the excavation, each meter grid to a different level, allowing her to climb in and out of the deepening hole. The floor bricks were neatly piled against the far wall. The door leading to the kitchen was open, and through it a large pile of brown dirt was visible, piled in the center of the room atop a sheet of heavy plastic. Beside it was a smaller sheet of plastic, containing bagged items recovered from the digsite.