The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Douglas Preston

  “Two scoops. And Patrick, don’t be so naive. This is a bloodsucking business, and you either suck or get sucked.” The metaphor didn’t have quite the ring Smithback intended, but it conveyed the message.

  O’Shaughnessy laughed mirthlessly. “That about sums it up in my business, too.” His face grew graver. “But I know what it’s like to be canned.”

  Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. Time to push a little. “So what’s Pendergast’s theory?”

  O’Shaughnessy took a sip of his drink. He seemed to arrive at some private decision. “If I tell you, you’ll use your resources, see if there’s any chance it’s true?”

  “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “And you’ll keep it to yourself? No story—at least, not yet?”

  That hurt, but Smithback managed to nod in agreement.

  “Okay.” O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “Not that you could print it, anyway. It’s totally unpublishable.”

  Smithback nodded. “I understand.” This was sounding better and better.

  O’Shaughnessy glanced at him. “Pendergast thinks this guy Leng is still alive. He thinks Leng succeeded in prolonging his life.”

  This stopped Smithback cold. He felt a shock of disappointment. “Shit, Patrick, that is crazy. That’s absurd.”

  “I told you so.”

  Smithback felt a wave of desperation. This was worse than nothing. Pendergast had gone off the deep end. Everybody knew a copycat killer was at work here. Leng, still alive after a century and a half? The story he was looking for seemed to recede further into the distance. He put his head in his hands. “How?”

  “Pendergast believes that the examination of the bones on Doyers Street, the Catherine Street autopsy report, and the Doreen Hollander autopsy results, all show the same exact pattern of marks.”

  Smithback continued to shake his head. “So Leng’s been killing all this time—for, what, the last hundred and thirty years?”

  “That’s what he thinks. He thinks the guy is still living up on Riverside Drive somewhere.”

  For a moment, Smithback was silent, toying with the matches. Pendergast needed a long vacation.

  “He’s got Nora examining old deeds, identifying which houses dating prior to 1900 weren’t broken into apartments. Looking for property deeds that haven’t gone into probate for a very, very long time. That sort of thing. Trying to track Leng down.”

  A total waste, Smithback thought. What’s going on with Pendergast? He finished his now tasteless drink.

  “Don’t forget your promise. You’ll look into it? Check the obituaries, comb old issues of the Times for any crumbs you can find? See if there’s even a chance Pendergast might be right?”

  “Sure, sure.” Jesus, what a joke. Smithback was now sorry he’d agreed to the arrangement. All it meant was more wasted time.

  O’Shaughnessy looked relieved. “Thanks.”

  Smithback dropped the matches into his pocket, drained his glass. He flagged down the waiter. “What do we owe you?”

  “Ninety-two dollars,” the man intoned sadly. As usual, there was no tab: Smithback was sure a goodly portion went into the waiter’s own pockets.

  “Ninety-two dollars!”O’Shaughnessy cried. “How many drinks did you have before I arrived?”

  “The good things in life, Patrick, are not free,” Smithback said mournfully. “That is especially true of single malt Scotch.”

  “Think of the poor starving children.”

  “Think of the poor thirsty journalists. Next time, you pay. Especially if you come armed with a story that crazy.”

  “I told you so. And I hope you won’t mind drinking Powers. No Irishman would be caught dead paying a tab like that. Only a Scotsman would dare charge that much for a drink.”

  Smithback turned onto Columbus Avenue, thinking. Suddenly, he stopped. While Pendergast’s theory was ridiculous, it had given him an idea. With all the excitement about the copycat killings and the Doyers Street find, no one had really followed up on Leng himself. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he get his medical degree? What was his connection to the Museum? Where had he lived?

  Now this was good.

  A story on Dr. Enoch Leng, mass murderer. Yes, yes, this was it. This might just be the thing to save his ass at the Times.

  Come to think of it, this was better than good. This guy antedated Jack the Ripper. Enoch Leng: A Portrait of America’s First Serial Killer. This could be a cover story for the Times Sunday Magazine. He’d kill two birds with one stone: do the research he’d promised O’Shaughnessy, while getting background on Leng. And he wouldn’t be betraying any confidences, of course—because once he’d determined when the man died, that would be the end of Pendergast’s crazy theory.

  He felt a sudden shiver of fear. What if Harriman was already pursuing the story of Leng? He’d better get to work right away. At least he had one big advantage over Harriman: he was a hell of a researcher. He’d start with the newspaper morgue—look for little notes, mentions of Leng or Shottum or McFadden. And he’d look for more killings with the Leng modus operandi: the signature dissection of the spinal cord. Surely Leng had killed more people than had been found at Catherine and Doyers Streets. Perhaps some of those other killings had come to light and made the papers.

  And then there were the Museum’s archives. From his earlier book projects, he’d come to know them backward and forward. Leng had been associated with the Museum. There would be a gold mine of information in there, if only one knew where to find it.

  And there would be a side benefit: he might just be able to pass along to Nora the information she wanted about where Leng lived. A little gesture like that might get their relationship back on track. And who knows? It might get Pendergast’s investigation back on track, as well.

  His meeting with O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been a total loss, after all.

  TWO

  EAST TWELFTH STREET was a typical East Village street, O’Shaughnessy thought as he turned the corner from Third Avenue: a mixture of punks, would-be poets, ’60s relics, and old-timers who just didn’t have the energy or money to move. The street had improved a bit in recent years, but there was still a superfluity of beaten-down tenements among the head shops, wheat-grass bars, and used-record vendors. He slowed his pace, watching the people passing by: slumming tourists trying to look cool; aging punk rockers with very dated spiked purple hair; artists in paint-splattered jeans lugging canvases; drugged-out skinheads in leather with dangling chrome doohickeys. They seemed to give him a wide berth: nothing stood out on a New York City street quite like a plainclothes police officer, even one on administrative leave and under investigation.

  Up ahead now, he could make out the shop. It was a little hole-in-the-wall of black-painted brick, shoehorned between brownstones that seemed to sag under the weight of innumerable layers of graffiti. The windows of the shop were thick with dust, and stacked high with ancient boxes and displays, so faded with age and sun that their lables were indecipherable. Small greasy letters above the windows spelled out New Amsterdam Chemists.

  O’Shaughnessy paused, examining the shopfront. It seemed hard to believe that an old relic like this could survive, what with a Duane Reade on the very next corner. Nobody seemed to be going in or out. The place looked dead.

  He stepped forward again, approaching the door. There was a buzzer, and a small sign that read Cash Only. He pressed the buzzer, hearing it rasp far, far within. For what seemed a long time, there was no other noise. Then he heard the approach of shuffling footsteps. A lock turned, the door opened, and a man stood before him. At least, O’Shaughnessy thought it was a man: the head was as bald as a billiard ball, and the clothes were masculine, but the face had a kind of strange neutrality that made sex hard to determine.

  Without a word, the person turned and shuffled away again. O’Shaughnessy followed, glancing around curiously. He’d expected to find an old pharmacy, with perhaps an ancient soda fountain and wo
oden shelves stocked with aspirin and liniment. Instead, the shop was an incredible rat’s nest of stacked boxes, spiderwebs, and dust. Stifling a cough, O’Shaughnessy traced a complex path toward the back of the store. Here he found a marble counter, scarcely less dusty than the rest of the shop. The person who’d let him in had taken up a position behind it. Small wooden boxes were stacked shoulder high on the wall behind the shopkeeper. O’Shaughnessy squinted at the paper labels slid into copper placards on each box: amaranth, nux vomica, nettle, vervain, hellebore, nightshade, narcissus, shepherd’s purse, pearl trefoil. On an adjoining wall were hundreds of glass beakers, and beneath were several rows of boxes, chemical symbols scrawled on their faces in red marker. A book titled Wortcunning lay on the counter.

  The man—it seemed easiest to think of him as a man—stared back at O’Shaughnessy, pasty face expectant.

  “O’Shaughnessy, FBI consultant,” O’Shaughnessy said, displaying the identity card Pendergast had secured for him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I might.”

  The man scrutinized the card, and for a minute O’Shaughnessy thought he was going to challenge it. But the shopkeeper merely shrugged.

  “What kind of people visit your shop?”

  “It’s mostly those wiccans.” The man screwed up his face.

  “Wiccans?”

  “Yeah. Wiccans. That’s what they call themselves these days.”

  Abruptly, O’Shaughnessy understood. “You mean witches.”

  The man nodded.

  “Anybody else? Any, say, doctors?”

  “No, nobody like that. We get chemists here, too. Sometimes hobbyists. Health supplement types.”

  “Anybody who dresses in an old-fashioned, or unusual fashion?”

  The man gestured in the vague direction of East Twelfth Street. “They all dress in an unusual fashion.”

  O’Shaughnessy thought for a moment. “We’re investigating some old crimes that took place near the turn of the century. I was wondering if you’ve got any old records I could examine, lists of clientele and the like.”

  “Maybe,” the man said. The voice was high, very breathy.

  This answer took O’Shaughnessy by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “The shop burned to the ground in 1924. After it was rebuilt, my grandfather—he was running the place back then—started keeping his records in a fireproof safe. After my father took over, he didn’t use the safe much. In fact, he only used it for storing some possessions of my grandfather’s. He passed away three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” O’Shaughnessy said. “How did he die?”

  “Stroke, they said. So anyway, a few weeks later, an antiques dealer came by. Looked around the shop, bought a few old pieces of furniture. When he saw the safe, he offered me a lot of money if there was anything of historical value inside. So I had it drilled.” The man sniffed. “But there was nothing much. Tell the truth, I’d been hoping for some gold coins, maybe old securities or bonds. The fellow went away disappointed.”

  “So what was inside?”

  “Papers. Ledgers. Stuff like that. That’s why I told you, maybe.”

  “Can I have a look at this safe?”

  The man shrugged. “Why not?”

  The safe stood in a dimly lit back room, amid stacks of musty boxes and decaying wooden crates. It was shoulder high, made of thick green metal. There was a shiny cylindrical hole where the lock mechanism had been drilled out.

  The man pulled the door open, then stepped back as O’Shaughnessy came forward. He knelt and peered inside. Dust motes hung like a pall in the air. The contents of the safe lay in deep shadow.

  “Can you turn on some more lights?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “Can’t. Aren’t any more.”

  “Got a flashlight handy?”

  The man shook his head. “But hold on a second.” He shuffled away, then returned a minute later, carrying a lighted taper in a brass holder.

  Jesus, this is unbelievable, O’Shaughnessy thought. But he accepted the candle with murmured thanks and held it inside the safe.

  Considering its large size, the safe was rather empty. O’Shaughnessy moved the candle around, making a mental inventory of its contents. Stacks of old newspapers in one corner; various yellowed papers, tied into small bundles; several rows of ancient-looking ledger books; two more modern-looking volumes, bound in garish red plastic; half a dozen shoe boxes with dates scrawled on their faces.

  Setting the candle on the floor of the safe, O’Shaughnessy grabbed eagerly at the old ledgers. The first one he opened was simply a shop inventory, for the year 1925: page after page of items, written in a spidery hand. The other volumes were similar: semiannual inventories, ending in 1942.

  “When did your father take over the shop?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  The man thought for a moment. “During the war. ’41 maybe, or ’42.”

  Makes sense, O’Shaughnessy thought. Replacing the ledgers, he flipped through the stack of newspapers. He found nothing but a fresh cloud of dust.

  Moving the candle to one side, and fighting back a rising sense of disappointment, he reached for the bundles of papers. These were all bills and invoices from wholesalers, covering the same period: 1925 to 1942. No doubt they would match the inventory ledgers.

  The red plastic volumes were clearly far too recent to be of any interest. That left just the shoe boxes. One more chance. O’Shaughnessy plucked a shoe box from the top of the pile, blew the dust from its lid, opened it.

  Inside were old tax returns.

  Damn it, O’Shaughnessy thought as he replaced the box. He chose another at random, opened the lid. More returns.

  O’Shaughnessy sat back on his haunches, candle in one hand and shoe box in the other. No wonder the antiques dealer left empty-handed, he thought. Oh, well. It was worth a try.

  With a sigh, he leaned forward to replace the box. As he did so, he glanced once again at the red plastic folders. It was strange: the man said his father only used the safe for storing things of the grandfather. But plastic was a recent invention, right? Surely later than 1942. Curious, he plucked up one of the volumes and flipped it open.

  Within, he saw a dark-ruled page, full of old, handwritten entries. The page was sooty, partially burned, its edges crumbling away into ash.

  He glanced around. The proprietor of the shop had moved away, and was rummaging inside a cardboard box.

  Eagerly O’Shaughnessy snatched both the plastic volume and its mate from the safe. Then he blew out the candle and stood up.

  “Nothing much of interest, I’m afraid.” He held up the volumes with feigned nonchalance. “But as a formality, I’d like to take these down to our office, just for a day or two. With your permission, of course. It’ll save you and me lots of paperwork, court orders, all that kind of thing.”

  “Court orders?” the man said, a worried expression coming over his face. “Sure, sure. Keep them as long as you want.”

  Outside on the street, O’Shaughnessy paused to brush dust from his shoulders. Rain was threatening, and lights were coming on in the shotgun flats and coffeehouses that lined the street. A peal of distant thunder sounded over the hum of traffic. O’Shaughnessy turned up the collar of his jacket and tucked the volumes carefully under one arm as he hurried off toward Third Avenue.

  From the opposite sidewalk, in the shadow of a brownstone staircase, a man watched O’Shaughnessy depart. Now he came forward, derby hat low over a long black coat, cane tapping lightly on the sidewalk, and—after looking carefully left and right—slowly crossed the street, in the direction of New Amsterdam Chemists.

  THREE

  BILL SMITHBACK LOVED THE New York Times newspaper morgue: a tall, cool room with rows of metal shelves groaning under the weight of leather-bound volumes. On this particular morning, the room was completely empty. It was rarely used anymore by other reporters, who preferred to use the digitized, online editions, which went back only twenty-five years. O
r, if necessary, the microfilm machines, which were a pain but relatively fast. Still, Smithback found there was nothing more interesting, or so curiously useful, as paging through the old numbers themselves. You often found little strings of information in successive issues—or on adjoining pages—that you would have missed by cranking through reels of microfilm at top speed.

  When he proposed to his editor the idea of a story on Leng, the man had grunted noncommittally—a sure sign he liked it. As he was leaving, he heard the bug-eyed monster mutter: “Just make damn sure it’s better than that Fairhaven piece, okay? Something with marrow.”

  Well, it would be better than Fairhaven. It had to be.

  It was afternoon by the time he settled into the morgue. The librarian brought him the first of the volumes he’d requested, and he opened it with reverence, inhaling the smell of decaying wood pulp, old ink, mold, and dust. The volume was dated January 1881, and he quickly found the article he was looking for: the burning of Shottum’s cabinet. It was a front-page story, with a handsome engraving of the flames. The article mentioned that the eminent Professor John C. Shottum was missing and feared dead. Also missing, the article stated, was a man named Enoch Leng, who was vaguely billed as a boarder at the cabinet and Shottum’s “assistant.” Clearly, the writer knew nothing about Leng.

  Smithback paged forward until he found a follow-up story on the fire, reporting that remains believed to be Shottum had been found. No mention was made of Leng.

  Now working backward, Smithback paged through the city sections, looking for articles on the Museum, the Lyceum, or any mention of Leng, Shottum, or McFadden. It was slow going, and Smithback often found himself sidetracked by various fascinating, but unrelated, articles.

  After a few hours, he began to get a little nervous. There were plenty of articles on the Museum, a few on the Lyceum, and even occasional mentions of Shottum and his colleague, Tinbury McFadden. But he could find nothing at all on Leng, except in the reports of the meetings of the Lyceum, where a “Prof. Enoch Leng” was occasionally listed among the attendees. Leng clearly kept a low profile.