by Brad Meltzer
O’Shaughnessy stared at Pendergast. “I bet you think you’re a real Sherlock Holmes.”
“One does not often find a policeman with a love of opera.”
“What about you? You like opera?” O’Shaughnessy threw the question back at him.
“I loathe it. Opera was the television of the nineteenth century: loud, vulgar, and garish, with plots that could only be called infantile.”
For the first time, O’Shaughnessy smiled. He shook his head. “Pendergast, all I can say is, your powers of observation aren’t nearly as formidable as you seem to think. Jesus, what a philistine.”
His smile widened as he saw a look of irritation cloud the FBI agent’s face for no more than an instant. He had finally gotten to him.
FOUR
NORA USHERED PENDERGAST AND THE DOUR-LOOKING little policeman through the doorway of Central Archives, a little relieved she’d had no trouble finding her way this time.
Pendergast paused inside the door, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh. The smell of history. Drink it in, Sergeant.” He put out his hands, fingers extended, as if to warm them on the documents within.
Reinhart Puck advanced toward Pendergast, head wagging. He wiped his shining pate with a handkerchief, then stuffed the cloth into a pocket with awkward fingers. The sight of the FBI agent seemed to both please and alarm him. “Dr. Pendergast,” he said. “A pleasure. I don’t think we’ve met since, let’s see, the Troubles of ’95. Did you take that trip to Tasmania?”
“I did indeed, thank you for remembering. And my knowledge of Australian flora has increased proportionately.”
“And how’s the, er, your department?”
“Splendid,” said Pendergast. “Allow me to introduce Sergeant O’Shaughnessy.”
The policeman stepped out from behind Pendergast, and Puck’s face fell. “Oh, dear. There is a rule, you see. Non-Museum employees—”
“I can vouch for him,” said Pendergast, a note of finality in his voice. “He is an outstanding member of the police force of our city.”
“I see, I see,” Puck said unhappily, as he worked the locks. “Well, you’ll all have to sign in, you know.” He turned away from the door. “And this is Mr. Gibbs.”
Oscar Gibbs nodded curtly. He was small, compact, and African-American, with hairless arms and a closely shaven head. For his size, his build was so solid he seemed fashioned out of butcher-block. He was covered with dust and looked distinctly unhappy to be there.
“Mr. Gibbs has kindly set up everything for you in the Research Room,” said Puck. “We’ll go through the formalities, and then if you’ll be so good as to follow me?”
They signed the book, then advanced into the gloom, Puck lighting the way, as before, by the banks of ivory switches. After what seemed an interminable journey, they arrived at a door set into the plastered rear wall of the Archives, with a small window of glass and metal meshing. With a heavy jangle of keys, Puck laboriously unlocked it, then held it open for Nora. She stepped inside. The lights came up and she almost gasped in astonishment.
Polished oak paneling rose from a marble floor to an ornate, plastered and gilded ceiling of rococo splendor. Massive oaken tables with claw feet dominated the center of the room, surrounded by oak chairs with red leather seats and backs. On each table sat small leather-sided boxes, containing special pencils and paper for note-taking. Heavy chandeliers of worked copper and crystal hung suspended above each table. Two of the tables were covered by a variety of objects, and a third had been laid out with boxes, books, and papers. A massive, bricked-up fireplace, surrounded by pink marble, stood at the far end of the room. Everything was hoary with the accumulated patina of years.
“This is incredible,” said Nora.
“Yes, indeed,” said Puck. “One of the finest rooms in the Museum. Historical research used to be very important.” He sighed. “Times have changed. O tempo, O mores, and all that. Please remove all writing instruments from your pockets, and put on those linen gloves before handling any of the objects. I will need to take your briefcase, Doctor.” He glanced disapprovingly at the gun and handcuffs dangling from O’Shaughnessy’s service belt, but said nothing.
They laid their pens and pencils into a proffered tray. Nora and the others slid on pairs of spotless gloves.
“I will withdraw. When you are ready to leave, call me on that telephone. Extension 4240. If you want photocopies of anything, fill out one of these sheets.”
The door eased shut. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock.
“Did he just lock us in?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
Pendergast nodded. “Standard procedure.”
O’Shaughnessy stepped back into the gloom. He was an odd man, Nora thought; quiet, inscrutable, handsome in a Black Irish kind of way. Pendergast seemed to like him. O’Shaughnessy, on the other hand, looked as if he didn’t like anybody.
The agent clasped his hands behind his back and made a slow circuit of the first table, peering at each object in turn. He did the same with the second table, then moved to the third table, laden with its assorted papers.
“Let’s see this inventory you mentioned,” he said to Nora.
Nora pointed out the promissory note with the inventory she had found the day before. Pendergast looked it over, and then, paper in hand, made another circuit. He nodded at a stuffed okapi. “That came from Shottum’s,” he said. “And that.” He nodded to the elephant’s-foot box. “Those three penis sheaths and the right whale baculum. The Jivaro shrunken head. All from Shottum’s, payment to McFadden for his work.” He bent down to examine the shrunken head. “A fraud. Monkey, not human.” He glanced up at her. “Dr. Kelly, would you mind looking through the papers while I examine these objects?”
Nora sat down at the third table. There was the small box of Shottum’s correspondence, along with another, much larger, box and two binders—McFadden’s papers, apparently. Nora opened the Shottum box first. As Puck had noted, the contents were in a remarkable state of disarray. What few letters were here were all in the same vein: questions about classifications and identifications, tiffs with other scientists over various arcane subjects. It illuminated a curious corner of nineteenth-century natural history, but shed no light on a heinous nineteenth-century crime. As she read through the brief correspondence, a picture of J. C. Shottum began to form in her mind. It was not the image of a serial killer. He seemed a harmless enough man, fussy, narrow, a little querulous perhaps, bristling with academic rivalries. The man’s interests seemed exclusively related to natural history. Of course, you can never tell, she thought, turning over the musty pages.
Finding nothing of particular interest, Nora turned to the much larger—and neater—boxes of Tinbury McFadden’s correspondence. They were mostly notes from the long-dead curator on various odd subjects, written in a fanatically small hand: lists of classifications of plants and animals, drawings of various flowers, some quite good. At the bottom was a thick packet of correspondence to and from various men of science and collectors, held together by an ancient string that flew apart when she touched it. She riffled through them, arriving finally at a packet of letters from Shottum to McFadden. The first began, “My Esteemed Colleague.”
I herewith transmit to you a Curious Relic said to be from the Isle of Kut, off the coast of Indochine, depicting a simian in coito with a Hindoo goddess, carved from walrus ivory. Would you be so kind as to identify the species of simian?
Your colleague, J. C. Shottum
She slid out the next letter:
My Dear Colleague,
At the last meeting at the Lyceum, Professor Blackwood presented a fossil which he claimed was a Devonian Age crinoid from the Montmorency Dolomites. The Professor is sadly mistaken. LaFleuve himself identified the Montmorency Dolomites as Permian, and needs make a corrective note of it in the next Lyceum Bulletin…
She flipped through the rest. There were letters to others as well, a small circle of like-minded scientists, including Shottum. They
were all obviously well acquainted with one another. Perhaps the killer might be found in that circle. It seemed likely, since the person must have had easy access to Shottum’s Cabinet—if it wasn’t Shottum himself.
She began to make a list of correspondents and the nature of their work. Of course, it was always possible this was a waste of time, that the killer might have been the building’s janitor or coal man—but then she remembered the crisp, professional scalpel marks on the bones, the almost surgical dismemberments. No, it was a man of science—that was certain.
Taking out her notebook, she began jotting notes.
Letters to/from Tinbury McFadden:
C ORRESPONDENT S UBJECTS OF CORRESPONDENCE P OSITION D ATES OF CORRESPONDENCE
J. C. Shottum Natural history, anthropology, the Lyceum Owner, Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities New York 1869–1881
Prof. Albert Blackwood The Lyceum, the Museum Founder, New York Museum of Natural History 1865–1878
Dr. Asa Stone Gilcrease Birds Ornithologist New York 1875–1887
Col. Sir Henry C. Throckmorton, Bart., F.R.S. African mammals (big game) Collector, explorer sportsman London 1879–1891
Prof. Enoch Leng Classification Taxonomist, chemist New York 1872–1881
Miss Guenevere LaRue Christian missions for Borrioboola-Gha, in the African Congo Philanthropist New York 1870–1872
Dumont Burleigh Dinosaur fossils, the Lyceum Oilman, collector Cold Spring, New York 1875–1881
Dr. Ferdinand Huntt Anthropology, archaeology Surgeon, collector Oyster Bay, Long Island 1869–1879
Prof. Hiram Howlett Reptiles and amphibians Herpetologist Stormhaven, Maine 1871–1873
The penultimate name gave her pause. A surgeon. Who was Dr. Ferdinand Huntt? There were quite a few letters from him, written in a large scrawl on heavy paper with a beautifully engraved crest. She flipped through them.
My Dear Tinbury,
With regard to the Odinga Natives, the barbaric custom of Male Partum is still quite prevalent. When I was in the Volta I had the dubious privilege of witnessing childbirth. I was not allowed to assist, of course, but I could hear the shrieks of the husband quite clearly as the wife jerked on the rope affixed to his genitalia with every contraction she experienced. I treated the poor man’s injuries—severe lacerations—following the birth…
My Dear Tinbury,
The Olmec Fade phallus I herewith enclose from La Venta, Mexico, is for the Museum, as I understand you have nothing from that extremely curious Mexican culture…
She sorted through the packet of correspondence, but it was again all in the same vein: Dr. Huntt describing various bizarre medical customs he had witnessed in his travels across Central America and Africa, along with notes that had apparently accompanied artifacts sent back to the Museum. He seemed to have an unhealthy interest in native sexual practices; it made him a prime candidate in Nora’s mind.
She felt a presence behind her and turned abruptly. Pendergast stood, arms clasped behind his back. He was staring down at her notes, and there was a sudden look on his face that was so grim, so dark, that Nora felt her flesh crawl.
“You’re always sneaking up on me,” she said weakly.
“Anything interesting?” The question seemed almost pro forma. Nora felt sure he had already discovered something important, something dreadful, on the list—and yet he did not seem inclined to share it.
“Nothing obvious. Have you ever heard of this Dr. Ferdinand Huntt?”
Pendergast gave the name a cursory glance, without interest. Nora became aware of the man’s conspicuous lack of any scent whatsoever: no smell of tobacco, no smell of cologne, nothing.
“Huntt,” he said finally. “Yes. A prominent North Shore family. One of the early patrons of the Museum.” He straightened up. “I’ve examined everything save the elephant’s-foot box. Would you care to assist me?”
She followed him over to the table laid out with Tinbury McFadden’s old collections, a decidedly motley assortment. Pendergast’s face had once again recovered its poise. Now Officer O’Shaughnessy, looking skeptical, emerged from the shadows. Nora wondered what, exactly, the policeman had to do with Pendergast.
They stood before the large, grotesque elephant’s foot, replete with brass fittings.
“So it’s an elephant’s foot,” O’Shaughnessy said. “So?”
“Not just a foot, Sergeant,” Pendergast replied. “A box, made from an elephant’s foot. Quite common among big-game hunters and collectors in the last century. Rather a nice specimen, too, if a little worn.” He turned to Nora. “Shall we look inside?”
Nora unclasped the fittings and lifted the top of the box. The grayish skin felt rough and nubbled beneath her gloved fingers. An unpleasant smell rose up. The box was empty.
She glanced over at Pendergast. If the agent was disappointed, he showed no sign.
For a moment, the little group was still. Then Pendergast himself bent over the open box. He examined it a moment, his body immobile save for the pale blue eyes. Then his fingers shot forward and began moving over the surface of the box, pressing here and there, alighting at one spot for a moment, then scuttling on. Suddenly there was a click, and a narrow drawer shot out from below, raising a cloud of dust. Nora jumped at the sound.
“Rather clever,” said Pendergast, removing a large envelope, faded and slightly foxed, from the drawer. He turned it over once or twice, speculatively. Then he ran a gloved finger beneath the seam, easing it open and withdrawing several sheets of cream-laid paper. He unfolded them carefully, passed his hand across the topmost sheet.
And then he began to read.
FIVE
TO MY COLLEAGUE, TINBURY MCFADDEN
July 12, 1881
Esteemed Colleague,
I write these lines in earnest hope that you will never have need to read them; that I will be able to tear them up and dash them into the coal scuttle, products of an overworked brain and fevered imagination. And yet in my soul I know my worst fears have already been proven true. Everything I have uncovered points incontrovertibly to such a fact. I have always been eager to think the best of my fellow man—after all, are we not all moulded from the same clay? The ancients believed life to have generated spontaneously within the rich mud of the Nile; and who am I to question the symbolism, if not the scientific fact, of such belief? And yet there have been Events, McFadden; dreadful events that can support no innocent explanation.
It is quite possible that the details I relate herein may cause you to doubt the quality of my mind. Before I proceed, let me assure you that I am in full command of my faculties. I offer this document as evidence, both to my dreadful theorem and to the proofs I have undertaken in its defense.
I have spoken before of my growing doubts over this business of Leng. You know, of course, the reasons I allowed him to take rooms on the third floor of the Cabinet. His talks at the Lyceum proved the depth of his scientific and medical knowledge. In taxonomy and chemistry he has few, if any, peers. The notion that enlightening, perhaps even forward-reaching, experiments would be taking place beneath my own roof was a pleasant one. And, on a practical note, the additional hard currency offered by his rent was not unwelcome.
At first, my trust in the man seemed fully justified. His curatorial work at the Cabinet proved excellent. Although he kept highly irregular hours, he was unfailingly polite, if a little reserved. He paid his rent money promptly, and even offered medical advice during the bouts of grippe that plagued me throughout the winters of ’73 and ’74.
It is hard to date with any precision my first glimmerings of suspicion. Perhaps it began with what, in my perception, was a growing sense of secretiveness about the man’s affairs. Although he had promised early on to share the formal results of his experiments, except for an initial joint inspection when the lease was signed I was never invited to see his chambers. As the years passed, he seemed to grow more and more absorbed in his own studies, and I was forced to take
on much of the curatorial duties for the Cabinet myself.
I had always believed Leng to be rather sensitive about his work. You will no doubt recall the early and somewhat eccentric talk on Bodily Humours he presented to the Lyceum. It was not well received—some members even had the ill breeding to titter on one or two occasions during the lecture—and henceforth Leng never returned to the subject. His future talks were all models of traditional scholarship. So at first, I ascribed his hesitancy to discuss personal work to this same innate circumspection. However, as time went on, I began to realize that what I had thought to be professional shyness was, in fact, active concealment.
One spring evening earlier this year, I had occasion to stay on very late at the Cabinet, finishing work on an accumulation of documents and preparing the exhibition space for my latest acquisition, the double-brained child, of which we have previously spoken. This latter task proved far more engrossing than the tiresome paperwork, and I was rather surprised to hear the city bell toll midnight.
It was in the moments following, as I stood, listening to the echoes of the bell die away, that I became aware of another sound. It came from over my head: a kind of heavy shuffling, as if of a man bearing some heavy burden. I cannot tell you why precisely, McFadden, but there was something in that sound that sent a thrill of dread coursing through me. I listened more intently. The sound died away slowly, the footsteps retreating into a more distant room.
Of course there was nothing for me to do. In the morning, as I reflected on the event, I realized the culprit was undoubtedly my own tired nerves. Unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to the footsteps—which seemed a remote possibility—there was no cause for approaching Leng on the matter. I ascribed my alarm to my own perverse state of mind at the time. I had succeeded in creating a rather sensational backdrop for displaying the double-brained child, and no doubt this, along with the late hour, had roused the more morbid aspects of my imagination. I resolved to put the matter behind me.
