by Brad Meltzer
“Sir?” the guard prompted.
Smithback wearily closed the drawer. He glanced at his watch. “I have to be getting back. Carry on. You’re doing a good job here, O’Neal. Keep it up.” He turned to go.
“Mr. Fannin?”
For a moment Smithback wondered who the man was talking to. Then he remembered. “Yes?”
“Do the carbons need a file check also?”
“Carbons?” Smithback paused.
“The ones in the vault.”
“Vault?”
“The vault. Back there.”
“Er, yes. Of course. Thank you, O’Neal. My oversight. Show me the vault.”
The young guard led the way through a rear door to a large, old safe with a nickel wheel and a heavy steel door. “In here.”
Smithback’s heart sank. It looked like Fort Knox. “Can you open this?”
“It’s not locked anymore. Not since the high-security area was opened.”
“I see. What are these carbons?”
“Duplicates of the files back there.”
“Let’s take a look. Open it up.”
O’Neal wrestled the door open. It revealed a small room, crammed with cabinets.
“Let’s take a look at, say, 1870.”
The guard glanced around. “There it is.”
Smithback made a beeline for the drawer, yanking it open. The files were on some early form of photocopy paper, like glossy sepia-toned photographs, faded and blurred. He quickly pawed through to the Ls.
There it was. A security clearance for Enoch Leng, dated 1870: a few sheets, tissue-thin, faded to light brown, covered in long spidery script. With one swift stroke Smithback slipped them out of the file and into his jacket pocket, covering the motion with a loud cough.
He turned around. “Very good. All this will need to be file-checked, too, of course.”
He stepped out of the vault. “Listen, O’Neal, other than the file check, you’re doing a fine job down here. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fannin. I try, I really do—”
“Wish I could say the same for Bulger. Now there’s someone with an attitude.”
“You’re right, sir.”
“Good day, O’Neal.” And Smithback beat a hasty retreat.
He was just in time. In the hall, he again passed Bulger, striding back, his face red and splotchy, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, lips and belly thrust forward aggressively, keys swaying and jingling. He looked pissed.
As Smithback made for the nearest exit, it almost felt as if the pilfered papers were burning a hole in the lining of his jacket.
The Old Dark House
ONE
SAFELY ON THE STREET, SMITHBACK DUCKED THROUGH THE Seventy-seventh Street gate into Central Park and settled on a bench by the lake. The brilliant fall morning was already warming into a lovely Indian summer day. He breathed in the air and thought once again of what a dazzling reporter he was. Bryce Harriman couldn’t have gotten his hands on these papers if he had a year to do it and all the makeup people of Industrial Light and Magic behind him. With a sense of delicious anticipation, he removed the three sheets from his pocket. The faint scent of dust reached his nose as sunlight hit the top page.
It was an old brown carbon, faint and difficult to read. At the top of the first sheet was printed: Application for Access to the Collections: The New York Museum of Natural History
Applicant: Prof. Enoch Leng, M.D., Ph.D. (Oxon.), O.B.E., F.R.S. &tc.
Recommender: Professor Tinbury McFadden, Department of Mammalogy
Seconder: Professor Augustus Spragg, Department of Ornithology
The applicant will please describe to the committee, in brief, the purposes of his application:
The applicant, Dr. Enoch Leng, wishes access to the collections of anthropology and mammalogy to conduct research on taxonomy and classification, and to prepare comparative essays in physical anthropology, human osteology, and phrenology.
The applicant will please state his academic qualifications, giving degrees and honors, with appropriate dates:
The applicant, Prof. Enoch Leng, graduated Artium Baccalaurei, with First Honors, from Oriel College, Oxford; Doctor of Natural Philosophy, New College, Oxford, with First Honors; Elected Fellow of the Royal Society 1865; Elected to White’s, 1868; Awarded Order of the Garter, 1869.
The applicant will please state his permanent domicile and his current lodgings in New York, if different:
Prof. Enoch Leng
891 Riverside Drive, New York
New York
Research laboratory at
Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities
Catherine Street, New York
New York
The applicant will please attach a list of publications, and will supply offprints of at least two for the review of the Committee.
Smithback looked through the papers, but realized he had missed this crucial piece.
The disposition of the Committee is presented below:
Professor is hereby given permission to the free and open use of the Collections and Library of the New York Museum of Natural History, this 27th Day of March, 1870.
Authorized Signatory: Tinbury McFadden
Signed: E. Leng.
Smithback swore under his breath. He felt abruptly deflated. This was thin—thin indeed. It was too bad that Leng hadn’t gotten his degree in America—that would have been much easier to follow up. But maybe he could pry the information out of Oxford over the telephone—although it was possible the academic honors were false. The list of publications would have been much easier to check, and far most interesting, but there was no way he could go back and get it now. It had been such a good idea, and he’d pulled it off so well. Damn.
Smithback searched through the papers again. No photograph, no curriculum vitae, no biography giving place and date of birth. The only thing here at all was an address.
Damn. Damn.
But then, a new thought came to him. He recalled the address was what Nora had been trying to find. Here, at least, was a peace offering.
Smithback did a quick calculation: 891 Riverside lay uptown, in Harlem somewhere. There were a lot of old mansions still standing along that stretch of Riverside Drive: those that remained were mostly abandoned or broken up into apartments. Chances were, of course, that Leng’s house had been torn down a long time ago. But there was a chance it might still stand. That might make a good picture, even if it was an old wreck. Especially if it was an old wreck. Come to think of it, there might even be bodies buried about the premises, or walled up in the basement. Perhaps Leng’s own body might be there, moldering in a corner. That would please O’Shaughnessy, help Nora. And what a great capstone for his own article—the investigative journalist finding the corpse of America’s first serial killer. Of course, it was very unlikely, but even so…
Smithback checked his watch. Almost one o’clock.
Oh, God. Such a brilliant bit of detective work and all he’d really got was the damn address. Well, it was a matter of an hour or two to simply go check and see if the house was still standing.
Smithback stuffed the papers back into his pocket and strolled to Central Park West. There wasn’t much point in flagging down a cab—they’d refuse to take him that far uptown, and once there he’d never find a cab to take him home again. Even though it was broad daylight, he had no intention of doing any wandering around in that dangerous neighborhood.
The best thing to do might be to rent a car. The Times had a special arrangement with Hertz, and there was a branch not far away on Columbus. Now that he thought about it, if the house did still exist, he’d probably want to check inside, talk to current tenants, find out if anything unusual had come to light during renovations, that sort of thing.
It might be dark before he was through.
That did it: he was renting a car.
Forty-five minutes later, he was heading up Central Park West
in a silver Taurus. His spirits had risen once again. This still could be a big story. After he’d checked on the house, he could do a search of the New York Public Library, see if he could turn up any published articles of Leng. Maybe he could even search the police files to see if anything unusual had happened in the vicinity of Leng’s house during the time he was alive.
There were still a lot of strong leads to follow up here. Leng could be as big as Jack the Ripper. The similarities were there. All it took was a journalist to make it come alive.
With enough information, this could be his next book.
He, Smithback, would be a shoo-in for that Pulitzer which always seemed to elude him. And even more important—well, just as important, at least—he’d have a chance to square himself with Nora. This would save her and Pendergast a lot of time wading through city deeds. And it would please Pendergast, who he sensed was a silent ally. Yes: all in all, this was going to work out well.
Reaching the end of the park, he headed west on Cathedral Parkway, then turned north onto Riverside Drive. As he passed 125th Street he slowed, scanning the addresses of the broken buildings. Six Hundred Seventy. Seven Hundred One. Another ten blocks went by. As he continued north, he slowed still further, holding his breath in anticipation.
And then his eye alighted on 891 Riverside Drive.
The house was still standing. He couldn’t believe his luck: Leng’s own house.
He gave it a long, searching look as he passed by, then turned right at the next street, 138th, and circled the block, heart beating fast.
Eight Ninety-one was an old Beaux Arts mansion that took up the entire block, sporting a pillared entryway, festooned with Baroque Revival decorations. There was even a damn coat of arms carved above the door. It was set back from the street by a small service road, forming a triangle-shaped island that adjoined Riverside Drive. There were no rows of buzzers beside the door, and the first-floor windows had been securely boarded up and covered with tin. The place, it seemed, had never been broken into apartments. Like so many old mansions along the Drive, it had simply been abandoned years before—too expensive to maintain, too expensive to tear down, too expensive to revamp. Almost all such buildings had reverted to the city for unpaid taxes. The city simply boarded them up and warehoused them.
He leaned over the passenger seat, squinting for a better look. The upper-story windows were not boarded up, and none of the panes appeared to be broken. It was perfect. It looked just like the house of a mass murderer. Front page photo, here we come. Smithback could just see his story generating a police search of the place, the discovery of more bodies. This was getting better and better.
So how best to proceed? A little peek through a window might be in order—provided he could find a place to park.
Pulling away from the curb, he circled the block again, then drove down Riverside, looking for a parking spot. Considering how poor the neighborhood was, there were a remarkable number of cars: junkers, aging Eldorado pimpmobiles, fancy SUVs with huge speakers tilting up from their rear beds. It was six or seven blocks before he finally found a semilegal parking spot on a side street off Riverside. He should have hired a livery driver, damn it, and had him wait while he inspected the house. Now, he had to walk nine blocks through Harlem. Just what he had tried to avoid.
Nudging the rental car into the space, he glanced carefully around. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and—quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention—walked back up to 137th Street.
When he reached the corner, he slowed, sauntering down the block until he came to the porte-cochère entrance. Here, he paused to look at the house more carefully, trying to look as casual as possible.
It had once been very grand: a four-story structure of marble and brick, with a slate mansard roof, oval windows, towers, and a widow’s walk. The facade was encrusted with carved limestone details set into brick. The streetfront was surrounded by a tall spiked iron fence, broken and rusty. The yard was filled with weeds and trash, along with a riot of sumac and ailanthus bushes and a pair of dead oaks. Its dark-browed upper-story windows looked out over the Hudson and the North River Water Pollution Control Plant.
Smithback shivered, glanced around one more time, then crossed the service road and started down the carriageway. Gang graffiti was sprayed all over the once elegant marble and brick. Windblown trash had accumulated several feet deep in the recesses. But in the rear of the carriage drive, he could see a stout door made of oak. It, too, had been sprayed with graffiti, but still looked operable. It had neither window nor peephole.
Smithback slipped farther down the carriageway, keeping close to the outside wall. The place stank of urine and feces. Someone had dropped a load of used diapers beside the door, and a pile of garbage bags lay in a corner, torn apart by dogs and rats. As if on cue, an enormously fat rat waddled out of the trash, dragging its belly, looked insolently at him, then disappeared back into the garbage.
He noticed two small, oval windows, set on each side of the door. Both were covered with tin, but there might be a way to pry one loose. Advancing, Smithback carefully pressed his hand against the closest, testing it. It was solid as a rock: no cracks, no way to see in. The other was just as carefully covered. He inspected the seams, looking for holes, but there were none. He laid a hand on the oaken door: again, it felt totally solid. This house was locked up tight, nigh impregnable. Perhaps it had been locked up since the time of Leng’s death. There might well be personal items inside. Once again, Smithback wondered if the remains of victims might also be there.
Once the police got their hands on the place, he’d lose his chance to learn anything more.
It would be very interesting to see inside.
He looked up, his eye following the lines of the house. He’d had some rock climbing experience, gained from a trip to the canyon country of Utah. The trip where he’d met Nora. He stepped away, studying the facade. There were lots of cornices and carvings that would make good handholds. Here, away from the street, he wasn’t as likely to be noticed. With a little luck, he might be able to climb to one of the second-story windows. Just for a look.
He glanced back down the carriageway. The street was deserted, the house deathly silent.
Smithback rubbed his hands together, smoothed his cowlick. And then he set his left wing tip into a gap in the lower course of masonry and began to climb.
TWO
CAPTAIN CUSTER CHECKED THE CLOCK ON THE WALL OF HIS office. It was nearly noon. He felt a growl in his capacious stomach and wished, for at least the twentieth time, that noon would hurry up and come so he could head out to Dilly’s Deli, purchase a double corned beef and swiss on rye with extra mayo, and place the monstrous sandwich in his mouth. He always got hungry when he was nervous, and today he was very, very nervous. It had been barely forty-eight hours since he’d been put in charge of the Surgeon case, but already he was getting impatient calls. The mayor had called, the commissioner had called. The three murders had the entire city close to panicking. And yet he had nothing to report. The breathing space he’d bought himself with that article on the old bones was just about used up. The fifty detectives working the case were desperately following up leads, for all the good it did them. But to where? Nowhere. He snorted, shook his head. Incompetent ass-wipes.
His stomach growled again, louder this time. Pressure and agitation encircled him like a damp bathhouse towel. If this was what it felt like to be in charge of a big case, he wasn’t sure he liked it.
He glanced at the clock again. Five more minutes. Not going to lunch before noon was a matter of discipline with him. As a police officer, he knew discipline was key. That was what it was all about. He couldn’t let the pressure get to him.
He remembered how the commissioner had stared sidelong at him, back in that little hovel on Doyers Street when he’d assigned him the investigation. Rocker hadn’t seemed exactly confident in his abilities. Custer remembered, all too clearly, his words of advice: I’d sug
gest you get to work on this new case of yours. Get right to work. Catch that killer. You don’t want another, fresher stiff turning up on your watch—do you?
The minute hand moved another notch.
Maybe more manpower is the answer, he thought. He should put another dozen detectives on that murder in the Museum Archives. That was the most recent murder, that’s where the freshest clues would be. That curator who’d found the corpse—the frosty bitch, what’s her name—had been pretty closemouthed. If he could—
And then, just as the second hand swept toward noon, he had the revelation.
The Museum Archives. The Museum curator…
It was so overwhelming, so blinding, that it temporarily drove all thoughts of corned beef from his head.
The Museum. The Museum was the center around which everything revolved.
The third murder, the brutal operation? It took place in the Museum.
That archaeologist, Nora Kelly? Worked for the Museum.
The incriminating letter that reporter, Smithbank or whatever, had leaked? The letter that started the whole thing? Found in the Museum’s Archives.
That creepy old guy, Collopy, who’d authorized the removal of the letter? Director of the Museum.
Fairhaven? On the Museum’s board.
The nineteenth-century killer? Connected to the Museum.
And the archivist himself, Puck, had been murdered. Why? Because he had discovered something. Something in the Archives.
Custer’s mind, unusually clear, began racing over the possibilities, the myriad combinations and permutations. What was needed was strong, decisive action. Whatever it was Puck had found, he would find, too. And that would be key to the murderer.
