The Cabinet of Curiosities (35 page)

There was an abrupt, uncomfortable silence.

“You mean, Dr. Leng’s house,” said O’Shaughnessy.

“No,” said Pendergast, speaking very deliberately. “I mean
Dr. Leng.
”

W
ITH A HUGE SIGH,
W
ILLIAM SMITHBACK
J
R. SETTLED INTO THE WORN
wooden booth in the rear of the Blarney Stone Tavern. Situated directly across the street from the New York Museum’s southern entrance, the tavern was a perennial haunt of Museum staffers. They had nicknamed the place the Bones because of the owner’s penchant for hammering bones of all sizes, shapes, and species into every available surface. Museum wags liked to speculate that, were the police to remove the bones for examination, half of the city’s missing persons cases still on the books would be solved immediately.

Smithback had spent many long evenings here in years past, notebooks and beer-spattered laptop in attendance, working on various books: his book about the Museum murders; his follow-up book about the Subway Massacre. It had always seemed like a home away from home to him, a refuge against the troubles of the world. And yet tonight, even the Bones held no consolation for him. He recalled a line he’d read somewhere—Brendan Behan, perhaps—about having a thirst so mighty it cast a shadow. That’s how he felt.

It had been the worst week of his life—from this terrible business with Nora to his useless interview with Fairhaven. And to top it all, he’d just been scooped by the frigging
Post
—by his old nemesis Bryce Harriman, no less—twice. First on the tourist murder in Central Park, and then on the bones discovered down on Doyers Street. By rights, that was
his
story. How had that weenie Harriman gotten an exclusive? He couldn’t get an exclusive from his own girlfriend, for chrissakes. Who did he know? To think he, Smithback, had been kept outside with the milling hacks while Harriman got the royal treatment,
the inside story…
Christ, he needed a drink.

The droopy-eared waiter came over, hangdog features almost as familiar to Smithback as his own.

“The usual, Mr. Smithback?”

“No. You got any of the fifty-year-old Glen Grant?”

“At thirty-six dollars,” the waiter said dolefully.

“Bring it. I want to drink something as old as I feel.”

The waiter faded back into the dark, smoky atmosphere. Smithback checked his watch and looked around irritably. He was ten minutes late, but it looked like O’Shaughnessy was even later. He hated people who were even later than he was, almost as much as he hated people who were on time.

The waiter rematerialized, carrying a brandy snifter with an inch of amber-colored liquid in the bottom. He placed it reverently before Smithback.

Smithback raised it to his nose, swirled the liquid about, inhaled the heady aroma of Highland malt, smoke, and fresh water that, as the Scots said, had flowed through peat and over granite. He felt better already. As he lowered the glass, he could see Boylan, the proprietor, in the front, handing a black-and-tan over the bar with an arm that looked like it had been carved from a twist of chewing tobacco. And past Boylan was O’Shaughnessy, just come in and looking about. Smithback waved, averting his eyes from the cheap polyester suit that practically sparkled, despite the dim light and cigar fumes. How could a self-respecting man wear a suit like that?

“’Tis himself,”said Smithback in a disgraceful travesty of an Irish accent as O’Shaughnessy approached.

“Ach, aye,”O’Shaughnessy replied, easing into the far side of the booth.

The waiter appeared again as if by magic, ducking deferentially.

“The same for him,” said Smithback, and then added, “you know, the twelve-year-old.”

“Of course,” said the waiter.

“What is it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Glen Grant. Single malt scotch. The best in the world. On me.”

O’Shaughnessy grinned. “What, you forcing a bluidy Presbyterian drink down me throat? That’s like listening to Verdi in translation. I’d prefer Powers.”

Smithback shuddered. “That stuff? Trust me, Irish whisky is better suited to de-greasing engines than to drinking. The Irish produce better writers, the Scots better whisky.”

The waiter went off, returning with a second snifter. Smithback waited as O’Shaughnessy sniffed, winced, took a swig.

“Drinkable,” he said after a moment.

As they sipped in silence, Smithback shot a covert glance at the policeman across the table. So far he’d gotten precious little out of their arrangement, although he’d given him a pile on Fairhaven. And yet he found he had come to like the guy: O’Shaughnessy had a laconic, cynical, even fatalistic outlook on life that Smithback understood completely.

Smithback sighed and sat back. “So what’s new?”

O’Shaughnessy’s face instantly clouded. “They fired me.”

Smithback sat up again abruptly. “What? When?”

“Yesterday. Not fired, exactly. Not yet. Put on administrative leave. They’re opening an investigation.” He glanced up suddenly. “This is just between you and me.”

Smithback sat back. “Of course.”

“I’ve got a hearing next week before the union board, but it looks like I’m done for.”

“Why? Because you did a little moonlighting?”

“Custer’s pissed. He’ll bring up some old history. A bribe I took, five years ago. That, along with insubordination and disobeying orders, will be enough to drag me down.”

“That fat-assed bastard.”

There was another silence.
There’s one potential source shot to hell,
Smithback thought.
Too bad. He’s a decent guy.

“I’m working for Pendergast now,” O’Shaughnessy added in a very low voice, cradling his drink.

This was even more of a shock. “Pendergast? How so?” Perhaps all was not lost.

“He needed a Man Friday. Someone to pound the pavement for him, help track things down. At least, that’s what he said. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to head down to the East Village, snoop around a shop where Pendergast thinks Leng might have bought his chemicals.”

“Jesus.” Now, this was an interesting development indeed: O’Shaughnessy working for Pendergast, no longer shackled by the NYPD rules about talking to journalists. Maybe this was even better than before.

“If you find something, you’ll let me know?” Smithback asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you can do for us with that something.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re a reporter, right? You do research?”

“It’s my middle name. Why, you guys need my help with something?” Smithback suddenly glanced away. “I don’t think Nora would like that.”

“She doesn’t know. Neither does Pendergast.”

Smithback looked back, surprised. But O’Shaughnessy didn’t look like he planned to say anything else about it.
No use trying to force anything out of this guy,
Smithback thought.
I’ll wait till he’s good and ready.

He took a different tack. “So, how’d you like my file on Fairhaven?”

“Fat. Very fat. Thanks.”

“Just a lot of bullshit, I’m afraid.”

“Pendergast seemed pleased. He told me to congratulate you.”

“Pendergast’s a good man,” Smithback said cautiously.

O’Shaughnessy nodded, sipped. “But you always get the sense he knows more than he lets on. All this talk about how we have to be careful, how our lives are in danger. But he refuses to spell it all out. And then, out of nowhere, he drops a bomb on you.”His eyes narrowed.“And that’s where you may come in.”

Here we go.
“Me?”

“I want you to do a little digging. Find something out for me.” There was a slight hesitation. “See, I worry the injury may have hit Pendergast harder than we realized. He’s got this crazy theory. So crazy, when I heard it, I almost walked out right then.”

“Yeah?” Smithback took a casual sip, carefully concealing his interest. He knew very well what a “crazy theory” of Pendergast’s could turn out to mean.

“Yeah. I mean, I like this case. I’d hate to turn away from it. But I can’t work on something that’s nuts.”

“I hear that. So what’s Pendergast’s crazy theory?”

O’Shaughnessy hesitated, longer this time. He was clearly struggling with himself over this.

Smithback gritted his teeth.
Get the man another drink.

He waved the waiter over. “We’ll have another round,” he said.

“Make mine Powers.”

“Have it your way. Still on me.”

They waited for the next round to arrive.

“How’s the newspaper business?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Lousy. Got scooped by the
Post.
Twice.”

“I noticed that.”

“I could’ve used some help there, Patrick. The phone call about Doyers Street was nice, but it didn’t get me inside.”

“Hey, I gave you the tip, it’s up to you to get your ass inside.”

“How’d Harriman get the exclusive?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, they hate you. They blame you for triggering the copycat killings.”

Smithback shook his head. “Probably going to can me now.”

“Not for a scoop.”

“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.