preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第15节

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s　desk。　She　backed　up　slightly　in　horror　as　the　true　dimensions　of　its　filth　were　exposed　to　view。
　O'Shaughnessy　thought　he　detected　a　peculiar　smell。　Very　peculiar。　It　occurred　to　him　that　maybe；　just　maybe；　Pendergast　wasn't　on　the　take…that　this　was　for　real。
　〃Good　lord。　Please；〃　she　said；　stepping　farther　back　and　putting　a　hand　before　her　face。　〃I　do　not　do　police　work。　Take　this　revolting　thing　away。〃
　〃This　revolting　thing；　Dr。　Wellesley；　belonged　to　a　nineteen…year…old　girl　who　was　murdered　over　a　hundred　years　ago；　dissected；　dismembered；　and　walled　up　in　a　tunnel　in　lower　Manhattan。　Sewn　up　into　the　dress　was　a　note；　which　the　girl　wrote　in　her　own　blood。　It　gave　her　name；　age；　and　address。　Nothing　else…ink　of　that　sort　does　not　encourage　prolixity。　It　was　the　note　of　a　girl　who　knew　she　was　about　to　die。　She　knew　that　no　one　would　help　her；　no　one　would　save　her。　Her　only　wish　was　that　her　body　be　identified…that　she　not　be　forgotten。　I　could　not　help　her　then；　but　I　am　trying　to　now。　That　is　why　I　am　here。〃　The　dress　seemed　to　quiver　slightly；　and　O'Shaughnessy　realized　with　a　start　that　the　FBI　agent's　hand　was　trembling　with　emotion。　At　least；　that's　how　it　looked　to　him。　That　a　law　officer　would　actually　care　about　something　like　this　was　a　revelation。
　The　silence　that　followed　Pendergast's　statement　was　profound。
　Without　a　word；　Wellesley　bent　down　over　the　dress；　fingered　it；　turned　up　its　lining；　gently　stretched　the　material　in　several　directions。　Reaching　into　a　drawer　of　her　desk；　she　pulled　out　a　large　magnifying　glass　and　began　examining　the　stitching　and　fabric。　Several　minutes　passed。　Then　she　sighed　and　sat　down　in　her　chair。
　〃This　is　a　typical　workhouse　garment；〃　she　said。　〃Standard　issue　in　the　latter　part　of　the　nineteenth　century。　Cheap　woolen　fabric　for　the　exterior；　scratchy　and　coarse　but　actually　quite　warm；　lined　with　undyed　cotton。　You　can　see　from　the　pattern　cuts　and　stitching　that　it　was　probably　made　by　the　girl　herself；　using　fabric　issued　to　her　by　the　workhouse。　The　fabrics　came　in　several　basic　colors…green；　blue；　gray；　and　black。〃
　〃Any　idea　which　workhouse？〃
　〃Impossible　to　say。　Nineteenth…century　Manhattan　had　quite　a　few　of　them。　They　were　called　'houses　of　industry。'　They　took　in　abandoned　children；　orphans；　and　runaways。　Harsh；　cruel　places；　run　by　the　so…called　religious。〃
　〃Can　you　give　me　a　more　precise　date　on　the　dress？〃
　〃Not　with　any　accuracy。　It　seems　to　be　a　rather　pathetic　imitation　of　a　style　popular　in　the　early　eighteen　eighties；　called　a　Maude　Makin。　Workhouse　girls　usually　tried　to　copy　dresses　they　liked　out　of　popular　magazines　and　penny　press　advertisements。〃　Dr。　Wellesley　sighed；　shrugged。　〃That's　it；　I'm　afraid。〃
　〃If　anything　else　es　to　mind；　I　can　be　contacted　through　Sergeant　O'Shaughnessy　here。〃
　Dr。　Wellesley　glanced　up　at　O'Shaughnessy's　name　tag；　then　nodded。
　〃Thank　you　for　your　time。〃　The　FBI　agent　began　rolling　up　the　dress。　〃That　was　a　lovely　exhibition　you　curated　last　year；　by　the　way。〃
　Dr。　Wellesley　nodded　again。
　〃Unlike　most　museum　exhibitions；　it　had　wit。　Take　the　houppelande　section。　I　found　it　delightfully　amusing。〃
　Concealed　in　its　wrapper；　the　dress　lost　its　power　to　horrify。　The　feeling　of　gloom　that　had　settled　over　the　office　began　to　lift。　O'Shaughnessy　found　himself　echoing　Custer：　what　was　an　FBI　agent　doing　messing　around　with　a　case　120　years　old？
　〃Thank　you　for　noticing　what　none　of　the　critics　did；〃　the　woman　replied。　〃Yes；　I　meant　it　to　be　fun。　When　you　finally　understand　it；　human　dress…beyond　what　is　necessary　for　warmth　and　modesty…can　be　marvelously　absurd。〃
　Pendergast　stood。　〃Dr。　Wellesley；　your　expertise　has　been　most　valuable。〃
　Dr。　Wellesley　rose　as　well。　〃Please　call　me　Sophia。〃　O'Shaughnessy　noticed　her　looking　at　Pendergast　with　new　interest。
　Pendergast　bowed　and　smiled。　Then　he　turned　to　go。　The　curator　came　around　her　desk　to　see　him　through　the　waiting　room。　At　the　outer　door；　Sophia　Wellesley　paused；　blushed；　and　said；　〃I　hope　to　see　you　again；　Mr。　Pendergast。　Perhaps　soon。　Perhaps　for　dinner。〃
　There　was　a　brief　silence。　Pendergast　said　nothing。
　〃Well；〃　said　the　curator　crisply；　〃you　know　where　to　reach　me。〃
　They　walked　back　through　the　thronged；　treasure…laden　halls；　past　the　Khmer　devatars；　past　the　reliquaries　encrusted　with　gems；　past　the　Greek　statues　and　the　Red　Attic　vases；　down　the　great　crowded　steps　to　Fifth　Avenue。　O'Shaughnessy　whistled　an　astringent　little　chorus　of　Sade's　〃Smooth　Operator。〃　If　Pendergast　heard；　he　gave　no　sign。
　　
　Moments　later；　O'Shaughnessy　was　sliding　into　the　white　leather　cocoon　of　the　Rolls。　When　the　door　shut　with　a　solid；　reassuring　thunk；　blessed　silence　returned。　He　still　couldn't　figure　out　what　to　make　of　Pendergast…maybe　the　guy；　for　all　his　expensive　tastes；　was　on　the　up…and…up。　He　sure　as　hell　knew　this：　he　was　going　to　keep　his　eyes　and　ears　open。
　〃Across　the　park　to　the　New　York　Museum　of　Natural　History；　please；〃　Pendergast　told　the　driver。　As　the　car　accelerated　into　traffic；　the　agent　turned　to　O'Shaughnessy。　〃How　is　it　that　an　Irish　policeman　came　to　love　Italian　opera？〃
　O'Shaughnessy　gave　a　start。　When　had　he　mentioned　opera？
　〃You　disguise　your　thoughts　poorly；　Sergeant。　While　you　were　looking　at　the　drawings　from　The　Barber　of　Seville；　I　saw　your　right　index　finger　unconsciously　tapping　the　rhythm　to　Rosina's　aria；　'Una　voce　poco　fa。'〃
　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；　pact；　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。　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