preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第19节

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cent　dead　from　graveyards　is　an　unfortunate　but　necessary　practice　in　the　medical　climate　of　our　day；　I　told　myself。　Cadavers　for　medical　research　remain　in　critically　short　supply；　and　there　is　no　way　to　supply　the　need　without　resorting　to　grave…robbing。　Even　the　most　respectable　surgeons　need　resort　to　it；　I　told　myself。　And　even　though　Leng's　attempts　at　artificially　prolonging　life　were　clearly　beyond　the　pale；　it　was　still　possible　he　might　unintentionally　achieve　other　breakthroughs　that　would　have　beneficial　effects　。　。　。
　It　was　at　that　point；　I　believe；　that　I　first　noticed　the　sound。
　To　my　left；　there　was　a　table　I　had　not　taken　note　of　before。　A　large　oilcloth　had　been　spread　over　it；　covering　something　large　and　rather　bulky。　As　I　watched；　the　faint　sound　came　again；　from　beneath　the　oilcloth：　the　sound　of　some　animal　dispossessed　of　tongue；　palate；　vocal　cords。
　I　cannot　explain　where　I　found　the　strength　to　approach　it；　other　than　my　own　overpowering　need　to　know。　I　stepped　forward；　and　then…before　my　resolution　could　falter…I　gripped　the　greasy　cloth　and　drew　it　away。
　The　sight　uncovered　in　that　dim　light　will　haunt　me　until　my　last　day。　It　lay　upon　its　stomach。　A　gaping　hole　lay　where　the　base　of　the　spine　had　once　been。　The　sound　I　had　heard　was；　it　seemed　to　me；　the　escaping　gases　of　decay。
　You　might　have　thought　me　incapable　of　registering　fresh　shock　at　this　point。　Yet　I　noticed；　with　a　rising　sense　of　unreality；　that　both　the　corpse　and　the　wound　appeared　fresh。
　I　hesitated　for　perhaps　five；　perhaps　ten　seconds。　Then　I　drew　closer；　my　mind　possessed　by　one　thought；　and　one　thought　only。　Could　this　be　the　body　that　had　bled　so　profusely　on　Leng's　floor？　How；　then；　to　explain　the　rawness　of　the　wound？　Was　it　possible…even　conceivable…that　Leng　would　make　use　of　two　corpses　within　the　span　of　a　single　week？
　I　had　e　this　far：　I　had　to　know　all。　I　reached　forward；　gingerly；　to　turn　the　body　and　check　its　lividity。
　The　skin　felt　supple；　the　flesh　warm　in　the　humid　summer　cellar。　As　I　turned　the　body　over　and　the　face　was　exposed；　I　saw　to　my　transcendent　horror　that　a　blood…soaked　rag　had　been　knotted　around　the　mouth。　I　snatched　my　hand　away；　the　thing　rolled　back　onto　the　table；　face　upwards。
　I　stepped　back；　reeling。　In　my　shock；　I　did　not　immediately　understand　the　terrible　import　of　that　blood…soaked　rag。　I　think　if　I　had；　I　would　have　turned　and　fled　that　place…and　in　so　doing　been　spared　the　final　horror。
　For　it　was　then；　McFadden；　that　the　eyes　above　the　rag　fluttered　open。　They　had　once　been　human；　but　pain　and　terror　had　riven　all　humanity　from　their　expression。
　As　I　stood；　transfixed　by　fear；　there　came　another　low　moan。
　It　was；　I　knew　now；　not　gas　escaping　from　a　corpse。　And　this　was　not　the　work　of　a　man　who　trafficked　with　body　snatchers；　with　corpses　stolen　from　graveyards。　This　poor　creature　on　the　table　was　still　alive。　Leng　practiced　his　abominable　work　on　those　who　still　lived。
　Even　as　I　watched；　the　horrible；　pitiable　thing　on　the　table　moaned　once　more；　then　expired。　Somehow；　I　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　replace　the　body　as　I　had　found　it；　cover　it　with　the　oilcloth；　close　the　door；　and　climb　up　out　of　that　charnel　pit　into　the　land　of　the　living　。　。　。
　　
　I　have　barely　moved　from　my　chambers　within　the　Cabinet　since。　I　have　been　trying　to　gather　courage　for　what　I　know　in　my　heart　remains　to　be　done。　You　must　see　now；　dear　colleague；　that　there　can　be　no　mistake；　no　other　explanation；　for　what　I　found　in　the　basement。　Leng's　journal　was　far　too　prehensive；　too　diabolically　detailed；　for　there　to　be　any　misapprehension。　As　further　evidence；　on　the　attached　sheet　I　have　reproduced；　from　memory；　some　of　the　scientific　observations　and　procedures　this　monstrous　man　recorded　within　its　pages。　I　would　go　to　the　police；　except　I　feel　that　only　I　can…
　But　hark！　I　hear　his　footstep　on　the　stair　even　now。　I　must　return　this　letter　to　its　hiding　place　and　conclude　tomorrow。
　God　give　me　the　strength　for　what　I　must　now　do。
　
　SIX
　　
　ROGER　BRISBANE　LEANED　back　in　his　office　chair；　his　eyes　roaming　the　glass　expanse　of　desk　that　lay　before　him。　It　was　a　long；　enjoyable　perambulation：　Brisbane　liked　order；　purity；　simplicity；　and　the　desk　shone　with　a　mirror…like　perfection。　At　last；　his　gaze　came　to　the　case　of　jewels。　It　was　that　time　of　day　when　a　lance　of　sunlight　shot　through　the　case；　turning　its　occupants　into　glittering　spheres　and　ovals　of　entangled　light　and　color。　One　could　call　an　emerald　〃green〃　or　a　sapphire　〃blue；〃　but　the　words　did　no　justice　to　the　actual　colors。　There　were　no　adequate　words　for　such　colors　in　any　human　language。
　Jewels。　They　lasted　forever；　so　hard　and　cold　and　pure；　so　impervious　to　decay。　Always　beautiful；　always　perfect；　always　as　fresh　as　the　day　they　were　born　in　unimaginable　heat　and　pressure。　So　unlike　human　beings；　with　their　opaque　rubbery　flesh　and　their　odoriferous　descent　from　birth　to　the　grave…a　story　of　drool；　semen；　and　tears。　He　should　have　bee　a　gemologist。　He　would　have　been　much　happier　surrounded　by　these　blooms　of　pure　light。　The　law　career　his　father　had　chosen　for　him　was　nothing　more　than　a　vile　parade　of　human　failure。　And　his　job　in　the　Museum　brought　him　in　contact　with　that　failure；　day　in　and　day　out；　in　stark　illumination。
　He　turned　to　lean　over　a　puter　printout　with　a　sigh。　It　was　now　clear　the　Museum　should　never　have　borrowed　one　hundred　million　for　its　new　state…of…the…art　planetarium。　More　cuts　were　needed。　Heads　would　have　to　roll。　Well；　at　least　that　shouldn't　be　too　hard　to　acplish。　The　Museum　was　full　of　useless；　tweedy；　overpaid　curators　and　functionaries；　always　whining　about　budget　cuts；　never　answering　their　phones；　always　off　on　some　research　trip　spending　the　Museum's　money　or　writing　books　that　nobody　ever　read。　Cushy　jobs；　sinecures；　unable　to　be　fired　because　of　tenure…unless　exceptional　circumstances　existed。
　He　put　the　printout　through　a　nearby　shredder；　then　opened　a　drawer　and　pulled　out　several　tied　packets　of　inter…office　correspondence。　The　mail　of　a　dozen　likely　candidates；　intercepted　thanks　to　a　man　in　the　mailroom　who　had　been　caught　organizing　a　Super　Bowl　pool　on　Museum　time。　With　any　luck；　he'd　find　plenty　of　exceptional　circumstances　inside。　It　was　easier…and　easier　to　justify…than　scanning　e…mail。
　Brisbane　shuffled　the　packets　without　interest。　Then　he　stopped；　glancing　at　one　of　them。　Here　was　a　case　in　point：　this　man　Puck。　He　sat　in　the　Archives　all　day　long；　doing　what？　Nothing；　except　causing　trouble　for　the　Museum。
　He　untied　the　packet；　riffled　through　the　envelopes　within。　On　the　front　and　back　of　each　were　dozens　of　lines　for　addresses。　The　envelopes　had　a　little　red　tie　string　and　could　be　reused　until　they　fell　apart；　simply　by　adding　a　new　name　to　the　next　blank　line。　And　there；　on　the　second…to…last　line　was　Puck's　name。　And　following　it　was　Nora's　name。
　Brisbane's　hand　tightened　around　the　envelope。　What　was　it　that　arrogant　FBI　agent；　Pendergast；　had　said？　Most　of　the　work　will　be　archival　in　nature。
　He　unwound　the　string　and　slid　out　a　single　piece　of　paper。　A　whiff　of　dust　rose　from　the　envelope　and　Brisbane　hastily　raised　a　protective　tissue　to　his　nose。　Holding　the　paper　at　arm's　length；　he　read：
　　
　Dear　Dr。　Kelly；
　I　found　another　small　box　of　papers　on　Shottum's　Cabinet；　which　somehow　had　been　recently　misplaced。　Not　nearly　as　astonishing　as　what　you　have　already　uncovered；　yet　interesting　in　its　own　way。　I　will　leave　it　for　you　in　the　Archives　Reading　Room。
　P。
　　
　Color　crept　into　Brisbane's　face；　then　drained　out　again。　It　was　just　as　he　thought：　she　was　still　working　for　that　arrogant　FBI　agent；　and　she　was　continuing　to　enlist　Puck's　help。　This　thing　had　to　be　stopped。　And　Puck　had　to　go。　Just　look　at　this　note；　Brisbane　thought：　manually　typed　on　what　was　clearly　an　ancient　typewriter。　The　very　inefficiency　of　it　made　Brisbane's　blood　boil。　The　Museum　was　not　a　welfare　program　for　eccentrics。　Puck　was　a　fossilized　anachronism　who　should　have　been　put　out　to　pasture　long　before。　He　would　gather　suitable　evidence；　then　draw　up　a　remended　termination　list　for　the　next　Executive　mittee　meeting。　Puck's　name　would　be　at　the　top。
　But　what　about　Nora？　He　remembered　the　words　of　the　Museum　director；　Collopy；　at　their　recent　meeting。　Doucement；　doucement；　the　director　had　murmured。
　And　softly　it　would　be。　For　now。
　
　SEVEN
　　
　SMITHBACK　STOOD　ON　the　sidewalk；　midway　between　Columbus　and　Amsterdam；　gazing　speculatively　up　at　the　red…brick　facade　before　him。　One　hundred　eight　West　Ninety…ninth　Street　was　a　broad；　prewar　apartment　house；　unembarrassed　by　any　distinguishing　architecture；　bright　in　the　noonday　sun。　The　bland　exterior　didn't　bother　him。　What　mattered　lay　within：　a　rent…stabilized；　two…bedroom　apartment；　near　the　Museum；　for　only　eighteen　hundred　a　month。
　He　stepped　back　toward　the　street；　giving　the　neighborhood　a　once…over。　It　wasn't　the　most　charming　Upper　West　Side　neighborhood　he　had　seen；　but　it　had　possibilities。　Two　bums　sat　on　a　nearby　stoop；　drinking　something　out　of　a　paper　bag。　He　glanced　at　his　watch。　Nora　would　be　arriving　in　five　minutes。　Christ；　this　was　going　to　be　an　up