preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第22节

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ptain　Sherwood　Custer；　in　whose　precinct　the　remains　were　found；　says　the　case　is　primarily　of　historical　interest。　〃The　murderer　is　dead。　Any　acplices　must　be　dead。　We'll　leave　this　one　to　the　historians　and　continue　to　devote　our　resources　to　crime　prevention　in　the　twenty…first　century。〃
　Following　the　discovery　of　the　letter；　the　New　York　Museum　removed　the　Shottum　Cabinet　collection　from　the　museum　archives。　Roger　Brisbane；　First　Vice　President　of　the　Museum；　called　the　move　〃part　of　a　long…scheduled；　ongoing　conservation　process；　a　coincidence　that　has　nothing　to　do　with　these　reports。〃　He　referred　all　further　questions　to　Harry　Medoker　in　the　Museum's　Public　Relations　Department。　Mr。　Medoker　did　not　return　several　telephone　calls　from　the　Times。
　　
　The　story　continued　on　an　inside　page；　where　the　reporter　described　the　details　of　the　old　murders　with　considerable　relish。　Fairhaven　read　the　article　to　the　end；　then　turned　back　and　read　the　first　page　once　again。　The　dry　leaves　of　the　Times　made　a　faint　rustling　sound　in　his　hands；　echoed　by　the　trembling　of　the　dead　leaves　clinging　to　the　potted　trees　on　the　balcony　outside　the　atrium。
　Fairhaven　slowly　laid　down　the　paper　and　looked　out　once　again　over　the　city。　He　could　see　the　New　York　Museum　across　the　park；　its　granite　towers　and　copper　roofs　catching　the　newly　minted　light。　He　flicked　his　finger　and　another　cup　of　tea　arrived。　He　stared　at　the　cup　without　pleasure；　tossed　it　down。　Another　flick　of　his　finger　brought　him　a　phone。
　Fairhaven　knew　a　great　deal　about　real　estate　development；　public　relations；　and　New　York　City　politics。　He　knew　this　article　was　a　potential　disaster。　It　called　for　firm；　prompt　action。
　He　paused；　thinking　who　should　receive　the　first　telephone　call。　A　moment　later　he　dialed　the　mayor's　private　number；　which　he　knew　by　heart。
　
　NINE
　　
　DOREEN　HOLLANDER；　OF　21　Indian　Feather　Lane；　Pine　Creek；　Oklahoma；　had　left　her　husband　twenty…six　stories　overhead；　mumbling　and　snoring　in　their　hotel　room。　Gazing　across　the　broad　expanse　of　Central　Park　West；　she　decided　now　was　the　perfect　time　to　view　Monet's　water　lilies　at　the　Metropolitan　Museum。　She'd　wanted　to　get　a　glimpse　of　the　famous　paintings　ever　since　seeing　a　poster　at　her　sister…in…law's　house。　Her　husband；　service　technician　for　Oklahoma　Cable；　hadn't　the　faintest　interest　in　art。　Chances　were；　he'd　still　be　asleep　when　she　returned。
　Consulting　the　visitor's　map　the　hotel　had　so　generously　volunteered；　she　was　pleased　to　discover　the　museum　lay　just　across　Central　Park。　A　short　walk；　no　need　to　call　for　an　expensive　taxi。　Doreen　Hollander　liked　walking；　and　this　would　be　the　perfect　way　to　burn　off　those　two　croissants　with　butter　and　marmalade　she　had　unwisely　eaten　for　breakfast。
　She　started　off；　crossing　into　the　park　at　the　Alexander　Humbolt　gate；　walking　briskly。　It　was　a　beautiful　fall　day；　and　the　big　buildings　on　Fifth　Avenue　shone　above　the　treetops。　New　York　City。　A　wonderful　place；　as　long　as　you　didn't　have　to　live　here。
　The　path　dropped　down　and　soon　she　came　to　the　side　of　a　lovely　pond。　She　gazed　across。　Would　it　be　better　to　go　around　it　to　the　right；　or　to　the　left？　She　consulted　her　map　and　decided　the　left…hand　way　would　be　shorter。
　She　set　off　again　on　her　strong　farmgirl　legs；　inhaling　the　air。　Surprisingly　fresh；　she　thought。　Bicyclists　and　Rollerbladers　whizzed　past　as　the　road　curved　alongside　the　pond。　Soon；　she　found　herself　at　another　fork。　The　main　path　swerved　northward；　but　there　was　a　footpath　that　continued　straight；　in　the　direction　she　was　going；　through　a　wood。　She　consulted　her　map。　It　didn't　show　the　footpath；　but　she　knew　a　better　route　when　she　saw　it。　She　continued　on。
　Quickly；　the　path　branched；　then　branched　again；　wandering　aimlessly　up　and　down　through　hillocks　and　little　rocky　outcrops。　Here　and　there　through　the　trees；　she　could　still　make　out　the　row　of　skyscrapers　along　Fifth　Avenue；　beckoning　her　on；　showing　her　the　way。　The　woods　grew　more　dense。　And　then　she　began　to　see　the　people。　It　was　odd。　Here　and　there；　young　men　stood　idly；　hands　in　pockets；　in　the　woods；　waiting。　But　waiting　for　what？　They　were　nice…looking　young　men；　well　dressed；　with　good　haircuts。　Out　beyond　the　trees　a　bright　fall　morning　was　in　progress；　and　she　didn't　feel　the　slightest　bit　afraid。
　She　hurried　on　as　the　woods　grew　thicker。　She　stopped　to　consult　her　map；　a　little　puzzled；　and　discovered　that　she　was　in　a　place　called　the　Ramble。　It　was　a　well…chosen　name；　she　decided。　Twice　she　had　found　herself　turned　pletely　around。　It　was　as　if　the　person　who　had　designed　this　little　maze　of　paths　wanted　people　to　get　lost。
　Well；　Doreen　Hollander　was　not　one　to　get　lost。　Not　in　a　tiny　patch　of　woods　in　a　city　park；　when　after　all　she　had　grown　up　in　the　country；　roaming　the　fields　and　woods　of　eastern　Oklahoma。　This　walk　was　turning　into　a　little　adventure；　and　Doreen　Hollander　liked　little　adventures。　That　was　why　she　had　dragged　her　husband　to　New　York　City　to　begin　with：　to　have　a　little　adventure。　Doreen　forced　herself　to　smile。
　If　this　didn't　beat　all…now　she　was　turned　around　yet　again。　With　a　rueful　laugh　she　consulted　her　map。　But　on　the　map；　the　Ramble　was　marked　simply　as　a　large　mass　of　leafy　green。　She　looked　around。　Perhaps　one　of　the　nice…looking　men　could　help　her　with　directions。
　But　here；　the　woods　were　darker；　thicker。　Nevertheless；　through　a　screen　of　leaves；　she　saw　two　figures。　She　approached。　What　were　they　doing　in　there？　She　took　another　step　forward；　pulled　a　branch　aside；　and　peered　through。　The　peer　turned　into　a　stare；　and　the　stare　turned　into　a　mask　of　frozen　horror。
　Then；　abruptly；　she　backed　away；　turned；　and　began　retracing　her　steps　as　quickly　as　she　could。　Now　it　was　all　clear。　How　perfectly　disgusting。　Her　only　thought　was　to　get　out　of　this　terrible　place　as　quickly　as　possible。　All　desire　to　see　Monet's　water　lilies　had　flown　from　her　head。　She　hadn't　wanted　to　believe　it；　but　it　was　all　true。　It　was　just　as　she'd　heard　tell　on　the　700　Clubon　television；　New　York　City　as　a　modern　Sodom　and　Gomorrah。　She　hurried　along；　her　breath　ing　in　short　gasps；　and　she　looked　back　only　once。
　When　the　swift　footsteps　came　up　behind　her；　she　heard　nothing　and　expected　nothing。　When　the　black　hood　came　down　hard　and　tight　over　her　head；　and　the　sudden　wet　stench　of　chloroform　violated　her　nostrils；　the　last　vision　in　her　mind　was　of　a　twisted　spire　of　salt　glittering　in　the　desolate　light　of　an　empty　plain；　a　plume　of　bitter　smoke　rising　in　the　distance。
　
　TEN
　　
　THE　EMINENT　DR。　Frederick　Watson　Collopy　sat　in　state　behind　the　great　nineteenth…century　leather…bound　desk；　reflecting　on　the　men　and　women　who　had　preceded　him　in　this　august　position。　In　the　Museum's　glory　years…the　years；　say；　when　this　vast　desk　was　still　new…the　directors　of　the　Museum　had　been　true　visionaries；　explorers　and　scientists　both。　He　lingered　appreciatively　over　their　names：　Byrd；　Throckmorton；　Andrews。　Now；　those　were　names　worthy　to　be　cast　in　bronze。　His　appreciation　waned　somewhat　as　he　approached　the　more　recent　occupants　of　this　grand　corner　office…the　unfortunate　Winston　Wright　and　his　short…tenured　successor；　Olivia　Merriam。　He　felt　no　little　satisfaction　in　returning　the　office　to　its　former　state　of　dignity　and　acplishment。　He　ran　a　hand　along　his　well…trimmed　beard；　laid　a　finger　across　his　lip　in　thoughtful　meditation。
　And　yet；　here　it　was　again：　that　persistent　feeling　of　melancholy。
　He　had　been　called　upon　to　make　certain　sacrifices　in　order　to　rescue　the　Museum。　It　distressed　him　that　scientific　research　was　forced　to　take　second　place　to　galas；　to　glittering　new　halls；　to　blockbuster　exhibitions。　Blockbuster…the　word　tasted　repellent　in　the　mouth。　And　yet；　this　was　New　York　at　the　dawn　of　the　twenty…first　century；　and　those　who　did　not　play　the　game　would　not　survive。　Even　his　grandest　forebears　had　their　own　crosses　to　bear。　One　bent　with　the　winds　of　time。　The　Museum　had　survived…that　was　the　important；　that　was　the　only；　point。
　He　then　reflected　on　his　own　distinguished　scientific　lineage：　his　great…grand…uncle　Amasa　Greenough；　friend　to　Darwin　and　famed　discoverer　of　the　chitinous　monkfish　of　the　Indochine；　his　great…aunt　Philomena　Watson；　who　had　done　seminal　work　with　the　natives　of　Tierra　del　Fuego；　his　grandfather　Gardner　Collopy；　the　distinguished　herpetologist。　He　thought　of　his　own　exciting　work　re…classifying　the　Pongidae；　during　the　heady　days　of　his　youth。　Perhaps；　with　luck　and　a　goodly　allowance　of　years；　his　tenure　here　at　the　Museum　would　rival　the　great　directors　of　the　past。　Perhaps　he；　too；　would　have　his　name　graven　in　bronze；　enshrined　in　the　Great　Rotunda　for　all　to　see。
　He　still　couldn't　shake　the　feeling　of　melancholy　that　had　settled　around　him。　These　reflections；　normally　so　soothing；　seemed　not　to　help。　He　felt　a　man　out　of　place；　old…fashioned；　superannuated。　Even　thoughts　of　his　lovely　young　wife；　with　whom　he　had　sported　so　delightfully　that　very　morning　before　breakfast；　failed　to　shake　the　feeling。
　His　eye　took　in　the　office…the　pink　marble　fireplaces；　the　round　tower　windows　looking　out　over　Museum　Drive；　the　oak　paneling　with　its　patina　of　centuries