preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第30节

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　But　Fairhaven　was　pressing　a　buzzer。　His　voice　smothered　the　rest　of　Smithback's　question。　〃Miss　Gallagher；　would　you　kindly　show　Mr。　Smithback　out？〃
　〃Yes；　Mr。　Fairhaven。〃
　〃This　is　rather　abrupt…〃
　〃Mr。　Smithback；　I　am　tired。　I　saw　you　because　I　didn't　want　to　read　about　myself　in　the　paper　having　refused　ment。　I　was　also　curious　to　meet　you；　to　see　if　you　were　perhaps　a　cut　above　the　rest。　Now　that　I've　satisfied　myself　on　that　score；　I　don't　see　any　reason　to　continue　this　conversation。〃
　The　secretary　stood　in　the　door；　stout　and　unmovable。　〃Mr。　Smithback？　This　way；　please。〃
　On　his　way　out；　Smithback　paused　in　the　outermost　secretary's　office。　Despite　his　efforts　at　self…control；　his　frame　was　quivering　with　indignation。　Fairhaven　had　been　parrying　a　hostile　press　for　more　than　a　decade；　naturally；　he'd　gotten　damn　good　at　it。　Smithback　had　dealt　with　nasty　interviewees　before；　but　this　one　really　got　under　his　skin。　Calling　him　tiresome；　mediocre；　ephemeral；　nugatory　（he'd　have　to　look　that　up）…who　did　he　think　he　was？
　Fairhaven　himself　was　too　slippery　to　pin　down。　No　big　surprise　there。　There　were　other　ways　to　find　things　out　about　people。　People　in　power　had　enemies；　and　enemies　loved　to　talk。　Sometimes　the　enemies　were　working　for　them；　right　under　their　noses。
　He　glanced　at　the　secretary。　She　was　young；　sweet；　and　looked　more　approachable　than　the　battle…axes　manning　the　inner　offices。
　〃Here　every　Saturday？〃　He　smiled　nonchalantly。
　〃Most　of　them；〃　she　said；　looking　up　from　her　puter。　She　was　cute；　with　glossy　red　hair　and　a　small　splash　of　freckles。　He　winced　inwardly；　suddenly　reminded　of　Nora。
　〃Works　you　hard；　doesn't　he？〃
　〃Mr。　Fairhaven？　Sure　does。〃
　〃Probably　makes　you　work　Sundays；　too。〃
　〃Oh　no；〃　she　said。　〃Mr。　Fairhaven　never　works　on　Sunday。　He　goes　to　church。〃
　Smithback　feigned　surprise。　〃Church？　Is　he　Catholic？〃
　〃Presbyterian。〃
　〃Probably　a　tough　man　to　work　for；　I　bet。〃
　〃No；　he's　one　of　the　best　supervisors　I've　had。　He　actually　seems　to　care　about　us　little　folk。〃
　〃Never　would　have　guessed　it；〃　Smithback　said　with　a　wink；　drifting　out　the　door。　Probably　boning　her　and　the　other　〃little　folk〃　on　the　side；　he　thought。
　Back　on　the　street；　Smithback　allowed　himself　a　most　un…Presbyterian　string　of　oaths。　He　was　going　to　dig　into　this　guy's　past　until　he　knew　every　detail；　down　to　the　name　of　his　goddamn　teddy　bear。　You　couldn't　bee　a　big…time　real　estate　developer　in　New　York　City　and　keep　your　hands　clean。　There　would　be　dirt；　and　he　would　find　it。　Yes；　there　would　be　dirt。　By　God；　there　would　be　dirt。
　
　FOUR
　　
　MANDY　EKLUND　CLIMBED　the　filthy　subway　stairs　to　First　Street；　turned　north　at　Avenue　A；　and　trudged　toward　Tompkins　Square　Park。　Ahead；　the　park's　anemic　trees　rose　up　against　a　sky　faintly　smeared　with　the　purple　stain　of　dawn。　The　morning　star；　low　on　the　horizon；　was　fading　into　oblivion。
　Mandy　pulled　her　wrap　more　tightly　around　her　shoulders　in　a　futile　attempt　to　keep　out　the　early　morning　chill。　She　felt　a　little　groggy；　and　her　feet　ached　each　time　they　hit　the　pavement。　It　had　been　a　great　night　at　Club　Pissoir；　though：　music；　free　drinks；　dancing。　The　whole　Ford　crowd　had　been　there；　along　with　a　bunch　of　photographers；　the　Mademoiselle　and　Cosmo　people；　everyone　who　mattered　in　the　fashion　world。　She　really　was　making　it。　The　thought　still　amazed　her。　Only　six　months　before；　she'd　been　working　at　Rodney's　in　Bismarck；　giving　free　makeovers。　Then；　the　right　person　happened　to　e　through　the　shop。　And　now　she　was　on　the　testing　board　at　the　Ford　agency。　Eileen　Ford　herself　had　taken　her　under　her　wing。　It　was　all　ing　together　faster　than　she'd　ever　dreamed　possible。
　Her　father　called　almost　every　day　from　the　farm。　It　was　funny；　kind　of　cute　really；　how　worried　he　was　about　her　living　in　New　York　City。　He　thought　the　place　was　a　den　of　iniquity。　He'd　freak　if　he　knew　she　stayed　out　till　dawn。　He　still　wanted　her　to　go　to　college。　And　maybe　she　would…someday。　But　right　now　she　was　eighteen　and　having　the　time　of　her　life。　She　smiled　affectionately　at　the　thought　of　her　conservative　old　father；　riding　his　John　Deere；　worrying　himself　about　her。　She'd　make　the　call　this　time；　give　him　a　surprise。
　She　turned　onto　Seventh　Street；　passing　the　darkened　park；　keeping　a　wary　eye　out　for　muggers。　New　York　was　a　lot　safer　now；　but　it　was　still　wise　to　be　careful。　She　felt　into　her　purse；　hand　closing　fortingly　around　the　small　bottle　of　pepper　spray　attached　to　her　key　chain。
　There　were　a　couple　of　homeless　sleeping　on　pieces　of　cardboard；　and　a　man　in　a　threadbare　corduroy　suit　sat　on　a　bench；　drinking　and　nodding。　An　early　breeze　passed　through　the　listless　sycamore　branches；　rattling　the　leaves。　They　were　just　beginning　to　turn　a　jaundiced　yellow。
　Once　again；　she　wished　her　walk…up　apartment　wasn't　so　far　from　a　subway　station。　She　couldn't　afford　cabs…not　yet；　anyway…and　walking　the　nine　blocks　home　at　night　was　a　hassle。　At　first　it　had　seemed　like　a　cool　neighborhood；　but　the　seediness　was　starting　to　get　to　her。　Gentrification　was　creeping　in；　but　not　fast　enough：　the　dingy　squats　and　the　old　hollow　buildings；　sealed　shut　with　cinderblock；　were　depressing。　The　Flatiron　District　would　be　better；　or　maybe　even　Yorkville。　A　lot　of　the　Ford　models；　the　ones　who'd　made　it；　lived　up　there。
　She　left　the　park　behind　and　turned　up　Avenue　C。　Silent　brownstones　rose　on　either　side；　and　the　wind　sent　trash　along　the　gutters　with　a　dry；　skittery　sound。　The　faint　ammoniac　tang　of　urine　floated　out　from　dark　doorways。　Nobody　picked　up　after　their　dogs；　and　she　made　her　way　with　care　through　a　disgusting　minefield　of　dog　shit。　This　part　of　the　walk　was　always　the　worst。
　She　saw；　ahead　of　her；　a　figure　approaching　down　the　sidewalk。　She　stiffened；　considered　crossing　the　street；　then　relaxed：　it　was　an　old　man；　walking　painfully　with　a　cane。　As　he　approached　she　could　see　he　was　wearing　a　funny　derby　hat。　His　head　was　bowed；　and　she　could　make　out　its　even　brim；　the　crisp　black　lines　of　its　crown。　She　didn't　recall　ever　seeing　anybody　wearing　a　derby；　except　in　old　black…and…white　movies。　He　looked　very　old…fashioned；　shuffling　along　with　cautious　steps。　She　wondered　what　he　was　doing　out　so　early。　Probably　insomnia。　Old　people　had　it　a　lot；　she'd　heard。　Waking　up　at　four　in　the　morning；　couldn't　go　back　to　sleep。　She　wondered　if　her　father　had　insomnia。
　They　were　almost　even　now。　The　old　man　suddenly　seemed　to　grow　aware　of　her　presence；　he　raised　his　head　and　lifted　his　arm　to　grasp　his　hat。　He　was　actually　going　to　tip　his　hat　to　her。
　The　hat　came　up；　the　arm　obscuring　everything　except　the　eyes。　They　were　remarkably　bright　and　cold；　and　they　seemed　to　be　regarding　her　intently。　Must　be　insomnia；　she　thought…despite　the　hour；　this　old　fellow　wasn't　sleepy　at　all。
　〃Good　morning；　miss；〃　said　an　old；　creaky　voice。
　〃Good　morning；〃　she　replied；　trying　to　keep　the　surprise　from　her　voice。　Nobody　ever　said　anything　to　you　on　the　street。　It　was　so　un…New　York。　It　charmed　her。
　As　she　passed　him；　she　suddenly　felt　something　whip　around　her　neck　with　horrible　speed。
　She　struggled　and　tried　to　cry　out；　but　found　her　face　covered　with　a　cloth；　damp　and　reeking　with　a　sickly…sweet　chemical　smell。　Instinctively；　she　tried　to　hold　her　breath。　Her　hand　scrabbled　in　her　purse　and　pulled　out　the　bottle　of　pepper　spray；　but　a　terrible　blow　knocked　it　to　the　sidewalk。　She　twisted　and　thrashed；　moaning　in　pain　and　fear；　her　lungs　on　fire；　she　gasped　once；　and　then　all　swirled　into　oblivion。
　
　FIVE
　　
　IN　HIS　MESSY　cubicle　on　the　fifth　floor　of　the　Times　building；　Smithback　examined　with　dissatisfaction　the　list　he　had　handwritten　in　his　notebook。　At　the　top　of　the　list；　the　phrase　〃Fairhaven's　employees〃　had　been　crossed　out。　He　hadn't　been　able　to　get　back　into　the　Moegen…Fairhaven　Building…Fairhaven　had　seen　to　that。　Likewise；　〃neighbors〃　had　also　been　crossed　out：　he'd　been　given　the　bum's　rush　at　Fairhaven's　apartment　building；　despite　all　his　best　stratagems　and　tricks。　He'd　looked　into　Fairhaven's　past；　to　his　early　business　associates；　but　they　were　either　full　of　phony　praise　or　simply　refused　ment。
　Next；　he'd　checked　out　Fairhaven's　charities。　The　New　York　Museum　was　a　dead　loss…no　one　who　knew　Fairhaven　would　talk　about　him；　for　obvious　reasons…but　he　had　more　success　with　one　of　Fairhaven's　other　projects；　the　Little　Arthur　Clinic　for　Children。　If　success　was　the　right　word　for　it。　The　clinic　was　a　small　research　hospital　that　cared　for　sick　children　with　〃orphaned〃　diseases：　very　rare　illnesses　that　the　big　drug　panies　had　no　interest　in　finding　cures　for。　Smithback　had　managed　to　get　in　posing　as　himself…a　New　York　Times　reporter　interested　in　their　work…without　rousing　suspicion。　They　had　even　given　him　an　informal　tour。　But　in　the　end　that；　too；　had　been　a　snow　job：　The　doctors；　nurses；　parents；　even　the　children　sang　hosannas　for　Fairhaven。　It　was　enough　to　make　you　sick：　turkeys　at　Thanksgiving；　bonuses　at　Christmas；　toys　and　books　for　the　kids；　trips　to　Yankee　Stadium。　Fairhaven　had　even　attended　a　few　funerals；　which　must　have　been　tough。　And　yet；　thought　Smithback　grumpily；　all　it　proved　was　that　Fairhaven　car