preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第54节

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　〃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；　b　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　e　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　e　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。
　e　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　e　to　light　and　made　the　papers。
　And　then　there　were　the　Museum's　archives。　From　his　earlier　book　projects；　he'd　e　to　know　them　backward　and　forward。　Leng　had　been　associated　with　the　Museum。　There　would　be　a　gold　mine　of　information　in　there；　if　only　one　knew　where　to　find　it。
　And　there　would　be　a　side　benefit：　he　might　just　be　able　to　pass　along　to　Nora　the　information　she　wanted　about　where　Leng　lived。　A　little　gesture　like　that　might　get　their　relationship　back　on　track。　And　who　knows？　It　might　get　Pendergast's　investigation　back　on　track；　as　well。
　His　meeting　with　O'Shaughnessy　hadn't　been　a　total　loss；　after　all。
　
　TWO
　　
　EAST　TWELFTH　STREET　was　a　typical　East　Village　street；　O'Shaughnessy　thought　as　he　turned　the　corner　from　Third　Avenue：　a　mixture　of　punks；　would…be　poets；　'60s　relics；　and　old…timers　who　just　didn't　have　the　energy　or　money　to　move。　The　street　had　improved　a　bit　in　recent　years；　but　there　was　still　a　superfluity　of　beaten…down　tenements　among　the　head　shops；　wheat…grass　bars；　and　used…record　vendors。　He　slowed　his　pace；　watching　the　people　passing　by：　slumming　tourists　trying　to　look　cool；　aging　punk　rockers　with　very　dated　spiked　purple　hair；　artists　in　paint…splattered　jeans　lugging　canvases；　drugged…out　skinheads　in　leather　with　dangling　chrome　doohickeys。　They　seemed　to　give　him　a　wide　berth：　nothing　stood　out　on　a　New　York　City　street　quite　like　a　plainclothes　police　officer；　even　one　on　administrative　leave　and　under　investigation。
　Up　ahead　now；　he　could　make　out　the　shop。　It　was　a　little　hole…in…the…wall　of　black…painted　brick；　shoehorned　between　brownstones　that　seemed　to　sag　under　the　weight　of　innumerable　layers　of　graffiti。　The　windows　of　the　shop　were　thick　with　dust；　and　stacked　high　with　ancient　boxes　and　displays；　so　faded　with　age　and　sun　that　their　labels　were　indecipherable。　Small　greasy　letters　above　the　windows　spelled　out　New　Amsterdam　Chemists。
　O'Shaughnessy　paused；　examining　the　shopfront。　It　seemed　hard　to　believe　that　an　old　relic　like　this　could　survive；　what　with　a　Duane　Reade　on　the　very　next　corner。　Nobody　seemed　to　be　going　in　or　out。　The　place　looked　dead。
　He　stepped　forward　again；　approaching　the　door。　There　was　a　buzzer；　and　a　small　sign　that　read　Cash　Only。　He　pressed　the　buzzer；　hearing　it　rasp　far；　far　within。　For　what　seemed　a　long　time；　there　was　no　other　noise。　Then　he　heard　the　approach　of　shuffling　footsteps。　A　lock　turned；　the　door　opened；　and　a　man　stood　before　him。　At　least；　O'Shaughnessy　thought　it　was　a　man：　the　head　was　as　bald　as　a　billiard　ball；　and　the　clothes　were　masculine；　but　the　face　had　a　kind　of　strange　neutrality　that　made　sex　hard　to　determine。
　Without　a　word；　the　person　turned　and　shuffled　away　again。　O'Shaughnessy　followed；　glancing　around　curiously。　He'd　expected　to　find　an　old　pharmacy；　with　perhaps　an　ancient　soda　fountain　and　wooden　shelves　stocked　with　aspirin　and　liniment。　Instead；　the　shop　was　an　incredible　rat's　nest　of　stacked　boxes；　spiderwebs；　and　dust。　Stifling　a　cough；　O'Shaughnessy　traced　a　plex　path　toward　the　back　of　the　store。　Here　he　found　a　marble　counter；　scarcely　less　dusty　than　the　rest　of　the　shop。　The　person　who'd　let　him　in　had　taken　up　a　position　behind　it。　Small　wooden　boxes　were　stacked　shoulder　high　on　the　wall　behind　the　shopkeeper。　O'Shaughnessy　squinted　at　the　paper　labels　slid　into　copper　placards　on　each　box：　amaranth；　nux　vomica；　nettle；　vervain；　hellebore；　nightshade；　narcissus；　shepherd's　purse；　pearl　trefoil。　On　an　adjoining　wall　were　hundreds　of　glass　beakers；　and　beneath　were　several　rows　of　boxes；　chemical　symbols　scrawled　on　their　faces　in　red　marker。　A　book　titled　Wortcunning　lay　on　the　counter。
　The　man…it　seemed　easiest　to　think　of　him　as　a　man…stared　back　at　O'Shaughnessy；　pasty　face　expectant。
　〃O'Shaughnessy；　FBI　consultant；〃　O'Shaughnessy　said；　displaying　the　identity　card　Pendergast　had　secured　for　him。　〃I'd　like　to　ask　you　a　few　questions；　if　I　might。〃
　The　man　scrutinized　the　card；　and　for　a　minute　O'Shaughnessy　thought　he　was　going　to　challenge　it。　But　the　shopkeeper　merely　shrugged。
　〃What　kind　of　people　visit　your　shop？〃
　〃It's　mostly　those　wiccans。〃　The　man　screwed　up　his　face。
　〃Wiccans？〃
　〃Yeah。　Wiccans。　That's　what　they　call　themselves　these　days。〃
　Abruptly；　O'Shaughnessy　understood。　〃You　mean　witches。〃
　The　man　nodded。
　〃Anybody　else？　Any；　say；　doctors？〃
　〃No；　nobody　like　that。　We　get　chemists　here；　too。　Sometimes　hobbyists。　Health　supplement　types。〃
　〃Anybody　who　dresses　in　an　old…fashioned；　or　unusual　fashion？〃
　The　man　gestured　in　the　vague　direction　of　East　Twelfth　Street。　〃They　all　dress　in　an　unusual　fashion。〃
　O'Shaughnessy　thought　for　a　moment。　〃We're　investigating　so