preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第55节

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　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　some　old　crimes　that　took　place　near　the　turn　of　the　century。　I　was　wondering　if　you've　got　any　old　records　I　could　examine；　lists　of　clientele　and　the　like。〃
　〃Maybe；〃　the　man　said。　The　voice　was　high；　very　breathy。
　This　answer　took　O'Shaughnessy　by　surprise。　〃What　do　you　mean？〃
　〃The　shop　burned　to　the　ground　in　1924。　After　it　was　rebuilt；　my　grandfather…he　was　running　the　place　back　then…started　keeping　his　records　in　a　fireproof　safe。　After　my　father　took　over；　he　didn't　use　the　safe　much。　In　fact；　he　only　used　it　for　storing　some　possessions　of　my　grandfather's。　He　passed　away　three　months　ago。〃
　〃I'm　sorry　to　hear　that；〃　O'Shaughnessy　said。　〃How　did　he　die？〃
　〃Stroke；　they　said。　So　anyway；　a　few　weeks　later；　an　antiques　dealer　came　by。　Looked　around　the　shop；　bought　a　few　old　pieces　of　furniture。　When　he　saw　the　safe；　he　offered　me　a　lot　of　money　if　there　was　anything　of　historical　value　inside。　So　I　had　it　drilled。〃　The　man　sniffed。　〃But　there　was　nothing　much。　Tell　the　truth；　I'd　been　hoping　for　some　gold　coins；　maybe　old　securities　or　bonds。　The　fellow　went　away　disappointed。〃
　〃So　what　was　inside？〃
　〃Papers。　Ledgers。　Stuff　like　that。　That's　why　I　told　you；　maybe。〃
　〃Can　I　have　a　look　at　this　safe？〃
　The　man　shrugged。　〃Why　not？〃
　The　safe　stood　in　a　dimly　lit　back　room；　amid　stacks　of　musty　boxes　and　decaying　wooden　crates。　It　was　shoulder　high；　made　of　thick　green　metal。　There　was　a　shiny　cylindrical　hole　where　the　lock　mechanism　had　been　drilled　out。
　The　man　pulled　the　door　open；　then　stepped　back　as　O'Shaughnessy　came　forward。　He　knelt　and　peered　inside。　Dust　motes　hung　like　a　pall　in　the　air。　The　contents　of　the　safe　lay　in　deep　shadow。
　〃Can　you　turn　on　some　more　lights？〃　O'Shaughnessy　asked。
　〃Can't。　Aren't　any　more。〃
　〃Got　a　flashlight　handy？〃
　The　man　shook　his　head。　〃But　hold　on　a　second。〃　He　shuffled　away；　then　returned　a　minute　later；　carrying　a　lighted　taper　in　a　brass　holder。
　Jesus；　this　is　unbelievable；　O'Shaughnessy　thought。　But　he　accepted　the　candle　with　murmured　thanks　and　held　it　inside　the　safe。
　Considering　its　large　size；　the　safe　was　rather　empty。　O'Shaughnessy　moved　the　candle　around；　making　a　mental　inventory　of　its　contents。　Stacks　of　old　newspapers　in　one　corner；　various　yellowed　papers；　tied　into　small　bundles；　several　rows　of　ancient…looking　ledger　books；　two　more　modern…looking　volumes；　bound　in　garish　red　plastic；　half　a　dozen　shoe　boxes　with　dates　scrawled　on　their　faces。
　Setting　the　candle　on　the　floor　of　the　safe；　O'Shaughnessy　grabbed　eagerly　at　the　old　ledgers。　The　first　one　he　opened　was　simply　a　shop　inventory；　for　the　year　1925：　page　after　page　of　items；　written　in　a　spidery　hand。　The　other　volumes　were　similar：　semiannual　inventories；　ending　in　1942。
　〃When　did　your　father　take　over　the　shop？〃　O'Shaughnessy　asked。
　The　man　thought　for　a　moment。　〃During　the　war。　'41　maybe；　or　'42。〃
　Makes　sense；　O'Shaughnessy　thought。　Replacing　the　ledgers；　he　flipped　through　the　stack　of　newspapers。　He　found　nothing　but　a　fresh　cloud　of　dust。
　Moving　the　candle　to　one　side；　and　fighting　back　a　rising　sense　of　disappointment；　he　reached　for　the　bundles　of　papers。　These　were　all　bills　and　invoices　from　wholesalers；　covering　the　same　period：　1925　to　1942。　No　doubt　they　would　match　the　inventory　ledgers。
　The　red　plastic　volumes　were　clearly　far　too　recent　to　be　of　any　interest。　That　left　just　the　shoe　boxes。　One　more　chance。　O'Shaughnessy　plucked　a　shoe　box　from　the　top　of　the　pile；　blew　the　dust　from　its　lid；　opened　it。
　Inside　were　old　tax　returns。
　Damn　it；　O'Shaughnessy　thought　as　he　replaced　the　box。　He　chose　another　at　random；　opened　the　lid。　More　returns。
　O'Shaughnessy　sat　back　on　his　haunches；　candle　in　one　hand　and　shoe　box　in　the　other。　No　wonder　the　antiques　dealer　left　empty…handed；　he　thought。　Oh；　well。　It　was　worth　a　try。
　With　a　sigh；　he　leaned　forward　to　replace　the　box。　As　he　did　so；　he　glanced　once　again　at　the　red　plastic　folders。　It　was　strange：　the　man　said　his　father　only　used　the　safe　for　storing　things　of　the　grandfather。　But　plastic　was　a　recent　invention；　right？　Surely　later　than　1942。　Curious；　he　plucked　up　one　of　the　volumes　and　flipped　it　open。
　Within；　he　saw　a　dark…ruled　page；　full　of　old；　handwritten　entries。　The　page　was　sooty；　partially　burned；　its　edges　crumbling　away　into　ash。
　He　glanced　around。　The　proprietor　of　the　shop　had　moved　away；　and　was　rummaging　inside　a　cardboard　box。
　Eagerly　O'Shaughnessy　snatched　both　the　plastic　volume　and　its　mate　from　the　safe。　Then　he　blew　out　the　candle　and　stood　up。
　〃Nothing　much　of　interest；　I'm　afraid。〃　He　held　up　the　volumes　with　feigned　nonchalance。　〃But　as　a　formality；　I'd　like　to　take　these　down　to　our　office；　just　for　a　day　or　two。　With　your　permission；　of　course。　It'll　save　you　and　me　lots　of　paperwork；　court　orders；　all　that　kind　of　thing。〃
　〃Court　orders？〃　the　man　said；　a　worried　expression　ing　over　his　face。　〃Sure；　sure。　Keep　them　as　long　as　you　want。〃
　Outside　on　the　street；　O'Shaughnessy　paused　to　brush　dust　from　his　shoulders。　Rain　was　threatening；　and　lights　were　ing　on　in　the　shotgun　flats　and　coffeehouses　that　lined　the　street。　A　peal　of　distant　thunder　sounded　over　the　hum　of　traffic。　O'Shaughnessy　turned　up　the　collar　of　his　jacket　and　tucked　the　volumes　carefully　under　one　arm　as　he　hurried　off　toward　Third　Avenue。
　From　the　opposite　sidewalk；　in　the　shadow　of　a　brownstone　staircase；　a　man　watched　O'Shaughnessy　depart。　Now　he　came　forward；　derby　hat　low　over　a　long　black　coat；　cane　tapping　lightly　on　the　sidewalk；　and…after　looking　carefully　left　and　right…slowly　crossed　the　street；　in　the　direction　of　New　Amsterdam　Chemists。
　
　THREE
　　
　BILL　SMITHBACK　LOVED　the　New　York　Times　newspaper　morgue：　a　tall；　cool　room　with　rows　of　metal　shelves　groaning　under　the　weight　of　leather…bound　volumes。　On　this　particular　morning；　the　room　was　pletely　empty。　It　was　rarely　used　anymore　by　other　reporters；　who　preferred　to　use　the　digitized；　online　editions；　which　went　back　only　twenty…five　years。　Or；　if　necessary；　the　microfilm　machines；　which　were　a　pain　but　relatively　fast。　Still；　Smithback　found　there　was　nothing　more　interesting；　or　so　curiously　useful；　as　paging　through　the　old　numbers　themselves。　You　often　found　little　strings　of　information　in　successive　issues…or　on　adjoining　pages…that　you　would　have　missed　by　cranking　through　reels　of　microfilm　at　top　speed。
　When　he　proposed　to　his　editor　the　idea　of　a　story　on　Leng；　the　man　had　grunted　nonmittally…a　sure　sign　he　liked　it。　As　he　was　leaving；　he　heard　the　bug…eyed　monster　mutter：　〃Just　make　damn　sure　it's　better　than　that　Fairhaven　piece；　okay？　Something　with　marrow。〃
　Well；　it　would　be　better　than　Fairhaven。　It　had　to　be。
　It　was　afternoon　by　the　time　he　settled　into　the　morgue。　The　librarian　brought　him　the　first　of　the　volumes　he'd　requested；　and　he　opened　it　with　reverence；　inhaling　the　smell　of　decaying　wood　pulp；　old　ink；　mold；　and　dust。　The　volume　was　dated　January　1881；　and　he　quickly　found　the　article　he　was　looking　for：　the　burning　of　Shottum's　cabinet。　It　was　a　front…page　story；　with　a　handsome　engraving　of　the　flames。　The　article　mentioned　that　the　eminent　Professor　John　C。　Shottum　was　missing　and　feared　dead。　Also　missing；　the　article　stated；　was　a　man　named　Enoch　Leng；　who　was　vaguely　billed　as　a　boarder　at　the　cabinet　and　Shottum's　〃assistant。〃　Clearly；　the　writer　knew　nothing　about　Leng。
　Smithback　paged　forward　until　he　found　a　follow…up　story　on　the　fire；　reporting　that　remains　believed　to　be　Shottum　had　been　found。　No　mention　was　made　of　Leng。
　Now　working　backward；　Smithback　paged　through　the　city　sections；　looking　for　articles　on　the　Museum；　the　Lyceum；　or　any　mention　of　Leng；　Shottum；　or　McFadden。　It　was　slow　going；　and　Smithback　often　found　himself　sidetracked　by　various　fascinating；　but　unrelated；　articles。
　After　a　few　hours；　he　began　to　get　a　little　nervous。　There　were　plenty　of　articles　on　the　Museum；　a　few　on　the　Lyceum；　and　even　occasional　mentions　of　Shottum　and　his　colleague；　Tinbury　McFadden。　But　he　could　find　nothing　at　all　on　Leng；　except　in　the　reports　of　the　meetings　of　the　Lyceum；　where　a　〃Prof。　Enoch　Leng〃　was　occasionally　listed　among　the　attendees。　Leng　clearly　kept　a　low　profile。
　This　is　going　nowhere；　fast；　he　thought。
　He　launched　into　a　second　line　of　attack；　which　promised　to　be　much　more　difficult。
　Starting　in　1917；　the　date　that　Enoch　Leng　abandoned　his　Doyers　Street　laboratory；　Smithback　began　paging　forward；　looking　for　any　murders　that　fit　the　profile。　There　were　365　editions　of　the　Times　every　year。　In　those　days；　murders　were　a　rare　enough　occurrence　to　usually　land　on　the　front　page；　so　Smithback　confined　himself　to　perusing　the　front　pages…and　the　obituaries；　looking　for　the　announcement　of　Leng's　death　which　would　interest　O'Shaughnessy　as　well　as　himself。
　There　were　many　murders　to　read　about；　and　a　number　of　highly　interesting　obituaries；　and　Smithback　found　himself　fascinated…too　fascinated。　It　was　slow　going。
　But　then；　in　the　September　10；　1918；