preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第56节

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　But　then；　in　the　September　10；　1918；　edition；　he　came　across　a　headline；　just　below　the　fold：　Mutilated　Body　in　Peck　Slip　Tenement。　The　article；　in　an　old…fashioned　attempt　to　preserve　readers'　delicate　sensibilities；　did　not　go　into　detail　about　what　the　mutilations　were；　but　it　appeared　to　involve　the　lower　back。
　He　read　on；　all　his　reporter's　instincts　aroused　once　again。　So　Leng　was　still　active；　still　killing；　even　after　he　abandoned　his　Doyers　Street　lab。
　By　the　end　of　the　day　he　had　netted　a　half…dozen　additional　murders；　about　one　every　two　years；　that　could　be　the　work　of　Leng。　There　might　have　been　others；　undiscovered；　or　it　might　be　that　Leng　had　stopped　hiding　the　bodies　and　was　simply　leaving　them　in　tenements　in　widely　scattered　sections　of　the　city。　The　victims　were　always　homeless　paupers。　In　only　one　case　was　the　body　even　identified。　They　had　all　been　sent　to　Potter's　Field　for　burial。　As　a　result；　nobody　had　remarked　on　the　similarities。　The　police　had　never　made　the　connection　among　them。
　The　last　murder　with　Leng's　modus　operandi　seemed　to　occur　in　1935。　After　that；　there　were　plenty　of　murders；　but　none　involving　the　〃peculiar　mutilations〃　that　were　Leng's　signature。
　Smithback　did　a　quick　calculation：　Leng　appeared　in　New　York　in　the　1870s…probably　as　a　young　man　of；　say；　thirty。　In　1935；　he　would　have　been　about　seventy。　So　why　did　the　murders　cease？
　The　answer　was　perfectly　obvious：　Leng　had　died。　He　hadn't　found　an　obituary；　but　then；　Leng　had　kept　such　a　low　profile　that　an　obituary　would　have　been　highly　unlikely。
　So　much　for　Pendergast's　theory；　thought　Smithback。
　And　the　more　he　thought　about　it；　the　more　he　felt　sure　that　Pendergast　couldn't　really　believe　such　an　absurd　thing。　No；　Pendergast　was　throwing　this　out　as　a　red　herring　for　some　devious　purpose　of　his　own。　That　was　Pendergast　through　and　through…artful；　winding；　oblique。　You　never　knew　what　he　was　really　thinking；　or　what　his　plan　was。　He　would　explain　all　this　to　O'Shaughnessy　the　next　time　he　saw　him；　no　doubt　the　cop　would　be　relieved　to　hear　Pendergast　hadn't　gone　off　the　deep　end。
　Smithback　scanned　another　year's　worth　of　obituaries；　but　nothing　on　Leng　appeared。　Figures：　the　guy　just　cast　no　shadow　at　all　on　the　historical　record。　It　was　almost　creepy。
　He　checked　his　watch：　quitting　time。　He'd　been　at　it　for　ten　straight　hours。
　But　he　was　off　to　a　good　start。　In　one　stroke；　he'd　uncovered　another　half…dozen　unsolved　murders　which　could　likely　be　attributed　to　Leng。　He　had　maybe　two　more　days　before　his　editor　started　demanding　results。　More；　if　he　could　show　his　work　was　turning　up　some　nuggets　of　gold。
　He　eased　himself　out　of　the　fortable　chair；　rubbed　his　hands　together。　Now　that　he'd　bed　the　public　record；　he　was　ready　to　take　the　next　step：　Leng's　private　record。
　One　thing　the　day's　research　had　revealed　was　that　Leng　had　been　a　guest　researcher　at　the　Museum。　Smithback　knew　that；　back　then；　all　visiting　scientists　had　to　undergo　an　academic　review　in　order　to　gain　unfettered　access　to　the　collections。　The　review　gave　such　details　as　the　person's　age；　education；　degrees；　fields　of　specialty；　publications；　marital　status；　and　address。　This　might　lead　to　other　treasure　troves　of　documents…deeds；　leases；　legal　actions；　so　forth。　Perhaps　Leng　could　hide　from　the　public　eye…but　the　Museum's　records　would　be　a　different　story。
　By　the　time　Smithback　was　done；　he　would　know　Leng　like　a　brother。
　The　thought　gave　him　a　delicious　shudder　of　anticipation。
　
　FOUR
　　
　O'SHAUGHNESSY　STOOD　ON　the　steps　outside　the　Jacob　Javits　Federal　Building。　The　rain　had　stopped；　and　puddles　lay　here　and　there　in　the　narrow　streets　of　lower　Manhattan。　Pendergast　had　not　been　at　the　Dakota；　and　he　was　not　here；　at　the　Bureau。　O'Shaughnessy　felt　an　odd　blend　of　emotions：　impatience；　curiosity；　eagerness。　He'd　been　almost　disappointed　that　he　couldn't　show　his　find　to　Pendergast　right　away。　Pendergast　would　surely　see　the　value　of　the　discovery。　Maybe　it　would　be　the　clue　they　needed　to　break　the　case。
　He　ducked　behind　one　of　the　building's　granite　pillars　to　inspect　the　journals　once　again。　His　eye　ran　down　the　columned　pages；　the　countless　entries　of　faded　blue　ink。　It　had　everything：　names　of　purchasers；　lists　of　chemicals；　amounts；　prices；　delivery　addresses；　dates。　Poisons　were　listed　in　red。　Pendergast　was　going　to　love　this。　Of　course；　Leng　would　have　made　his　purchases　under　a　pseudonym；　probably　using　a　false　address…but　he　would　have　had　to　use　the　same　pseudonym　for　each　purchase。　Since　Pendergast　had　already　piled　a　list　of　at　least　some　of　the　rare　chemicals　Leng　had　used；　it　would　be　a　simple　matter　to　match　that　with　the　purchases　in　this　book；　and；　through　that；　discover　Leng's　pseudonym。　If　it　was　a　name　Leng　used　in　other　transactions；　this　little　book　was　going　to　take　them　very　far　indeed。
　O'Shaughnessy　glanced　at　the　volumes　another　minute；　then　tucked　them　back　beneath　his　arm　and　began　walking　thoughtfully　down　Broadway；　toward　City　Hall　and　the　subway。　The　volumes　covered　the　years　1917　through　1923；　antedating　the　fire　that　burned　the　chemist's　shop。　Clearly；　they'd　been　the　only　things　to　survive　the　fire。　They　had　been　in　the　possession　of　the　grandfather；　and　the　father　had　had　them　rebound。　That　was　why　the　antiques　dealer　hadn't　bothered　to　examine　them：　they　looked　modern。　It　had　been　sheer　luck　that　he　himself　had…
　Antiques　dealer。　Now　that　he　thought　about　it；　it　seemed　suspicious　that　some　dealer　just　happened　to　walk　into　the　store　a　few　weeks　after　the　old　man's　death；　interested　in　the　safe。　Perhaps　that　death　hadn't　been　an　accident；　after　all。　Perhaps　the　copycat　killer　had　been　there　before　him；　looking　for　more　information　on　Leng's　chemical　purchases。　But　no…that　was　impossible。　The　copycat　killings　had　begun　as　a　result　of　the　article。　This　had　happened　before。　O'Shaughnessy　chastised　himself　for　not　getting　a　description　of　the　dealer。　Well；　he　could　always　go　back。　Pendergast　might　want　to　e　along　himself。
　Suddenly；　he　stopped。　Of　their　own　accord；　his　feet　had　taken　him　past　the　subway　station　to　Ann　Street。　He　began　to　turn　back；　then　hesitated。　He　wasn't　far；　he　realized；　from　16　Water　Street；　the　house　where　Mary　Greene　had　lived。　Pendergast　had　already　been　down　there　with　Nora；　but　O'Shaughnessy　hadn't　seen　it。　Not　that　there　was　anything　to　see；　of　course。　But　now　that　he　was　mitted　to　this　case；　he　wanted　to　see　everything；　miss　nothing。　He　thought　back　to　the　Metropolitan　Museum　of　Art：　to　the　pathetic　bit　of　dress；　the　desperate　note。
　It　was　worth　a　ten…minute　detour。　Dinner　could　wait。
　He　continued　down　Ann　Street；　then　turned　onto　Gold；　whistling　Costa　Diva　from　Bellini's　Norma。　It　was　Maria　Callas's　signature　piece；　and　one　of　his　favorite　arias。　He　was　in　high　spirits。　Detective　work；　he　was　rediscovering；　could　actually　be　fun。　And　he　was　rediscovering　something　else：　he　had　a　knack　for　it。
　The　setting　sun　broke　through　the　clouds；　casting　his　own　shadow　before　him；　long　and　lonely　down　the　street。　To　his　left　lay　the　South　Street　Viaduct　and；　beyond；　the　East　River　piers。　As　he　walked；　office　and　financial　buildings　began　giving　way　to　tenements…some　sporting　re…pointed　brick　facades；　others　vacant　and　hollow…looking。
　It　was　growing　chilly；　but　the　last　rays　of　the　sun　felt　good　on　his　face。　He　cut　left　onto　John　Street；　heading　toward　the　river。　Ahead　lay　the　rows　of　old　piers。　A　few　had　been　asphalted　and　still　in　use；　others　tilted　into　the　water　at　alarming　angles；　and　some　were　so　decayed　they　were　nothing　more　than　double　rows　of　posts；　sticking　out　of　the　water。　As　the　sun　dipped　out　of　sight；　a　dome　of　afterglow　lay　across　the　sky；　deep　purple　grading　to　yellow　against　a　rising　fog。　Across　the　East　River；　lights　were　ing　on　in　the　low　brownstones　of　Brooklyn。　He　quickened　his　pace；　seeing　his　breath　in　the　air。
　It　was　as　he　passed　Pearl　Street　that　O'Shaughnessy　began　to　feel　that　he　was　being　followed。　He　wasn't　sure　why；　exactly；　if；　subliminally；　he　had　heard　something；　or　if　it　was　simply　the　sixth　sense　of　a　beat　cop。　But　he　kept　walking；　not　checking　his　stride；　not　turning　around。　Administrative　leave　or　no；　he　had　his　own　。38　Special　strapped　under　his　arm；　and　he　knew　how　to　use　it。　Woe　to　the　mugger　who　thought　he　looked　like　an　easy　target。
　He　stopped；　glancing　along　the　tiny；　crooked　maze　of　streets　that　led　down　to　the　waterfront。　As　he　did　so；　the　feeling　grew　stronger。　O'Shaughnessy　had　long　ago　learned　to　trust　such　feelings。　Like　most　beat　cops；　he　had　developed　a　highly　sensitive　street　radar　that　sensed　when　something　was　wrong。　As　a　cop；　you　either　developed　this　radar　fast；　or　you　got　your　ass　shot　off　and　returned　to　you；　gift…wrapped　by　St。　Peter　in　a　box　with　a　nice　pretty　red　ribbon。　He'd　almost　forgotten　he　had　the　instinct。　It　had　seen　years　of　disuse；　but　such　things　died　hard。
　He　continued　walking　until　he　reached　the　corner　of　Burling　Slip。　He　turned　the　corner；　stepping　into　the　shadows；　and　quickly　pressed　himself　against　the　wall；　removing　his　Smith　&　Wesson　at　the　same　time。　He　waited；　breathing　shallowly。　He　could　hear　the　faint　sound　of　water　lapping　the　piers；　the　distant　sound　of