preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第58节

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　〃Good　evening；　Agent　Pendergast；〃　the　guard　said。　〃How　are　you　this　evening？〃
　〃Quite　well；　Frances；　thank　you；〃　Pendergast　replied。　He　nodded　toward　the　book。　〃How　are　you　enjoying　Ariosto？〃
　〃Very　much。　Thanks　for　the　suggestion。〃
　〃I　believe　I　remended　the　Bacon　translation。〃
　〃Nesmith　in　the　microfiche　department　has　one。　The　others　are　on　loan。〃
　〃Remind　me　to　send　you　down　a　copy。〃
　〃I'll　do　that；　sir。　Thanks。〃
　Pendergast　nodded　again　and　passed　on；　through　the　entrance　hall　and　up　the　marble　stairs；　hearing　nothing　but　the　sound　of　his　own　footsteps。　At　the　entrance　to　Room　315…the　Main　Reading　Room…he　paused　again。　Inside；　ranks　of　long　wooden　tables　lay　beneath　yellow　pools　of　light。　Pendergast　entered；　gliding　toward　a　vast　construction　of　dark　wood　that　divided　the　Reading　Room　into　halves。　By　day；　this　was　the　station　from　which　library　workers　accepted　book　requests　from　patrons　and　sent　them　down　to　the　subterranean　stacks　by　pneumatic　tube。　But　now；　with　the　fall　of　night；　the　receiving　station　was　silent　and　empty。
　Pendergast　opened　a　door　at　one　end　of　the　receiving　station；　stepped　inside；　and　made　his　way　to　a　small　door；　set　into　a　frame　beside　a　long　series　of　dumbwaiters。　He　opened　it　and　descended　the　staircase　beyond。
　Beneath　the　Main　Reading　Room　were　seven　levels　of　stacks。　The　first　six　levels　were　vast　cities　of　shelving；　laid　out　in　precise　grids　that　went　on；　row　after　row；　stack　after　stack。　The　ceilings　of　the　stacks　were　low；　and　the　tall　shelves　of　books　claustrophobic。　And　yet；　as　he　walked　in　the　faint　light　of　the　first　level…taking　in　the　smell　of　dust；　and　mildew；　and　deposing　paper…Pendergast　felt　a　rare　sense　of　peace。　The　pain　of　his　stab　wound；　the　heavy　burden　of　the　case　at　hand；　seemed　to　ease。　At　every　turn；　every　intersection；　his　mind　filled　with　the　memory　of　some　prior　perambulation：　journeys　of　discovery；　literary　expeditions　that　had　frequently　ended　in　investigative　epiphanies；　abruptly　solved　cases。
　But　there　was　no　time　now　for　reminiscing；　and　Pendergast　moved　on。　Reaching　a　narrow；　even　steeper　staircase；　he　descended　deeper　into　the　stacks。
　At　last；　Pendergast　emerged　from　the　closet…like　stairwell　onto　the　seventh　level。　Unlike　the　flawlessly　catalogued　levels　above　it；　this　was　an　endless　rat's　nest　of　mysterious　pathways　and　cul…de…sacs；　rarely　visited　despite　some　astonishing　collections　known　to　be　buried　here。　The　air　was　close　and　stuffy；　as　if　it　had…like　the　volumes　it　surrounded…not　circulated　for　decades。　Several　corridors　ran　away　from　the　stairwell；　framed　by　bookcases；　crossing　and　recrossing　at　strange　angles。
　Pendergast　paused　momentarily。　In　the　silence；　his　hyperacute　sense　of　hearing　picked　up　a　very　faint　scratching：　colonies　of　silverfish；　gorging　their　way　through　an　endless　supply　of　pulp。
　And　there　was　another　sound；　too：　louder　and　sharper。　Snip。
　Pendergast　turned　toward　the　sound；　tracking　it　through　the　stacks　of　books；　angling　first　one　way；　then　another。　The　sound　grew　nearer。
　Snip。　Snip。
　Up　ahead；　Pendergast　made　out　a　halo　of　light。　Turning　a　final　corner；　he　saw　a　large　wooden　table；　brilliantly　lit　by　a　dentist's　O…ring　lamp。　Several　objects　were　arrayed　along　one　edge　of　the　table：　needle；　a　spool　of　heavy　filament；　a　pair　of　white　cotton　gloves；　a　bookbinder's　knife；　a　glue　pen。　Next　to　them　was　a　stack　of　reference　works：　Blades's　The　Enemies　of　Books；　Ebeling's　Urban　Entomology；　Clapp's　Curatorial　Care　of　Works　of　Art　on　Paper。　On　a　book　truck　beside　the　table　sat　a　tall　pile　of　old　volumes　in　various　states　of　deposition；　covers　frayed；　hinges　broken；　spines　torn。
　A　figure　sat　at　the　table；　back　to　Pendergast。　A　confusion　of　long　hair；　white　and　very　thick；　streamed　down　from　the　skull　onto　the　hunched　shoulders。　Snip。
　Pendergast　leaned　against　the　nearest　stack　and…keeping　a　polite　distance…rapped　his　knuckles　lightly　against　the　metal。
　〃I　hear　a　knocking；〃　the　figure　quoted；　in　a　high　yet　clearly　masculine　tone。　He　did　not　turn　his　head。　Snip。
　Pendergast　knocked　again。
　〃Anon；　anon！〃　the　man　responded。
　Snip。
　Pendergast　knocked　a　third　time；　more　sharply。
　The　man　straightened　his　shoulders　with　an　irritable　sigh。　〃Wake　Duncan　with　thy　knocking！〃　he　cried。　〃I　would　thou　couldst。〃
　Then　he　laid　aside　a　pair　of　library　scissors　and　the　old　book　he　had　been　rebinding；　and　turned　around。
　He　had　thin　white　eyebrows　to　match　the　mane　of　hair；　and　the　irises　of　his　eyes　were　yellow；　giving　him　a　gaze　that　seemed　leonine；　almost　feral。　He　saw　Pendergast；　and　his　old　withered　face　broke　into　a　smile。　Then　he　caught　sight　of　the　package　beneath　Pendergast's　arm；　and　the　smile　broadened。
　〃If　it　isn't　Special　Agent　Pendergast！〃　he　cried。　〃The　extra…special；　Special　Agent　Pendergast。〃
　Pendergast　inclined　his　head。　〃How　are　you；　Wren？〃
　〃I　humbly　thank　thee；　well；　well。〃　The　man　gestured　a　bony　hand　toward　the　book　truck；　the　pile　of　books　waiting　to　be　repaired。　〃But　there　is　so　little　time；　and　so　many　damaged　children。〃
　The　New　York　Public　Library　harbored　many　strange　souls；　but　none　was　stranger　than　the　specter　known　as　Wren。　Nobody　seemed　to　know　anything　about　him：　whether　Wren　was　his　first　name；　or　his　last；　or　even　his　real　name　at　all。　Nobody　seemed　to　know　where　he'd　e　from；　or　whether　he　was　officially　employed　by　the　library。　Nobody　knew　where　or　what　he　ate…some　speculated　that　he　dined　on　library　paste。　The　only　things　known　about　the　man　was　that　he　had　never　been　seen　to　leave　the　library；　and　that　he　had　a　pathfinder's　instinct　for　the　lost　treasures　of　the　seventh　level。
　Wren　looked　at　his　guest；　venal　yellow　eyes　sharp　and　bright　as　a　hawk's。　〃You　don't　look　like　yourself　today；〃　he　said。
　〃No　doubt。〃　Pendergast　said　no　more；　and　Wren　seemed　not　to　expect　it。
　〃Let's　see。　Did　you　find…what　was　it　again？　Oh；　yes…that　old　Broadway　Water　pany　survey　and　the　Five　Points　chapbooks　useful？〃
　〃Very　much　so。〃
　Wren　gestured　toward　the　package。　〃And　what　are　you　lending　me　today；　hypocrite　lecteur？〃
　Pendergast　leaned　away　from　the　bookcase；　brought　the　package　out　from　beneath　his　arm。　〃It's　a　manuscript　of　Iphigenia　at　Aulis；　translated　from　the　ancient　Greek　into　Vulgate。〃
　Wren　listened；　his　face　betraying　nothing。
　〃The　manuscript　was　illuminated　at　the　old　monastery　of　Sainte…Chapelle　in　the　late　fourteenth　century。　One　of　the　last　works　they　produced　before　the　terrible　conflagration　of　1397。〃
　A　spark　of　interest　flared　in　the　old　man's　yellow　eyes。
　〃The　book　caught　the　attention　of　Pope　Pius　III；　who　pronounced　it　sacrilegious　and　ordered　every　copy　burnt。　It's　also　notable　for　the　scribbles　and　drawings　made　by　the　scribes　in　the　margins　of　the　manuscript。　They　are　said　to　depict　the　lost　text　of　Chaucer's　fragmentary　'Cook's　Tale。'　〃
　The　spark　of　interest　abruptly　burned　hot。　Wren　held　out　his　hands。
　Pendergast　kept　the　package　just　out　of　reach。　〃There　is　one　favor　I'd　request　in　return。〃
　Wren　retracted　his　hands。　〃Naturally。〃
　〃Have　you　heard　of　the　Wheelwright　Bequest？〃
　Wren　frowned；　shook　his　head。　White　locks　flew　from　side　to　side。
　〃He　was　the　president　of　the　city's　Land　Office　from　1866　to　1894。　He　was　a　notorious　pack…rat；　and　ultimately　donated　a　large　number　of　handbills；　circulars；　broadsides；　and　other　period　publications　to　the　Library。〃
　〃That　explains　why　I　haven't　heard　of　it；〃　Wren　replied。　〃It　sounds　of　little　value。〃
　〃In　his　bequest；　Wheelwright　also　made　a　sizable　cash　donation。〃
　〃Which　explains　why　the　bequest　would　still　be　extant。〃
　Pendergast　nodded。
　〃But　it　would　have　been　consigned　to　the　seventh　level。〃
　Pendergast　nodded　again。
　〃What's　your　interest；　hypocrite　lecteur？〃
　〃According　to　the　obituaries；　Wheelwright　was　at　work　on　a　scholarly　history　of　wealthy　New　York　landowners　when　he　died。　As　part　of　his　research；　he'd　kept　copies　of　all　the　Manhattan　house　deeds　that　passed　through　his　office　for　properties　over　1；000。　I　need　to　examine　those　house　deeds。〃
　Wren's　expression　narrowed。　〃Surely　that　information　could　be　more　easily　obtained　at　the　New…York　Historical　Society。〃
　〃Yes。　So　it　should　have　been。　But　some　of　the　deeds　are　inexplicably　missing　from　their　records：　a　swath　of　properties　along　Riverside　Drive；　to　be　precise。　I　had　a　man　at　the　Society　look　for　them；　without　success。　He　was　most　put　out　by　their　absence。〃
　〃So　you've　e　to　me。〃
　In　response；　Pendergast　held　out　the　package。
　Wren　took　it　eagerly；　turned　it　over　reverently　in　his　hands；　then　slit　the　wrapping　paper　with　his　knife。　He　placed　the　package　on　the　table　and　began　carefully　peeling　away　the　bubble　wrap。　He　seemed　to　have　abruptly　forgotten　Pendergast's　presence。
　〃I'll　be　back　to　examine　the　bequest…and　retrieve　my　illuminated　manuscript…in　forty…eight　hours；〃　Pendergast　said。
　〃It　may　take　longer；〃　Wren　replied；　his　back　to　Pendergast。　〃For　all　I　know；　the　bequest　no　longer　exists。〃
　〃I　have　great　faith　in　your　abilities。〃
　Wren　murmured　something　inaudible。　He　donned　the　gloves；　gently　unbuckled　the　cloisonné　enamel　fastenings；　stared　hungrily　at　the　hand…lettered　pages。
　〃And　Wren？〃
　Something　in　Pendergast's　tone　made　the　old　man　look　over　his　shoulder。