preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第63节

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　That　archaeologist；　Nora　Kelly？　Worked　for　the　Museum。
　The　incriminating　letter　that　reporter；　Smithbank　or　whatever；　had　leaked？　The　letter　that　started　the　whole　thing？　Found　in　the　Museum's　Archives。
　That　creepy　old　guy；　Collopy；　who'd　authorized　the　removal　of　the　letter？　Director　of　the　Museum。
　Fairhaven？　On　the　Museum's　board。
　The　nineteenth…century　killer？　Connected　to　the　Museum。
　And　the　archivist　himself；　Puck；　had　been　murdered。　Why？　Because　he　had　discovered　something。　Something　in　the　Archives。
　Custer's　mind；　unusually　clear；　began　racing　over　the　possibilities；　the　myriad　binations　and　permutations。　What　was　needed　was　strong；　decisive　action。　Whatever　it　was　Puck　had　found；　he　would　find；　too。　And　that　would　be　key　to　the　murderer。
　There　was　no　time　to　lose；　not　one　minute。
　He　stood　up　and　punched　the　inter。　〃Noyes？　Get　in　here。　Right　away。〃
　The　man　was　in　the　doorway　even　before　Custer's　finger　was　off　the　button。
　〃I　want　the　top　ten　detectives　assigned　to　the　Surgeon　case　over　here　for　a　confidential　briefing　in　my　office。　Half　an　hour。〃
　〃Yes；　Captain。〃　Noyes　raised　a　quizzical；　but　appropriately　obsequious；　eyebrow。
　〃I've　got　it。　Noyes；　I've　figured　it　out。〃
　Noyes　ceased　his　gum　chewing。　〃Sir？〃
　〃The　key　to　the　Surgeon　killings　is　in　the　Museum。　It's　there；　in　the　Archives。　God　knows；　maybe　even　the　murderer　himself　is　in　there；　on　the　Museum's　staff。〃　Custer　grabbed　his　jacket。　〃We're　going　in　there　hard　and　fast；　Noyes。　They　won't　even　know　what　hit　them。〃
　
　THREE
　　
　USING　CORNICES　AND　escutcheons　as　hand…　and　footholds；　Smithback　slowly　pulled　his　way　up　the　wall　toward　the　stone　embrasure　of　a　second…story　window。　It　had　been　harder　than　he　expected；　and　he'd　managed　to　scrape　a　cheek　and　mash　a　finger　in　the　process。　And；　of　course；　he　was　ruining　a　two…hundred…and…fifty…dollar　pair　of　handmade　Italian　shoes。　Maybe　the　Times　would　pay。　Spreadeagled　against　the　side　of　the　house；　he　felt　ridiculously　exposed。　There　must　be　an　easier　way　to　win　a　Pulitzer；　he　thought。　He　grabbed　for　the　window　ledge；　pulled　himself　upward　with　a　grunt　of　effort。　Gaining　the　wide　ledge；　he　remained　there　a　moment；　catching　his　breath；　looking　around。　The　street　was　still　quiet。　Nobody　seemed　to　have　noticed　anything。　He　turned　his　attention　back　to　the　rippled　glass　of　the　window。
　The　room　beyond　seemed　utterly　empty　and　dark。　Dust　motes　hung　in　the　anemic　shafts　of　light　that　slanted　inward。　He　thought　he　could　make　out　a　closed　door　in　the　far　wall。　But　there　was　nothing　to　give　him　any　indication　of　what　lay　beyond；　in　the　rest　of　the　house。
　If　he　wanted　to　learn　anything　more；　he'd　have　to　get　inside。
　What　could　the　harm　be？　The　house　had　clearly　been　deserted　for　decades。　It　was　probably　city　property　now；　public　property。　He'd　e　this　far；　done　this　much。　If　he　left　now；　he'd　have　to　start　all　over　again。　The　image　of　his　editor's　face；　shaking　a　fistful　of　copy；　eyes　popping　with　anger；　filled　his　mind。　If　he　was　going　to　charge　them　for　the　shoes；　he　better　have　something　to　show　for　it。
　He　tried　the　window；　and；　as　expected；　found　it　locked…or；　perhaps；　frozen　shut　with　age。　He　experienced　a　moment　of　indecision；　looked　around　again。　The　thought　of　clambering　back　down　the　wall　was　even　less　pleasant　than　climbing　up　had　been。　What　he　could　see　from　the　window　told　him　nothing。　He　had　to　find　a　way　in…just　for　the　briefest　look。　He　sure　as　hell　couldn't　stay　on　the　ledge　forever。　If　anyone　happened　by　and　saw　him　。　。　。
　And　then　he　spotted　the　cop　car　a　few　blocks　south　on　Riverside　Drive；　cruising　slowly　north。　It　would　not　be　good　at　all　if　they　caught　sight　of　him　up　here…and　he　had　no　way　to　get　down　in　time。
　Quickly；　he　pulled　off　his　jacket；　stuffed　it　into　a　ball；　and　placed　it　against　one　of　the　lowest　of　the　large　panes。　Using　his　shoulder；　he　pressed　until　it　gave　with　a　sharp　crack。　He　pried　out　the　pieces　of　glass；　laid　them　on　the　ledge；　and　crawled　through。
　Inside　the　room；　he　stood　up　and　peered　through　the　window。　All　was　calm；　his　entry　hadn't　been　noticed。　Then　he　turned　around；　listening　intently。　Silence。　He　sniffed　the　air。　It　smelled；　not　unpleasantly；　of　old　wallpaper　and　dust…it　was　not　the　stale　air　he'd　been　expecting。　He　took　a　few　deep　breaths。
　Think　of　the　story。　Think　of　the　Pulitzer。　Think　of　Nora。　He　would　do　a　quick　reconnaissance　and　then　get　out。
　He　waited；　allowing　his　eyes　to　adjust　to　the　dimness。　There　was　a　shelf　in　the　back；　and　a　single　book　lay　on　it。　Smithback　walked　over　and　picked　it　up。　It　was　an　old　nineteenth…century　treatise　titled　Mollusca；　with　a　gold　engraving　of　a　conch　on　the　cover。　Smithback　felt　a　slight　quickening　of　his　heart：　a　natural　history　book。　He　opened　it；　hoping　to　find　a　bookplate　reading　Ex　Libris　Enoch　Leng。　But　there　was　nothing。　He　flipped　the　pages；　looking　for　notes；　then　put　the　book　back。
　Nothing　else　for　it：　time　to　explore　the　house。
　He　carefully　removed　his　shoes；　placed　them　by　the　window；　and　proceeded　in　stockinged　feet。　With　careful　steps　he　made　his　way　to　the　closed　door。　The　floor　creaked；　and　he　stopped。　But　the　profound　silence　remained。　It　was　unlikely　that　anyone　would　be　in　the　house…it　looked　like　even　the　junkies　and　bums　had　been　successfully　kept　out…but　caution　would　be　wise　nonetheless。
　He　placed　his　hand　on　the　doorknob；　turned　it　ever　so　slowly；　eased　the　door　open　an　inch。　He　peered　through　the　crack。　Blackness。　He　pushed　it　wider；　allowing　the　dim　morning　light　from　the　window　behind　him　to　spill　into　the　hallway。　He　saw　that　it　was　very　long；　quite　grand；　with　flocked　wallpaper　in　a　heavy　green　design。　On　the　walls；　in　gilded　alcoves；　were　paintings　draped　with　white　sheets。　The　sheets　clung　to　the　heavy　frames。　At　the　far　end　of　the　hall；　a　broad　set　of　marble　stairs　swept　downward；　disappearing　into　a　pool　of　deeper　darkness。　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　stood　something…a　statue；　perhaps？…draped　in　yet　another　white　sheet。
　Smithback　held　his　breath。　It　really　did　look　as　if　the　house　had　been　shut　up　and　deserted　since　Leng's　death。　It　was　fantastic。　Could　all　this　stuff　be　Leng's？
　He　ventured　a　few　steps　down　the　hall。　As　he　did　so；　the　smell　of　mold　and　dust　became　suffused　with　something　less　pleasant：　something　organic；　sweet；　decayed。　It　was　as　if　the　rotten　old　heart　of　the　house　had　finally　died。
　Perhaps　his　suspicions　were　right；　and　Leng　had　entombed　the　bodies　of　his　victims　behind　the　heavy　Victorian　wallpaper。
　He　paused；　an　arm's　length　from　one　of　the　paintings。　Curious；　he　reached　out；　took　the　corner　of　the　white　sheet；　and　lifted。　The　rotting　sheet　fell　away　in　a　cloud　of　dust　and　tatters；　and　he　stepped　back；　momentarily　startled。　A　dark　painting　stood　revealed。　Smithback　peered　closer。　It　depicted　a　pack　of　wolves　ripping　apart　a　deer　in　a　deep　wood。　It　was　ghoulish　in　its　anatomical　detail；　but　beautifully　executed　nevertheless；　and　no　doubt　worth　a　fortune。　Curiosity　aroused；　Smithback　stepped　to　the　next　alcove　and　plucked　at　the　sheet；　which　also　turned　to　powder　at　his　touch。　This　painting　showed　a　whale　hunt…a　great　sperm　whale；　draped　with　harpoon　lines；　thrashing　about　in　its　death　throes；　a　huge　jet　of　bright　arterial　blood　rising　from　its　spouter；　while　its　flukes　dashed　a　boatful　of　harpooners　into　the　sea。
　Smithback　could　hardly　believe　his　luck。　He　had　struck　paydirt。　But　then；　it　wasn't　luck：　it　was　the　result　of　hard　work　and　careful　research。　Even　Pendergast　hadn't　yet　figured　out　where　Leng　lived。　This　would　redeem　his　job　at　the　Times；　maybe　even　redeem　his　relationship　with　Nora。　Because　he　was　sure　that…whatever　information　about　Leng　Nora　and　Pendergast　were　looking　for…it　was　here。
　Smithback　waited；　listening　intently；　but　there　were　no　sounds　from　below。　He　moved　down　the　carpeted　hallway　in　slow；　small；　noiseless　steps。　Reaching　the　covered　statue　at　the　top　of　the　banister；　he　reached　up　and　grasped　at　the　sheet。　As　rotten　as　the　others；　it　fell　apart；　dropping　to　the　ground　in　a　dissolving　heap。　A　cloud　of　dust；　dry　rot；　and　mold　billowed　up　into　the　air。
　At　first　Smithback　felt　a　frisson　of　fear　and　inprehension　at　the　sight；　until　his　mind　began　to　understand　just　what　he　was　looking　at。　It　was；　in　fact；　nothing　more　than　a　stuffed　chimpanzee；　hanging　from　a　tree　branch。　Moths　and　rats　had　chewed　away　most　of　the　face；　leaving　pits　and　holes　that　went　down　to　brown　bone。　The　lips　were　gone　as　well；　giving　the　chimpanzee　the　agonized　grin　of　a　mummy。　One　ear　hung　by　a　thread　of　dried　flesh；　and　even　as　Smithback　watched　it　fell　to　the　ground　with　a　soft　thud。　One　of　the　chimp's　hands　was　holding　a　wax　fruit；　the　other　was　clutching　its　stomach；　as　if　in　pain。　Only　the　beady　glass　eyes　looked　fresh；　and　they　stared　at　Smithback　with　maniacal　intensity。
　Smithback　felt　his　heart　quicken。　Leng　had；　after　all；　been　a　taxonomist；　collector；　and　member　of　the　Lyceum。　Did　he；　like　McFadden　and　the　rest；　also　have　a　collection；　a　so…called　cabinet　of　curiosities？　Was　this　decayed　chimp　part　of　his　collection？
　He　again　experienced　a　moment　of　indecision。　Should　he　leave　now？
　Taking　a　step　back　from　the　chimpanzee；　he　peered　down　the　staircase。　There　was　no　light　except　what　littl