He glanced around once more, eyes sweeping the stone plaza and the sidewalk beyond. Then he adjusted the package beneath his arm, and made his way slowly up the broad stairs.
To one side of the massive entrance, a smaller door had been set into the granite face of the library. Pendergast approached it, rapped his knuckles lightly on the bronze. Almost immediately it swung inward, revealing a library guard. He was very tall, with closely cropped blond hair, heavily muscled. A copy of Orlando Furioso was in one meaty hand.
“Good evening, Agent Pendergast,” the guard said. “How are you this evening?”
“Quite well, Francis, thank you,” Pendergast replied. He nodded toward the book. “How are you enjoying Ariosto?”
“Very much. Thanks for the suggestion.”
“I believe I recommended 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 decomposing 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 decomposition, 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 come 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 Company 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’s 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 packrat, 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 precies. I had a man at the Society look for them, without success. He was most put out by their absence.”
“So you’ve come 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.
“May I suggest you find the bequest first, and contemplate the manuscript later? Remember what happened two years ago.”
Wren’s face took on a look of shock. “Agent Pendergast, you know I always put your interests first.”
Pendergast looked into the crafty old face, now full of hurt and indignation. “Of course you do.”
And then he abruptly vanished into the shadowy stacks.
Wren blinked his yellow eyes, then turned his attention back to the illuminated manuscript. He knew exactly where the bequest was—it would be a work of fifteen minutes to locate. That left forty-seven and three-quarter hours to examine the manuscript. Silence quickly returned. It was almost as if Pendergast’s presence had been merely a dream.
SEVEN
THE MAN WALKED up Riverside drive, his steps short and precise, the metal ferrule of his cane making a rhythmic click on the asphalt. The sun was rising over the Hudson River, turning the water an oily pink, and the trees in Riverside Park stood silently, motionless, in the chill autumn air. He inhaled deeply, his olfactory sense working through the trackless forest of city smells: the tar and diesel coming off the water, dampness from the park, the sour reek of the streets.
He turned the corner, then paused. In the rising light, the short street was deserted. One block over, he could hear the sounds of traffic on Broadway, see the faint light from the shops. But here it was very quiet. Most of the buildings on the street were abandoned. His own building, in fact, stood beside a site where, many years before, a small riding ring for Manhattan’s wealthiest young ladies had been. The ring was long gone, of course, but in its place stood a small, unnamed service drive off the main trunk of Riverside, which served to insulate his building from traffic. The island formed by the service drive sported grass and trees, and a statue of Joan of Arc. It was one of the quieter, more forgotten places on the island of Manhattan—forgotten by all, perhaps, save him. It had the additional advantage of being roamed by nocturnal gangs and having a reputation for being dangerous. It was all very convenient.
He slipped down a carriageway, through a side door and into a close, musty space. By feel—it was dark, with the windows securely boarded over—he made his way down a dim corridor, then another, to a closet door. He opened it. The closet was empty. He stepped inside, turned a knob in the rear wall. It opened noiselessly, revealing stone steps leading down.
At the bottom of the steps, the man stopped, feeling along the wall until his fingers found the ancient light switch. He twisted it, and a series of bare bulbs came on, illuminating an old stone passageway, dank and dripping with moisture. He hung his black coat on a brass hook, placed his bowler hat on an adjoining hat rack, and dropped his cane into an umbrella stand. Then he moved down the passageway, feet ringing against the stonework, until he reached a heavy iron door, a rectangular slot set high into its face.
The slot was closed.
The man paused a moment outside the room. Then he reached into his pocket for a key, unlocked the iron door, and pushed it open.
Light flooded into the cell, revealing a bloodstained floor and wall, chains and cuffs lying in disorganized bands of metal.
The room was empty. Of course. He swept it with his eyes, smiled. Everything was ready for the next occupant.
He closed the door and locked it again, then proceeded down the hall to a large subterranean room. Switching on the bright electric lights, he approached a stainless steel gurney. Atop the gurney lay an old-fashioned Gladstone bag and two journals, bound in cheap red plastic. The man picked up the top journal, turning its pages with great interest. It was all so wonderfully ironic. By rights, these journals should have perished in flames long ago. In the wrong hands, they could have done a great deal of damage. Would have done a great deal of damage, had he not come along at the right time. But now, they were back where they belonged.
He replaced the journal and, more slowly, opened the medical valise.
Inside, a cylindrical container of hard gray hospital plastic lay on a smoking bed of dry ice chips. The man pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed the container from the briefcase, placed it on the gurney, and unlatched it. He reached in, and, with infinite caution, withdrew a long, gray, ropy mass. Had it not been for the blood and matter that still adhered to the tissue, it would have resembled the kind of heavy cable that supports a bridge, the red-streaked outer lining filled with thousands of tiny, fibrous strings. A small smile curled the man’s lips, and his pale eyes glittered as he stared. He held the mass up to the light, which shone through it with a glow. Then he brought it to a nearby sink, where he carefully irrigated it with a bottle of distilled water, washing off the bone chips and other offal. Next, he placed the cleaned organ in a large machine, closed its top, and turned it on. A high whine filled the stone room as the tissue was blended into a paste.
At timed intervals, the man consulted the pages of a notebook, then added some chemicals through a rubber bladder in the machine’s lid with deft, precise movements. The paste lightened; clarified. And then, his movements ever so careful, the man detached the ultrablender and poured the paste into a long stainless tube, placed it in a nearby centrifuge, closed the cover, and turned a switch. There was a humming noise that grew rapidly in pitch, then stabilized.
Centrifuging out the serum would take 20.5 minutes. It was only the first stage in a long process. One had to be absolutely precise. The slightest error at any step only magnified itself until the final product was useless. But now that he’d decided to do all further harvesting here in the laboratory, rather than in the field, no doubt things would proceed with even greater consistency.
He turned to the sink, in which sat a large, carefully rolled towel. Taking it by one edge, he raised it, letting it unroll. Half a dozen bloodstained scalpels slid into the basin. He began to clean them, slowly, lovingly. They were the old-fashioned kind: heavy, nicely balanced. Of course, they weren’t as handy as the modern Japanese models with the snap-in blades, but they felt good in the h
and. And they kept an edge. Even in this age of ultrablenders and DNA sequencing machines, old tools still had their place.
Placing the scalpels in an autoclave to dry and sterilize, the man removed the gloves, washed his hands very carefully, then dried them on a linen towel. He glanced over, checking the progress of the centrifuge. And then he moved to a small cabinet, opened it, and withdrew a piece of paper. He placed it on the gurney, beside the briefcase. On the paper, in an elegant copperplate script, were five names:
Pendergast
Kelly
Smithback
O’Shaughnessy
Puck
The last name had already been crossed out. Now, the man plucked a fountain pen of inlaid lacquer from his pocket. And then—neatly, formally, with long slender fingers—he drew a beautifully precise line through the fourth name, ending with a little curlicue flourish.
EIGHT
AT HIS FAVORITE neighborhood coffee shop, Smithback lingered over his breakfast, knowing the Museum did not open its doors until ten. Once more, he glanced over the photocopies of articles he’d culled from back issues of the Times. The more he read them, the more he was sure the old murders were the work of Leng. Even the geography seemed consistent: most of the murders had taken place on the Lower East Side and along the waterfront, about as far away from Riverside Drive as you could get.
At nine-thirty he called for the bill and set off down Broadway for a bracing fall walk to the Museum. He began to whistle. While he still had the relationship with Nora to repair, he was an eternal optimist. If he could bring her the information she wanted on a silver platter, that would be a start. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever. They had so much in common, shared both good and bad times together. If only she didn’t have such a temper!
He had other reasons to be happy. Although every now and then his instincts failed him—the thing with Fairhaven was a good example—most of the time his journalist’s nose was infallible. And his article on Leng had gotten off to a good start. Now all he needed was to dig up a few personal nuggets to bring the madman to life—maybe even a photograph. And he had an idea of where to get all of it.
The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 30