preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities- 第61节

　　
　Smithback　turned　onto　Columbus　Avenue；　thinking。　Suddenly；　he　stopped。　While　Pendergast's　theory　was　ridiculous；　it　had　given　him　an　idea。　With　all　the　excitement　about　the　copycat　killings　and　the　Doyers　Street　find；　no　one　had　really　followed　up　on　Leng　himself。　Who　was　he？　Where　did　he　e　from？　Where　did　he　get　his　medical　degree？　What　was　his　connection　to　the　Museum？　Where　had　he　lived？
　Now　this　was　good。
　A　story　on　Dr。　Enoch　Leng；　mass　murderer。　Yes；　yes；　this　was　it。　This　might　just　be　the　thing　to　save　his　ass　at　the　Times。
　e　to　think　of　it；　this　was　better　than　good。　This　guy　antedated　Jack　the　Ripper。　Enoch　Leng：　A　Portrait　of　America's　First　Serial　Killer。　This　could　be　a　cover　story　for　the　Times　Sunday　Magazine。　He'd　kill　two　birds　with　one　stone：　do　the　research　he'd　promised　O'Shaughnessy；　while　getting　background　on　Leng。　And　he　wouldn't　be　betraying　any　confidences；　of　course…because　once　he'd　determined　when　the　man　died；　that　would　be　the　end　of　Pendergast's　crazy　theory。
　He　felt　a　sudden　shiver　of　fear。　What　if　Harriman　was　already　pursuing　the　story　of　Leng？　He'd　better　get　to　work　right　away。　At　least　he　had　one　big　advantage　over　Harriman：　he　was　a　hell　of　a　researcher。　He'd　start　with　the　newspaper　morgue…look　for　little　notes；　mentions　of　Leng　or　Shottum　or　McFadden。　And　he'd　look　for　more　killings　with　the　Leng　modus　operandi：　the　signature　dissection　of　the　spinal　cord。　Surely　Leng　had　killed　more　people　than　had　been　found　at　Catherine　and　Doyers　Streets。　Perhaps　some　of　those　other　killings　had　e　to　light　and　made　the　papers。
　And　then　there　were　the　Museum's　archives。　From　his　earlier　book　projects；　he'd　e　to　know　them　backward　and　forward。　Leng　had　been　associated　with　the　Museum。　There　would　be　a　gold　mine　of　information　in　there；　if　only　one　knew　where　to　find　it。
　And　there　would　be　a　side　benefit：　he　might　just　be　able　to　pass　along　to　Nora　the　information　she　wanted　about　where　Leng　lived。　A　little　gesture　like　that　might　get　their　relationship　back　on　track。　And　who　knows？　It　might　get　Pendergast's　investigation　back　on　track；　as　well。
　His　meeting　with　O'Shaughnessy　hadn't　been　a　total　loss；　after　all。
　
　TWO
　　
　EAST　TWELFTH　STREET　was　a　typical　East　Village　street；　O'Shaughnessy　thought　as　he　turned　the　corner　from　Third　Avenue：　a　mixture　of　punks；　would…be　poets；　'60s　relics；　and　old…timers　who　just　didn't　have　the　energy　or　money　to　move。　The　street　had　improved　a　bit　in　recent　years；　but　there　was　still　a　superfluity　of　beaten…down　tenements　among　the　head　shops；　wheat…grass　bars；　and　used…record　vendors。　He　slowed　his　pace；　watching　the　people　passing　by：　slumming　tourists　trying　to　look　cool；　aging　punk　rockers　with　very　dated　spiked　purple　hair；　artists　in　paint…splattered　jeans　lugging　canvases；　drugged…out　skinheads　in　leather　with　dangling　chrome　doohickeys。　They　seemed　to　give　him　a　wide　berth：　nothing　stood　out　on　a　New　York　City　street　quite　like　a　plainclothes　police　officer；　even　one　on　administrative　leave　and　under　investigation。
　Up　ahead　now；　he　could　make　out　the　shop。　It　was　a　little　hole…in…the…wall　of　black…painted　brick；　shoehorned　between　brownstones　that　seemed　to　sag　under　the　weight　of　innumerable　layers　of　graffiti。　The　windows　of　the　shop　were　thick　with　dust；　and　stacked　high　with　ancient　boxes　and　displays；　so　faded　with　age　and　sun　that　their　labels　were　indecipherable。　Small　greasy　letters　above　the　windows　spelled　out　New　Amsterdam　Chemists。
　O'Shaughnessy　paused；　examining　the　shopfront。　It　seemed　hard　to　believe　that　an　old　relic　like　this　could　survive；　what　with　a　Duane　Reade　on　the　very　next　corner。　Nobody　seemed　to　be　going　in　or　out。　The　place　looked　dead。
　He　stepped　forward　again；　approaching　the　door。　There　was　a　buzzer；　and　a　small　sign　that　read　Cash　Only。　He　pressed　the　buzzer；　hearing　it　rasp　far；　far　within。　For　what　seemed　a　long　time；　there　was　no　other　noise。　Then　he　heard　the　approach　of　shuffling　footsteps。　A　lock　turned；　the　door　opened；　and　a　man　stood　before　him。　At　least；　O'Shaughnessy　thought　it　was　a　man：　the　head　was　as　bald　as　a　billiard　ball；　and　the　clothes　were　masculine；　but　the　face　had　a　kind　of　strange　neutrality　that　made　sex　hard　to　determine。
　Without　a　word；　the　person　turned　and　shuffled　away　again。　O'Shaughnessy　followed；　glancing　around　curiously。　He'd　expected　to　find　an　old　pharmacy；　with　perhaps　an　ancient　soda　fountain　and　wooden　shelves　stocked　with　aspirin　and　liniment。　Instead；　the　shop　was　an　incredible　rat's　nest　of　stacked　boxes；　spiderwebs；　and　dust。　Stifling　a　cough；　O'Shaughnessy　traced　a　plex　path　toward　the　back　of　the　store。　Here　he　found　a　marble　counter；　scarcely　less　dusty　than　the　rest　of　the　shop。　The　person　who'd　let　him　in　had　taken　up　a　position　behind　it。　Small　wooden　boxes　were　stacked　shoulder　high　on　the　wall　behind　the　shopkeeper。　O'Shaughnessy　squinted　at　the　paper　labels　slid　into　copper　placards　on　each　box：　amaranth；　nux　vomica；　nettle；　vervain；　hellebore；　nightshade；　narcissus；　shepherd's　purse；　pearl　trefoil。　On　an　adjoining　wall　were　hundreds　of　glass　beakers；　and　beneath　were　several　rows　of　boxes；　chemical　symbols　scrawled　on　their　faces　in　red　marker。　A　book　titled　Wortcunning　lay　on　the　counter。
　The　man…it　seemed　easiest　to　think　of　him　as　a　man…stared　back　at　O'Shaughnessy；　pasty　face　expectant。
　〃O'Shaughnessy；　FBI　consultant；〃　O'Shaughnessy　said；　displaying　the　identity　card　Pendergast　had　secured　for　him。　〃I'd　like　to　ask　you　a　few　questions；　if　I　might。〃
　The　man　scrutinized　the　card；　and　for　a　minute　O'Shaughnessy　thought　he　was　going　to　challenge　it。　But　the　shopkeeper　merely　shrugged。
　〃What　kind　of　people　visit　your　shop？〃
　〃It's　mostly　those　wiccans。〃　The　man　screwed　up　his　face。
　〃Wiccans？〃
　〃Yeah。　Wiccans。　That's　what　they　call　themselves　these　days。〃
　Abruptly；　O'Shaughnessy　understood。　〃You　mean　witches。〃
　The　man　nodded。
　〃Anybody　else？　Any；　say；　doctors？〃
　〃No；　nobody　like　that。　We　get　chemists　here；　too。　Sometimes　hobbyists。　Health　supplement　types。〃
　〃Anybody　who　dresses　in　an　old…fashioned；　or　unusual　fashion？〃
　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。