rass holder。
Jesus； this is unbelievable； O'Shaughnessy thought。 But he accepted the candle with murmured thanks and held it inside the safe。
Considering its large size； the safe was rather empty。 O'Shaughnessy moved the candle around； making a mental inventory of its contents。 Stacks of old newspapers in one corner； various yellowed papers； tied into small bundles； several rows of ancient…looking ledger books； two more modern…looking volumes； bound in garish red plastic； half a dozen shoe boxes with dates scrawled on their faces。
Setting the candle on the floor of the safe； O'Shaughnessy grabbed eagerly at the old ledgers。 The first one he opened was simply a shop inventory； for the year 1925： page after page of items； written in a spidery hand。 The other volumes were similar： semiannual inventories； ending in 1942。
〃When did your father take over the shop？〃 O'Shaughnessy asked。
The man thought for a moment。 〃During the war。 '41 maybe； or '42。〃
Makes sense； O'Shaughnessy thought。 Replacing the ledgers； he flipped through the stack of newspapers。 He found nothing but a fresh cloud of dust。
Moving the candle to one side； and fighting back a rising sense of disappointment； he reached for the bundles of papers。 These were all bills and invoices from wholesalers； covering the same period： 1925 to 1942。 No doubt they would match the inventory ledgers。
The red plastic volumes were clearly far too recent to be of any interest。 That left just the shoe boxes。 One more chance。 O'Shaughnessy plucked a shoe box from the top of the pile； blew the dust from its lid； opened it。
Inside were old tax returns。
Damn it； O'Shaughnessy thought as he replaced the box。 He chose another at random； opened the lid。 More returns。
O'Shaughnessy sat back on his haunches； candle in one hand and shoe box in the other。 No wonder the antiques dealer left empty…handed； he thought。 Oh； well。 It was worth a try。
With a sigh； he leaned forward to replace the box。 As he did so； he glanced once again at the red plastic folders。 It was strange： the man said his father only used the safe for storing things of the grandfather。 But plastic was a recent invention； right？ Surely later than 1942。 Curious； he plucked up one of the volumes and flipped it open。
Within； he saw a dark…ruled page； full of old； handwritten entries。 The page was sooty； partially burned； its edges crumbling away into ash。
He glanced around。 The proprietor of the shop had moved away； and was rummaging inside a cardboard box。
Eagerly O'Shaughnessy snatched both the plastic volume and its mate from the safe。 Then he blew out the candle and stood up。
〃Nothing much of interest； I'm afraid。〃 He held up the volumes with feigned nonchalance。 〃But as a formality； I'd like to take these down to our office； just for a day or two。 With your permission； of course。 It'll save you and me lots of paperwork； court orders； all that kind of thing。〃
〃Court orders？〃 the man said； a worried expression ing over his face。 〃Sure； sure。 Keep them as long as you want。〃
Outside on the street； O'Shaughnessy paused to brush dust from his shoulders。 Rain was threatening； and lights were ing on in the shotgun flats and coffeehouses that lined the street。 A peal of distant thunder sounded over the hum of traffic。 O'Shaughnessy turned up the collar of his jacket and tucked the volumes carefully under one arm as he hurried off toward Third Avenue。
From the opposite sidewalk； in the shadow of a brownstone staircase； a man watched O'Shaughnessy depart。 Now he came forward； derby hat low over a long black coat； cane tapping lightly on the sidewalk； and…after looking carefully left and right…slowly crossed the street； in the direction of New Amsterdam Chemists。
THREE
BILL SMITHBACK LOVED the New York Times newspaper morgue： a tall； cool room with rows of metal shelves groaning under the weight of leather…bound volumes。 On this particular morning； the room was pletely empty。 It was rarely used anymore by other reporters； who preferred to use the digitized； online editions； which went back only twenty…five years。 Or； if necessary； the microfilm machines； which were a pain but relatively fast。 Still； Smithback found there was nothing more interesting； or so curiously useful； as paging through the old numbers themselves。 You often found little strings of information in successive issues…or on adjoining pages…that you would have missed by cranking through reels of microfilm at top speed。
When he proposed to his editor the idea of a story on Leng； the man had grunted nonmittally…a sure sign he liked it。 As he was leaving； he heard the bug…eyed monster mutter： 〃Just make damn sure it's better than that Fairhaven piece； okay？ Something with marrow。〃
Well； it would be better than Fairhaven。 It had to be。
It was afternoon by the time he settled into the morgue。 The librarian brought him the first of the volumes he'd requested； and he opened it with reverence； inhaling the smell of decaying wood pulp； old ink； mold； and dust。 The volume was dated January 1881； and he quickly found the article he was looking for： the burning of Shottum's cabinet。 It was a front…page story； with a handsome engraving of the flames。 The article mentioned that the eminent Professor John C。 Shottum was missing and feared dead。 Also missing； the article stated； was a man named Enoch Leng； who was vaguely billed as a boarder at the cabinet and Shottum's 〃assistant。〃 Clearly； the writer knew nothing about Leng。
Smithback paged forward until he found a follow…up story on the fire； reporting that remains believed to be Shottum had been found。 No mention was made of Leng。
Now working backward； Smithback paged through the city sections； looking for articles on the Museum； the Lyceum； or any mention of Leng； Shottum； or McFadden。 It was slow going； and Smithback often found himself sidetracked by various fascinating； but unrelated； articles。
After a few hours； he began to get a little nervous。 There were plenty of articles on the Museum； a few on the Lyceum； and even occasional mentions of Shottum and his colleague； Tinbury McFadden。 But he could find nothing at all on Leng； except in the reports of the meetings of the Lyceum； where a 〃Prof。 Enoch Leng〃 was occasionally listed among the attendees。 Leng clearly kept a low profile。
This is going nowhere； fast； he thought。
He launched into a second line of attack； which promised to be much more difficult。
Starting in 1917； the date that Enoch Leng abandoned his Doyers Street laboratory； Smithback began paging forward； looking for any murders that fit the profile。 There were 365 editions of the Times every year。 In those days； murders were a rare enough occurrence to usually land on the front page； so Smithback confined himself to perusing the front pages…and the obituaries； looking for the announcement of Leng's death which would interest O'Shaughnessy as well as himself。
There were many murders to read about； and a number of highly interesting obituaries； and Smithback found himself fascinated…too fascinated。 It was slow going。
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 ple