d his true calling。 Homicide was where he should have been all along。 It was obvious he was a natural； he had a knack for the work。 His being put in charge of this case had not been a fluke。 It had been destiny。
FIVE
SMITHBACK STOOD IN the dark hall； struggling to control his fright。 It was fright that was his problem here； not locked doors。 Clearly； at least one of them must be unlocked： he had just e through it。
As deliberately as he could； he went down the hall once again； trying all the doors； shaking harder this time； even at the cost of making some noise； pushing at the jambs； making sure they weren't simply stuck。 But no； it wasn't his imagination。 They were all securely locked。
Had somebody locked the door behind him？ But that was impossible： the room had been empty。 A gust of wind had closed it。 He shook his head； searching unsuccessfully for amusement in his own paranoia。
The doors； he decided； must lock automatically when shut。 Maybe that was a feature of old houses like this。 No problem： he would find another way out of the house。 Downstairs； through the reception hall and out a first floor window or door。 Perhaps out the porte…cochère door； which had every appearance of being functional…in fact it was probably the very door used by the custodian。 Relief coursed through him at this thought。 It would be easier； it would save him the trouble of having to climb back down that outside wall。
All he had to do was find his way to it through the dark house。
He stood in the hall； waiting for his heartbeat to slow。 The place was so quiet； so unusually quiet； that he found his ears alert for the faintest sound。 The silence； he told himself； was a good sign。 No custodian was around。 He probably came only once a week； at most； or maybe only once a year； given all the dust in the place。 Smithback had all the time in the world。
Feeling a little sheepish； he made his way back to the head of the stairs and peered down。 The carriage door； it seemed to him； should be to the left； somewhere off the reception hall。 He descended the stairs and paused warily at the bottom； peering again at the strange； endless displays。 Still； no sound。 The place was clearly deserted。
He remembered Pendergast's theory。 What if Leng really had succeeded 。 。 。 ？
Smithback forced himself to laugh out loud。 What the hell was he thinking about？ Nobody could live 150 years。 The darkness； the silence； the mysterious collections were getting to him。
He paused； taking stock。 A passage ran off from the hall to the left； in what he thought was the right direction。 It lay in plete darkness； yet it seemed the most promising。 He should have thought to bring a damn flashlight。 No matter： he would try that first。
Stepping carefully； avoiding the display cases and sheeted objects； he walked across the hall and into the side passage。 His pupils refused to dilate further and the corridor remained pitch black； the darkness an almost palpable presence around him。 He fumbled in his pocket； found the box of matches he'd picked up at the Blarney Stone。 He lit one； the scraping and flaring of the match unpleasantly loud in the still air。
The flickering light revealed a passage leading into another large room； also crammed with wooden cabinets。 He took a few steps forward until the matchlight died away。 Then he went on as far as he dared into the blackness； felt around with his hand； found the doorframe of the room； drew himself forward again。 Once he was inside； he lit another match。
Here was a different kind of collection： rows and rows of specimens in jars of formaldehyde。 He caught a quick glimpse of rows of gigantic； staring eyeballs in jars…whale eyeballs？ Trying not to waste the light； he hurried forward； stumbling over a large glass jeroboam on a marble pedestal； filled with what looked like a huge floating bag。 As he got back on his feet and lit another match； he caught a glimpse of the label： Mammoth stomach； containing its last meal； from the icefields of Siberia 。 。 。
He went quickly on； passing as fast as he could between the rows of cabinets； until he arrived at a single wooden door； battered and scarred。 There was a sudden sharp pain as the match burned his fingers。 Cursing； he dropped it； then lit another。 In the renewed flare of light； he opened the door。 It led into a huge kitchen； tiled in white and black。 There was a deep stone fireplace set into one wall。 The rest of the room was dominated by a huge iron stove； a row of ovens； and several long tables set with soapstone sinks。 Dozens of pots of greenish copper were suspended from ceiling hooks。 Everything looked decayed； covered with a thick layer of dust； cobwebs； and mouse droppings。 It was a dead end。
The house was huge。 The matches wouldn't last forever。 What would he do when they ran out？
Get a grip； Smithback； he told himself。 Clearly； no one had cooked in this kitchen in a hundred years。 Nobody lived in the house。 What was he worrying about？
Relying on memory； without lighting any more matches； he backtracked into the large room； feeling his way along the glass…fronted cases。 At one point he felt his shoulder brush against something。 A second later； there was a tremendous crash at his feet； and the sudden biting stench of formaldehyde。 He waited； nerves taut； for the echoes to abate。 He prepared to light a match； thought better of it…was formaldehyde flammable？ Better not experiment now。 He took a step； and his stockinged foot grazed something large； wet； and yielding。 The specimen in the jar。 He gingerly stepped around it。
There had been other doors set into the passageway beyond。 He would try them one at a time。 But first； he paused to remove his socks； which were sodden with formaldehyde。 Then； stepping into the passageway； he ventured another match。 He could see four doors； two on the left wall； two on the right。
He opened the closest； found an ancient； zinc…lined bathroom。 Sitting in the middle of the tiled floor was the grinning skull of an allosaurus。 The second door fronted a large closet full of stuffed birds； the third； yet another closet； this one full of stuffed lizards。 The fourth opened into a scullery； its walls pocked and scarred； ravaged by traceries of mildew。
The match went out and Smithback stood in the enfolding darkness。 He could hear the sound of his own stertorous breathing。 He felt in the matchbook； counted with his fingers： six left。 He fought back…less successfully this time…the scrabbling panic that threatened to overwhelm him。 He'd been in tough situations before； tougher than this。 It's an empty house。 Just find your way out。
He made his way back to the reception hall and its shrouded collections。 Being able to see again； no matter how faintly； calmed him a little…there was something utterly terrifying about absolute darkness。 He looked around again at the astounding collections； but all he could feel now was a rising dread。 The foul smell was stronger here： the sickly…sweet odor of decay； of something that by all rights belonged under several feet of earth 。 。 。
Smithback took a series of deep； calming breaths。 The thick layers of undisturbed dust on the floor proved the place was deserted； that even the caretaker； if there was one； hardly ever came。
He glanced around again； eyes wide against the faint light。 On the far side of the hall； a shadowy archway led into what looked like a large room。 He walked across the hall； bare feet padding on the parquet floor； and passed beneath the archway。 The walls of the room beyond were paneled in dark wood； rising to a coffered ceiling。 This room； too； was filled with displays： some shrouded； others raised on plinths or armatures。 But the displays themselves were utterly different from what he had seen before。 He stepped forward； looking around； bafflement mixing with the sharp sense of trepidation。 There were large steamer trunks； some with glass sides； bound in heavy leather straps； galvanized containers like antique milk cans； their lids studded with heavy bolts； an oddly shaped； oversized wooden box； with copper…lined circles cut out of its top and sides； a coffin…shaped crate； pierced by half a dozen swords。 On the walls hung ropes； strings of moldering ke