The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(100)

Once again, he strode down the hall to the copper doors of Old Records. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath. Raising one hand, he knocked imperiously.

The door was opened by the remaining security officer. He looked young, barely old enough to be out of high school. He was already spooked. “Yes, how can I help you?”

Smithback grasped the man’s surprised, limp hand while stepping inside at the same time.

“O’Neal? I’m Maurice Fannin from Human Resources. They sent me down here to straighten things out.”

“Straighten things out?”

Smithback slid his way inside, looking at the rows of old metal filing cabinets, the scarred table covered with foam coffee cups and cigarette butts, the piss-yellow walls.

“This is a disgrace,” he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Smithback drilled his eyes into O’Neal. “We’ve been doing a little looking into your area here, and let me tell you, O’Neal, we are not pleased. Not pleased at all.”

O’Neal was immediately and utterly cowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe you should talk to my supervisor, Mr. Bulger—”

“Oh, we are. We’re having a long discussion with him.”Smithback looked around again. “When was the last time you had a file check, for example?”

“A what?”

“A file check. When was the last time, O’Neal?”

“Er, I don’t know what that is. My supervisor didn’t tell me anything about a file check—”

“Strange, he thought you knew all about the procedure. Now, that’s what I mean here, O’Neal: sloppy. Very sloppy. Well, from now on, we will be requiring a monthly file check.” Smithback narrowed his eyes, strode over to a filing cabinet, pulled on a drawer. It was, as he expected, locked.

“It’s locked,” said the guard.

“I can see that. Any idiot can see that.” He rattled the handle. “Where’s the key?”

“Over there.” The poor guard nodded toward a wall box. It, too, was locked.

It occurred to Smithback that the climate of fear and intimidation the new Museum administration had fostered was proving most helpful. The man was so terrified, the last thing he would think of doing was challenging Smithback or asking for his ID.

“And the key to that?”

“On my chain.”

Smithback looked around again, his quick eyes taking in every detail under the pretense of looking for further violations. The filing cabinets had labels on them, each with a date. The dates seemed to run back to 1865, the founding year of the Museum.

Smithback knew that any outside researchers who were issued a pass to the collections would have to have been approved by a committee of curators. Their deliberations, and the files the applicant had to furnish, should still be in here. Leng almost certainly had such a collections pass. If his file were still here, it would contain a wealth of personal information: full name, address, education, degrees, research specialization, list of publications—perhaps even copies of some of those publications. It might even contain a photograph.

He rapped with a knuckle on the cabinet marked 1880. “Like this file. When was the last time you file-checked this drawer?”

“Ah, as far as I know, never.”

“Never?” Smithback sounded incredulous.“Well, what are you waiting for?”

The guard hustled over, unlocked the wall cabinet, fumbled for the right key, and unlocked the drawer.

“Now let me show you how to do a file check.” Smithback opened the drawer and plunged his hands into the files, rifling them, stirring up a cloud of dust, thinking fast. A yellowed index card was poking from the first file, and he whipped it out. It listed every file in the drawer by name, alphabetized, dated, cross-referenced. This was beautiful. Thank God for the early Museum bureaucrats.

“See, you start with this index card.” He waved it in the guard’s face.

The guard nodded.

“It lists every file in the cabinet. Then you check to see if all the files are there. Simple. That’s a file check.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smithback quickly scanned the list of names on the card. No Leng. He shoved the card back and slammed the drawer.

“Now we’ll check 1879. Open the drawer, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smithback drew out the 1879 index card. Again, no Leng was listed. “You’ll need to institute much more careful procedures down here, O’Neal. These are extremely valuable historical files. Open the next one. ’78.”

“Yes, sir.”

Damn. Still no Leng.

“Let’s take a quick look at some of the others.” Smithback had him open up more cabinets and check the yellow index cards on each, all the while giving O’Neal a steady stream of advice about the importance of file-checking. The years crept inexorably backward, and Smithback began to despair.

And then, in 1870, he found the name. Leng.

His heart quickened. Forgetting all about the guard, Smithback flipped quickly through the files themselves, pausing at the Ls. Here he slowed, carefully looked at each one, then looked again. He went through the Ls three times. But the corresponding Leng file was missing.

Smithback felt crushed. It had been such a good idea.

He straightened up, looked at the guard’s frightened, eager face. The whole idea was a failure. What a waste of energy and brilliance, frightening this poor guy for nothing. It meant starting over again, from scratch. But first, he’d better get his ass out of there before Bulger returned, disgruntled, spoiling for an argument.