The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(34)

“Did you get a photocopy?”

The dark look on Nora’s face lifted slightly. “Pendergast asked me to make one after we first read the letter. I didn’t understand his hurry then. I do now.”

“Do you have it?”

She nodded toward her briefcase.

Smithback thought for a moment. Nora was right: the conservation orders, of course, were no coincidence. What was the Museum covering up? Who was this man Enoch Leng? Was he connected to the early Museum in some way? Or was it just the usual Museum paranoia, afraid to let out any information that wasn’t buffed and polished by their PR people? Then of course there was Fairhaven, the developer, who also happened to be a big contributor to the Museum… This whole story was getting good. Very good.

“Can I see the letter?”

“I was going to give it to you for safekeeping—I don’t dare bring it back into the Museum. But I want it back tonight.”

Smithback nodded. She handed him a thick envelope, which he shoved into his briefcase.

There was a sudden buzz of the intercom.

“There’s my next appointment,” said the broker. “Should I tell them you’re taking it, or what?”

“We’re not,” said Nora decisively.

She shrugged, went to the intercom, and buzzed them in.

“Nora,” Smithback implored. He turned to the real estate agent. “We are taking it.”

“I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m just not ready.”

“But last week you said—”

“I know what I said. But I can’t think about apartments at a time like this. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.”

The doorbell rang and the broker moved to open the door. Two men came in—one bald and short, one tall and bearded—gave the living room a quick look, swept through the kitchen and into the bedrooms.

“Nora, please,”Smithback said. “Look, I know this move to New York, the job at the Museum, hasn’t been as smooth as you hoped. I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean you should—”

There was a lengthy interval while the shower was being turned on, then off. And then the couple were back in the living room. The inspection had taken less than two minutes.

“It’s perfect,” said the bald one. “Eighteen percent broker’s fee, right?”

“Right.”

“Great.” A checkbook appeared. “Who do I make it out to?”

“Cash. We’ll take it to your bank.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Smithback said, “we were here first.”

“I’m so sorry,” said one of the men politely, turning in surprise.

“Don’t mind them,”said the broker harshly. “Those people are on their way out.”

“Come on, Bill.” Nora began urging him to the door.

“We were here first! I’ll take it myself, if I have to!”

There was a snap as the man detached the check. The broker reached for it. “I’ve got the lease right here,” she said, patting her bag. “We can sign it at the bank.”

Nora dragged Smithback out the door and slammed it shut. The ride downstairs was silent and tense.

A moment later, they were standing on the street. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Nora said, looking away. “We can talk about this tonight.”

“We certainly will.”

Smithback watched her stride down Ninety-ninth Street in the slanting light, the trenchcoat curling away from her perfect little behind, her long copper hair swinging back and forth. He felt stricken. After all they had been through, she still didn’t want to live with him. What had he done wrong? Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him for pressuring her to move east from Santa Fe. It wasn’t his fault the job at the Lloyd Museum had fallen through and her boss here in Manhattan was a prize *. How could he change her mind? How could he prove to her that he really loved her?

An idea began to form in his mind. Nora didn’t really appreciate the power of the press, particularly the New York Times. She didn’t realize just how cowed, how docile and cooperative, the Museum could be when faced with bad publicity. Yes, he thought, this would work. She would get the collections back, and get her carbon-14 dating funded, and more. She would thank him in the end. If he worked fast, he could even make the early edition.

Smithback heard a hearty yell. “Hey, friend!”

He turned. There were the two bums, fiery-faced now, holding on to each other, staggering up the sidewalk. One of them lifted a paper bag. “Have a drink on us!”

Smithback took out another twenty and held it up in front of the bigger and dirtier of the two. “Tell you what. In a few minutes, you’ll see a thin lady dressed in black come out of this building with two guys. Her name’s Millie. Give her a really big hug and kiss for me, will you? The sloppier the better.”

“You bet!” The man snatched the bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

Smithback went down the street toward Broadway, feeling marginally better.





EIGHT




ANTHONY FAIRHAVEN SETTLED HIS LEAN, MUSCULAR FRAME INTO THE chair, spread a heavy linen napkin across his lap, and examined the breakfast that lay before him. It was minuscule, yet arrayed with excessive care on the crisp white damask: a china glass of tea, two water biscuits, royal jelly. He drained the tea in a single toss, nibbled absently at the cracker, then wiped his lips and signaled the maid for his papers with a curt motion.