The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(42)

“Distress? They’re going to crucify me. And there it all was, in today’s paper. I could kill you! All of you!”

Her voice had risen, and now people were looking at her instead of at the man at the podium, still droning on about classifying his great apes.

Then Pendergast said, “Smile. Our friend Brisbane is watching.”

Nora glanced over her shoulder. O’Shaughnessy followed the glance toward the podium and saw a well-groomed man—tall, glossy, with slicked-back dark hair—staring at them. He did not look happy.

Nora shook her head and lowered her voice. “Jesus, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. I can’t believe the position you’ve put me in.”

“However, Dr. Kelly, you and I do need to talk,” Pendergast said softly. “Meet me tomorrow evening at Ten Ren’s Tea and Ginseng Company, 75 Mott Street, at seven o’clock. If you please.”

Nora glared at him angrily, then stalked off.

Immediately, Brisbane glided over on long legs, planting himself in front of them. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said in a chill undertone. “The FBI agent, the policeman, and the reporter. An unholy trinity if ever I saw one.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “And how are you, Mr. Brisbane?”

“Oh, top form.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I don’t recall any of you being on the guest list. Especially you, Mr. Smithback. How did you slither past security?”

Pendergast smiled and spoke gently. “Sergeant O’Shaughnessy and I are here on law enforcement business. As for Mr. Smithback—well, I’m sure he would like nothing more than to be tossed out on his ear. What a marvelous follow-up that would make to his piece in today’s edition of the Times.”

Smithback nodded. “Thank you. It would.”

Brisbane stood still, the smile frozen on his face. He looked first at Pendergast, then at Smithback. His eyes raked Smithback’s soiled tux. “Didn’t your mother teach you that caviar goes in the mouth, not on the shirt?” He walked off.

“Imbecile,” Smithback murmured.

“Don’t underestimate him,” replied Pendergast. “He has Moegen-Fairhaven, the Museum, and the mayor behind him. And he is no imbecile.”

“Yeah. Except that I’m a reporter for the New York Times.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking even that lofty position will protect you.”

… and now, without more ado, let us unveil the Museum’s latest creation, the Hall of Primates…

O’Shaughnessy watched as a ribbon beside the podium was cut with an oversized pair of scissors. There was a smattering of applause and a general drift toward the open doors of the new hall beyond. Pendergast glanced at him. “Shall we?”

“Why not?” Anything was better than standing around here.

“Count me out,” said Smithback. “I’ve seen enough exhibitions in this joint to last me a lifetime.”

Pendergast turned and grasped the reporter’s hand. “I am sure we shall meet again. Soon.”

It seemed to O’Shaughnessy that Smithback fairly flinched.

Soon they were through the doors. People drifted along the spacious hall, which was lined with dioramas of stuffed chimpanzees, gorillas, orangutans, and various monkeys and lemurs, displayed in their native habitats. With some surprise, O’Shaughnessy realized the dioramas were fascinating, beautiful in their own way. They were like magic casements opening onto distant worlds. How had these morons done it? But of course, they hadn’t done it—it was the curators and artists who had. People like Brisbane were the deadwood at the top of the pile. He really needed to come here more often.

He saw a knot of people gathering around one case, which displayed a hooting chimpanzee swinging on a tree limb. There was whispered conversation, muffled laughter. It didn’t look any different from the other cases, and yet it seemed to have attracted half the people in the hall. O’Shaughnessy wondered what was so interesting about that chimpanzee. He looked about. Pendergast was in a far corner, examining some strange little monkey with intense interest. Funny man. A little scary, actually, when you got right down to it.

He strolled over to check out the case, standing at the fringe of the crowd. There were more murmurs, some stifled laughter, some disapproving clucks. A bejeweled lady was gesturing for a guard. When people noticed O’Shaughnessy was a cop, they automatically shuffled aside.

He saw that an elaborate label had been attached to the case. The label was made from a plaque of richly grained oak, on which gold letters were edged in black. It read:


ROGER C. BRISBANE III

FIRST VICE PRESIDENT





THIRTEEN




THE BOX WAS MADE OF FRUITWOOD. IT HAD LAIN, UNTOUCHED AND unneeded, for many decades, and was now covered in a heavy mantle of dust. But it had only taken one swipe of a soft velour cloth to remove the sediment of years, and a second swipe to bring out the rich, mellow sheen of the wood beneath.

Next, the cloth moved toward the brass corners, rubbing and burnishing. Then the brass hinges, shined and lightly oiled. Finally came the gold nameplate, fastened to the lid by four tiny screws. It was only when every inch, every element, of the box had been polished to brilliance that the fingers moved toward the latch, and—trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment—unsnapped the lock, lifted the lid.