The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(76)

TWO




DOYERS STREET WAS A SHORT, NARROW DOGLEG OF A LANE AT THE southeastern edge of Chinatown. A cluster of tea shops and grocery stores stood at the far end, festooned with bright neon signs in Chinese. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, whipping scraps of paper and leaves off the sidewalk. There was a distant roll of thunder. A storm was coming.

O’Shaughnessy paused at the entrance of the deserted lane, and Nora stopped beside him. She shivered, with both fear and cold. She could see him peering up and down the sidewalk, eyes alert for any sign of danger, any possibility that they had been followed.

“Number ninety-nine is in the middle of the block,” he said in a low voice. “That brownstone, there.”

Nora followed the indicated direction with her eyes. It was a narrow building like all the others: a three-story structure of dirty green brick.

“Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

Nora swallowed. “I think it’d be better if you stayed here and watched the street.”

O’Shaughnessy nodded, then slipped into the shadow of a doorway.

Taking a deep breath, Nora started forward. The sealed envelope containing Pendergast’s banknotes felt like a lead weight within her purse. She shivered again, glancing up and down the dark street, fighting her feeling of agitation.

The attack on her, and Puck’s brutal murder, had changed everything. It had proven these were no mere psychotic copycat killings. It had been carefully planned. The murderer had access to the Museum’s private spaces. He had used Puck’s old Royal typewriter to type that note, luring her to the Archives. He had pursued her with terrifying coolness. She’d felt the man’s presence, mere inches away from her, there in the Archives. She’d even felt the sting of his scalpel. This was no lunatic: this was someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and why. Whatever the connection between the old killings and the new, this had to be stopped. If there was anything—anything—she could do to get the killer, she was willing to do it.

There were answers beneath the floor of Number 99 Doyers Street. She was going to find those answers.

Her mind returned to the terrifying chase, in particular to the flash of the Surgeon’s scalpel as it flicked toward her, faster than a striking snake. It was an image that she found herself unable to shake. Then the endless police questioning; and afterward her trip to Pendergast’s bedside, to tell him she had changed her mind about Doyers Street. Pendergast had been alarmed to hear of the attack, reluctant at first, but Nora refused to be swayed. With or without him, she was going down to Doyers. Ultimately, Pendergast had relented: on the condition that Nora keep O’Shaughnessy by her side at all times. And he had arranged for her to receive the fat packet of cash.

She mounted the steps to the front door, steeling herself for the task at hand. She noticed that the apartment names beside the buzzers were written in Chinese. She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 1.

A voice rasped out in Chinese.

“I’m the one interested in renting the basement apartment,” she called out.

The lock snapped free with a buzz, she pushed on the door, and found herself in a hallway lit by fluorescent lights. A narrow staircase ascended to her right. At the end of the hallway she could hear a door being endlessly unbolted. It opened at last and a stooped, depressed-looking man appeared, in shirtsleeves and baggy slacks, peering down the hall at her.

Nora walked up. “Mr. Ling Lee?”

He nodded and held the door open for her. Beyond was a living room with a green sofa, a Formica table, several easy chairs, and an elaborate red-and gold-carved bas-relief on the wall, showing a pagoda and trees. A chandelier, grossly oversized for the space, dominated the room. The wallpaper was lilac, the rug red and black.

“Sit down,” the man said. His voice was faint, tired.

She sat down, sinking alarmingly into the sofa.

“How you hear about this apartment?” Lee asked. Nora could see from his expression he was not pleased to see her.

Nora launched into her story. “A lady who works in the Citibank down the block from here told me about it.”

“What lady?” Lee asked, more sharply. In Chinatown, Pendergast had explained, most landlords preferred to rent to their own.

“I don’t know her name. My uncle told me to talk to her, said that she knew where to find an apartment in this area. She told me to call you.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes. Uncle Huang. He’s with the DHCR.”

This bit of information was greeted with a dismayed silence. Pendergast figured that having a Chinese relative would make it easier for her to get the apartment. That he worked for the Department of Housing and Community Renewal—the city division that enforced the rent laws—made it all the better.

“Your name?”

“Betsy Winchell.”

Nora noticed a large, dark presence move from the kitchen into the doorway of the living room. It was apparently Lee’s wife, arms folded, three times his size, looking very stern.

“Over the phone, you said the apartment was available. I’m prepared to take it right away. Please show it to me.”

Lee rose from the table and glanced at his wife. Her arms tightened.

“Follow me,” he said.

They went back into the hall, out the front door, and down the steps. Nora glanced around quickly, but O’Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen. Lee removed a key, opened the basement apartment door, and snapped on the lights. She followed him in. He closed the door and made a show of relocking no fewer than four locks.