The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(93)
Smithback did a quick calculation: Leng appeared in New York in the 1870s—probably as a young man of, say, thirty. In 1935, he would have been about seventy. So why did the murders cease?
The answer was perfectly obvious: Leng had died. He hadn’t found an obituary; but then, Leng had kept such a low profile that an obituary would have been highly unlikely.
So much for Pendergast’s theory, thought Smithback.
And the more he thought about it, the more he felt sure that Pendergast couldn’t really believe such an absurd thing. No; Pendergast was throwing this out as a red herring for some devious purpose of his own. That was Pendergast through and through—artful, winding, oblique. You never knew what he was really thinking, or what his plan was. He would explain all this to O’Shaughnessy the next time he saw him; no doubt the cop would be relieved to hear Pendergast hadn’t gone off the deep end.
Smithback scanned another year’s worth of obituaries, but nothing on Leng appeared. Figures: the guy just cast no shadow at all on the historical record. It was almost creepy.
He checked his watch: quitting time. He’d been at it for ten straight hours.
But he was off to a good start. In one stroke, he’d uncovered another half-dozen unsolved murders which could likely be attributed to Leng. He had maybe two more days before his editor started demanding results. More, if he could show his work was turning up some nuggets of gold.
He eased himself out of the comfortable chair, rubbed his hands together. Now that he’d combed the public record, he was ready to take the next step: Leng’s private record.
One thing the day’s research had revealed was that Leng had been a guest researcher at the Museum. Smithback knew that, back then, all visiting scientists had to undergo an academic review in order to gain unfettered access to the collections. The review gave such details as the person’s age, education, degrees, fields of specialty, publications, marital status, and address. This might lead to other treasure troves of documents—deeds, leases, legal actions, so forth. Perhaps Leng could hide from the public eye—but the Museum’s records would be a different story.
By the time Smithback was done, he would know Leng like a brother.
The thought gave him a delicious shudder of anticipation.
FOUR
O’SHAUGHNESSY STOOD ON THE STEPS OUTSIDE THE JACOB JAVITS Federal Building. The rain had stopped, and puddles lay here and there in the narrow streets of lower Manhattan. Pendergast had not been at the Dakota, and he was not here, at the Bureau. O’Shaughnessy felt an odd blend of emotions: impatience, curiosity, eagerness. He’d been almost disappointed that he couldn’t show his find to Pendergast right away. Pendergast would surely see the value of the discovery. Maybe it would be the clue they needed to break the case.
He ducked behind one of the building’s granite pillars to inspect the journals once again. His eye ran down the columned pages, the countless entries of faded blue ink. It had everything: names of purchasers, lists of chemicals, amounts, prices, delivery addresses, dates. Poisons were listed in red. Pendergast was going to love this. Of course, Leng would have made his purchases under a pseudonym, probably using a false address—but he would have had to use the same pseudonym for each purchase. Since Pendergast had already compiled a list of at least some of the rare chemicals Leng had used, it would be a simple matter to match that with the purchases in this book, and, through that, discover Leng’s pseudonym. If it was a name Leng used in other transactions, this little book was going to take them very far indeed.
O’Shaughnessy glanced at the volumes another minute, then tucked them back beneath his arm and began walking thoughtfully down Broadway, toward City Hall and the subway. The volumes covered the years 1917 through 1923, antedating the fire that burned the chemist’s shop. Clearly, they’d been the only things to survive the fire. They had been in the possession of the grandfather, and the father had had them rebound. That was why the antiques dealer hadn’t bothered to examine them: they looked modern. It had been sheer luck that he himself had—
Antiques dealer. Now that he thought about it, it seemed suspicious that some dealer just happened to walk into the store a few weeks after the old man’s death, interested in the safe. Perhaps that death hadn’t been an accident, after all. Perhaps the copycat killer had been there before him, looking for more information on Leng’s chemical purchases. But no—that was impossible. The copycat killings had begun as a result of the article. This had happened before. O’Shaughnessy chastised himself for not getting a description of the dealer. Well, he could always go back. Pendergast might want to come along himself.
Suddenly, he stopped. Of their own accord, his feet had taken him past the subway station to Ann Street. He began to turn back, then hesitated. He wasn’t far, he realized, from 16 Water Street, the house where Mary Greene had lived. Pendergast had already been down there with Nora, but O’Shaughnessy hadn’t seen it. Not that there was anything to see, of course. But now that he was committed to this case, he wanted to see everything, miss nothing. He thought back to the Metropolitan Museum of Art: to the pathetic bit of dress, the desperate note.
It was worth a ten-minute detour. Dinner could wait.
He continued down Ann Street, then turned onto Gold, whistling Costa Diva from Bellini’s Norma. It was Maria Callas’s signature piece, and one of his favorite arias. He was in high spirits. Detective work, he was rediscovering, could actually be fun. And he was rediscovering something else: he had a knack for it.