The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(97)

Wren looked at his guest, venal yellow eyes sharp and bright as a hawk’s. “You don’t look like yourself today,” he said.

“No doubt.”Pendergast said no more, and Wren seemed not to expect it.

“Let’s see. Did you find—what was it again? Oh, yes—that old Broadway Water Company survey and the Five Points chapbooks useful?”

“Very much so.”

Wren gestured toward the package. “And what are you lending me today, hypocrite lecteur?”

Pendergast leaned away from the bookcase, brought the package out from beneath his arm. “It’s a manuscript of Iphigenia at Aulis, translated from the ancient Greek into Vulgate.”

Wren listened, his face betraying nothing.

“The manuscript was illuminated at the old monastery of Sainte-Chapelle in the late fourteenth century. One of the last works they produced before the terrible conflagration of 1397.”

A spark of interest flared in the old man’s yellow eyes.

“The book caught the attention of Pope Pius III, who pronounced it sacrilegious and ordered every copy burnt. It’s also notable for the scribbles and drawings made by the scribes in the margins of the manuscript. They are said to depict the lost text of Chaucer’s fragmentary ‘Cook’s Tale.’”

The spark of interest abruptly burned hot. Wren held out his hands.

Pendergast kept the package just out of reach. “There is one favor I’d request in return.”

Wren retracted his hands. “Naturally.”

“Have you heard of the Wheelwright Bequest?”

Wren frowned, shook his head. White locks flew from side to side.

“He was the president of the city’s Land Office from 1866 to 1894. He was a notorious pack-rat, and ultimately donated a large number of handbills, circulars, broadsides, and other period publications to the Library.”

“That explains why I haven’t heard of it,” Wren replied. “It sounds of little value.”

“In his bequest,Wheelwright also made a sizable cash donation.”

“Which explains why the bequest would still be extant.”

Pendergast nodded.

“But it would have been consigned to the seventh level.”

Pendergast nodded again.

“What’s your interest, hypocrite lecteur?”

“According to the obituaries, Wheelwright was at work on a scholarly history of wealthy New York landowners when he died. As part of his research, he’d kept copies of all the Manhattan house deeds that passed through his office for properties over $1,000. I need to examine those house deeds.”

Wren’s expression narrowed. “Surely that information could be more easily obtained at the New-York Historical Society.”

“Yes. So it should have been. But some of the deeds are inexplicably missing from their records: a swath of properties along Riverside Drive, to be precise. I had a man at the Society look for them, without success. He was most put out by their absence.”

“So you’ve come to me.”

In response, Pendergast held out the package.

Wren took it eagerly, turned it over reverently in his hands, then slit the wrapping paper with his knife. He placed the package on the table and began carefully peeling away the bubble wrap. He seemed to have abruptly forgotten Pendergast’s presence.

“I’ll be back to examine the bequest—and retrieve my illuminated manuscript—in forty-eight hours,” Pendergast said.

“It may take longer,” Wren replied, his back to Pendergast. “For all I know, the bequest no longer exists.”

“I have great faith in your abilities.”

Wren murmured something inaudible. He donned the gloves, gently unbuckled the cloisonné enamel fastenings, stared hungrily at the hand-lettered pages.

“And Wren?”

Something in Pendergast’s tone made the old man look over his shoulder.

“May I suggest you find the bequest first, and contemplate the manuscript later? Remember what happened two years ago.”

Wren’s face took on a look of shock. “Agent Pendergast, you know I always put your interests first.”

Pendergast looked into the crafty old face, now full of hurt and indignation. “Of course you do.”

And then he abruptly vanished into the shadowy stacks.

Wren blinked his yellow eyes, then turned his attention back to the illuminated manuscript. He knew exactly where the bequest was—it would be a work of fifteen minutes to locate. That left forty-seven and three-quarter hours to examine the manuscript. Silence quickly returned. It was almost as if Pendergast’s presence had been merely a dream.





SEVEN




THE MAN WALKED UP RIVERSIDE DRIVE, HIS STEPS SHORT AND PRECISE, the metal ferrule of his cane making a rhythmic click on the asphalt. The sun was rising over the Hudson River, turning the water an oily pink, and the trees in Riverside Park stood silently, motionless, in the chill autumn air. He inhaled deeply, his olfactory sense working through the trackless forest of city smells: the tar and diesel coming off the water, dampness from the park, the sour reek of the streets.

He turned the corner, then paused. In the rising light, the short street was deserted. One block over, he could hear the sounds of traffic on Broadway, see the faint light from the shops. But here it was very quiet. Most of the buildings on the street were abandoned. His own building, in fact, stood beside a site where, many years before, a small riding ring for Manhattan’s wealthiest young ladies had been. The ring was long gone, of course, but in its place stood a small, unnamed service drive off the main trunk of Riverside, which served to insulate his building from traffic. The island formed by the service drive sported grass and trees, and a statue of Joan of Arc. It was one of the quieter, more forgotten places on the island of Manhattan—forgotten by all, perhaps, save him. It had the additional advantage of being roamed by nocturnal gangs and having a reputation for being dangerous. It was all very convenient.