The Cabinet of Curiosities

Without a word, the person turned and shuffled away again. O’Shaughnessy followed, glancing around curiously. He’d expected to find an old pharmacy, with perhaps an ancient soda fountain and wooden shelves stocked with aspirin and liniment. Instead, the shop was an incredible rat’s nest of stacked boxes, spiderwebs, and dust. Stifling a cough, O’Shaughnessy traced a complex path toward the back of the store. Here he found a marble counter, scarcely less dusty than the rest of the shop. The person who’d let him in had taken up a position behind it. Small wooden boxes were stacked shoulder high on the wall behind the shopkeeper. O’Shaughnessy squinted at the paper labels slid into copper placards on each box: amaranth, nux vomica, nettle, vervain, hellebore, nightshade, narcissus, shepherd’s purse, pearl trefoil. On an adjoining wall were hundreds of glass beakers, and beneath were several rows of boxes, chemical symbols scrawled on their faces in red marker. A book titled Wortcunning lay on the counter.

The man—it seemed easiest to think of him as a man—stared back at O’Shaughnessy, pasty face expectant.

“O’Shaughnessy, FBI consultant,” O’Shaughnessy said, displaying the identity card Pendergast had secured for him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I might.”

The man scrutinized the card, and for a minute O’Shaughnessy thought he was going to challenge it. But the shopkeeper merely shrugged.

“What kind of people visit your shop?”

“It’s mostly those wiccans.” The man screwed up his face.

“Wiccans?”

“Yeah. Wiccans. That’s what they call themselves these days.”

Abruptly, O’Shaughnessy understood. “You mean witches.”

The man nodded.

“Anybody else? Any, say, doctors?”

“No, nobody like that. We get chemists here, too. Sometimes hobbyists. Health supplement types.”

“Anybody who dresses in an old-fashioned, or unusual fashion?”

The man gestured in the vague direction of East Twelfth Street. “They all dress in an unusual fashion.”

O’Shaughnessy thought for a moment. “We’re investigating some old crimes that took place near the turn of the century. I was wondering if you’ve got any old records I could examine, lists of clientele and the like.”

“Maybe,” the man said. The voice was high, very breathy.

This answer took O’Shaughnessy by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The shop burned to the ground in 1924. After it was rebuilt, my grandfather—he was running the place back then—started keeping his records in a fireproof safe. After my father took over, he didn’t use the safe much. In fact, he only used it for storing some possessions of my grandfather’s. He passed away three months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” O’Shaughnessy said. “How did he die?”

“Stroke, they said. So anyway, a few weeks later, an antiques dealer came by. Looked around the shop, bought a few old pieces of furniture. When he saw the safe, he offered me a lot of money if there was anything of historical value inside. So I had it drilled.” The man sniffed. “But there was nothing much. Tell the truth, I’d been hoping for some gold coins, maybe old securities or bonds. The fellow went away disappointed.”

“So what was inside?”

“Papers. Ledgers. Stuff like that. That’s why I told you, maybe.”

“Can I have a look at this safe?”

The man shrugged. “Why not?”

The safe stood in a dimly lit back room, amid stacks of musty boxes and decaying wooden crates. It was shoulder high, made of thick green metal. There was a shiny cylindrical hole where the lock mechanism had been drilled out.

The man pulled the door open, then stepped back as O’Shaughnessy came forward. He knelt and peered inside. Dust motes hung like a pall in the air. The contents of the safe lay in deep shadow.

“Can you turn on some more lights?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Can’t. Aren’t any more.”

“Got a flashlight handy?”

The man shook his head. “But hold on a second.” He shuffled away, then returned a minute later, carrying a lighted taper in a brass holder.

Jesus, this is unbelievable, O’Shaughnessy thought. But he accepted the candle with murmured thanks and held it inside the safe.

Considering its large size, the safe was rather empty. O’Shaughnessy moved the candle around, making a mental inventory of its contents. Stacks of old newspapers in one corner; various yellowed papers, tied into small bundles; several rows of ancient-looking ledger books; two more modern-looking volumes, bound in garish red plastic; half a dozen shoe boxes with dates scrawled on their faces.

Setting the candle on the floor of the safe, O’Shaughnessy grabbed eagerly at the old ledgers. The first one he opened was simply a shop inventory, for the year 1925: page after page of items, written in a spidery hand. The other volumes were similar: semiannual inventories, ending in 1942.

“When did your father take over the shop?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

The man thought for a moment. “During the war. ’41 maybe, or ’42.”