The Cabinet of Curiosities

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.

He slipped down a carriageway, through a side door and into a close, musty space. By feel—it was dark, with the windows securely boarded over—he made his way down a dim corridor, then another, to a closet door. He opened it. The closet was empty. He stepped inside, turned a knob in the rear wall. It opened noiselessly, revealing stone steps leading down.

At the bottom of the steps, the man stopped, feeling along the wall until his fingers found the ancient light switch. He twisted it, and a series of bare bulbs came on, illuminating an old stone passageway, dank and dripping with moisture. He hung his black coat on a brass hook, placed his bowler hat on an adjoining hat rack, and dropped his cane into an umbrella stand. Then he moved down the passageway, feet ringing against the stonework, until he reached a heavy iron door, a rectangular slot set high into its face.

The slot was closed.

The man paused a moment outside the room. Then he reached into his pocket for a key, unlocked the iron door, and pushed it open.

Light flooded into the cell, revealing a bloodstained floor and wall, chains and cuffs lying in disorganized bands of metal.

The room was empty. Of course. He swept it with his eyes, smiled. Everything was ready for the next occupant.

He closed the door and locked it again, then proceeded down the hall to a large subterranean room. Switching on the bright electric lights, he approached a stainless steel gurney. Atop the gurney lay an old-fashioned Gladstone bag and two journals, bound in cheap red plastic. The man picked up the top journal, turning its pages with great interest. It was all so wonderfully ironic. By rights, these journals should have perished in flames long ago. In the wrong hands, they could have done a great deal of damage. Would have done a great deal of damage, had he not come along at the right time. But now, they were back where they belonged.

He replaced the journal and, more slowly, opened the medical valise.

Inside, a cylindrical container of hard gray hospital plastic lay on a smoking bed of dry ice chips. The man pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed the container from the briefcase, placed it on the gurney, and unlatched it. He reached in, and, with infinite caution, withdrew a long, gray, ropy mass. Had it not been for the blood and matter that still adhered to the tissue, it would have resembled the kind of heavy cable that supports a bridge, the red-streaked outer lining filled with thousands of tiny, fibrous strings. A small smile curled the man’s lips, and his pale eyes glittered as he stared. He held the mass up to the light, which shone through it with a glow. Then he brought it to a nearby sink, where he carefully irrigated it with a bottle of distilled water, washing off the bone chips and other offal. Next, he placed the cleaned organ in a large machine, closed its top, and turned it on. A high whine filled the stone room as the tissue was blended into a paste.