The Cabinet of Curiosities

At timed intervals, the man consulted the pages of a notebook, then added some chemicals through a rubber bladder in the machine’s lid with deft, precise movements. The paste lightened; clarified. And then, his movements ever so careful, the man detached the ultrablender and poured the paste into a long stainless tube, placed it in a nearby centrifuge, closed the cover, and turned a switch. There was a humming noise that grew rapidly in pitch, then stabilized.

Centrifuging out the serum would take 20.5 minutes. It was only the first stage in a long process. One had to be absolutely precise. The slightest error at any step only magnified itself until the final product was useless. But now that he’d decided to do all further harvesting here in the laboratory, rather than in the field, no doubt things would proceed with even greater consistency.

He turned to the sink, in which sat a large, carefully rolled towel. Taking it by one edge, he raised it, letting it unroll. Half a dozen bloodstained scalpels slid into the basin. He began to clean them, slowly, lovingly. They were the old-fashioned kind: heavy, nicely balanced. Of course, they weren’t as handy as the modern Japanese models with the snap-in blades, but they felt good in the hand. And they kept an edge. Even in this age of ultrablenders and DNA sequencing machines, old tools still had their place.

Placing the scalpels in an autoclave to dry and sterilize, the man removed the gloves, washed his hands very carefully, then dried them on a linen towel. He glanced over, checking the progress of the centrifuge. And then he moved to a small cabinet, opened it, and withdrew a piece of paper. He placed it on the gurney, beside the briefcase. On the paper, in an elegant copperplate script, were five names:

Pendergast

Kelly

Smithback

O’Shaughnessy

Puck

The last name had already been crossed out. Now, the man plucked a fountain pen of inlaid lacquer from his pocket. And then—neatly, formally, with long slender fingers—he drew a beautifully precise line through the fourth name, ending with a little curlicue flourish.

EIGHT

AT HIS FAVORITE neighborhood coffee shop, Smithback lingered over his breakfast, knowing the Museum did not open its doors until ten. Once more, he glanced over the photocopies of articles he’d culled from back issues of the Times. The more he read them, the more he was sure the old murders were the work of Leng. Even the geography seemed consistent: most of the murders had taken place on the Lower East Side and along the waterfront, about as far away from Riverside Drive as you could get.

At nine-thirty he called for the bill and set off down Broadway for a bracing fall walk to the Museum. He began to whistle. While he still had the relationship with Nora to repair, he was an eternal optimist. If he could bring her the information she wanted on a silver platter, that would be a start. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever. They had so much in common, shared both good and bad times together. If only she didn’t have such a temper!

He had other reasons to be happy. Although every now and then his instincts failed him—the thing with Fairhaven was a good example—most of the time his journalist’s nose was infallible. And his article on Leng had gotten off to a good start. Now all he needed was to dig up a few personal nuggets to bring the madman to life—maybe even a photograph. And he had an idea of where to get all of it.

He blinked in the bright fall light, inhaled the crisp air.

Years before—during the time he’d spent writing what had started out as a history of the Museum’s superstition exhibition—Smithback had grown to know the Museum very well. He knew its eccentric ways, the ins and outs, the shortcuts, the curiosa, the hidden corners and miscellaneous archives. If there was any information about Leng hidden within those walls, Smithback would find it.

When the great bronze doors opened, Smithback made sure he buried himself within the throngs, staying as anonymous as possible. He paid the suggested admission and pinned on his button, strolling through the Great Rotunda, gaping like all the others at the soaring skeletons.