The Cabinet of Curiosities

Smithback turned to the agent. “What did you say your fee was for this place?”

The agent exhaled a cloud of smoke, gave a little cough. “I’m glad you asked. It’s quite reasonable. Of course, you can’t just rent an apartment like this. I’m doing you a special favor just showing it to you.”

“So how much is this fee?” Nora asked.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen what? Dollars?”

“Percent. Of the first year’s rent, that is.”

“But that’s—” Nora frowned, did the calculation in her head. “That’s close to four thousand dollars.”

“It’s cheap, considering what you’re getting. And I promise you, if you don’t go for it, the next person will.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. That’s how much time you have to make your decision.”

“What about it, Nora?” Smithback asked.

Nora sighed. “I have to think about this.”

“We don’t have time to think about it.”

“We have all the time in the world. This isn’t the only apartment in Manhattan.”

There was a brief, frozen silence. The real estate broker glanced again at her watch.

Nora shook her head. “Bill, I told you. It’s been a bad day.”

“I can see that.”

“You know the Shottum collection I told you about? Yesterday we found a letter, a terrible letter, hidden among that collection.”

Smithback felt a feeling akin to panic creeping over him. “Can we talk about this later? I really think this is the apartment—”

She rounded on him, her face dark. “Didn’t you hear what I said? We found a letter. We know who murdered those thirty-six people!”

There was another silence. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker, who was pretending to examine a window frame. Her ears were practically twitching. “You do?” he asked.

“He’s an extremely shadowy figure named Enoch Leng. He seems to have been a taxonomist and a chemist. The letter was written by a man named Shottum, who owned a kind of museum on the site, called Shottum’s Cabinet. Leng rented rooms from Shottum and performed experiments in them. Shottum grew suspicious, took a look into Leng’s lab when he was away. He discovered that Leng had been kidnapping people, killing them, and then dissecting out part of their central nervous system and processing it—apparently, for self-administered injections.”

“Good God. What for?”

Nora shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this. He was trying to extend his life span.”

“That’s incredible.” This was a story—a gigantic story. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker. She was now intently examining the door jambs, her next appointment seemingly forgotten.

“That’s what I thought.” Nora shuddered. “God, I just can’t get that letter out of my head. All the details were there. And Pendergast—you should have seen how grim his face was while he was reading it. Looked as if he was reading his own obituary or something. And then this morning, when I went down to check on some more Shottum material that had turned up, I learn that orders had come down for some conservation work in the Archives. All the Shottum papers were included. And now, they’re gone. You can’t tell me that’s coincidence. It was either Brisbane or Collopy, I’m sure of that, but of course I can’t come right out and ask them.”

“Did you get a photocopy?”

The dark look on Nora’s face lifted slightly. “Pendergast asked me to make one after we first read the letter. I didn’t understand his hurry then. I do now.”

“Do you have it?”

She nodded toward her briefcase.

Smithback thought for a moment. Nora was right: the conservation orders, of course, were no coincidence. What was the Museum covering up? Who was this man Enoch Leng? Was he connected to the early Museum in some way? Or was it just the usual Museum paranoia, afraid to let out any information that wasn’t buffed and polished by their PR people? Then of course there was Fairhaven, the developer, who also happened to be a big contributor to the Museum . . . This whole story was getting good. Very good.

“Can I see the letter?”

“I was going to give it to you for safekeeping—I don’t dare bring it back into the Museum. But I want it back tonight.”

Smithback nodded. She handed him a thick envelope, which he shoved into his briefcase.

There was a sudden buzz of the intercom.

“There’s my next appointment,” said the broker. “Should I tell them you’re taking it, or what?”

“We’re not,” said Nora decisively.

She shrugged, went to the intercom, and buzzed them in.

“Nora,” Smithback implored. He turned to the real estate agent. “We are taking it.”

“I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m just not ready.”

“But last week you said—”

“I know what I said. But I can’t think about apartments at a time like this. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.”

The doorbell rang and the broker moved to open the door. Two men came in—one bald and short, one tall and bearded—gave the living room a quick look, swept through the kitchen and into the bedrooms.

“Nora, please,” Smithback said. “Look, I know this move to New York, the job at the Museum, hasn’t been as smooth as you hoped. I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean you should—”