The Cabinet of Curiosities

There was a lengthy interval while the shower was being turned on, then off. And then the couple were back in the living room. The inspection had taken less than two minutes.

“It’s perfect,” said the bald one. “Eighteen percent broker’s fee, right?”

“Right.”

“Great.” A checkbook appeared. “Who do I make it out to?”

“Cash. We’ll take it to your bank.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Smithback said, “we were here first.”

“I’m so sorry,” said one of the men politely, turning in surprise.

“Don’t mind them,” said the broker harshly. “Those people are on their way out.”

“Come on, Bill.” Nora began urging him to the door.

“We were here first! I’ll take it myself, if I have to!”

There was a snap as the man detached the check. The broker reached for it. “I’ve got the lease right here,” she said, patting her bag. “We can sign it at the bank.”

Nora dragged Smithback out the door and slammed it shut. The ride downstairs was silent and tense.

A moment later, they were standing on the street. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Nora said, looking away. “We can talk about this tonight.”

“We certainly will.”

Smithback watched her stride down Ninety-ninth Street in the slanting light, the trenchcoat curling away from her perfect little behind, her long copper hair swinging back and forth. He felt stricken. After all they had been through, she still didn’t want to live with him. What had he done wrong? Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him for pressuring her to move east from Santa Fe. It wasn’t his fault the job at the Lloyd Museum had fallen through and her boss here in Manhattan was a prize asshole. How could he change her mind? How could he prove to her that he really loved her?

An idea began to form in his mind. Nora didn’t really appreciate the power of the press, particularly the New York Times. She didn’t realize just how cowed, how docile and cooperative, the Museum could be when faced with bad publicity. Yes, he thought, this would work. She would get the collections back, and get her carbon-14 dating funded, and more. She would thank him in the end. If he worked fast, he could even make the early edition.

Smithback heard a hearty yell. “Hey, friend!”

He turned. There were the two bums, fiery-faced now, holding on to each other, staggering up the sidewalk. One of them lifted a paper bag. “Have a drink on us!”

Smithback took out another twenty and held it up in front of the bigger and dirtier of the two. “Tell you what. In a few minutes, you’ll see a thin lady dressed in black come out of this building with two guys. Her name’s Millie. Give her a really big hug and kiss for me, will you? The sloppier the better.”

“You bet!” The man snatched the bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

Smithback went down the street toward Broadway, feeling marginally better.

EIGHT

ANTHONY FAIRHAVEN SETTLED his lean, muscular frame into the chair, spread a heavy linen napkin across his lap, and examined the breakfast that lay before him. It was minuscule, yet arrayed with excessive care on the crisp white damask: a china glass of tea, two water biscuits, royal jelly. He drained the tea in a single toss, nibbled absently at the cracker, then wiped his lips and signaled the maid for his papers with a curt motion.

The sun streamed in through the curved glass wall of his breakfast atrium. From his vantage point atop the Metropolitan Tower, all of Manhattan lay prostrate at his feet, glittering in the dawn light, windows winking pink and gold. His own personal New World, waiting for him to claim his Manifest Destiny. Far below, the dark rectangle of Central Park lay like a gravedigger’s hole in the midst of the great city. The light was just clipping the tops of the trees, the shadows of the buildings along Fifth Avenue lying across the park like bars.

There was a rustle and the maid laid the two papers before him, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Freshly ironed, as he insisted. He picked up the Times and unfolded it, the warm scent of newsprint reaching his nostrils, the sheets crisp and dry. He gave the paper a little shake to loosen it, and turned to the front page. He scanned the headlines. Middle East peace talks, mayoral election debates, earthquake in Indonesia. He glanced below the fold.

Momentarily, he stopped breathing.

NEWLYDISCOVEREDLETTERSHEDSLIGHT ON

19TH-CENTURYKILLINGS

BY WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR.

He blinked his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and began to read.

NEW YORK—October 8. A letter has been found in the archives of the New York Museum of Natural History that may help explain the grisly charnel discovered in lower Manhattan early last week.