The Cabinet of Curiosities

And then, just as the second hand swept toward noon, he had the revelation.

The Museum Archives. The Museum curator . . .

It was so overwhelming, so blinding, that it temporarily drove all thoughts of corned beef from his head.

The Museum. The Museum was the center around which everything revolved.

The third murder, the brutal operation? It took place in the Museum.

That archaeologist, Nora Kelly? Worked for the Museum.

The incriminating letter that reporter, Smithbank or whatever, had leaked? The letter that started the whole thing? Found in the Museum’s Archives.

That creepy old guy, Collopy, who’d authorized the removal of the letter? Director of the Museum.

Fairhaven? On the Museum’s board.

The nineteenth-century killer? Connected to the Museum.

And the archivist himself, Puck, had been murdered. Why? Because he had discovered something. Something in the Archives.

Custer’s mind, unusually clear, began racing over the possibilities, the myriad combinations and permutations. What was needed was strong, decisive action. Whatever it was Puck had found, he would find, too. And that would be key to the murderer.

There was no time to lose, not one minute.

He stood up and punched the intercom. “Noyes? Get in here. Right away.”

The man was in the doorway even before Custer’s finger was off the button.

“I want the top ten detectives assigned to the Surgeon case over here for a confidential briefing in my office. Half an hour.”

“Yes, Captain.” Noyes raised a quizzical, but appropriately obsequious, eyebrow.

“I’ve got it. Noyes, I’ve figured it out.”

Noyes ceased his gum chewing. “Sir?”

“The key to the Surgeon killings is in the Museum. It’s there, in the Archives. God knows, maybe even the murderer himself is in there, on the Museum’s staff.” Custer grabbed his jacket. “We’re going in there hard and fast, Noyes. They won’t even know what hit them.”

THREE

USING CORNICES AND escutcheons as hand- and footholds, Smithback slowly pulled his way up the wall toward the stone embrasure of a second-story window. It had been harder than he expected, and he’d managed to scrape a cheek and mash a finger in the process. And, of course, he was ruining a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of handmade Italian shoes. Maybe the Times would pay. Spreadeagled against the side of the house, he felt ridiculously exposed. There must be an easier way to win a Pulitzer, he thought. He grabbed for the window ledge, pulled himself upward with a grunt of effort. Gaining the wide ledge, he remained there a moment, catching his breath, looking around. The street was still quiet. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything. He turned his attention back to the rippled glass of the window.

The room beyond seemed utterly empty and dark. Dust motes hung in the anemic shafts of light that slanted inward. He thought he could make out a closed door in the far wall. But there was nothing to give him any indication of what lay beyond, in the rest of the house.

If he wanted to learn anything more, he’d have to get inside.

What could the harm be? The house had clearly been deserted for decades. It was probably city property now, public property. He’d come this far, done this much. If he left now, he’d have to start all over again. The image of his editor’s face, shaking a fistful of copy, eyes popping with anger, filled his mind. If he was going to charge them for the shoes, he better have something to show for it.

He tried the window, and, as expected, found it locked—or, perhaps, frozen shut with age. He experienced a moment of indecision, looked around again. The thought of clambering back down the wall was even less pleasant than climbing up had been. What he could see from the window told him nothing. He had to find a way in—just for the briefest look. He sure as hell couldn’t stay on the ledge forever. If anyone happened by and saw him . . .

And then he spotted the cop car a few blocks south on Riverside Drive, cruising slowly north. It would not be good at all if they caught sight of him up here—and he had no way to get down in time.

Quickly, he pulled off his jacket, stuffed it into a ball, and placed it against one of the lowest of the large panes. Using his shoulder, he pressed until it gave with a sharp crack. He pried out the pieces of glass, laid them on the ledge, and crawled through.

Inside the room, he stood up and peered through the window. All was calm; his entry hadn’t been noticed. Then he turned around, listening intently. Silence. He sniffed the air. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of old wallpaper and dust—it was not the stale air he’d been expecting. He took a few deep breaths.

Think of the story. Think of the Pulitzer. Think of Nora. He would do a quick reconnaissance and then get out.

He waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was a shelf in the back, and a single book lay on it. Smithback walked over and picked it up. It was an old nineteenth-century treatise titled Mollusca, with a gold engraving of a conch on the cover. Smithback felt a slight quickening of his heart: a natural history book. He opened it, hoping to find a bookplate reading Ex Libris Enoch Leng. But there was nothing. He flipped the pages, looking for notes, then put the book back.

Nothing else for it: time to explore the house.