The Cabinet of Curiosities

Dr. Wellesley nodded again.

“Unlike most museum exhibitions, it had wit. Take the houppelande section. I found it delightfully amusing.”

Concealed in its wrapper, the dress lost its power to horrify. The feeling of gloom that had settled over the office began to lift. O’Shaughnessy found himself echoing Custer: what was an FBI agent doing messing around with a case 120 years old?

“Thank you for noticing what none of the critics did,” the woman replied. “Yes, I meant it to be fun. When you finally understand it, human dress—beyond what is necessary for warmth and modesty—can be marvelously absurd.”

Pendergast stood. “Dr. Wellesley, your expertise has been most valuable.”

Dr. Wellesley rose as well. “Please call me Sophia.” O’Shaughnessy noticed her looking at Pendergast with new interest.

Pendergast bowed and smiled. Then he turned to go. The curator came around her desk to see him through the waiting room. At the outer door, Sophia Wellesley paused, blushed, and said, “I hope to see you again, Mr. Pendergast. Perhaps soon. Perhaps for dinner.”

There was a brief silence. Pendergast said nothing.

“Well,” said the curator crisply, “you know where to reach me.”

They walked back through the thronged, treasure-laden halls, past the Khmer devatars, past the reliquaries encrusted with gems, past the Greek statues and the Red Attic vases, down the great crowded steps to Fifth Avenue. O’Shaughnessy whistled an astringent little chorus of Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” If Pendergast heard, he gave no sign.

Moments later, O’Shaughnessy was sliding into the white leather cocoon of the Rolls. When the door shut with a solid, reassuring thunk, blessed silence returned. He still couldn’t figure out what to make of Pendergast—maybe the guy, for all his expensive tastes, was on the up-and-up. He sure as hell knew this: he was going to keep his eyes and ears open.

“Across the park to the New York Museum of Natural History, please,” Pendergast told the driver. As the car accelerated into traffic, the agent turned to O’Shaughnessy. “How is it that an Irish policeman came to love Italian opera?”

O’Shaughnessy gave a start. When had he mentioned opera?

“You disguise your thoughts poorly, Sergeant. While you were looking at the drawings from The Barber of Seville, I saw your right index finger unconsciously tapping the rhythm to Rosina’s aria, ‘Una voce poco fa.’”

O’Shaughnessy stared at Pendergast. “I bet you think you’re a real Sherlock Holmes.”

“One does not often find a policeman with a love of opera.”

“What about you? You like opera?” O’Shaughnessy threw the question back at him.

“I loathe it. Opera was the television of the nineteenth century: loud, vulgar, and garish, with plots that could only be called infantile.”

For the first time, O’Shaughnessy smiled. He shook his head. “Pendergast, all I can say is, your powers of observation aren’t nearly as formidable as you seem to think. Jesus, what a philistine.”

His smile widened as he saw a look of irritation cloud the FBI agent’s face for no more than an instant. He had finally gotten to him.

FOUR

NORA USHERED PENDERGAST and the dour-looking little policeman through the doorway of Central Archives, a little relieved she’d had no trouble finding her way this time.

Pendergast paused inside the door, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh. The smell of history. Drink it in, Sergeant.” He put out his hands, fingers extended, as if to warm them on the documents within.

Reinhart Puck advanced toward Pendergast, head wagging. He wiped his shining pate with a handkerchief, then stuffed the cloth into a pocket with awkward fingers. The sight of the FBI agent seemed to both please and alarm him. “Dr. Pendergast,” he said. “A pleasure. I don’t think we’ve met since, let’s see, the Troubles of ’95. Did you take that trip to Tasmania?”

“I did indeed, thank you for remembering. And my knowledge of Australian flora has increased proportionately.”

“And how’s the, er, your department?”

“Splendid,” said Pendergast. “Allow me to introduce Sergeant O’Shaughnessy.”

The policeman stepped out from behind Pendergast, and Puck’s face fell. “Oh, dear. There is a rule, you see. Non-Museum employees—”

“I can vouch for him,” said Pendergast, a note of finality in his voice. “He is an outstanding member of the police force of our city.”

“I see, I see,” Puck said unhappily, as he worked the locks. “Well, you’ll all have to sign in, you know.” He turned away from the door. “And this is Mr. Gibbs.”

Oscar Gibbs nodded curtly. He was small, compact, and African-American, with hairless arms and a closely shaven head. For his size, his build was so solid he seemed fashioned out of butcher-block. He was covered with dust and looked distinctly unhappy to be there.

“Mr. Gibbs has kindly set up everything for you in the Research Room,” said Puck. “We’ll go through the formalities, and then if you’ll be so good as to follow me?”

They signed the book, then advanced into the gloom, Puck lighting the way, as before, by the banks of ivory switches. After what seemed an interminable journey, they arrived at a door set into the plastered rear wall of the