The Cabinet of Curiosities (17 page)

A hissing came over the PA system; “Tales from the Vienna Woods” died away raggedly. A man was at the podium, doing a sound check. He retreated, and a hush fell on the crowd. After a moment, a second man, wearing a formal suit, mounted the podium and walked to the microphone. He looked grave, intelligent, patrician, dignified, at ease. In short, he was everything O’Shaughnessy hated.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“The distinguished Dr. Frederick Collopy,” said Pendergast. “Director of the Museum.”

“He’s got a 29-year-old wife,” Smithback whispered. “Can you believe it? It’s a wonder he can even find the—Look, there she is now.” He pointed to a young and extremely attractive woman standing to one side. Unlike the other women, who all seemed to be dressed in black, she was wearing an emerald-green gown with an elegant diamond tiara. The combination was breathtaking.

“Oh, God,” Smithback breathed. “What a stunner.”

“I hope the guy keeps a pair of cardiac paddles on his bedside table,” O’Shaughnessy muttered.

“I think I’ll go over and give him my number. Offer to spell him one of these nights, in case the old geezer gets winded.”

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,
began Collopy. His voice was low, gravelly, without inflection.
When I was a young man, I undertook the reclassification of the Pongidae, the Great Apes…

The level of conversation in the room dropped but did not cease altogether.
People seemed far more interested in food and drink than in hearing this man talk about monkeys,
O’Shaughnessy thought.

… And I was faced with a problem:Where to put mankind? Are we in the Pongidae, or are we not? Are we a Great Ape, or are we something special? This was the question I faced…

“Here comes Dr. Kelly,” said Pendergast.

Smithback turned, an eager, expectant, nervous look on his face. But the tall, copper-haired woman swept past him without so much as a glance, arrowing straight for the food table.

“Hey Nora! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!” O’Shaughnessy watched the writer hustle after her, then returned his attention to his ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He was glad he didn’t have to do this sort of thing for a living. How could they bear it? Standing around, chatting aimlessly with people you’d never seen before and would never see again, trying to cough up a vestige of interest in their vapid opinions, all to a background obbligato of speechifying. It seemed inconceivable to him that there were people who actually liked going to parties like this.

… our closest living relatives…

Smithback was returning already. His tuxedo front was splattered with fish eggs and
crème fraîche.
He looked stricken.

“Have an accident?” asked Pendergast dryly.

“You might call it that.”

O’Shaughnessy glanced over and saw Nora heading straight for the retreating Smithback. She did not look happy.

“Nora—” Smithback began again.

She rounded on him, her face furious. “How could you? I gave you that information in
confidence.
”

“But Nora, I did it for you. Don’t you see? Now they can’t touch—”

“You
moron.
My long-term career here is ruined. After what happened in Utah, and with the Lloyd Museum closing, this job was my last chance. And
you ruined it!
”

“Nora, if you could only look at it my way, you’d—”

“You
promised
me. And I trusted you! God, I can’t believe it, I’m totally screwed.” She looked away, then whirled back with redoubled ferocity. “Was this some kind of revenge because I wouldn’t rent that apartment with you?”

“No, no, Nora, just the opposite, it was to
help
you. I swear, in the end you’ll thank me—”

The poor man looked so helpless, O’Shaughnessy felt sorry for him. He was obviously in love with the woman—and he had just as obviously blown it completely.

Suddenly she turned on Pendergast. “And you!”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows, then carefully placed a blini back on his plate.

“Sneaking around the Museum, picking locks, fomenting suspicion.
You
started all this.”

Pendergast bowed. “If I have caused you any distress, Dr. Kelly, I regret it deeply.”

“Distress? They’re going to crucify me. And there it all was, in today’s paper. I could kill you!
All
of you!”

Her voice had risen, and now people were looking at her instead of at the man at the podium, still droning on about classifying his great apes.

Then Pendergast said, “Smile. Our friend Brisbane is watching.”

Nora glanced over her shoulder. O’Shaughnessy followed the glance toward the podium and saw a well-groomed man—tall, glossy, with slicked-back dark hair—staring at them. He did not look happy.

Nora shook her head and lowered her voice. “Jesus, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. I can’t
believe
the position you’ve put me in.”

“However, Dr. Kelly, you and I do need to talk,” Pendergast said softly. “Meet me tomorrow evening at Ten Ren’s Tea and Ginseng Company, 75 Mott Street, at seven o’clock. If you please.”

Nora glared at him angrily, then stalked off.

Immediately, Brisbane glided over on long legs, planting himself in front of them. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said in a chill undertone. “The FBI agent, the policeman, and the reporter. An unholy trinity if ever I saw one.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “And how are you, Mr. Brisbane?”

“Oh, top form.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I don’t recall any of you being on the guest list. Especially you, Mr. Smithback. How did
you
slither past security?”

Pendergast smiled and spoke gently. “Sergeant O’Shaughnessy and I are here on law enforcement business. As for Mr. Smithback—well, I’m sure he would like nothing more than to be tossed out on his ear. What a marvelous follow-up that would make to his piece in today’s edition of the
Times.
”

Smithback nodded. “Thank you. It would.”

Brisbane stood still, the smile frozen on his face. He looked first at Pendergast, then at Smithback. His eyes raked Smithback’s soiled tux. “Didn’t your mother teach you that caviar goes in the mouth, not on the shirt?” He walked off.

“Imbecile,” Smithback murmured.

“Don’t underestimate him,” replied Pendergast. “He has Moegen-Fairhaven, the Museum, and the mayor behind him. And he is no imbecile.”

“Yeah. Except that I’m a reporter for the
New York Times.
”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking even that lofty position will protect you.”

… and now, without more ado, let us unveil the Museum’s latest creation, the Hall of Primates…

O’Shaughnessy watched as a ribbon beside the podium was cut with an oversized pair of scissors. There was a smattering of applause and a general drift toward the open doors of the new hall beyond. Pendergast glanced at him. “Shall we?”

“Why not?” Anything was better than standing around here.

“Count me out,” said Smithback. “I’ve seen enough exhibitions in this joint to last me a lifetime.”

Pendergast turned and grasped the reporter’s hand. “I am sure we shall meet again. Soon.”

It seemed to O’Shaughnessy that Smithback fairly flinched.

Soon they were through the doors. People drifted along the spacious hall, which was lined with dioramas of stuffed chimpanzees, gorillas, orangutans, and various monkeys and lemurs, displayed in their native habitats. With some surprise, O’Shaughnessy realized the dioramas were fascinating, beautiful in their own way. They were like magic casements opening onto distant worlds. How had these morons done it? But of course, they
hadn’t
done it—it was the curators and artists who had. People like Brisbane were the deadwood at the top of the pile. He really needed to come here more often.

He saw a knot of people gathering around one case, which displayed a hooting chimpanzee swinging on a tree limb. There was whispered conversation, muffled laughter. It didn’t look any different from the other cases, and yet it seemed to have attracted half the people in the hall. O’Shaughnessy wondered what was so interesting about that chimpanzee. He looked about. Pendergast was in a far corner, examining some strange little monkey with intense interest. Funny man. A little scary, actually, when you got right down to it.

He strolled over to check out the case, standing at the fringe of the crowd. There were more murmurs, some stifled laughter, some disapproving clucks. A bejeweled lady was gesturing for a guard. When people noticed O’Shaughnessy was a cop, they automatically shuffled aside.

He saw that an elaborate label had been attached to the case. The label was made from a plaque of richly grained oak, on which gold letters were edged in black. It read:

R
OGER
C. B
RISBANE
III

F
IRST
V
ICE
P
RESIDENT

T
HE BOX WAS MADE OF FRUITWOOD.
I
T HAD LAIN, UNTOUCHED AND
unneeded, for many decades, and was now covered in a heavy mantle of dust. But it had only taken one swipe of a soft velour cloth to remove the sediment of years, and a second swipe to bring out the rich, mellow sheen of the wood beneath.

Next, the cloth moved toward the brass corners, rubbing and burnishing. Then the brass hinges, shined and lightly oiled. Finally came the gold nameplate, fastened to the lid by four tiny screws. It was only when every inch, every element, of the box had been polished to brilliance that the fingers moved toward the latch, and—trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment—unsnapped the lock, lifted the lid.

Within, the tools gleamed from their beds of purple velvet. The fingers moved from one to the next, touching each lightly, almost reverently, as if they could impart some healing gift. As indeed they could—and had—and would again.

First came the large amputation knife. Its blade curved downward, as did all American amputation knives made between the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. In fact, this particular set dated from the 1840s, crafted by Wiegand & Snowden of Philadelphia. An exquisite set, a work of art.

The fingers moved on, a solitary ring of cat’s-eye opal winking conspiratorially in the subdued light: metacarpal saw, Catlin knife, bone forceps, tissue forceps. At last, the fingers stopped on the capital saw. They caressed its length for a moment, then teased it from its molded slot. It was a beauty: long, built for business, its heavy blade breathtakingly sharp. As with the rest of the tools, its handle was made of ivory and gutta-percha; it was not until the 1880s, when Lister’s work on germs was published, that surgical instruments began to be sterilized. All handles from that point on were made of metal: porous materials became mere collector’s items. A pity, really; the old tools were so much more attractive.

It was a comfort to know that there would be no need for sterilization here.

The box contained two trays. With worshipful care, the fingers removed the upper tray—the amputation set—to expose the still greater beauty of the neurosurgical set below. Rows of skull trephines lay beside the more delicate saw blades. And encircling the rest was the greatest treasure of all: a medical chain saw, a long, thin band of metal covered in sharp serrated teeth, ivory hand grips at each end. It actually belonged among the amputation tools, but its great length consigned it to the lower tray. This was the thing to use when time, not delicacy, was of the essence. It was a horrifying-looking tool. It was consummately beautiful.

The fingers brushed each item in turn. Then, carefully, the upper tray was lowered back into position.

A heavy leather strop was brought from a nearby table and laid before the open box. The fingers rubbed a small amount of neat’s-foot oil into the strop, slowly, without hurry. It was important that there no longer be any hurry. Hurry had always meant mistakes, wasted effort.

At last, the fingers returned to the box, selected a knife, brought it to the light. Then—with lingering, loving care—laid it against the leather strop and began stroking back and forth, back and forth. The leather seemed almost to purr as the blade was stropped.

To sharpen all the blades in the surgical set to a razor edge would take many hours. But then, there would be time.

There would, in fact, be nothing but time.

P
AUL
K
ARP COULD HARDLY BELIEVE HE WAS ACTUALLY GOING TO GET SOME.
Finally.
Seventeen years old and now finally he was going to get some.

He pulled the girl deeper into the Ramble. It was the wildest, least visited part of Central Park. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

“Why don’t we just go back to your place?” the girl asked.

“My folks are home.” Paul put his arms around her and kissed her. “Don’t worry, this is great right here.” Her face was flushed, and he could hear her breathing. He looked ahead for the darkest, the most private place he could find. Quickly, unwilling to lose the moment, he turned off the paved walk and plunged into a thicket of rhododendron bushes. She was following, gladly. The thought sent a little shiver of anticipation coursing through him. It only seemed deserted, he told himself. People came in here all the time.

He pushed his way into the densest part of the thicket. Even though the autumn sun still hovered low in the sky, the canopy of sycamores, laurels, and azaleas created a verdant half-light. He tried to tell himself it was cozy, almost romantic.

Finally they came to a hidden spot, a thick bed of myrtle surrounded by dark bushes. No one would see them here. They were utterly alone.

“Paul? What if a mugger—?”

“No mugger’s going to see us in here,” he quickly said, taking the girl in his arms and kissing her. She responded, first hesitantly, then more eagerly.

“Are you sure this place is okay?” she whispered.

“Sure. We’re totally alone.”

After a last look around, Paul lay down on the myrtle, pulling her beside him. They kissed again. Paul slid his hands up her blouse and she didn’t stop him. He could feel her chest heaving, breasts rising and falling. The birds made a racket over their heads, and the myrtle rose around them like a thick, green carpet. It was very nice. Paul thought this was a great way for it to happen. He could tell the story later. But the important thing was it was
going
to happen. No longer would it be a joke among his friends: the last virgin of Horace Mann’s senior class.