Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

Nora thought for a moment. “Can I check out this box?”

“Have to look at it in the Research Room. Can’t let it leave the Archives.”

“I see.” Nora paused, thinking. “You said Tinbury McFadden was a close friend of Shottum’s? Are his papers in here, too?”

“Are they here? Good heaven, we’ve got mountains of his papers. And his collections. He had quite a cabinet himself, only he never displayed it. Left it to the Museum, but none of the stuff had any provenience and was full of fakes, so they stuck it down here. For historical purposes. No scientific value, they said.” Puck sniffed. “Not worthy of the main collection.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course, of course!” And Puck was shuffling off again in a new direction. “Right around the corner.”

They stopped at last before two shelves. The upper was full of more papers and boxes. On top of one box was a promissory note, with a faded inventory of items transferred from J. C. Shottum to T. F. McFadden, as payment for Services Rendered and Promised. The lower shelf was stuffed with a variety of curious objects. Glancing over them, Nora saw stuffed animals wrapped in wax paper and twine, dubious-looking fossils, a double-headed pig floating in a glass jeroboam, a dried anaconda curled into a giant five-foot knot, a stuffed chicken with six legs and four wings, and a bizarre box made out of an elephant’s foot.

Puck blew his nose like a trumpet, wiped his eyes. “Poor Tinbury would turn over in his grave if he knew that his precious collection ended up down here. He thought it had priceless scientific value. Of course, that was at a time when many of the Museum’s curators were amateurs with poor scientific credentials.”

Nora pointed to the promissory note. “This seems to indicate Shottum gave McFadden specimens in exchange for his work.”

“A standard practice.”

“So some of these things came from Shottum’s Cabinet?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Could I examine these specimens, too?”

Puck beamed. “I’ll move all of it to the Research Room and set it up on tables. When it’s ready, I’ll let you know.”

“How long will that take?”

“A day.” His face reddened with the pleasure of being of use.

“Don’t you need help moving these things?”

“Oh, yes. My assistant, Oscar, will do it.”

Nora looked around. “Oscar?”

“Oscar Gibbs. He usually works up in Osteology. We don’t get many visitors down here. I call him down for special work like this.”

“This is very kind of you, Mr. Puck.”

“Kind? The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you, my dear girl!”

“I’ll be bringing a colleague.”

An uncertain look clouded Puck’s face. “A colleague? There are rules about that, what with the new security and all…” He hesitated, almost embarrassed.

“Rules?”

“Only Museum staff allowed. The Archives used to be open to everybody, but now we’ve been restricted to Museum staff. And trustees.”

“Special Agent Pendergast is, ah, connected with the Museum.”

“ Agent Pendergast? Yes, the name’s familiar… Pendergast. I remember him now. The southern gentleman. Oh, dear.” A momentary look of distress crossed the man’s face. “Well, well, as you wish. I’ll expect you both tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

PATRICK MURPHY O’SHAUGHNESSY sat in the precinct captain’s office, waiting for him to get off the phone. He had been waiting five minutes, but so far Custer hadn’t even looked in his direction. Which was just fine with him. O’Shaughnessy scanned the walls without interest, his eyes moving from commendation plaques to departmental shooting trophies, lighting at last upon the painting on the far wall. It showed a little cabin in a swamp, at night, under a full moon, its windows casting a yellow glow over the waters. It was a source of endless amusement to the 7th Precinct that their captain, with all his mannerisms and his pretensions to culture, had a velvet painting proudly displayed in his office. There had even been talk of getting an office pool together, soliciting donations for a less revolting replacement. O’Shaughnessy used to laugh along with them, but now he found it pathetic. It was all so pathetic.

The rattle of the phone in its cradle brought him out of his reverie. He looked up as Custer pressed his intercom button.

“Sergeant Noyes, come in here, please.”

O’Shaughnessy looked away. This wasn’t a good sign. Herbert Noyes, recently transferred from Internal Affairs, was Custer’s new personal assistant and numero uno ass-kisser. Something unpleasant was definitely up.

Almost instantly, Noyes entered the office, the usual unctuous smile breaking the smooth lines of his ferret-like head. He nodded politely to Custer, ignored O’Shaughnessy, and took the seat closest to the captain’s desk, chewing gum, as usual. His skinny form barely made a dent in the burgundy-colored leather. He’d come in so fast it was almost as if he’d been hovering outside. O’Shaughnessy realized he probably had been.

And now, at last, Custer turned toward O’Shaughnessy. “Paddy!” he said in his high, thin voice. “How’s the last Irish cop on the force doing these days?”

O’Shaughnessy waited just long enough to be insolent, and then answered: “It’s Patrick, sir.”

“Patrick, Patrick. I thought they called you Paddy,” Custer went on, some of the hearty bluster gone.

“There are still plenty of Irish on the force, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah, but how many are named Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy? I mean, is that Irish or what? That’s like Chaim Moishe Finkelstein, or Vinnie Scarpetta Gotti della Gambino. Ethnic. Very ethnic. But hey, don’t get me wrong. Ethnic’s good.”

“Very good,” Noyes said.

“I’m always saying we need diversity on the force. Right?”

“Sure,” O’Shaughnessy replied.

“Anyway, Patrick, we’ve got a little problem here. A few days ago, thirty-six skeletons were uncovered at a construction site here in the precinct. You may have heard of it. I supervised the investigation myself. It’s a Moegen-Fairhaven development. You know them?”

“Sure I do.” O’Shaughnessy glanced pointedly at the oversized Montblanc fountain pen in Custer’s shirt pocket. Mr. Fairhaven had given them as Christmas presents to all the precinct captains in Manhattan the year before.

“Big outfit. Lots of money, lots of friends. Good people. Now these skeletons, Patrick, are well over a century old. It’s our understanding that some maniac back in the eighteen hundreds murdered these people and hid them in a basement. With me so far?”

O’Shaughnessy nodded.

“Have you ever had any experience with the FBI?”

“No, sir.”

“They tend to think working cops are stupid. They like to keep us in the dark. It’s fun for them.”

“It’s a little game they play,” said Noyes, with a small bob of his shiny head. It was hard to make a crew cut look oily, but somehow Noyes managed.

“That’s exactly right,” Custer said. “You know what we’re saying, Patrick?”

“Sure.” They were saying he was about to get some shit-stink assignment involving the FBI: that’s what he knew.

“Good. For some reason, we’ve got an FBI agent poking around the site. He won’t say why he’s interested. He’s not even local, from New Orleans, believe it or not. But the guy’s got pull. I’m still looking into it. The boys in the New York office don’t like him any more than we do. They told me some stories about him, and I didn’t like what I heard. Wherever this guy goes, trouble follows. You with me?”