Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

He blinked in the bright fall light, inhaled the crisp air.

Years before — during the time he’d spent writing what had started out as a history of the Museum’s superstition exhibition — Smithback had grown to know the Museum very well. He knew its eccentric ways, the ins and outs, the shortcuts, the curiosa, the hidden corners and miscellaneous archives. If there was any information about Leng hidden within those walls, Smithback would find it.

When the great bronze doors opened, Smithback made sure he buried himself within the throngs, staying as anonymous as possible. He paid the suggested admission and pinned on his button, strolling through the Great Rotunda, gaping like all the others at the soaring skeletons.

Soon he broke away from the tourists and worked his way down to the first floor. One of the least known, but most useful, archives in the Museum was here. Colloquially known as Old Records, it housed cabinet upon filing cabinet of personnel records, running from the Museum’s founding to about 1986, when the system was computerized and moved to a gleaming new space on the fourth floor and given the shiny new name of Human Resources. How well he remembered Old Records: the smell of mothballs and foxed paper, the endless files on long-dead Museum employees, associates, and researchers. Old Records still contained some sensitive material, and Smithback remembered that it was kept locked and guarded. The last time he was in here, it was on official business and he had a signed permission. This time, he was going to have to use a different approach. The guards might recognize him; then again, after several years, they might not.

He walked through the vast Hall of Birds, echoing and empty, considering how best to proceed. Soon he found himself before the twin riveted copper doors labeled Personnel Records, Old. Peering through the crack between them, he could see two guards, sitting at a table, drinking coffee.

Two guards. Twice the chance of being recognized, half the chance of pulling a fast one on them. He had to get rid of one.

He took a turn around the hall, still thinking, as a plan began to take shape. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked out into the corridor, up the stairs, and into the huge Selous Memorial Hall. There, the usual cadre of cheerful old ladies had taken their places at the information desk. Smithback plucked the visitor’s button from his lapel and tossed it in a trash bin. Then he strode up to the nearest lady.

“I’m Professor Smithback,” he said, with a smile.

“Yes, Professor. What can I do for you?” The lady had curly white hair and violet eyes.

Smithback gave her his most charming smile. “May I use your phone?”

“Of course.” The woman handed him the phone from under the desk. Smithback looked through the nearby museum phone book, found the number, and dialed.

“Old Records,” a gruff voice answered.

“Is Rook on duty there?” Smithback barked.

“Rook? There’s no Rook here. You got the wrong number, pal.”

Smithback expelled an irritated stream of air into the phone. “Who’s on in Records, then?”

“It’s me and O’Neal. Who’s this?” The voice was truculent, stupid.

“ ‘Me’? Who’s ‘me’? ”

“What’s your problem, friend?” came the reply.

Smithback put on his coldest, most officious voice. “Allow me to repeat myself. May I be so presumptuous to ask who you are, sir, and whether you want to be written up for insubordination?”

“I’m Bulger, sir.” The guard’s gruff manner wilted instantly.

“Bulger. I see. You’re the man I need to talk to. This is Mr. Hrumrehmen in Human Resources.” He spoke rapidly and angrily, deliberately garbling the name.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. How can I help you, Mr. — ?”

“You certainly can help me, Bulger. There’s a problem here with certain, ah, asseverations in your personnel file, Bulger.”

“What kind of problem?” The man sounded suitably alarmed.

“It’s confidential. We’ll discuss it when you get here.”

“When?”

“ Now, of course.”

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t catch your name—”

“And tell O’Neal I’m sending someone down to review your procedures in the meantime. We’ve had some disturbing reports about laxity.”

“Yes, sir, of course, but—?”

Smithback replaced the phone. He looked up to find the elderly volunteer eyeing him curiously, even suspiciously.

“What was that all about, Professor?”

Smithback grinned and drew a hand over his cowlick. “Just a little trick on a co-worker. We’ve got this running joke, see… Gotta do something to lighten up this old pile.”

She smiled. The dear innocent, Smithback thought a little guiltily as he made a beeline back down the stairs to Old Records. On the way, he passed one of the guards he’d seen through the crack: huffing down the hall, belly jiggling as he walked, panic writ large on his face. The Human Resources office at the Museum was a notoriously feared place, overstaffed like the rest of the administration. It would take the guard ten minutes to get there, ten minutes to wander around looking for the nonexistent Mr. Hrumrehmen, and ten minutes to get back. That would give Smithback thirty minutes to talk his way inside and find what he was looking for. It wasn’t a lot of time, but Smithback knew the Museum’s archival systems inside and out. He had infinite confidence in his ability to find what he needed in short order.

Once again, he strode down the hall to the copper doors of Old Records. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath. Raising one hand, he knocked imperiously.

The door was opened by the remaining security officer. He looked young, barely old enough to be out of high school. He was already spooked. “Yes, how can I help you?”

Smithback grasped the man’s surprised, limp hand while stepping inside at the same time.

“O’Neal? I’m Maurice Fannin from Human Resources. They sent me down here to straighten things out.”

“Straighten things out?”

Smithback slid his way inside, looking at the rows of old metal filing cabinets, the scarred table covered with foam coffee cups and cigarette butts, the piss-yellow walls.

“This is a disgrace,” he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Smithback drilled his eyes into O’Neal. “We’ve been doing a little looking into your area here, and let me tell you, O’Neal, we are not pleased. Not pleased at all.”

O’Neal was immediately and utterly cowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe you should talk to my supervisor, Mr. Bulger—”

“Oh, we are. We’re having a long discussion with him.” Smithback looked around again. “When was the last time you had a file check, for example?”

“A what?”

“A file check. When was the last time, O’Neal?”

“Er, I don’t know what that is. My supervisor didn’t tell me anything about a file check—”

“Strange, he thought you knew all about the procedure. Now, that’s what I mean here, O’Neal: sloppy. Very sloppy. Well, from now on, we will be requiring a monthly file check.” Smithback narrowed his eyes, strode over to a filing cabinet, pulled on a drawer. It was, as he expected, locked.

“It’s locked,” said the guard.

“I can see that. Any idiot can see that.” He rattled the handle. “Where’s the key?”

“Over there.” The poor guard nodded toward a wall box. It, too, was locked.

It occurred to Smithback that the climate of fear and intimidation the new Museum administration had fostered was proving most helpful. The man was so terrified, the last thing he would think of doing was challenging Smithback or asking for his ID.