Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

The applicant will please state his permanent domicile and his current lodgings in New York, if different:

Prof. Enoch Leng

891 Riverside Drive,

New York New York

Research laboratory at

Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities

Catherine Street, New York

New York

The applicant will please attach a list of publications, and will supply offprints of at least two for the review of the Committee.

Smithback looked through the papers, but realized he had missed this crucial piece.

The disposition of the Committee is presented below:

Professor is hereby given permission to the free and open use of the Collections and Library of the New York Museum of Natural History, this 27th Day of March, 1870.

Authorized Signatory: Tinbury McFadden

Signed: E. Leng.

Smithback swore under his breath. He felt abruptly deflated. This was thin — thin indeed. It was too bad that Leng hadn’t gotten his degree in America — that would have been much easier to follow up. But maybe he could pry the information out of Oxford over the telephone — although it was possible the academic honors were false. The list of publications would have been much easier to check, and far most interesting, but there was no way he could go back and get it now. It had been such a good idea, and he’d pulled it off so well. Damn.

Smithback searched through the papers again. No photograph, no curriculum vitae, no biography giving place and date of birth. The only thing here at all was an address.

Damn. Damn.

But then, a new thought came to him. He recalled the address was what Nora had been trying to find. Here, at least, was a peace offering.

Smithback did a quick calculation: 891 Riverside lay uptown, in Harlem somewhere. There were a lot of old mansions still standing along that stretch of Riverside Drive: those that remained were mostly abandoned or broken up into apartments. Chances were, of course, that Leng’s house had been torn down a long time ago. But there was a chance it might still stand. That might make a good picture, even if it was an old wreck. Especially if it was an old wreck. Come to think of it, there might even be bodies buried about the premises, or walled up in the basement. Perhaps Leng’s own body might be there, moldering in a corner. That would please O’Shaughnessy, help Nora. And what a great capstone for his own article — the investigative journalist finding the corpse of America’s first serial killer. Of course, it was very unlikely, but even so…

Smithback checked his watch. Almost one o’clock.

Oh, God. Such a brilliant bit of detective work and all he’d really got was the damn address. Well, it was a matter of an hour or two to simply go check and see if the house was still standing.

Smithback stuffed the papers back into his pocket and strolled to Central Park West. There wasn’t much point in flagging down a cab — they’d refuse to take him that far uptown, and once there he’d never find a cab to take him home again. Even though it was broad daylight, he had no intention of doing any wandering around in that dangerous neighborhood.

The best thing to do might be to rent a car. The Times had a special arrangement with Hertz, and there was a branch not far away on Columbus. Now that he thought about it, if the house did still exist, he’d probably want to check inside, talk to current tenants, find out if anything unusual had come to light during renovations, that sort of thing.

It might be dark before he was through.

That did it: he was renting a car.

Forty-five minutes later, he was heading up Central Park West in a silver Taurus. His spirits had risen once again. This still could be a big story. After he’d checked on the house, he could do a search of the New York Public Library, see if he could turn up any published articles of Leng. Maybe he could even search the police files to see if anything unusual had happened in the vicinity of Leng’s house during the time he was alive.

There were still a lot of strong leads to follow up here. Leng could be as big as Jack the Ripper. The similarities were there. All it took was a journalist to make it come alive.

With enough information, this could be his next book.

He, Smithback, would be a shoo-in for that Pulitzer which always seemed to elude him. And even more important — well, just as important, at least — he’d have a chance to square himself with Nora. This would save her and Pendergast a lot of time wading through city deeds. And it would please Pendergast, who he sensed was a silent ally. Yes: all in all, this was going to work out well.

Reaching the end of the park, he headed west on Cathedral Parkway, then turned north onto Riverside Drive. As he passed 125th Street he slowed, scanning the addresses of the broken buildings. Six Hundred Seventy. Seven Hundred One. Another ten blocks went by. As he continued north, he slowed still further, holding his breath in anticipation.

And then his eye alighted on 891 Riverside Drive.

The house was still standing. He couldn’t believe his luck: Leng’s own house.

He gave it a long, searching look as he passed by, then turned right at the next street, 138th, and circled the block, heart beating fast.

Eight Ninety-one was an old Beaux Arts mansion that took up the entire block, sporting a pillared entryway, festooned with Baroque Revival decorations. There was even a damn coat of arms carved above the door. It was set back from the street by a small service road, forming a triangle-shaped island that adjoined Riverside Drive. There were no rows of buzzers beside the door, and the first-floor windows had been securely boarded up and covered with tin. The place, it seemed, had never been broken into apartments. Like so many old mansions along the Drive, it had simply been abandoned years before — too expensive to maintain, too expensive to tear down, too expensive to revamp. Almost all such buildings had reverted to the city for unpaid taxes. The city simply boarded them up and warehoused them.

He leaned over the passenger seat, squinting for a better look. The upper-story windows were not boarded up, and none of the panes appeared to be broken. It was perfect. It looked just like the house of a mass murderer. Front page photo, here we come. Smithback could just see his story generating a police search of the place, the discovery of more bodies. This was getting better and better.

So how best to proceed? A little peek through a window might be in order — provided he could find a place to park.

Pulling away from the curb, he circled the block again, then drove down Riverside, looking for a parking spot. Considering how poor the neighborhood was, there were a remarkable number of cars: junkers, aging Eldorado pimpmobiles, fancy SUVs with huge speakers tilting up from their rear beds. It was six or seven blocks before he finally found a semilegal parking spot on a side street off Riverside. He should have hired a livery driver, damn it, and had him wait while he inspected the house. Now, he had to walk nine blocks through Harlem. Just what he had tried to avoid.

Nudging the rental car into the space, he glanced carefully around. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and — quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention — walked back up to 137th Street.

When he reached the corner, he slowed, sauntering down the block until he came to the porte-cochère entrance. Here, he paused to look at the house more carefully, trying to look as casual as possible.

It had once been very grand: a four-story structure of marble and brick, with a slate mansard roof, oval windows, towers, and a widow’s walk. The facade was encrusted with carved limestone details set into brick. The streetfront was surrounded by a tall spiked iron fence, broken and rusty. The yard was filled with weeds and trash, along with a riot of sumac and ailanthus bushes and a pair of dead oaks. Its dark-browed upper-story windows looked out over the Hudson and the North River Water Pollution Control Plant.