It was at that point, I believe, that I first noticed the sound.
To my left, there was a table I had not taken note of before. A large oilcloth had been spread over it, covering something large and rather bulky. As I watched, the faint sound came again, from beneath the oilcloth: the sound of some animal dispossessed of tongue, palate, vocal cords.
I cannot explain where I found the strength to approach it, other than my own overpowering need to know. I stepped forward, and then—before my resolution could falter—I gripped the greasy cloth and drew it away.
The sight uncovered in that dim light will haunt me until my last day. It lay upon its stomach. A gaping hole lay where the base of the spine had once been. The sound I had heard was, it seemed to me, the escaping gases of decay.
You might have thought me incapable of registering fresh shock at this point. Yet I noticed, with a rising sense of unreality, that both the corpse and the wound appeared fresh.
I hesitated for perhaps five, perhaps ten seconds. Then I drew closer, my mind possessed by one thought, and one thought only. Could this be the body that had bled so profusely on Leng’s floor? How, then, to explain the rawness of the wound? Was it possible—even conceivable—that Leng would make use of two corpses within the span of a single week?
I had come this far: I had to know all. I reached forward, gingerly, to turn the body and check its lividity.
The skin felt supple, the flesh warm in the humid summer cellar. As I turned the body over and the face was exposed, I saw to my transcendent horror that a blood-soaked rag had been knotted around the mouth. I snatched my hand away; the thing rolled back onto the table, face upwards.
I stepped back, reeling. In my shock, I did not immediately understand the terrible import of that blood-soaked rag. I think if I had, I would have turned and fled that place—and in so doing been spared the final horror.
For it was then, McFadden, that the eyes above the rag fluttered open. They had once been human, but pain and terror had riven all humanity from their expression.
As I stood, transfixed by fear, there came another low moan.
It was, I knew now, not gas escaping from a corpse. And this was not the work of a man who trafficked with body snatchers, with corpses stolen from graveyards. This poor creature on the table was still alive. Leng practiced his abominable work on those who
still lived.
Even as I watched, the horrible, pitiable thing on the table moaned once more, then expired. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to replace the body as I had found it, cover it with the oilcloth, close the door, and climb up out of that charnel pit into the land of the living…
I have barely moved from my chambers within the Cabinet since. I have been trying to gather courage for what I know in my heart remains to be done. You must see now, dear colleague, that there can be no mistake, no other explanation, for what I found in the basement. Leng’s journal was far too comprehensive, too diabolically detailed, for there to be any misapprehension. As further evidence, on the attached sheet I have reproduced, from memory, some of the scientific observations and procedures this monstrous man recorded within its pages. I would go to the police, except I feel that only I can—
But hark! I hear his footstep on the stair even now. I must return this letter to its hiding place and conclude tomorrow.
God give me the strength for what I must now do.
R
OGER
B
RISBANE LEANED BACK IN HIS OFFICE CHAIR, HIS EYES ROAMING
the glass expanse of desk that lay before him. It was a long, enjoyable perambulation: Brisbane liked order, purity, simplicity, and the desk shone with a mirror-like perfection. At last, his gaze came to the case of jewels. It was that time of day when a lance of sunlight shot through the case, turning its occupants into glittering spheres and ovals of entangled light and color. One could call an emerald “green” or a sapphire “blue,” but the words did no justice to the actual colors. There were no adequate words for such colors in any human language.
Jewels. They lasted forever, so hard and cold and pure, so impervious to decay. Always beautiful, always perfect, always as fresh as the day they were born in unimaginable heat and pressure. So unlike human beings, with their opaque rubbery flesh and their odoriferous descent from birth to the grave—a story of drool, semen, and tears. He should have become a gemologist. He would have been much happier surrounded by these blooms of pure light. The law career his father had chosen for him was nothing more than a vile parade of human failure. And his job in the Museum brought him in contact with that failure, day in and day out, in stark illumination.
He turned to lean over a computer printout with a sigh. It was now clear the Museum should never have borrowed one hundred million for its new state-of-the-art planetarium. More cuts were needed. Heads would have to roll. Well, at least that shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish. The Museum was full of useless, tweedy, overpaid curators and functionaries, always whining about budget cuts, never answering their phones, always off on some research trip spending the Museum’s money or writing books that nobody ever read. Cushy jobs, sinecures, unable to be fired because of tenure—unless exceptional circumstances existed.
He put the printout through a nearby shredder, then opened a drawer and pulled out several tied packets of inter-office correspondence. The mail of a dozen likely candidates, intercepted thanks to a man in the mailroom who had been caught organizing a Super Bowl pool on Museum time. With any luck, he’d find plenty of exceptional circumstances inside. It was easier—and easier to justify—than scanning e-mail.
Brisbane shuffled the packets without interest. Then he stopped, glancing at one of them. Here was a case in point: this man Puck. He sat in the Archives all day long, doing what? Nothing, except causing trouble for the Museum.
He untied the packet, riffled through the envelopes within. On the front and back of each were dozens of lines for addresses. The envelopes had a little red tie string and could be reused until they fell apart, simply by adding a new name to the next blank line. And there, on the second-to-last line was Puck’s name. And following it was Nora’s name.
Brisbane’s hand tightened around the envelope. What was it that arrogant FBI agent, Pendergast, had said?
Most of the work will be archival in nature.
He unwound the string and slid out a single piece of paper. A whiff of dust rose from the envelope and Brisbane hastily raised a protective tissue to his nose. Holding the paper at arm’s length, he read:
Dear Dr. Kelly,
I found another small box of papers on Shottum’s Cabinet, which somehow had been recently misplaced. Not nearly as astonishing as what you have already uncovered, yet interesting in its own way. I will leave it for you in the Archives Reading Room.
P.
Color crept into Brisbane’s face, then drained out again. It was just as he thought: she was still working for that arrogant FBI agent, and she was continuing to enlist Puck’s help. This thing had to be stopped. And Puck had to go.
Just look at this note,
Brisbane thought: manually typed on what was clearly an ancient typewriter. The very inefficiency of it made Brisbane’s blood boil. The Museum was not a welfare program for eccentrics. Puck was a fossilized anachronism who should have been put out to pasture long before. He would gather suitable evidence, then draw up a recommended termination list for the next Executive Committee meeting. Puck’s name would be at the top.
But what about Nora? He remembered the words of the Museum director, Collopy, at their recent meeting.
Doucement, doucement,
the director had murmured.
And softly it would be. For now.
S
MITHBACK STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, MIDWAY BETWEEN
C
OLUMBUS AND
Amsterdam, gazing speculatively up at the red-brick facade before him. One hundred eight West Ninety-ninth Street was a broad, prewar apartment house, unembarrassed by any distinguishing architecture, bright in the noonday sun. The bland exterior didn’t bother him. What mattered lay within: a rent-stabilized, two-bedroom apartment, near the Museum, for only eighteen hundred a month.
He stepped back toward the street, giving the neighborhood a once-over. It wasn’t the most charming Upper West Side neighborhood he had seen, but it had possibilities. Two bums sat on a nearby stoop, drinking something out of a paper bag. He glanced at his watch. Nora would be arriving in five minutes. Christ, this was going to be an uphill battle anyway, if only those bums would take a walk around the corner. He fished into his pocket, found a five dollar bill, and sauntered over.
“Nice day if it don’t rain,” he said.
The bums eyed him suspiciously.
Smithback brandished the five. “Hey, guys, go buy yourself lunch, okay?”
One of them grinned, exposing a row of decaying teeth. “For five bucks? Man, you can’t buy a cup of Starbucks for five bucks. And my legs hurt.”
“Yeah,” said the other, wiping his nose.
Smithback pulled out a twenty.
“Oh, my aching legs—”
“Take it or leave it.”
The closest bum took the twenty and the pair rose to their feet with histrionic groans and sniffles. Soon they were shuffling toward the corner, heading no doubt to the nearby liquor store on Broadway. Smithback watched their retreating backs. At least they were harmless rummys, and not crackheads or worse. He glanced around and saw, right on schedule, a blade-thin woman in black come clicking down the block, a bright, fake lipstick smile on her face. The real estate broker.
“You must be Mr. Smithback,” she said in a smoker’s croak as she took his hand. “I’m Millie Locke. I have the key to the apartment. Is your, er, partner here?”
“There she is now.” Nora had just rounded the corner, cotton trenchcoat billowing, knapsack thrown over her shoulder. She waved.
When Nora arrived the agent took her hand, saying, “How lovely.”
They entered a dingy lobby, lined on the left with mailboxes and on the right with a large mirror: a feeble attempt to make the narrow hall look bigger than it actually was. They pressed the button for the elevator. There was a whir and a rattle somewhere overhead.
“It’s a perfect location,” said Smithback to Nora. “Twenty-minute walk to the Museum, close to the subway station, a block and a half from the park.”
Nora did not respond. She was staring at the elevator door, and she did not look happy.
The elevator creaked open and they stepped in. Smithback waited out the excruciatingly long ride, silently willing the damn elevator to hurry up. He had the unpleasant feeling that he, not just the apartment, was undergoing an inspection.
At last they got out at the sixth floor, took a right in a dim hallway, and stopped in front of a brown metal door with an eyehole set into it. The real estate broker unlocked four separate locks and swung the door open.
Smithback was pleasantly surprised. The apartment faced the street, and it was cleaner than he expected. The floors were oak; a bit warped, but oak nevertheless. One wall was exposed brick, the others painted sheetrock.
“Hey, what do you think?” he said brightly. “Pretty nice, huh?”
Nora said nothing.
“It’s the bargain of the century,” said the broker. “Eighteen hundred dollars, rent-stabilized. A/C. Great location. Bright, quiet.”
The kitchen had old appliances, but was clean. The bedrooms were sunny with south-facing windows, which gave the little rooms a feeling of space.
They stopped in the middle of the living room. “Well, Nora,” Smithback asked, feeling uncharacteristically shy, “what do you think?”
Nora’s face was dark, her brow furrowed. This did not look good. The real estate broker withdrew a few feet, to give them the pretense of privacy.
“It’s nice,” she said.
“Nice? Eighteen hundred bucks a month for an Upper West Side two-bedroom? In a prewar building? It’s
awesome.”
The real estate broker leaned back toward them. “You’re the first to see it. I guarantee you it’ll be gone before sunset.” She fumbled in her purse, removed a cigarette and a lighter, flicked on the lighter, and then with both hands poised inches apart, asked, “May I?”
“Are you all right?” Smithback asked Nora.
Nora waved her hand, took a step toward the window. She appeared to be looking intently at something far away.
“You did talk to your landlord about moving out, didn’t you?”
“No, not quite yet.”
Smithback felt his heart sink a little. “You haven’t
told
him?”
She shook her head.
The sinking feeling grew more pronounced. “Come on, Nora. I thought we’d decided on this.”
She looked out a window. “This is a big move for me, Bill. I mean, living together…” Her voice trailed off.
Smithback glanced around at the apartment. The real estate broker caught his eye, quickly looked away. He lowered his voice. “Nora, you do love me, right?”
She continued looking out the window. “Of course. But… this is just a really bad day for me, okay?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re engaged.”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Not talk about it? Nora,
this
is the apartment. We’re never going to find a better one. Let’s settle the broker’s fee.”
“Broker’s fee?”
Smithback turned to the agent. “What did you say your fee was for this place?”
The agent exhaled a cloud of smoke, gave a little cough. “I’m glad you asked. It’s quite reasonable. Of course, you can’t just
rent
an apartment like this. I’m doing you a special favor just showing it to you.”
“So how much is this fee?” Nora asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen what? Dollars?”
“Percent. Of the first year’s rent, that is.”
“But that’s—” Nora frowned, did the calculation in her head. “That’s close to four thousand dollars.”
“It’s cheap, considering what you’re getting. And I promise you, if you don’t go for it, the next person will.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. That’s how much time you have to make your decision.”