preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第40部分

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ties。
　Placing　the　hypodermic　gently　aside；　he　reached　for　the　leather…bound　journal；　turned　over　the　front　cover。　Abruptly；　a　new　smell　was　introduced　into　the　room：　must；　rot；　deposition。　He　was　always　struck　by　the　irony　of　how　a　volume　that；　over　the　years；　had　itself　grown　so　decayed　managed　to　contain　the　secret　that　banished　decay。
　He　turned　the　pages；　slowly；　lovingly；　examining　the　early　years　of　painstaking　work　and　research。　At　last；　he　reached　the　end；　where　the　notations　were　still　new　and　fresh。　He　unscrewed　the　fountain　pen　and　laid　it　by　the　last　entry；　ready　to　record　his　new　observations。
　He　would　have　liked　to　linger　further　but　did　not　dare：　the　serum　required　a　specific　temperature　and　was　not　stable　beyond　a　brief　interval。　He　scanned　the　tabletop　with　a　sigh　of　something　almost　like　regret。　Though　of　course　it　was　not　regret；　because　in　the　wake　of　the　injection　would　e　nullification　of　corporeal　poisons　and　oxidants　and　the　arresting　of　the　aging　process…in　short；　that　which　had　evaded　the　best　minds　for　three　dozen　centuries。
　More　quickly　now；　he　picked　up　the　rubber　strap；　tied　it　off　above　the　elbow　of　his　right　arm；　tapped　the　rising　vein　with　the　side　of　a　fingernail；　placed　the　needle　against　the　antecubital　fossa；　slid　it　home。
　And　closed　his　eyes。
　
　TEN
　　
　NORA　WALKED　AWAY　from　the　red　gingerbread　Peekskill　station；　squinting　against　the　bright　morning　sun。　It　had　been　raining　when　she'd　boarded　the　train　at　Grand　Central。　But　here；　only　a　few　small　clouds　dotted　the　blue　sky　above　the　old　riverfront　downtown。　Three…story　brick　buildings　were　set　close　together；　faded　facades　looking　toward　the　Hudson。　Behind　them；　narrow　streets　climbed　away　from　the　river；　toward　the　public　library　and　City　Hall。　Farther　still；　perched　on　the　rocky　hillside；　lay　the　houses　of　the　old　neighborhoods；　their　narrow　lawns　dotted　with　ancient　trees。　Between　the　aging　structures　lay　a　scattering　of　smaller　and　newer　houses；　a　car　repair　shop；　the　occasional　Spanish…American　mini…market。　Everything　looked　shabby　and　superannuated。　It　was　a　proud　old　town　in　unfortable　transition；　clutching　to　its　dignity　in　the　face　of　decay　and　neglect。
　She　checked　the　directions　Clara　McFadden　had　given　her　over　the　telephone；　then　began　climbing　Central　Avenue。　She　turned　right　on　Washington；　her　old　leather　portfolio　swinging　from　one　hand；　working　her　way　toward　Simpson　Place。　It　was　a　steep　climb；　and　she　found　herself　panting　slightly。　Across　the　river；　the　ramparts　of　Bear　Mountain　could　be　glimpsed　through　the　trees：　a　patchwork　of　autumnal　yellows　and　reds；　interspersed　with　darker　stands　of　spruce　and　pine。
　Clara　McFadden's　house　was　a　dilapidated　Queen　Anne；　with　a　slate　mansard　roof；　gables；　and　a　pair　of　turrets　decorated　with　oriel　windows。　The　white　paint　was　peeling。　A　wraparound　porch　surrounded　the　first　floor；　set　off　by　a　spindlework　frieze。　As　she　walked　up　the　short　drive；　the　wind　blew　through　the　trees；　sending　leaves　swirling　around　her。　She　mounted　the　porch　and　rang　the　heavy　bronze　bell。
　A　minute　passed；　then　two。　She　was　about　to　ring　again　when　she　remembered　the　old　lady　had　told　her　to　walk　in。
　She　grasped　the　large　bronze　knob　and　pushed；　the　door　swung　open　with　the　creak　of　rarely　used　hinges。　She　stepped　into　an　entryway；　hanging　her　coat　on　a　lone　hook。　There　was　a　smell　of　dust；　old　fabric；　and　cats。　A　worn　set　of　stairs　swept　upward；　and　to　her　right　she　could　see　a　broad　arched　doorway；　framed　in　carved　oak；　leading　into　what　looked　like　a　parlor。
　A　voice；　riven　with　age　but　surprisingly　strong；　issued　from　within。　〃Do　e　in；〃　it　said。
　Nora　paused　at　the　entrance　to　the　parlor。　After　the　bright　day　outside；　it　was　shockingly　dim；　the　tall　windows　covered　with　thick　green　drapes　ending　in　gold　tassels。　As　her　eyes　slowly　adjusted；　she　saw　an　old　woman；　dressed　in　crepe　and　dark　bombazine；　ensconced　on　a　Victorian　wing　chair。　It　was　so　dark　that　at　first　all　Nora　could　see　was　a　white　face　and　white　hands；　hovering　as　if　disconnected　in　the　dimness。　The　woman's　eyes　were　half　closed。
　〃Do　not　be　afraid；〃　said　the　disembodied　voice　from　the　deep　chair。
　Nora　took　another　step　inside。　The　white　hand　moved；　indicating　another　wing　chair；　draped　with　a　lace　antimacassar。　〃Sit　down。〃
　Nora　took　a　seat　gingerly。　Dust　rose　from　the　chair。　There　was　a　rustling　sound　as　a　black　cat　shot　from　behind　a　curtain　and　disappeared　into　the　dim　recesses　of　the　room。
　〃Thank　you　for　seeing　me；〃　Nora　said。
　The　bombazine　crackled　as　the　lady　raised　her　head。　〃What　do　you　want；　child？〃
　The　question　was　unexpectedly　direct；　and　the　tone　of　the　voice　behind　it　sharp。
　〃Miss　McFadden；　I　wanted　to　ask　you　about　your　father；　Tinbury　McFadden。〃
　〃My　dear；　you're　going　to　have　to　tell　me　your　name　again。　I　am　an　old　lady　with　a　fading　memory。〃
　〃Nora　Kelly。〃
　The　old　woman's　claw　reached　out　and　pulled　the　chain　of　a　lamp　that　stood　beside　her　chair。　It　had　a　heavy　tasseled　lamp　shade；　and　it　threw　out　a　dim　yellow　light。　Now　Nora　could　see　Clara　McFadden　more　clearly。　Her　face　was　ancient　and　sunken；　pale　veins　showing　through　parchment…paper　skin。　The　lady　examined　her　for　a　few　minutes　with　a　pair　of　glittering　eyes。
　〃Thank　you；　Miss　Kelly；〃　she　said；　turning　off　the　lamp　again。　〃What　exactly　do　you　want　to　know　about　my　father？〃
　Nora　took　a　folder　out　of　the　portfolio；　squinting　through　the　dimness　at　the　questions　she'd　scribbled　on　the　train　north　from　Grand　Central。　She　was　glad　she'd　e　prepared；　the　interview　was　being　unexpectedly　intimidating。
　The　old　woman　picked　up　something　from　a　small　table　beside　the　wing　chair：　an　old…fashioned　pint　bottle　with　a　green　label。　She　poured　a　bit　of　the　liquid　into　a　teaspoon；　swallowed　it；　replaced　the　spoon。　Another　black　cat；　or　perhaps　the　same　one；　leapt　into　the　old　lady's　lap。　She　began　stroking　it　and　it　rumbled　with　pleasure。
　〃Your　father　was　a　curator　at　the　New　York　Museum　of　Natural　History。　He　was　a　colleague　of　John　Canaday　Shottum；　who　owned　a　cabinet　of　curiosities　in　lower　Manhattan。〃
　There　was　no　response　from　the　old　lady。
　〃And　he　was　acquainted　with　a　scientist　by　the　name　of　Enoch　Leng。〃
　Miss　McFadden　seemed　to　grow　very　still。　Then　she　spoke　with　acidic　sharpness；　her　voice　cutting　through　the　heavy　air。　It　was　as　if　the　name　had　woken　her　up。　〃Leng？　What　about　Leng？〃
　〃I　was　curious　if　you　knew　anything　about　Dr。　Leng；　or　had　any　letters　or　papers　relating　to　him。〃
　〃I　certainly　do　know　about　Leng；〃　came　the　shrill　voice。　〃He's　the　man　who　murdered　my　father。〃
　Nora　sat　in　stunned　silence。　There　was　nothing　about　a　murder　in　anything　she　had　read　about　McFadden。　〃I'm　sorry？〃　she　said。
　〃Oh；　I　know　they　all　said　he　merely　disappeared。　But　they　were　wrong。〃
　〃How　do　you　know　this？〃
　There　was　another　rustle。　〃How？　Let　me　tell　you　how。〃
　Miss　McFadden　turned　on　the　light　again；　directing　Nora's　attention　to　a　large；　old　framed　photograph。　It　was　a　faded　portrait　of　a　young　man　in　a　severe；　high…buttoned　suit。　He　was　smiling：　two　silver　front　teeth　gleamed　out　of　the　frame。　A　roguish　eyepatch　covered　one　eye。　The　man　had　Clara　McFadden's　narrow　forehead　and　prominent　cheekbones。
　She　began　to　speak；　her　voice　unnaturally　loud　and　angry。　〃That　was　taken　shortly　after　my　father　lost　his　right　eye　in　Borneo。　He　was　a　collector；　you　must　understand。　As　a　young　man；　he　spent　several　years　in　British　East　Africa。　He　built　up　quite　a　collection　of　African　mammals　and　artifacts　collected　from　the　natives。　When　he　returned　to　New　York　he　became　a　curator　at　the　new　museum　just　started　by　one　of　his　fellow　Lyceum　members。　The　New　York　Museum　of　Natural　History。　It　was　very　different　back　then；　Miss　Kelly。　Most　of　the　early　Museum　curators　were　gentlemen　of　leisure；　like　my　father。　They　did　not　have　systematic　scientific　training。　They　were　amateurs　in　the　best　sense　of　the　word。　My　father　was　always　interested　in　oddities；　queer　things。　You　are　familiar；　Miss　Kelly；　with　the　cabinets　of　curiosities？〃
　〃Yes；〃　Nora　said　as　she　scribbled　notes　as　quickly　as　she　could。　She　wished　she　had　brought　a　voice　recorder。
　〃There　were　quite　a　few　in　New　York　at　the　time。　But　the　New　York