preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第42部分

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m　memory：　'a　cadaverousness　of　plexion；　an　eye　large；　liquid；　and　very　luminous　。　。　。　finely　molded　chin；　speaking；　in　its　want　of　prominence；　of　a　want　of　moral　energy。'　Leng　had　blond　hair；　blue　eyes；　an　aquiline　nose。　Old…fashioned　black　coat；　formally　dressed。〃
　〃That's　a　very　vivid　description。〃
　〃Leng　was　the　kind　of　person　who　stayed　with　you　long　after　he　was　gone。　And　yet；　you　know；　it　was　his　voice　I　remember　most。　It　was　low；　resonant；　strongly　accented；　with　the　peculiar　quality　of　sounding　like　two　people　speaking　in　unison。〃
　The　gloom　that　filled　the　parlor　seemed　inexplicably　to　deepen。　Nora　swallowed。　She　had　already　asked　all　the　questions　she　had　planned　to。　〃Thank　you　very　much　for　your　time；　Ms。　McFadden；〃　she　said　as　she　rose。
　〃Why　do　you　bring　all　this　up　now？〃　the　old　lady　asked　abruptly。
　Nora　realized　that　she　must　not　have　seen　the　newspaper　article　or　heard　anything　about　the　recent　copycat　killings　of　the　Surgeon。　She　wondered　just　what　she　should　say。　She　looked　about　the　room；　dark；　frozen　in　shadowy　Victorian　clutter。　She　did　not　want　to　be　the　one　to　upset　this　woman's　world。
　〃I'm　researching　the　early　cabinets　of　curiosities。〃
　The　old　lady　transfixed　her　with　a　glittering　eye。　〃An　interesting　subject；　child。　And　perhaps　a　dangerous　one。〃
　
　ELEVEN
　　
　SPECIAL　AGENT　PENDERGAST　lay　in　the　hospital　bed；　motionless　save　for　his　pale　eyes。　He　watched　Nora　Kelly　leave　the　room　and　close　the　door。　He　glanced　over　at　the　wall　clock：　nine　P。M。　precisely。　A　good　time　to　begin。
　He　thought　back　over　each　word　Nora　had　uttered　during　her　visit；　looking　for　any　trivial　fact　or　passing　reference　that　he　might　have　overlooked　on　first　hearing。　But　there　was　nothing　more。
　Her　visit　to　Peekskill　had　confirmed　his　darkest　suspicions：　Pendergast　had　long　believed　Leng　killed　Shottum　and　burned　the　cabinet。　And　he　felt　sure　that　McFadden's　disappearance　was　also　at　the　hands　of　Leng。　No　doubt　Shottum　had　challenged　Leng　shortly　after　placing　his　letter　in　the　elephant's…foot　box。　Leng　had　murdered　him；　and　covered　it　up　with　the　fire。
　Yet　the　most　pressing　questions　remained。　Why　had　Leng　chosen　the　cabinet　as　his　base　of　operations？　Why　did　he　begin　volunteering　his　services　at　the　houses　of　industry　a　year　before　killing　Shottum？　And　where　did　he　relocate　his　laboratory　after　the　cabinet　burned？
　In　Pendergast's　experience；　serial　killers　were　messy：　they　were　incautious；　they　left　clues。　But　Leng　was；　of　course；　very　different。　He　was　not；　strictly　speaking；　a　serial　killer。　He　had　been　remarkably　clever。　Leng　had　left　a　kind　of　negative　imprint　wherever　he　went；　the　man　seemed　defined　by　how　little　was　known　about　him。　There　was　more　to　be　learned；　but　it　was　deeply　hidden　in　the　masses　of　information　strewn　about　his　hospital　room。　There　was　only　one　way　to　coax　this　information　out。　Research　alone　would　not　suffice。
　And　then　there　was　the　growing　problem　of　his　increasing　lack　of　objectivity　regarding　this　case；　his　growing　emotional　involvement。　If　he　did　not　bring　himself　sharply　under　control；　if　he　did　not　reassert　his　habitual　discipline；　he　would　fail。　And　he　could　not　fail。
　It　was　time　to　make　his　journey。
　Pendergast's　gaze　shifted　to　the　massings　of　books；　maps；　and　old　periodicals　that　filled　half　a　dozen　surgical　carts　in　his　room。　His　eyes　moved　from　surface　to　tottering　surface。　The　single　most　important　piece　of　paper　lay　on　his　bedside　table：　the　plans　for　Shottum's　Cabinet。　One　last　time；　he　picked　it　up　and　gazed　at　it；　memorizing　every　detail。　The　seconds　ticked　on。　He　laid　down　the　yellowing　plat。
　It　was　time。　But　first；　something　had　to　be　done　about　the　intolerable　landscape　of　noise　that　surrounded　him。
　After　his　condition　was　upgraded　from　serious　to　stable；　Pendergast　had　himself　transferred　from　St。　Luke's…Roosevelt　to　Lenox　Hill　Hospital。　The　old　facility　on　Lexington　Avenue　had　the　thickest　walls　of　any　building　in　the　city；　save　for　his　own　Dakota。　Even　here；　however；　he　was　assaulted　by　sounds：　the　bleat　of　the　blood…oxygen　meter　above　his　bed；　the　gossiping　voices　at　the　nurses'　station；　the　hissings　and　beepings　of　the　telemetry　machines　and　ventilators；　the　adenoidal　patient　snoring　in　the　adjacent　room；　the　rumble　of　the　forced…air　ducts　deep　in　the　walls　and　ceiling。　There　was　nothing　he　could　do　that　would　physically　stop　these　sounds；　yet　they　could　be　made　to　disappear　through　other　means。　It　was　a　powerful　mind　game　he　had　developed；　an　adaptation　of　Chongg　Ran；　an　ancient　Bhutanese　Buddhist　meditative　practice。
　Pendergast　closed　his　eyes。　He　imagined　a　chessboard　inside　his　head；　on　a　wooden　table；　standing　in　a　pool　of　yellow　light。　Then　he　created　two　players。　The　first　player　made　his　opening　move；　the　second　followed。　A　game　of　speed　chess　ensued；　and　then　another；　and　another。　The　two　players　changed　strategies；　forming　adaptive　counterattacks：　Inverted　Hanham；　Two　Knights　Defense；　Vienna　Gambit。
　One　by　one；　the　more　distant　noises　dropped　away。
　When　the　final　game　ended　in　a　draw；　Pendergast　dissolved　the　chess　set。　Then；　in　the　darkness　of　his　mind's　eye；　he　created　four　players；　seated　around　a　card　table。　Pendergast　had　always　found　bridge　a　nobler　and　subtler　game　than　chess；　but　he　rarely　played　it　with　others　because；　outside　of　his　late　family；　he　had　found　few　worthy　partners。　Now　the　game　began；　each　player　ignorant　of　all　but　his　own　thirteen　cards；　each　player　with　his　own　strategies　and　intellectual　capabilities。　The　game　began；　with　ruffs　and　slams　and　deep　finesses。　Pendergast　toyed　with　the　players；　shifting　Blackwood；　Gerber；　and　Stayman　conventions；　positing　a　forgetful　declarer；　misunderstood　signals　between　East　and　West。
　By　the　time　the　first　rubber　was　pleted；　all　distractions　were　gone。　The　noises　had　ceased。　In　his　mind；　only　a　profound　silence　reigned。　Pendergast　turned　further　inward。
　It　was　time　for　the　memory　crossing　to　begin。
　Several　minutes　of　intense　mental　concentration　passed。　Finally；　he　felt　ready。
　In　his　mind's　eye；　he　rose　from　his　bed。　He　felt　light；　airy；　like　a　ghost。　He　saw　himself　walk　through　the　empty　hospital　corridors；　down　the　stairwell；　across　the　arched　foyer；　and　out　onto　the　wide　front　steps　of　the　hospital。
　Only　the　building　was　no　longer　a　hospital。　A　hundred　and　twenty　years　before；　it　had　been　known　as　the　New　York　Rest　Home　for　Consumptives。
　Pendergast　stood　on　the　steps　for　a　moment；　glancing　around　in　the　gathering　dusk。　To　the　west；　toward　Central　Park；　the　Upper　East　Side　had　bee　a　patchwork　of　hog　farms；　wild　lands；　and　rocky　eminences。　Small　groups　of　hovels　sprouted　up　here　and　there；　huddled　together　as　if　for　protection　against　the　elements。　Gas　lamps　stood　along　the　avenue；　infrequent　this　far　north　of　the　populous　downtown；　throwing　small　circles　of　light　down　onto　the　dusky　macadam。
　The　prospect　was　vague；　indistinct：　detail　at　this　location　was　unimportant。　Pendergast　did；　however；　allow　himself　to　sample　the　air。　It　smelled　strongly　of　coal　smoke；　damp　earth；　and　horse　manure。
　He　descended　the　steps；　turning　onto　Seventy…sixth　Street　and　walking　east　toward　the　river。　Here　it　was　more　thickly　settled；　newer　brownstones　abutting　old　wood…and…frame　structures。　Carriages　swayed　down　the　straw…strewn　street。　People　passed　him　silently；　the　men　dressed　in　long　suits　with　thin　lapels；　women　in　bustles　and　veiled　hats。
　At　the　next　intersection　he　boarded　a　streetcar；　paying　five　cents　for　the　ride　down　to　Forty…second　Street。　There；　he　transferred　to　the　Bowery　&　Third　Avenue　elevated　railway；　paying　another　twenty　cents。　This　extravagant　price　ensured　him　a　palace　car；　with　curtained　windows　and　plush　seats。　The　steam　lootive　heading　the　train　was　named　the　Chauncey　M。　Depew。　As　it　hurtled　southward；　Pendergast　sat　without　moving　in　his　velveteen　chair。　Slowly；　he　allowed　sound　to　intrude　once　more　into　his　world：　first　the　clatter　of　the　wheels　on　the　tracks；　and　then　the　chatter　of　his　passengers。　They　were　engrossed　with　the　concerns　of　1881：　the　president's　recovery　and　the　imminent　removal　of　the　pistol　ball；　the　Columbia　Yacht　Club　sailing　regatta　on　the　Hudson　earlier　that　afternoon；　the　miraculous　curative　properties