preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第59部分

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　〃Thirteen　hundred　and　five；　to　be　exact。　Which　brings　me　to　the　glassware。〃
　Pendergast　silently　took　another　turn　around　the　table；　then　reached　out　and　picked　up　a　fragment　of　glass　with　a　pair　of　rubber…tipped　tweezers；　holding　it　into　the　light。
　〃I　analyzed　the　residue　on　this　glass。　It　had　been　carefully　washed；　but　with　modern　methods　one　can　detect　substances　down　to　parts　per　trillion。　There　was　a　very　curious　mix　of　chemicals　on　this　glassware。　I　found　similar　chemicals　on　the　glass　bits　I　recovered　from　the　floor　of　the　charnel。　Quite　a　frightening　mixture；　when　you　begin　to　break　it　down。　And　there　was　one　rare　organic　chemical；　1；2　alumino　phosphocyanate；　the　ingredients　for　which　could　only　be　purchased　in　five　chemists'　shops　in　Manhattan　at　the　time；　between　1890　and　1918；　when　Leng　appears　to　have　used　his　downtown　laboratory。　Sergeant　O'Shaughnessy　was　most　helpful　in　tracking　down　their　locations。〃
　He　made　five　dots　on　the　map　with　his　marker。
　〃Let　us　first　assume　Dr。　Leng　purchased　his　chemicals　at　the　most　convenient　place。　As　you　can　see；　there　is　no　shop　near　his　lab　downtown；　so　let　us　postulate　he　purchased　his　chemicals　near　his　house　uptown。　We　can　thus　eliminate　these　two　East　Side　shops。　That　leaves　three　on　the　West　Side。　But　this　one　is　too　far　downtown；　so　we　can　eliminate　it　as　well。〃　He　made　crosses　through　three　of　the　five　dots。　〃That　leaves　these　two　others。　The　question　is；　which　one？〃
　Once　again；　his　question　was　greeted　by　silence。　Pendergast　laid　down　the　piece　of　glass　and　circled　the　table　yet　again；　then　stopped　in　front　of　the　map。　〃He　shopped　at　neither　one。〃
　He　paused。　〃Because　1；2　alumino　phosphocyanate　is　a　dangerous　poison。　A　person　buying　it　might　attract　attention。　So　let　us　assume；　instead；　that　he　shopped　at　the　chemist　farthest　from　his　haunts：　his　house；　the　Museum；　the　downtown　lab。　A　place　where　he　would　not　be　recognized。　Clearly；　that　has　to　be　this　one；　here；　on　East　Twelfth　Street。　New　Amsterdam　Chemists。〃　He　drew　a　line　around　the　dot。　〃This　is　where　Leng　shopped　for　his　chemicals。〃
　Pendergast　spun　around；　pacing　back　and　forth　before　the　map。　〃In　a　stroke　of　good　fortune；　it　turns　out　New　Amsterdam　Chemists　is　still　in　business。　There　may　be　records；　even　be　some　residual　memory。〃　He　turned　to　O'Shaughnessy。　〃I　will　ask　you　to　investigate。　Visit　the　establishment；　and　check　their　old　records。　Then　search　for　old　people　who　grew　up　in　the　neighborhood；　if　necessary。　Treat　it　as　you　would　a　police　investigation。〃
　〃Yes；　sir。〃
　There　was　a　brief　silence。　Then　Pendergast　spoke　again。
　〃I'm　convinced　Dr。　Leng　didn't　live　on　any　of　the　side　streets　between　Broadway　and　Riverside　Drive。　He　lived　on　Riverside　Drive　itself。　That　would　narrow　things　down　from　over　a　thousand　buildings　to　less　than　a　hundred。〃
　O'Shaughnessy　stared　at　him。　〃How　do　you　know　Leng　lived　on　the　Drive？〃
　〃The　grand　houses　were　all　along　Riverside　Drive。　You　can　still　see　them；　mostly　broken　up　into　tiny　apartments　or　abandoned　now；　but　they're　still　there…some　of　them；　anyway。　Do　you　really　think　Leng　would　have　lived　on　a　side　street；　in　middle…class　housing？　This　man　had　a　great　deal　of　money。　I've　been　thinking　about　it　for　some　time。　He　wouldn't　want　a　place　that　could　be　walled　in　by　future　construction。　He'd　want　light；　a　healthy　flow　of　fresh　air；　and　a　pleasant　view　of　the　river。　A　view　that　could　never　be　obstructed。　I　know　he　would。〃
　〃But　how　do　you　know？〃　O'Shaughnessy　asked。
　Suddenly；　Nora　understood。　〃Because　he　expected　to　be　there　for　a　very；　very　long　time。〃
　There　was　a　long　silence　in　the　cool；　spacious　room。　A　slow；　and　very　uncharacteristic；　smile　gathered　on　Pendergast's　face。　〃Bravo；〃　he　said。
　He　went　to　the　map；　and　drew　a　red　line　down　Riverside　Drive；　from　139th　Street　to　110th。　〃Here　is　where　we　must　look　for　Dr。　Leng。〃
　There　was　an　abrupt；　unfortable　silence。
　〃You　mean；　Dr。　Leng's　house；〃　said　O'Shaughnessy。
　〃No；〃　said　Pendergast；　speaking　very　deliberately。　〃I　mean　Dr。　Leng。〃
　
　Horse's　Tail
　
　ONE
　　
　WITH　A　HUGE　sigh；　William　Smithback　Jr。　settled　into　the　worn　wooden　booth　in　the　rear　of　the　Blarney　Stone　Tavern。　Situated　directly　across　the　street　from　the　New　York　Museum's　southern　entrance；　the　tavern　was　a　perennial　haunt　of　Museum　staffers。　They　had　nicknamed　the　place　the　Bones　because　of　the　owner's　penchant　for　hammering　bones　of　all　sizes；　shapes；　and　species　into　every　available　surface。　Museum　wags　liked　to　speculate　that；　were　the　police　to　remove　the　bones　for　examination；　half　of　the　city's　missing　persons　cases　still　on　the　books　would　be　solved　immediately。
　Smithback　had　spent　many　long　evenings　here　in　years　past；　notebooks　and　beer…spattered　laptop　in　attendance；　working　on　various　books：　his　book　about　the　Museum　murders；　his　follow…up　book　about　the　Subway　Massacre。　It　had　always　seemed　like　a　home　away　from　home　to　him；　a　refuge　against　the　troubles　of　the　world。　And　yet　tonight；　even　the　Bones　held　no　consolation　for　him。　He　recalled　a　line　he'd　read　somewhere…Brendan　Behan；　perhaps…about　having　a　thirst　so　mighty　it　cast　a　shadow。　That's　how　he　felt。
　It　had　been　the　worst　week　of　his　life…from　this　terrible　business　with　Nora　to　his　useless　interview　with　Fairhaven。　And　to　top　it　all；　he'd　just　been　scooped　by　the　frigging　Post…by　his　old　nemesis　Bryce　Harriman；　no　less…twice。　First　on　the　tourist　murder　in　Central　Park；　and　then　on　the　bones　discovered　down　on　Doyers　Street。　By　rights；　that　was　his　story。　How　had　that　weenie　Harriman　gotten　an　exclusive？　He　couldn't　get　an　exclusive　from　his　own　girlfriend；　for　chrissakes。　Who　did　he　know？　To　think　he；　Smithback；　had　been　kept　outside　with　the　milling　hacks　while　Harriman　got　the　royal　treatment；　the　inside　story　。　。　。　Christ；　he　needed　a　drink。
　The　droopy…eared　waiter　came　over；　hangdog　features　almost　as　familiar　to　Smithback　as　his　own。
　〃The　usual；　Mr。　Smithback？〃
　〃No。　You　got　any　of　the　fifty…year…old　Glen　Grant？〃
　〃At　thirty…six　dollars；〃　the　waiter　said　dolefully。
　〃Bring　it。　I　want　to　drink　something　as　old　as　I　feel。〃
　The　waiter　faded　back　into　the　dark；　smoky　atmosphere。　Smithback　checked　his　watch　and　looked　around　irritably。　He　was　ten　minutes　late；　but　it　looked　like　O'Shaughnessy　was　even　later。　He　hated　people　who　were　even　later　than　he　was；　almost　as　much　as　he　hated　people　who　were　on　time。
　The　waiter　rematerialized；　carrying　a　brandy　snifter　with　an　inch　of　amber…colored　liquid　in　the　bottom。　He　placed　it　reverently　before　Smithback。
　Smithback　raised　it　to　his　nose；　swirled　the　liquid　about；　inhaled　the　heady　aroma　of　Highland　malt；　smoke；　and　fresh　water　that；　as　the　Scots　said；　had　flowed　through　peat　and　over　granite。　He　felt　better　already。　As　he　lowered　the　glass；　he　could　see　Boylan；　the　proprietor；　in　the　front；　handing　a　black…and…tan　over　the　bar　with　an　arm　that　looked　like　it　had　been　carved　from　a　twist　of　chewing　tobacco。　And　past　Boylan　was　O'Shaughnessy；　just　e　in　and　looking　about。　Smithback　waved；　averting　his　eyes　from　the　cheap　polyester　suit　that　practically　sparkled；　despite　the　dim　light　and　cigar　fumes。　How　could　a　self…respecting　man　wear　a　suit　like　that？
　〃　'Tis　himself；〃　said　Smithback　in　a　disgraceful　travesty　of　an　Irish　accent　as　O'Shaughnessy　approached。
　〃Ach；　aye；〃　O'Shaughnessy　replied；　easing　into　the　far　side　of　the　booth。
　The　waiter　appeared　again　as　if　by　magic；　ducking　deferentially。
　〃The　same　for　him；〃　said　Smithback；　and　then　added；　〃you　know；　the　twelve…year…old。〃
　〃Of　course；〃　said　the　waiter。
　〃What　is　it？〃　O'Shaughnessy　asked。
　〃Glen　Grant。　Single　malt　scotch。　The　best　in　the　world。　On　me。〃
　O'Shaughnessy　grinned。　〃What；　you　forcing　a　bluidy　Presbyterian　drink　down　me　throat？　That's　like　listening　to　Verdi　in　translation。　I'd　prefer　Powers。〃
　Smithback　shuddered。　〃That　stuff？　Trust　me；　Irish　whisky　is　better　suited　to　de…greasing　engines　than　to　drinking。　The　Irish　produce　better　writers；　the　Scots　better　whisky。〃
　The　waiter　went　off；　returning　with　a　second　snifter。　Smithback　waited　as　O'Shaughnessy　sniffed；　winced；　took　a　swig。
　〃Drinkable；〃　he　said　after　a　moment。
　As　they　sipped　in　silence；　Smithback　shot　a　covert　glan