preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第67部分

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　He　turned　to　the　sink；　in　which　sat　a　large；　carefully　rolled　towel。　Taking　it　by　one　edge；　he　raised　it；　letting　it　unroll。　Half　a　dozen　bloodstained　scalpels　slid　into　the　basin。　He　began　to　clean　them；　slowly；　lovingly。　They　were　the　old…fashioned　kind：　heavy；　nicely　balanced。　Of　course；　they　weren't　as　handy　as　the　modern　Japanese　models　with　the　snap…in　blades；　but　they　felt　good　in　the　hand。　And　they　kept　an　edge。　Even　in　this　age　of　ultrablenders　and　DNA　sequencing　machines；　old　tools　still　had　their　place。
　Placing　the　scalpels　in　an　autoclave　to　dry　and　sterilize；　the　man　removed　the　gloves；　washed　his　hands　very　carefully；　then　dried　them　on　a　linen　towel。　He　glanced　over；　checking　the　progress　of　the　centrifuge。　And　then　he　moved　to　a　small　cabinet；　opened　it；　and　withdrew　a　piece　of　paper。　He　placed　it　on　the　gurney；　beside　the　briefcase。　On　the　paper；　in　an　elegant　copperplate　script；　were　five　names：
　　
　Pendergast
　Kelly
　Smithback
　O'Shaughnessy
　Puck
　　
　The　last　name　had　already　been　crossed　out。　Now；　the　man　plucked　a　fountain　pen　of　inlaid　lacquer　from　his　pocket。　And　then…neatly；　formally；　with　long　slender　fingers…he　drew　a　beautifully　precise　line　through　the　fourth　name；　ending　with　a　little　curlicue　flourish。
　
　EIGHT
　　
　AT　HIS　FAVORITE　neighborhood　coffee　shop；　Smithback　lingered　over　his　breakfast；　knowing　the　Museum　did　not　open　its　doors　until　ten。　Once　more；　he　glanced　over　the　photocopies　of　articles　he'd　culled　from　back　issues　of　the　Times。　The　more　he　read　them；　the　more　he　was　sure　the　old　murders　were　the　work　of　Leng。　Even　the　geography　seemed　consistent：　most　of　the　murders　had　taken　place　on　the　Lower　East　Side　and　along　the　waterfront；　about　as　far　away　from　Riverside　Drive　as　you　could　get。
　At　nine…thirty　he　called　for　the　bill　and　set　off　down　Broadway　for　a　bracing　fall　walk　to　the　Museum。　He　began　to　whistle。　While　he　still　had　the　relationship　with　Nora　to　repair；　he　was　an　eternal　optimist。　If　he　could　bring　her　the　information　she　wanted　on　a　silver　platter；　that　would　be　a　start。　She　couldn't　stay　mad　at　him　forever。　They　had　so　much　in　mon；　shared　both　good　and　bad　times　together。　If　only　she　didn't　have　such　a　temper！
　He　had　other　reasons　to　be　happy。　Although　every　now　and　then　his　instincts　failed　him…the　thing　with　Fairhaven　was　a　good　example…most　of　the　time　his　journalist's　nose　was　infallible。　And　his　article　on　Leng　had　gotten　off　to　a　good　start。　Now　all　he　needed　was　to　dig　up　a　few　personal　nuggets　to　bring　the　madman　to　life…maybe　even　a　photograph。　And　he　had　an　idea　of　where　to　get　all　of　it。
　He　blinked　in　the　bright　fall　light；　inhaled　the　crisp　air。
　Years　before…during　the　time　he'd　spent　writing　what　had　started　out　as　a　history　of　the　Museum's　superstition　exhibition…Smithback　had　grown　to　know　the　Museum　very　well。　He　knew　its　eccentric　ways；　the　ins　and　outs；　the　shortcuts；　the　curiosa；　the　hidden　corners　and　miscellaneous　archives。　If　there　was　any　information　about　Leng　hidden　within　those　walls；　Smithback　would　find　it。
　When　the　great　bronze　doors　opened；　Smithback　made　sure　he　buried　himself　within　the　throngs；　staying　as　anonymous　as　possible。　He　paid　the　suggested　admission　and　pinned　on　his　button；　strolling　through　the　Great　Rotunda；　gaping　like　all　the　others　at　the　soaring　skeletons。
　Soon　he　broke　away　from　the　tourists　and　worked　his　way　down　to　the　first　floor。　One　of　the　least　known；　but　most　useful；　archives　in　the　Museum　was　here。　Colloquially　known　as　Old　Records；　it　housed　cabinet　upon　filing　cabinet　of　personnel　records；　running　from　the　Museum's　founding　to　about　1986；　when　the　system　was　puterized　and　moved　to　a　gleaming　new　space　on　the　fourth　floor　and　given　the　shiny　new　name　of　Human　Resources。　How　well　he　remembered　Old　Records：　the　smell　of　mothballs　and　foxed　paper；　the　endless　files　on　long…dead　Museum　employees；　associates；　and　researchers。　Old　Records　still　contained　some　sensitive　material；　and　Smithback　remembered　that　it　was　kept　locked　and　guarded。　The　last　time　he　was　in　here；　it　was　on　official　business　and　he　had　a　signed　permission。　This　time；　he　was　going　to　have　to　use　a　different　approach。　The　guards　might　recognize　him；　then　again；　after　several　years；　they　might　not。
　He　walked　through　the　vast　Hall　of　Birds；　echoing　and　empty；　considering　how　best　to　proceed。　Soon　he　found　himself　before　the　twin　riveted　copper　doors　labeled　Personnel　Records；　Old。　Peering　through　the　crack　between　them；　he　could　see　two　guards；　sitting　at　a　table；　drinking　coffee。
　Two　guards。　Twice　the　chance　of　being　recognized；　half　the　chance　of　pulling　a　fast　one　on　them。　He　had　to　get　rid　of　one。
　He　took　a　turn　around　the　hall；　still　thinking；　as　a　plan　began　to　take　shape。　Abruptly；　he　turned　on　his　heel　and　walked　out　into　the　corridor；　up　the　stairs；　and　into　the　huge　Selous　Memorial　Hall。　There；　the　usual　cadre　of　cheerful　old　ladies　had　taken　their　places　at　the　information　desk。　Smithback　plucked　the　visitor's　button　from　his　lapel　and　tossed　it　in　a　trash　bin。　Then　he　strode　up　to　the　nearest　lady。
　〃I'm　Professor　Smithback；〃　he　said；　with　a　smile。
　〃Yes；　Professor。　What　can　I　do　for　you？〃　The　lady　had　curly　white　hair　and　violet　eyes。
　Smithback　gave　her　his　most　charming　smile。　〃May　I　use　your　phone？〃
　〃Of　course。〃　The　woman　handed　him　the　phone　from　under　the　desk。　Smithback　looked　through　the　nearby　museum　phone　book；　found　the　number；　and　dialed。
　〃Old　Records；〃　a　gruff　voice　answered。
　〃Is　Rook　on　duty　there？〃　Smithback　barked。
　〃Rook？　There's　no　Rook　here。　You　got　the　wrong　number；　pal。〃
　Smithback　expelled　an　irritated　stream　of　air　into　the　phone。　〃Who's　on　in　Records；　then？〃
　〃It's　me　and　O'Neal。　Who's　this？〃　The　voice　was　truculent；　stupid。
　〃　'Me'？　Who's　'me'？〃
　〃What's　your　problem；　friend？〃　came　the　reply。
　Smithback　put　on　his　coldest；　most　officious　voice。　〃Allow　me　to　repeat　myself。　May　I　be　so　presumptuous　to　ask　who　you　are；　sir；　and　whether　you　want　to　be　written　up　for　insubordination？〃
　〃I'm　Bulger；　sir。〃　The　guard's　gruff　manner　wilted　instantly。
　〃Bulger。　I　see。　You're　the　man　I　need　to　talk　to。　This　is　Mr。　Hrumrehmen　in　Human　Resources。〃　He　spoke　rapidly　and　angrily；　deliberately　garbling　the　name。
　〃Yes；　I'm　sorry；　I　didn't　realize。　How　can　I　help　you；　Mr。…？〃
　〃You　certainly　can　help　me；　Bulger。　There's　a　problem　here　with　certain；　ah；　asseverations　in　your　personnel　file；　Bulger。〃
　〃What　kind　of　problem？〃　The　man　sounded　suitably　alarmed。
　〃It's　confidential。　We'll　discuss　it　when　you　get　here。〃
　〃When？〃
　〃Now；　of　course。〃
　〃Yes；　sir；　but　I　didn't　catch　your　name…〃
　〃And　tell　O'Neal　I'm　sending　someone　down　to　review　your　procedures　in　the　meantime。　We've　had　some　disturbing　reports　about　laxity。〃
　〃Yes；　sir；　of　course；　but…？〃
　Smithback　replaced　the　phone。　He　looked　up　to　find　the　elderly　volunteer　eyeing　him　curiously；　even　suspiciously。
　〃What　was　that　all　about；　Professor？〃
　Smithback　grinned　and　drew　a　hand　over　his　cowlick。　〃Just　a　little　trick　on　a　co…worker。　We've　got　this　running　joke；　see　。　。　。　Gotta　do　something　to　lighten　up　this　old　pile。〃
　She　smiled。　The　dear　innocent；　Smithback　thought　a　little　guiltily　as　he　made　a　beeline　back　down　the　stairs　to　Old　Records。　On　the　way；　he　passed　one　of　the　guards　he'd　seen　through　the　crack：　huffing　down　the　hall；　belly　jiggling　as　he　walked；　panic　writ　large　on　his　face。　The　Human　Resources　office　at　the　Museum　was　a　notoriously　feared　place；　overstaffed　like　the　rest　of　the　administration。　It　would　take　the　guard　ten　minutes　to　get　there；　ten　minutes　to　wander　around　looking　for　the　nonexistent　Mr。　Hrumrehmen；　and　ten　minutes　to　get　back。　That　would　give　Smithback　thirty　minutes　to　talk　his　way　inside　and　find　what　he　was　looking　for。　It　wasn't　a　lot　of　time；　but　Smithback　knew　the　Museum's　archival　systems　inside　and　out。　He　had　infinite　confidence　in　his　ability　to　find　what　he　needed　in　short　order。
　Once　again；　he　strode　down　the　hall　to　the　copper　doors　of　Old　Records。　He　straightened　his　shoulders；　took　a　deep　breath。　Raising　one　hand；　he　knocked　imperiously。
　The　door　was　opened　by　the　remaining　security　officer。　He　looked　young；　barely　old　enou