preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第70部分

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　off　Riverside。　He　should　have　hired　a　livery　driver；　damn　it；　and　had　him　wait　while　he　inspected　the　house。　Now；　he　had　to　walk　nine　blocks　through　Harlem。　Just　what　he　had　tried　to　avoid。
　Nudging　the　rental　car　into　the　space；　he　glanced　carefully　around。　Then　he　got　out　of　the　car；　locked　it；　and…quickly；　but　not　so　quickly　as　to　attract　attention…walked　back　up　to　137th　Street。
　When　he　reached　the　corner；　he　slowed；　sauntering　down　the　block　until　he　came　to　the　porte…cochère　entrance。　Here；　he　paused　to　look　at　the　house　more　carefully；　trying　to　look　as　casual　as　possible。
　It　had　once　been　very　grand：　a　four…story　structure　of　marble　and　brick；　with　a　slate　mansard　roof；　oval　windows；　towers；　and　a　widow's　walk。　The　facade　was　encrusted　with　carved　limestone　details　set　into　brick。　The　streetfront　was　surrounded　by　a　tall　spiked　iron　fence；　broken　and　rusty。　The　yard　was　filled　with　weeds　and　trash；　along　with　a　riot　of　sumac　and　ailanthus　bushes　and　a　pair　of　dead　oaks。　Its　dark…browed　upper…story　windows　looked　out　over　the　Hudson　and　the　North　River　Water　Pollution　Control　Plant。
　Smithback　shivered；　glanced　around　one　more　time；　then　crossed　the　service　road　and　started　down　the　carriageway。　Gang　graffiti　was　sprayed　all　over　the　once　elegant　marble　and　brick。　Windblown　trash　had　accumulated　several　feet　deep　in　the　recesses。　But　in　the　rear　of　the　carriage　drive；　he　could　see　a　stout　door　made　of　oak。　It；　too；　had　been　sprayed　with　graffiti；　but　still　looked　operable。　It　had　neither　window　nor　peephole。
　Smithback　slipped　farther　down　the　carriageway；　keeping　close　to　the　outside　wall。　The　place　stank　of　urine　and　feces。　Someone　had　dropped　a　load　of　used　diapers　beside　the　door；　and　a　pile　of　garbage　bags　lay　in　a　corner；　torn　apart　by　dogs　and　rats。　As　if　on　cue；　an　enormously　fat　rat　waddled　out　of　the　trash；　dragging　its　belly；　looked　insolently　at　him；　then　disappeared　back　into　the　garbage。
　He　noticed　two　small；　oval　windows；　set　on　each　side　of　the　door。　Both　were　covered　with　tin；　but　there　might　be　a　way　to　pry　one　loose。　Advancing；　Smithback　carefully　pressed　his　hand　against　the　closest；　testing　it。　It　was　solid　as　a　rock：　no　cracks；　no　way　to　see　in。　The　other　was　just　as　carefully　covered。　He　inspected　the　seams；　looking　for　holes；　but　there　were　none。　He　laid　a　hand　on　the　oaken　door：　again；　it　felt　totally　solid。　This　house　was　locked　up　tight；　nigh　impregnable。　Perhaps　it　had　been　locked　up　since　the　time　of　Leng's　death。　There　might　well　be　personal　items　inside。　Once　again；　Smithback　wondered　if　the　remains　of　victims　might　also　be　there。
　Once　the　police　got　their　hands　on　the　place；　he'd　lose　his　chance　to　learn　anything　more。
　It　would　be　very　interesting　to　see　inside。
　He　looked　up；　his　eye　following　the　lines　of　the　house。　He'd　had　some　rock　climbing　experience；　gained　from　a　trip　to　the　canyon　country　of　Utah。　The　trip　where　he'd　met　Nora。　He　stepped　away；　studying　the　facade。　There　were　lots　of　cornices　and　carvings　that　would　make　good　handholds。　Here；　away　from　the　street；　he　wasn't　as　likely　to　be　noticed。　With　a　little　luck；　he　might　be　able　to　climb　to　one　of　the　second…story　windows。　Just　for　a　look。
　He　glanced　back　down　the　carriageway。　The　street　was　deserted；　the　house　deathly　silent。
　Smithback　rubbed　his　hands　together；　smoothed　his　cowlick。　And　then　he　set　his　left　wing　tip　into　a　gap　in　the　lower　course　of　masonry　and　began　to　climb。
　
　TWO
　　
　CAPTAIN　CUSTER　CHECKED　the　clock　on　the　wall　of　his　office。　It　was　nearly　noon。　He　felt　a　growl　in　his　capacious　stomach　and　wished；　for　at　least　the　twentieth　time；　that　noon　would　hurry　up　and　e　so　he　could　head　out　to　Dilly's　Deli；　purchase　a　double　corned　beef　and　swiss　on　rye　with　extra　mayo；　and　place　the　monstrous　sandwich　in　his　mouth。　He　always　got　hungry　when　he　was　nervous；　and　today　he　was　very；　very　nervous。　It　had　been　barely　forty…eight　hours　since　he'd　been　put　in　charge　of　the　Surgeon　case；　but　already　he　was　getting　impatient　calls。　The　mayor　had　called；　the　missioner　had　called。　The　three　murders　had　the　entire　city　close　to　panicking。　And　yet　he　had　nothing　to　report。　The　breathing　space　he'd　bought　himself　with　that　article　on　the　old　bones　was　just　about　used　up。　The　fifty　detectives　working　the　case　were　desperately　following　up　leads；　for　all　the　good　it　did　them。　But　to　where？　Nowhere。　He　snorted；　shook　his　head。　Inpetent　ass…wipes。
　His　stomach　growled　again；　louder　this　time。　Pressure　and　agitation　encircled　him　like　a　damp　bathhouse　towel。　If　this　was　what　it　felt　like　to　be　in　charge　of　a　big　case；　he　wasn't　sure　he　liked　it。
　He　glanced　at　the　clock　again。　Five　more　minutes。　Not　going　to　lunch　before　noon　was　a　matter　of　discipline　with　him。　As　a　police　officer；　he　knew　discipline　was　key。　That　was　what　it　was　all　about。　He　couldn't　let　the　pressure　get　to　him。
　He　remembered　how　the　missioner　had　stared　sidelong　at　him；　back　in　that　little　hovel　on　Doyers　Street　when　he'd　assigned　him　the　investigation。　Rocker　hadn't　seemed　exactly　confident　in　his　abilities。　Custer　remembered；　all　too　clearly；　his　words　of　advice：　I'd　suggest　you　get　to　work　on　this　new　case　of　yours。　Get　right　to　work。　Catch　that　killer。　You　don't　want　another；　fresher　stiff　turning　up　on　your　watch…do　you？
　The　minute　hand　moved　another　notch。
　Maybe　more　manpower　is　the　answer；　he　thought。　He　should　put　another　dozen　detectives　on　that　murder　in　the　Museum　Archives。　That　was　the　most　recent　murder；　that's　where　the　freshest　clues　would　be。　That　curator　who'd　found　the　corpse…the　frosty　bitch；　what's　her　name…had　been　pretty　close…mouthed。　If　he　could…
　And　then；　just　as　the　second　hand　swept　toward　noon；　he　had　the　revelation。
　The　Museum　Archives。　The　Museum　curator　。　。　。
　It　was　so　overwhelming；　so　blinding；　that　it　temporarily　drove　all　thoughts　of　corned　beef　from　his　head。
　The　Museum。　The　Museum　was　the　center　around　which　everything　revolved。
　The　third　murder；　the　brutal　operation？　It　took　place　in　the　Museum。
　That　archaeologist；　Nora　Kelly？　Worked　for　the　Museum。
　The　incriminating　letter　that　reporter；　Smithbank　or　whatever；　had　leaked？　The　letter　that　started　the　whole　thing？　Found　in　the　Museum's　Archives。
　That　creepy　old　guy；　Collopy；　who'd　authorized　the　removal　of　the　letter？　Director　of　the　Museum。
　Fairhaven？　On　the　Museum's　board。
　The　nineteenth…century　killer？　Connected　to　the　Museum。
　And　the　archivist　himself；　Puck；　had　been　murdered。　Why？　Because　he　had　discovered　something。　Something　in　the　Archives。
　Custer's　mind；　unusually　clear；　began　racing　over　the　possibilities；　the　myriad　binations　and　permutations。　What　was　needed　was　strong；　decisive　action。　Whatever　it　was　Puck　had　found；　he　would　find；　too。　And　that　would　be　key　to　the　murderer。
　There　was　no　time　to　lose；　not　one　minute。
　He　stood　up　and　punched　the　inter。　〃Noyes？　Get　in　here。　Right　away。〃
　The　man　was　in　the　doorway　even　before　Custer's　finger　was　off　the　button。
　〃I　want　the　top　ten　detectives　assigned　to　the　Surgeon　case　over　here　for　a　confidential　briefing　in　my　office。　Half　an　hour。〃
　〃Yes；　Captain。〃　Noyes　raised　a　quizzical；　but　appropriately　obsequious；　eyebrow。
　〃I've　got　it。　Noyes；　I've　figured　it　out。〃
　Noyes　ceased　his　gum　chewing。　〃Sir？〃
　〃The　key　to　the　Surgeon　killings　is　in　the　Museum。　It's　there；　in　the　Archives。　God　knows；　maybe　even　the　murderer　himself　is　in　there；　on　the　Museum's　staff。〃　Custer　grabbed　his　jacket。　〃We're　going　in　there　hard　and　fast；　Noyes。　They　won't　even　know　what　hit　them。〃
　
　THREE
　　
　USING　CORNICES　AND　escutcheons　as　hand…　and　footholds；　Smithback　slowly　pulled　his　way　up　the　wall　toward　the　stone　embrasure　of　a　second…story　window。　It　had　been　harder　than　he　expected；　and　he'd　managed　to　scrape　a　cheek　and　mash　a　finger　in　the　process。　And；　of　course；　he　was　ruining　a　two…hundred…and…fifty…dollar　pair　of　handmade　Italian　shoes。　Maybe　the　Times　would　pay。　Spreadeagled　against　the　side　of　the　house；　he　felt　ridiculously　exposed。　There　must　be　an　easier　way　to　win　a　Pulitzer；　he　thought。　He　grabbed　for　the　window　ledge；　pulled　himself　upward　with　a　grunt　of　effort。　Gaining　the　wide　ledge；　he　remained　there　a　moment；　catch