preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第76部分

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if　a　journalist　had　been　in　here。　I　can't　remember　the　name。〃
　〃Smithbrick？〃
　〃No；　but　something　like　that。〃
　Custer　picked　up　his　notebook；　flipped　through　it。　There　it　was。　〃William　Smithback；　Junior。〃
　〃That's　it。〃
　Custer　nodded。　〃How　about　this　Agent　Pendergast？　Any　of　you　see　him？〃
　The　two　exchanged　glances。　〃Just　once；〃　the　first　man　said。
　〃Nora　Kelly？〃
　〃Yup；〃　said　the　same　man：　a　young　fellow　with　hair　so　short　he　looked　almost　bald。
　Custer　turned　toward　him。　〃Did　you　know　Puck？〃
　The　man　nodded。
　〃Your　name？〃
　〃Oscar。　Oscar　Gibbs。　I　was　his　assistant。〃
　〃Gibbs；　did　Puck　have　any　enemies？〃
　Custer　noticed　the　two　men　exchanging　another　glance；　more　significant　this　time。
　〃Well　。　。　。〃　Gibbs　hesitated；　then　began　again。　〃Once；　Brisbane　came　down　here　and　really　lit　into　Mr。　Puck。　Screaming　and　yelling；　threatening　to　bury　him；　to　have　him　fired。〃
　〃Is　that　right？　Why？〃
　〃Something　about　Mr。　Puck　leaking　damaging　information；　failing　to　respect　the　Museum's　intellectual　property　rights。　Things　like　that。　I　think　he　was　mad　because　Human　Resources　hadn't　backed　up　his　remendation　to　fire　Mr。　Puck。　Said　he　wasn't　through　with　him；　not　by　a　long　shot。　That's　really　all　I　remember。〃
　〃When　was　this；　exactly？〃
　Gibbs　thought　a　moment。　〃Let's　see。　That　would　have　been　the　thirteenth。　No；　the　twelfth。　October　twelfth。〃
　Custer　picked　up　his　notebook　again　and　made　another　notation；　longer　this　time。　He　heard　a　shattering　crash　from　the　bowels　of　the　Archives；　a　shout；　then　a　protracted　ripping　noise。　He　felt　a　warm　feeling　of　satisfaction。　There　would　be　no　more　letters　hidden　in　elephants'　feet　when　he　was　done。　He　turned　his　attention　back　to　Gibbs。
　〃Any　other　enemies？〃
　〃No。　To　tell　you　the　truth；　Mr。　Puck　was　one　of　the　nicest　people　in　the　whole　Museum。　It　was　a　big　shock　to　see　Brisbane　e　down　on　him　like　that。〃
　This　Brisbane's　not　a　popular　guy；　thought　Custer。　He　turned　to　Noyes。　〃Get　this　man　Brisbane　for　me；　will　you？　I　want　to　talk　to　him。〃
　Noyes　moved　toward　the　front　desk　just　as　the　Archives　door　burst　open。　Custer　turned　to　see　a　man　dressed　in　a　tuxedo；　his　black　tie　askew；　brilliantined　hair　hanging　across　his　outraged　face。
　〃What　the　hell　is　going　on　here？〃　the　man　shouted　in　Custer's　direction。　〃You　just　can't　e　bursting　in　here　like　this；　turning　the　place　upside　down。　Let　me　see　your　warrant！〃
　Noyes　began　fumbling　for　the　warrant；　but　Custer　stayed　him　with　a　single　hand。　It　was　remarkable；　really；　how　steady　his　hand　felt；　how　calm　and　collected　he　was　during　all　this；　the　turning　point　of　his　entire　career。　〃And　who　might　you　be？〃　he　asked　in　his　coolest　voice。
　〃Roger　C。　Brisbane　III。　First　vice　president　and　general　counsel　of　the　Museum。〃
　Custer　nodded。　〃Ah；　Mr。　Brisbane。　You're　just　the　man　I　wanted　to　see。〃
　
　SEVEN
　　
　SMITHBACK　FROZE；　STARING　into　the　pool　of　darkness　that　lay　at　the　far　corner　of　the　room。　〃Who　is　that？〃　he　finally　managed　to　croak。
　There　was　no　response。
　〃Are　you　the　caretaker？〃　He　gave　a　strained　laugh。　〃Can　you　believe　it？　I've　locked　myself　in。〃
　Again；　silence。
　Perhaps　the　voice　had　been　his　imagination。　God　knows；　he'd　seen　enough　in　this　house　to　cure　him　of　ever　wanting　to　watch　another　horror　movie。
　He　tried　again。　〃Well；　all　I　can　say　is；　I'm　glad　you　happened　by。　If　you　could　help　me　find　my　way　to　the　door…〃
　The　sentence　was　choked　off　by　an　involuntary　spasm　of　fright。
　A　figure　had　stepped　out　into　the　dim　light。　It　was　muffled　in　a　long　dark　coat；　features　in　deep　shadow　under　a　derby　hat。　In　one　upraised　hand　was　a　heavy；　old…fashioned　scalpel。　The　razor　edge　gleamed　faintly　as　the　man　turned　it　slowly；　almost　lovingly；　between　slender　fingers。　In　the　other　hand；　a　hypodermic　syringe　winked　and　glimmered。
　〃An　unexpected　pleasure　to　see　you　here；〃　the　figure　said　in　a　low；　dry　voice　as　he　caressed　the　scalpel。　〃But　convenient。　In　fact；　you've　arrived　just　in　time。〃
　Some　primitive　instinct　of　self…preservation；　stronger　even　than　the　horror　that　had　seized　him；　spurred　Smithback　into　action。　He　spun　and　ran。　But　it　was　so　dark；　and　the　figure　moved　so　blindingly　fast　。　。　。
　　
　Later…he　didn't　know　how　much　later…Smithback　woke　up。　There　was　a　torpor；　and　a　strange；　languorous　kind　of　confusion。　He'd　had　a　dream；　a　terrible　dream；　he　remembered；　but　it　was　over　now　and　everything　was　fine；　he　would　wake　to　a　beautiful　fall　morning；　the　hideous　fragmented　memories　of　the　nightmare　melting　away　into　his　subconscious。　He'd　rise；　dress；　have　his　usual　breakfast　of　red　flannel　hash　at　his　favorite　Greek　coffeeshop；　and　slowly　take　on　once　again；　as　he　did　every　morning；　his　mundane；　workaday　life。
　But　as　his　mind　gradually　grew　more　alert；　he　realized　that　the　broken　memories；　the　horrible　hinted　fragments；　were　not　evaporating。　He　had　somehow　been　caught。　In　the　dark。　In　Leng's　house。
　Leng's　house　。　。　。
　He　shook　his　head。　It　throbbed　violently　at　the　movement。
　The　man　in　the　derby　hat　was　the　Surgeon。　In　Leng's　house。
　Suddenly；　Smithback　was　struck　dumb　by　shock　and　fear。　Of　all　the　terrible　thoughts　that　darted　through　his　mind　at　that　terrible　moment；　one　stood　out　from　the　rest：　Pendergast　was　right。　Pendergast　was　right　all　along。
　Enoch　Leng　was　still　alive。
　It　was　Leng　himself　who　was　the　Surgeon。
　And　Smithback　had　walked　right　into　his　house。
　That　noise　he　was　hearing；　that　hideous　gasping；　was　his　own　hyperventilation；　the　suck　of　air　through　tape　covering　his　mouth。　He　forced　himself　to　slow　down；　to　take　stock。　There　was　a　strong　smell　of　mold　around　him；　and　it　was　pitch　black。　The　air　was　cold；　damp。　The　pain　in　his　head　increased。　Smithback　moved　his　arm　toward　his　forehead；　felt　it　stop　abruptly…felt　the　tug　of　an　iron　cuff　around　his　wrist；　heard　the　clank　of　a　chain。　What　the　hell　was　this？
　His　heart　began　to　race；　faster　and　faster；　as　one　by　one　the　holes　in　his　memory　filled：　the　endless　echoing　rooms；　the　voice　from　the　darkness；　the　man　stepping　out　of　the　shadows　。　。　。　the　glittering　scalpel。　Oh；　God；　was　it　really　Leng？　After　130　years？　Leng？
　He　tried　to　stand　in　automatic　groggy　panic　but　fell　back　again　immediately；　to　a　chorus　of　clinks　and　clatterings。　He　was　stark　naked；　chained　to　the　ground　by　his　arms　and　legs；　his　mouth　sealed　with　heavy　tape。
　This　couldn't　be　happening。　Oh；　Jesus；　this　was　insane。
　He　hadn't　told　anyone　he　was　ing　up　here。　Nobody　knew　where　he　was。　Nobody　even　knew　he　was　missing。　If　only　he'd　told　someone；　the　pool　secretary；　O'Shaughnessy；　his　great…grandfather；　his　half…sister；　anyone　。　。　。
　He　lay　back；　head　pounding；　hyperventilating　again；　heart　battering　in　his　rib　cage。
　He　had　been　drugged　and　chained　by　the　man　in　black…the　man　in　the　derby　hat。　That　much　was　clear。　The　same　man　who　tried　to　kill　Pendergast；　no　doubt；　the　same　man；　probably；　who　had　killed　Puck　and　the　others。　The　Surgeon。　He　was　in　the　dungeon　of　the　Surgeon。
　The　Surgeon。　Professor　Enoch　Leng。
　The　sound　of　a　footfall　brought　him　to　full　alertness。　There　was　a　scraping　noise；　then　a　painfully　bright　rectangle　of　light　appeared　in　the　wall　of　darkness　ahead。　In　the　reflected　light；　Smithback　could　see　he　was　in　a　small　basement　room　with　a　cement　floor；　stone　walls　and　an　iron　door。　He　felt　a　surge　of　hope；　even　gratitude。
　A　pair　of　moist　lips　appeared　at　the　iron　opening。　They　moved。
　〃Please　do　not　dispose　yourself；〃　came　the　voice。　〃All　this　will　be　over　soon。　Struggle　is　unnecessary。〃
　There　was　something　almost　familiar　in　that　voice；　and　yet　inexpressibly　strange　and　terrible；　like　the　whispered　tones　of　nightmare。
　The　slot　slid　shut；　leaving　Smithback　in　darkness　once　more。
　
　All　those　Dreadful　Little　Cuts
　
　ONE
　　
　THE　BIG　ROLLS…ROYCE　glided　its　way　along　the　one…lane　road　that　crossed　Little　Governors　Island。　Fog　lay　thick　in　the　marshes　and　hollows；　obscuring　the　surrounding　East　River　and　the　ramparts　of　Manhattan　that　lay　beyond。　The　headlights　slid　past　a　row　of　ancient；　long…dead　chestnut　trees；　then　striped　their　way　across　heavy　wrought　iron　gates。　As　the　car　stopped；　the　lights　came　to　rest　on　a　bronze　plaque：　Mount　Mercy　Hospital　for　the　Criminally　Insane。
　A　secur