preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第90部分

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　only　to　pass　his　fingers　lightly　over　the　brass　knob　of　the　door。　His　business　lay　elsewhere；　below；　with　things　older　and　infinitely　stranger。
　He　had　mentioned　to　Nora　his　inability　to　maintain　proper　intellectual　distance　in　the　case；　and　this　was　undeniably　true。　This　was　what　had　led　him；　and　her…and；　to　his　deepest　sorrow；　Patrick　O'Shaughnessy…into　the　present　misfortune。　What　he　had　not　revealed　to　Nora　was　the　profound　shock　he　felt　when　he　saw　the　face　of　the　dead　man。　It　was；　as　he　now　knew；　Enoch　Leng…or；　more　accurately；　his　own　great…grand…uncle；　Antoine　Leng　Pendergast。
　For　Great…Grand…Uncle　Antoine　had　succeeded　in　his　youthful　dream　of　extending　his　life。
　The　last　remnants　of　the　ancient　Pendergast　family…those　who　were　pos　mentis…assumed　that　Antoine　had　died　many　years　ago；　probably　in　New　York；　where　he　had　vanished　in　the　mid　ninteenth　century。　A　significant　portion　of　the　Pendergast　family　fortune　had　vanished　with　him；　much　to　the　chagrin　of　his　collateral　descendants。
　But　several　years　before；　while　working　on　the　case　of　the　Subway　Massacre；　Pendergast…thanks　to　Wren；　his　library　acquaintance…had　stumbled　by　chance　upon　some　old　newspaper　articles。　These　articles　described　a　sudden　rash　of　disappearances：　disappearances　that　followed　not　long　after　the　date　Antoine　was　supposed　to　have　arrived　in　New　York。　A　corpse　had　been　discovered；　floating　in　the　East　River；　with　the　marks　of　a　diabolical　kind　of　surgery。　It　was　a　street　waif；　and　the　crime　was　never　solved。　But　certain　unfortable　details　caused　Pendergast　to　believe　it　to　be　the　work　of　Antoine；　and　to　feel　the　man　was　attempting　to　achieve　his　youthful　dream　of　immortality。　A　perusal　of　later　newspapers　brought　a　half…dozen　similar　crimes　to　light；　stretching　as　far　forward　as　1935。
　The　question；　Pendergast　realized；　became：　had　Leng　succeeded？　Or　had　he　died　in　1935？
　Death　seemed　by　far　the　most　likely　result。　And　yet；　Pendergast　had　remained　uneasy。　Antoine　Leng　Pendergast　was　a　man　of　transcendental　genius；　bined　with　transcendental　madness。
　So　Pendergast　waited　and　watched。　As　the　last　of　his　line；　he'd　felt　it　his　responsibility　to　keep　vigil　against　the　unlikely　chance　that；　someday；　evidence　of　his　ancestor's　continued　existence　would　resurface。　When　he　heard　of　the　discovery　on　Catherine　Street；　he　immediately　suspected　what　had　happened　there；　and　who　was　responsible。　And　when　the　murder　of　Doreen　Hollander　was　discovered；　he　knew　that　what　he　most　dreaded　had　e　to　pass：　Antoine　Pendergast　had　succeeded　in　his　quest。
　But　now；　Antoine　was　dead。
　There　could　be　no　doubt　that　the　mummified　corpse　in　the　glass　case　was　that　of　Antoine　Pendergast；　who　had　taken；　in　his　journey　northward；　the　name　Enoch　Leng。　Pendergast　had　e　to　the　house　on　Riverside　Drive　expecting　to　confront　his　own　ancestor。　Instead；　he　had　found　his　great…grand…uncle　tortured　and　murdered。　Someone；　somehow；　had　taken　his　place。
　Who　had　killed　the　man　who　called　himself　Enoch　Leng？　Who　now　held　them　prisoner？　The　corpse　of　his　ancestor　was　only　recently　dead…the　state　of　the　corpse　suggested　that　death　had　occurred　within　the　last　two　months…pegging　the　murder　of　Enoch　Leng　before　the　discovery　of　the　charnel　on　Catherine　Street。
　The　timing　was　very；　very　interesting。
　And　then　there　was　that　other　problem…a　very　quiet；　but　persistent　feeling　that　there　was　a　connection　still　to　be　made　here…that　had　been　troubling　Pendergast　almost　since　he　first　set　foot　within　Leng's　house。
　Now；　inside　the　memory　crossing；　he　continued　down　the　hall。　The　next　door…the　door　that　had　once　been　his　brother's…had　been　sealed　by　Pendergast　himself；　never　to　be　opened　again。　He　quickly　moved　on。
　The　hallway　ended　in　a　grand；　sweeping　staircase　leading　down　to　a　great　hall。　A　heavy　cut…glass　chandelier　hovered　over　the　marble　floor；　mounting　on　a　gilt　chain　to　a　domed　trompe　l'oeil　ceiling。　Pendergast　descended　the　stairs；　deep　in　thought。　To　one　side；　a　set　of　tall　doors　opened　into　a　two…story　library；　to　the　other；　a　long　hall　retreated　back　into　shadow。　Pendergast　entered　this　hall　first。　Originally；　this　room　had　been　the　monastery's　refectory。　In　his　mind；　he　had　furnished　it　with　a　variety　of　family　heirlooms：　heavy　rosewood　chiffoniers；　oversized　landscapes　by　Bierstadt　and　Cole。　There　were　other；　more　unusual　heirlooms　here；　as　well：　sets　of　Tarot　cards；　crystal　balls；　a　spirit…medium　apparatus；　chains　and　cuffs；　stage　props　for　illusionists　and　magicians。　Other　objects　lay　in　the　corners；　shrouded；　their　outlines　sunken　too　deeply　into　shadow　to　discern。
　As　he　looked　around；　his　mind　once　again　felt　the　ripples　of　a　disturbance；　of　a　connection　not　yet　made。　It　was　here；　it　was　all　around　him；　it　only　awaited　his　recognition。　And　yet　it　hovered　tantalizingly　out　of　grasp。
　This　room　could　tell　him　no　more。　Exiting；　he　re…crossed　the　echoing　hall　and　entered　the　library。　He　looked　around　a　moment；　savoring　the　books；　real　and　imaginary；　row　upon　forting　row；　that　rose　to　the　molded　ceiling　far　above。　Then　he　stepped　toward　one　of　the　shelves　on　the　nearest　wall。　He　glanced　along　the　rows；　found　the　book　he　wanted；　pulled　it　from　the　shelf。　With　a　low；　almost　noiseless　click；　the　shelf　swung　away　from　the　wall。
　　。　。　。　And　then；　abruptly；　Pendergast　found　himself　back　in　Leng's　house　on　Riverside　Drive；　standing　in　the　grand　foyer；　surrounded　by　Leng's　astonishing　collections。
　He　hesitated；　momentarily　stilled　by　surprise。　Such　a　shift；　such　a　morphing　of　location；　had　never　happened　in　a　memory　crossing　before。
　But　as　he　waited；　looking　around　at　the　shrouded　skeletons　and　shelves　covered　with　treasures；　the　reason　became　clear。　When　he　and　Nora　first　passed　through　the　rooms　of　Leng's　house…the　grand　foyer；　the　long；　low…ceilinged　exhibit　hall；　the　two…storied　library…Pendergast　had　found　himself　experiencing　an　unexpected；　unfortable　feeling　of　familiarity。　Now　he　knew　why：　in　his　house　on　Riverside　Drive；　Leng　had　re…created；　in　his　own　dark　and　twisted　way；　the　old　Pendergast　mansion　on　Dauphine　Street。
　He　had　finally　made　the　crucial　connection。　Or　had　he？
　Great…Uncle　Antoine？　Aunt　Cornelia　had　said。　He　went　north；　to　New　York　City。　Became　a　Yankee。　And　so　he　had。　But；　like　all　members　of　the　Pendergast　family；　he　had　been　unable　to　escape　his　legacy。　And　here　in　New　York；　he　had　re…created　his　own　Maison　de　la　Rochenoire…an　idealized　mansion；　where　he　could　amass　his　collections　and　carry　on　his　experiments；　undisturbed　by　prying　relations。　It　was　not　unlike；　Pendergast　realized；　the　way　he　himself　had　re…created　the　Maison　de　la　Rochenoire　in　his　own　mind；　as　a　memory　palace。
　This　much；　at　least；　was　now　clear。　But　his　mind　remained　troubled。　Something　else　was　eluding　him：　a　realization　hovering　at　the　very　edge　of　awareness。　Leng　had　a　lifetime；　several　lifetimes；　in　which　to　plete　his　own　cabinet　of　curiosities。　Here　it　was；　all　around　him；　possibly　the　finest　natural　history　collection　ever　assembled。　And　yet；　as　Pendergast　looked　around；　he　realized　that　the　collection　was　inplete。　One　section　was　missing。　Not　just　any　section；　in　fact；　but　the　central　collection：　the　one　thing　that　had　fascinated　the　young　Antoine　Leng　Pendergast　most。　Pendergast　felt　a　growing　astonishment。　Antoine…as　Leng…had　had　a　century　and　a　half　to　plete　this　ultimate　cabinet　of　curiosities。　Why　was　it　not　here？
　Pendergast　knew　it　existed。　It　must　exist。　Here；　in　this　house。　It　was　just　a　question　of　where　。　。　。
　A　sound　from　the　outside　world…a　strangely　muffled　scream…suddenly　intruded　into　Pendergast's　memory　crossing。　Quickly；　he　withdrew　again；　plunging　as　deeply　as　he　could　into　the　protective　darkness　and　fog　of　his　own　mental　construct；　trying　to　recover　the　necessary　purity　of　concentration。
　Time　passed。　And　then；　in　his　mind；　he　found　himself　once　again　back　in　the　old　house　on　Dauphine　Street；　standing　in　the　library。
　He　waited　a　moment；　re…acclimating　himself　to　the　surroundings；　giving　his　new　suspicions　and　questions　time　to　mature。　In　his　mind's　eye　he　recorded　them　on　parchment　and　bound　them　between　gilt　covers；　placing　the　book　on　one　of　the　shelves　beside　a　long　row　of　similar　books…all　books　of　questions。　Then　he