The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 7

  “O terque quaterque beati! Here’s your Mr. Shottum. It wasn’t the most interesting cabinet, I’m afraid. And since it burned, we don’t have much from it—just these few papers.” Puck opened the box, peered inside. “Great heavens, what a mess,” he clucked disapprovingly. “I don’t understand, considering… Ah, well, when you’re done with these, I can show you the Delacourte papers. Much more comprehensive.”

  “I’m afraid there won’t be time, at least not today.”

  Puck grunted with dissatisfaction. Nora glanced at him, felt a stab of pity for the lonely old man.

  “Ah, here’s a letter from Tinbury McFadden,” Puck said, plucking a faded paper from the box. “Helped Shottum classify his mammals and birds. He advised a lot of the cabinet owners. Hired himself out.” He rummaged some more. “He was a close friend of Shottum’s.”

  Nora thought for a moment. “Can I check out this box?”

  “Have to look at it in the Research Room. Can’t let it leave the Archives.”

  “I see.” Nora paused, thinking. “You said Tinbury McFadden was a close friend of Shottum’s? Are his papers in here, too?”

  “Are they here? Good heaven, we’ve got mountains of his papers. And his collections. He had quite a cabinet himself, only he never displayed it. Left it to the Museum, but none of the stuff had any provenience and was full of fakes, so they stuck it down here. For historical purposes. No scientific value, they said.” Puck sniffed. “Not worthy of the main collection.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course, of course!” And Puck was shuffling off again in a new direction. “Right around the corner.”

  They stopped at last before two shelves. The upper was full of more papers and boxes. On top of one box was a promissory note, with a faded inventory of items transferred from J.C. Shottum to T.F. McFadden, as payment for Services Rendered and Promised. The lower shelf was stuffed with a variety of curious objects. Glancing over them, Nora saw stuffed animals wrapped in wax paper and twine, dubious-looking fossils, a double-headed pig floating in a glass jeroboam, a dried anaconda curled into a giant five-foot knot, a stuffed chicken with six legs and four wings, and a bizarre box made out of an elephant’s foot.

  Puck blew his nose like a trumpet, wiped his eyes. “Poor Tinbury would turn over in his grave if he knew that his precious collection ended up down here. He thought it had priceless scientific value. Of course, that was at a time when many of the Museum’s curators were amateurs with poor scientific credentials.”

  Nora pointed to the promissory note. “This seems to indicate Shottum gave McFadden specimens in exchange for his work.”

  “A standard practice.”

  “So some of these things came from Shottum’s Cabinet?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Could I examine these specimens, too?”

  Puck beamed. “I’ll move all of it to the Research Room and set it up on tables. When it’s ready, I’ll let you know.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A day.” His face reddened with the pleasure of being of use.

  “Don’t you need help moving these things?”

  “Oh, yes. My assistant, Oscar, will do it.”

  Nora looked around. “Oscar?”

  “Oscar Gibbs. He usually works up in Osteology. We don’t get many visitors down here. I call him down for special work like this.”

  “This is very kind of you, Mr. Puck.”

  “Kind? The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you, my dear girl!”

  “I’ll be bringing a colleague.”

  An uncertain look clouded Puck’s face. “A colleague? There are rules about that, what with the new security and all…” He hesitated, almost embarrassed.

  “Rules?”

  “Only Museum staff allowed. The Archives used to be open to everybody, but now we’ve been restricted to Museum staff. And trustees.”

  “Special Agent Pendergast is, ah, connected with the Museum.”

  “Agent Pendergast? Yes, the name’s familiar… Pendergast. I remember him now. The southern gentleman. Oh, dear.” A momentary look of distress crossed the man’s face. “Well, well, as you wish. I’ll expect you both tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

  TWO

  PATRICK MURPHY O’SHAUGHNESSY sat in the precinct captain’s office, waiting for him to get off the phone. He had been waiting five minutes, but so far Custer hadn’t even looked in his direction. Which was just fine with him. O’Shaughnessy scanned the walls without interest, his eyes moving from commendation plaques to departmental shooting trophies, lighting at last upon the painting on the far wall. It showed a little cabin in a swamp, at night, under a full moon, its windows casting a yellow glow over the waters. It was a source of endless amusement to the 7th Precinct that their captain, with all his mannerisms and his pretensions to culture, had a velvet painting proudly displayed in his office. There had even been talk of getting an office pool together, soliciting donations for a less revolting replacement. O’Shaughnessy used to laugh along with them, but now he found it pathetic. It was all so pathetic.

  The rattle of the phone in its cradle brought him out of his reverie. He looked up as Custer pressed his intercom button.

  “Sergeant Noyes, come in here, please.”

  O’Shaughnessy looked away. This wasn’t a good sign. Herbert Noyes, recently transferred from Internal Affairs, was Custer’s new personal assistant and numero uno asskisser. Something unpleasant was definitely up.

  Almost instantly, Noyes entered the office, the usual unctuous smile breaking the smooth lines of his ferret-like head. He nodded politely to Custer, ignored O’Shaughnessy, and took the seat closest to the captain’s desk, chewing gum, as usual. His skinny form barely made a dent in the burgundy-colored leather. He’d come in so fast it was almost as if he’d been hovering outside. O’Shaughnessy realized he probably had been.

  And now, at last, Custer turned toward O’Shaughnessy. “Paddy!” he said in his high, thin voice. “How’s the last Irish cop on the force doing these days?”

  O’Shaughnessy waited just long enough to be insolent, and then answered: “It’s Patrick, sir.”

  “Patrick, Patrick. I thought they called you Paddy,” Custer went on, some of the hearty bluster gone.

  “There are still plenty of Irish on the force, sir.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but how many are named Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy? I mean, is that Irish or what? That’s like Chaim Moishe Finkelstein, or Vinnie Scarpetta Gotti della Gambino. Ethnic. Very ethnic. But hey, don’t get me wrong. Ethnic’s good.”

  “Very good,” Noyes said.

  “I’m always saying we need diversity on the force. Right?”

  “Sure,” O’Shaughnessy replied.

  “Anyway, Patrick, we’ve got a little problem here. A few days ago, thirty-six skeletons were uncovered at a construction site here in the precinct. You may have heard of it. I supervised the investigation myself. It’s a Moegen-Fairhaven development. You know them?”

  “Sure I do.” O’Shaughnessy glanced pointedly at the oversized Montblanc fountain pen in Custer’s shirt pocket. Mr. Fairhaven had given them as Christmas presents to all the precinct captains in Manhattan the year before.

  “Big outfit. Lots of money, lots of friends. Good people. Now these skeletons, Patrick, are well over a century old. It’s our understanding that some maniac back in the eighteen hundreds murdered these people and hid them in a basement. With me so far?”

  O’Shaughnessy nodded.

  “Have you ever had any experience with the FBI?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They tend to think working cops are stupid. They like to keep us in the dark. It’s fun for them.”

  “It’s a little game they play,” said Noyes, with a small bob of his shiny head. It was hard to make a crew cut look oily, but somehow Noyes managed.

  “That’s exactly right,” Custer said. “You know what we’re saying, Patrick?”

  “S
ure.” They were saying he was about to get some shitstink assignment involving the FBI: that’s what he knew.

  “Good. For some reason, we’ve got an FBI agent poking around the site. He won’t say why he’s interested. He’s not even local, from New Orleans, believe it or not. But the guy’s got pull. I’m still looking into it. The boys in the New York office don’t like him any more than we do. They told me some stories about him, and I didn’t like what I heard. Wherever this guy goes, trouble follows. You with me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This guy’s been calling all over the place. Wants to see the bones. Wants to see the pathologist’s report. Wants everything under the sun. He doesn’t seem to get that the crime’s ancient history. So now, Mr. Fairhaven is concerned. He doesn’t want this getting blown out of proportion, you know? He’s gonna have to rent those apartments. You get my drift? And when Mr. Fairhaven gets concerned, he calls the mayor. The mayor calls Commissioner Rocker. The commissioner calls the commander. And the commander calls me. Which means that now I’m concerned.”

  O’Shaughnessy nodded. Which means now I’m supposed to be concerned, which I’m not.

  “Very concerned,” said Noyes.

  O’Shaughnessy allowed his face to relax into the most unconcerned of looks.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to assign you to be this guy’s NYPD liaison. You stick to him like a fly to, er, honey. I want to know what he’s doing, where he goes, and especially what he’s up to. But don’t get too friendly with the guy.”

  “No, sir.”

  “His name is Pendergast. Special Agent Pendergast.” Custer turned over a piece of paper. “Christ, they didn’t even give me his first name here. No matter. I’ve set up a meeting with you and him tomorrow, two P.M. After that, you stay with him. You’re there to help him, that’s the official line. But don’t be too helpful. This guy’s ticked off a lot of people. Here, read for yourself.”

  O’Shaughnessy took the proffered file. “Do you want me to remain in uniform, sir?”

  “Hell, that’s just the point! Having a uniformed cop sticking to him like a limpet is going to cramp his style. You get me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain sat back in his chair, looking at him skeptically. “Think you can do this, Patrick?”

  O’Shaughnessy stood up. “Sure.”

  “Because I’ve been noticing your attitude recently.” Custer put a finger to the side of his nose. “A friendly word of advice. Save it for Agent Pendergast. Last thing you, of all people, need is more attitude.”

  “No attitude, sir. I’m just here to protect and serve.” He pronounced sairve in his best Irish brogue. “Top of the mornin’ to you, Captain.”

  As O’Shaughnessy turned and left the office, he heard Custer mutter “wise ass” to Noyes.

  THREE

  “A PERFECT AFTERNOON to take in a museum,” said Pendergast, looking up at a lowering sky.

  Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy wondered if it was some kind of joke. He stood on the steps of the Elizabeth Street precinct house, staring off into nowhere. The whole thing was a joke. The FBI agent looked more like an undertaker than a cop, with his black suit, blond-white hair, and movie-cliché accent. He wondered how such a piece of work ever got his ass through Quantico.

  “The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a cultural paradigm, Sergeant. One of the great art museums of the world. But of course you knew that. Shall we go?”

  O’Shaughnessy shrugged. Museums, whatever, he was supposed to stay with this guy. What a crappy assignment.

  As they descended the steps, a long gray car came gliding up from where it had been idling at the corner. For a second O’Shaughnessy could hardly believe it. A Rolls. Pendergast opened the door.

  “Drug seizure?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “No. Personal vehicle.”

  Figures. New Orleans. They were all on the take down there. Now he had the guy pegged. Probably up here on some kind of drug business. Maybe Custer wanted in. That’s why he put him, of all the cops in the precinct, on this guy’s ass. This was looking worse by the minute.

  Pendergast continued holding the door. “After you.”

  O’Shaughnessy slid in the back, sinking immediately into creamy white leather.

  Pendergast ducked in beside him. “To the Metropolitan Museum,” he told the driver. As the Rolls pulled away from the curb, O’Shaughnessy caught a glimpse of Captain Custer standing on the steps, staring after them. He resisted the impulse to flip him the bird.

  O’Shaughnessy turned to Pendergast and gave him a good look. “Here’s to success, Mister FBI Agent.”

  He turned away to look out the window. There was a silence on the other side.

  “The name is Pendergast,” came the soft voice, finally.

  “Whatever.”

  O’Shaughnessy continued to look out the window. He allowed a minute to pass, and then he said: “So what’s at the museum? Some dead mummies?”

  “I have yet to meet a live mummy, Sergeant. However, it is not the Egyptian Department we are going to.”

  A wise guy. He wondered how many more assignments he’d have like this. Just because he made a mistake five years ago, they all thought he was Mister Expendable. Any time there was something funny coming down the pike, it was always: We’ve got a little problem here, O’Shaughnessy, and you’re just the man to take care of it. But it was usually just penny-ante stuff. This guy in the Rolls, he looked big-time. This was different. This looked illegal. O’Shaughnessy thought of his long-gone father and felt a stab of shame. Thank God the man wasn’t around to see him now. Five generations of O’Shaughnessys in the force, and now everything gone to shit. He wondered if he could hack the eleven more years required before an early severance package became available.

  “So what’s the game?” O’Shaughnessy asked. No more sucker work: he was going to keep his eyes open and his head up on this one. He didn’t want any stray shit to fall when he wasn’t looking up.

  “Sergeant?”

  “What.”

  “There is no game.”

  “Of course not.” O’Shaughnessy let out a little snort. “There never is.” He realized the FBI agent was looking at him intently. He continued looking away.

  “I can see that you’re under a misapprehension here, Sergeant,” came the drawl. “We should rectify that at once. You see, I can understand why you’d jump to that conclusion. Five years ago, you were caught on a surveillance tape taking two hundred dollars from a prostitute in exchange for releasing her. I believe they call it a ‘shakedown.’ Have I got that right?”

  O’Shaughnessy felt a sudden numbness, followed by a slow anger. Here it was again. He said nothing. What was there to say? It would have been better if they’d cashiered him.

  “The tape got sent to Internal Affairs. Internal Affairs paid you a visit. But there were differing accounts of what happened, nothing was proven. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and since that time you’ve seen your career—how should I put it?—remain in stasis.”

  O’Shaughnessy continued looking out the window, at the rush of buildings. Remain in stasis. You mean, go nowhere.

  “And you’ve caught nothing since but a series of questionable assignments and gray-area errands. Of which you no doubt consider this one more.”

  O’Shaughnessy spoke to the window, his voice deliberately tired. “Pendergast, I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t need to listen to this. I really don’t.”

  “I saw that tape,” said Pendergast.

  “Good for you.”

  “I heard, for example, the prostitute pleading with you to let her go, saying that her pimp would beat her up if you didn’t. Then I heard her insisting you take the two hundred dollars, because if you didn’t, her pimp would assume she had betrayed him. But if you took the money, he would only think she’d bribed her way out of custody and spare her. Am I right? So you took the money.”

  O’Shaughnes
sy had been through this in his own mind a thousand times. What difference did it make? He didn’t have to take the money. He hadn’t given it to charity, either. Pimps were beating up prostitutes every day. He should’ve left her to her fate.

  “So now you’re cynical, you’re tired, you’ve come to realize that the whole idea of protect and serve is farcical, especially out there on the streets, where there doesn’t even seem to be right or wrong, nobody worth protecting, and nobody worth serving.”

  There was a silence.

  “Are we through with the character analysis?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “For the moment. Except to say that, yes, this is a questionable assignment. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

  The next silence stretched into minutes.

  They stopped at a light, and O’Shaughnessy took an opportunity to cast a covert glance toward Pendergast. The man, as if knowing the glance was coming, caught his eye and pinned it. O’Shaughnessy almost jumped, he looked away so fast.

  “Did you, by any chance, catch the show last year, Costuming History?” Pendergast asked, his voice now light and pleasant.

  “What?”

  “I’ll take that as a no. You missed a splendid exhibition. The Met has a fine collection of historical clothing dating back to the early Middle Ages. Most of it was in storage. But last year, they mounted an exhibition showing how clothing evolved over the last six centuries. Absolutely fascinating. Did you know that all ladies at Louis XIV’s court at Versailles were required to have a thirteen-inch waist or less? And that their dresses weighed between thirty and forty pounds?”

  O’Shaughnessy realized he didn’t know how to answer. The conversation had taken such a strange and sudden tack that he found himself momentarily stunned.

  “I was also interested to learn that in the fifteenth century, a man’s codpiece—”

  This tidbit was mercifully interrupted by a screech of brakes as the Rolls swerved to avoid a cab cutting across three lanes of traffic.

  “Yankee barbarians,” said Pendergast mildly. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, the codpiece…”