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a rectangular slot set high into its face。
The slot was closed。
The man paused a moment outside the room。 Then he reached into his pocket for a key； unlocked the iron door； and pushed it open。
Light flooded into the cell； revealing a bloodstained floor and wall； chains and cuffs lying in disorganized bands of metal。
The room was empty。 Of course。 He swept it with his eyes； smiled。 Everything was ready for the next occupant。
He closed the door and locked it again； then proceeded down the hall to a large subterranean room。 Switching on the bright electric lights； he approached a stainless steel gurney。 Atop the gurney lay an old…fashioned Gladstone bag and two journals； bound in cheap red plastic。 The man picked up the top journal； turning its pages with great interest。 It was all so wonderfully ironic。 By rights； these journals should have perished in flames long ago。 In the wrong hands； they could have done a great deal of damage。 Would have done a great deal of damage； had he not e along at the right time。 But now； they were back where they belonged。
He replaced the journal and； more slowly； opened the medical valise。
Inside； a cylindrical container of hard gray hospital plastic lay on a smoking bed of dry ice chips。 The man pulled on a pair of latex gloves。 Then he removed the container from the briefcase； placed it on the gurney； and unlatched it。 He reached in； and； with infinite caution； withdrew a long； gray； ropy mass。 Had it not been for the blood and matter that still adhered to the tissue； it would have resembled the kind of heavy cable that supports a bridge； the red…streaked outer lining filled with thousands of tiny； fibrous strings。 A small smile curled the man's lips； and his pale eyes glittered as he stared。 He held the mass up to the light； which shone through it with a glow。 Then he brought it to a nearby sink； where he carefully irrigated it with a bottle of distilled water； washing off the bone chips and other offal。 Next； he placed the cleaned organ in a large machine； closed its top； and turned it on。 A high whine filled the stone room as the tissue was blended into a paste。
At timed intervals； the man consulted the pages of a notebook； then added some chemicals through a rubber bladder in the machine's lid with deft； precise movements。 The paste lightened； clarified。 And then； his movements ever so careful； the man detached the ultrablender and poured the paste into a long stainless tube； placed it in a nearby centrifuge； closed the cover； and turned a switch。 There was a humming noise that grew rapidly in pitch； then stabilized。
Centrifuging out the serum would take 20。5 minutes。 It was only the first stage in a long process。 One had to be absolutely precise。 The slightest error at any step only magnified itself until the final product was useless。 But now that he'd decided to do all further harvesting here in the laboratory； rather than in the field； no doubt things would proceed with even greater consistency。
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