按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
lays parked behind glass…fronted cabinets。 Christ； it was like a house of horrors。
〃The cell phone's turned off； sir；〃 the secretary said。
Custer shook his head。 〃Isn't there any other number you can call？ His house； for example？〃
The secretary and Manetti exchanged looks。 〃We aren't supposed to call there；〃 she said； looking even more flustered。
〃I don't care what you're supposed to do。 This is urgent police business。 Call his house。〃
The secretary unlocked a desk drawer； rummaged through a file of index cards； plucked one out。 She looked at it a moment； shielding it from Custer's and Manetti's view。 Then she replaced the card； locked the drawer； and dialed a number。
〃Nobody's picking up；〃 she said after a moment。
〃Keep ringing。〃
Half a minute went by。 Finally； the secretary replaced the phone in its cradle。 〃There's no answer。〃
Custer rolled his eyes。 〃All right； listen。 We can't waste any more time。 We have good reason to believe that the key to the serial killer known as the Surgeon…perhaps even the killer himself…will be found here in the Museum。 Time is of the essence。 I'm going to personally supervise a thorough search of the Archives。 Lieutenant Detective Piles will be in charge of questioning certain staff members。〃
Manetti was silent。
〃With the Museum's cooperation； I think we can get through this by midnight； if not sooner。 We'll need a room for interrogation。 We will require power for our recording machinery； a sound engineer； and an electrician。 I will require identification from everyone； and access to personnel files on an ongoing basis。〃
〃Just which staff members are you going to question？〃 Manetti asked。
〃We will determine that from the files。〃
〃We have two thousand five hundred employees。〃
This temporarily floored Custer。 Twenty…five hundred people to run a museum？ What a welfare program。 He took a breath； carefully reposing his features。 〃We will deal with that。 As a start； we'll need to interview； let's see 。 。 。 night watchmen who might have noticed any unusual ings or goings。 And that archaeologist who excavated those skeletons； found the others down on Doyers Street； and…〃
〃Nora Kelly。〃
〃Right。〃
〃The police have already spoken with her； I believe。〃
〃So we'll be speaking with her again。 And we'll want to talk to the head of security…that's you…about your security arrangements； in the Archives and elsewhere。 I want to question everyone connected with the Archives and the discovery of； ah； Mr。 Puck's body。 How's that for a start？〃 He gave a quick； artificial smile。
There was a silence。
〃Now； direct me to the Archives； please。〃
For a moment； Manetti just stared at him； as if the situation was beyond his powers of prehension。
〃Direct me to the Archives； Mr。 Manetti； and make it now； if you please。〃
Manetti blinked。 〃Very well； Captain。 If you'll follow me。〃
As they walked down the storied halls； cops and administrators in tow； Custer felt a huge swelling of excitement at his newly found self…confidence。 He'd finally discovered his true calling。 Homicide was where he should have been all along。 It was obvious he was a natural； he had a knack for the work。 His being put in charge of this case had not been a fluke。 It had been destiny。
FIVE
SMITHBACK STOOD IN the dark hall； struggling to control his fright。 It was fright that was his problem here； not locked doors。 Clearly； at least one of them must be unlocked： he had just e through it。
As deliberately as he could； he went down the hall once again； trying all the doors； shaking harder this time； even at the cost of making some noise； pushing at the jambs； making sure they weren't simply stuck。 But no； it wasn't his imagination。 They were all securely locked。
Had somebody locked the door behind him？ But that was impossible： the room had been empty。 A gust of wind had closed it。 He shook his head； searching unsuccessfully for amusement in his own paranoia。
The doors； he decided； must lock automatically when shut。 Maybe that was a feature of old houses like this。 No problem： he would find another way out of the house。 Downstairs； through the reception hall and out a first floor window or door。 Perhaps out the porte…cochère door； which had every appearance of being functional…in fact it was probably the very door used by the custodian。 Relief coursed through him at this thought。 It would be easier； it would save him the trouble of having to climb back down that outside wall。
All he had to do was find his way to it through the dark house。
He stood in the hall； waiting for his heartbeat to slow。 The place was so quiet； so unusually quiet； that he found his ears alert for the faintest sound。 The silence； he told himself； was a good sign。 No custodian was around。 He probably came only once a week； at most； or maybe only once a year； given all the dust in the place。 Smithback had all the time in the world。
Feeling a little sheepish； he made his way back to the head of the stairs and peered down。 The carriage door； it seemed to him； should be to the left； somewhere off the reception hall。 He descended the stairs and paused warily at the bottom； peering again at the strange； endless displays。 Still； no sound。 The place was clearly deserted。
He remembered Pendergast's theory。 What if Leng really had succeeded 。 。 。 ？
Smithback forced himself to laugh out loud。 What the hell was he thinking about？ Nobody could live 150 years。 The darkness； the silence； the mysterious collections were getting to him。
He paused； taking stock。 A passage ran off from the hall to the left； in what he thought was the right direction。 It lay in plete darkness； yet it seemed the most promising。 He should have thought to bring a damn flashlight。 No matter： he would try that first。
Stepping carefully； avoiding the display cases and sheeted objects； he walked across the hall and into the side passage。 His pupils refused to dilate further and the corridor remained pitch black； the darkness an almost palpable presence around him。 He fumbled in his pocket； found the box of matches he'd picked up at the Blarney Stone。 He lit one； the scraping and flaring of the match unpleasantly loud in the still air。
The flickering light revealed a passage leading into another large room； also crammed with wooden cabinets。 He took a few steps forward until the matchlight died away。 Then he went on as far as he dared into the blackness； felt around with his hand； found the doorframe of the room； drew himself forward again。 Once he was inside； he lit another match。
Here was a different kind of collection： rows and rows of specimens in jars of formaldehyde。 He caught a quick glimpse of rows of gigantic； staring eyeballs in jars…whale eyeballs？ Trying not to waste the light； he hurried forward； stumbling over a large glass jeroboam on a marble pedestal； filled with what looked like a huge floating bag。 As he got back on his feet and lit another match； he caught a glimpse of the label： Mammoth stomach； containing its last meal； from the icefields of Siberia 。 。 。
He went quickly on； passing as fast as he could between the rows of cabinets； until he arrived at a single wooden door； battered and scarred