Pendergast removed a piece of paper from his vest pocket and laid it in front of Brisbane.
“What’s this?” Brisbane said, without looking at it.
“The Museum’s charter with the City of New York.”
“What relevance is that?”
“It states that one of the responsibilities of Museum employees is to perform pro bono public service to the City of New York.”
“We do that every day by running the Museum.”
“Ah, but that is precisely the problem. Up until fairly recently, the Museum’s Anthropology Department regularly assisted the police in forensic matters. It was part of their duties, as a matter of fact. You remember, of course, the infamous Ashcan Murder of November 7, 1939?”
“Pity, I must have missed that particular piece in the Times that day.”
“A curator here was instrumental in solving that case. He found the burned rim of an orbit in an ashcan, which he was able to identify as positively human—”
“Mr. Pendergast, I am not here for a history lesson.” Brisbane rose out of his chair and flicked on his jacket. “The answer is no. I have business to attend to. Dr. Kelly, please return to your office.”
“I am sorry to hear that. There will be adverse publicity, of course.”
At these two words, Brisbane paused, then a cold smile crept onto his face. “That sounded remarkably like a threat.”
Pendergast continued in his genial, southern fashion. “The truth is, the charter clearly calls for service to the City outside of regular curatorial duties. The Museum has not been keeping its contract with the City of New York now for close to a decade, despite the fact that it receives millions in tax dollars from the citizens of New York. Far from providing public service, you have now closed your library to all but Ph.D.’s; you have closed your collections to everyone except so-called accredited academics; and you charge fees for everything, all in the name of intellectual property rights. You have even begun suggesting an admission fee, despite the fact that this is clearly barred by your charter. It says right here: … for the Creation of a Museum of Natural History for the City of New York, to be Open and Free to all Members of the Public, without Restriction…”
“Let me see that.”
Brisbane read it, his smooth brow contracting into the faintest wrinkle.
“Old documents can be so inconvenient, don’t you think, Mr. Brisbane? Like the Constitution. Always there when you least want it.”
Brisbane let it drop to the desk, his face reddening for a moment before returning to its usual healthy pink. “I’ll have to take this up with the board.”
Pendergast smiled slightly. “An excellent start. I think perhaps the Museum can be left to work this little problem out on its own — what do you think, Mr. Brisbane? — provided I am given what little help I need from Dr. Kelly.”
There was a silence. Then Brisbane looked up, a new look in his eyes. “I see.”
“And I assure you I will not take up an undue amount of Dr. Kelly’s time.”
“Of course you won’t,” said Brisbane.
“Most of the work will be archival in nature. She’ll be on the premises and available, should you need her.”
Brisbane nodded.
“We will do all we can to avoid unpleasant publicity. Naturally, all this would be kept confidential.”
“Naturally. It is always best that way.”
“I just want to add that Dr. Kelly did not seek me out. I have imposed this duty on her. She has already informed me she would rather be working on her potsherds.”
“Of course.”
An opaque veil had dropped over Brisbane’s face. It was hard for Nora to tell what he was thinking. She wondered if this little hardball play of Pendergast’s was going to damage her prospects at the Museum. It probably would. She darted a reproachful glance toward Pendergast.
“Where did you say you were from?” Brisbane asked.
“I didn’t. New Orleans.”
Brisbane immediately pushed himself back in his chair, and with a smile said: “New Orleans. Of course. I should have known from the accent. You’re a rather long way from home, Mr. Pendergast.”
Pendergast bowed, holding the door open for Nora. She stepped through it, feeling shocked. Down the hall, she halted and spoke to Pendergast. “You totally blindsided me back there. I had no idea what you were up to until we were in Brisbane’s office. I don’t appreciate it.”
Pendergast turned his pale eyes on her. “My methods are unorthodox, but they have one advantage.”
“And what is that?”
“They work.”
“Yeah, but what about my career?”
Pendergast smiled. “May I offer a prediction?”
“For what it’s worth, why not?”
“When this is over, you will have been promoted.”
Nora snorted. “Right. After you blackmailed and humiliated my boss, he’s going to promote me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t suffer petty bureaucrats gladly. A very bad habit, but one I find hard to break. Nevertheless, you will find, Dr. Kelly, that humiliation and blackmail, when used judiciously, can be marvelously effective.”
At the stairwell, Nora paused once again.
“You never answered my question. Why is the FBI concerned with killings that are over a century old?”
“All in good time, Dr. Kelly. For now, let it suffice to say that, on a purely personal level, I find these killings rather — ah — interesting.”
Something in the way Pendergast said “interesting” sent the faintest of shudders through Nora.
Men of Science
ONE
THE MUSEUM’S VAST Central Archives lay deep in the basement, reachable only through several sets of elevators, winding corridors, stairs, and passageways. Nora had never been to the Archives before — she did not, in fact, know anybody who ever had — and as she descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Museum, she wondered if perhaps she had made a wrong turn somewhere.
Before accepting the job at the Museum, she had taken one of the tours that threaded their way through its endless galleries. She had heard all the statistics: it was physically the largest museum in the world, consisting of two dozen interconnected buildings built in the nineteenth century, forming a bizarre maze of more than three thousand rooms and almost two hundred miles of passageways. But mere numbers could not capture the claustrophobic feeling of the endless, deserted corridors. It was enough, she thought, to give the Minotaur a nervous breakdown.
She stopped, consulted her map, and sighed. A long brick passageway ran straight ahead, illuminated by a string of light bulbs in cages; another ran off from it at right angles. Everything smelled of dust. She needed a landmark, a fixed point to get her bearings. She looked around. A padlocked metal door nearby had a weathered sign: Titanotheres. A door across the hall from it read: Chalicotheres and Tapiroids. She checked the oversized map, finally locating her position with difficulty. She wasn’t lost, after alclass="underline" it was just ahead and around the corner. Famous last words, she thought, walking forward, hearing the echoing rap of her heels against the concrete floor.
She stopped at a massive set of oaken doors, ancient and scarred, marked Central Archives. She knocked, listening to the rap resound cavernously on the far side. There came a sudden rattle of papers, the sound of a dropped book, a great clearing of phlegm. A high-pitched voice called out, “Just a moment, please!”