“What does this have to do with the murders?”
“In 1848, a wealthy young gentleman from New York, Alexander Marysas, went on a hunting and collecting expedition around the world, from the South Pacific to Tierra del Fuego. He died in Madagascar, but his collections—most extraordinary collections they were—came back in the hold of his ship. They were purchased by an entrepreneur, John Canaday Shottum, who opened J. C. Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities in 1852.”
“So?”
“Shottum’s Cabinet was the building that once stood above the tunnel where the skeletons were found.”
“How did you find all this out?”
“Half an hour with a good friend of mine who works in the New York Public Library. The tunnel you explored was, in fact, the coal tunnel that serviced the building’s original boiler. It was a three-story brick building in the Gothic Revival style popular in the 1850s. The first floor held the cabinet and something called a ‘Cyclorama,’ the second floor was Shottum’s office, and the third floor was rented out. The cabinet seems to have been quite successful, though the Five Points neighborhood around it was at the time one of Manhattan’s worst slums. The building burned in 1881. Shottum died in the fire. The police report suspected arson, but no perpetrator was ever found. It remained a vacant lot until the row of tenements was built in 1897.”
“What was on the site before Shottum’s Cabinet?”
“A small hog farm.”
“So all those people must have been murdered while the building was Shottum’s Cabinet.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think Shottum did it?”
“Impossible to know as of yet. Those glass fragments I found in the tunnel were mostly broken test tubes and distillation apparatus. On them, I found traces of a variety of chemicals that I have yet to analyze. We need to learn a great deal more about J. C. Shottum and his cabinet of curiosities. I wonder if you would be so kind as to accompany me?”
He obligingly opened the door to her office, and Nora automatically followed him into the hallway. He continued talking as they walked down the hall and took an elevator to the fifth floor. As the elevator doors hissed open, Nora suddenly came to her senses.
“Wait a minute. Where are we going? I’ve got work to do.”
“As I said, I need your help.”
Nora felt a short jolt of irritation: Pendergast spoke so confidently, as if he already owned her time. “I’m sorry, but I’m an archaeologist, not a detective.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a difference?”
“What makes you think I’d be interested?”
“You already are interested.”
Nora fumed at the man’s presumption, although what he said was perfectly true. “And just how will I explain this to the Museum?”
“That, Dr. Kelly, is the nature of our appointment.”
He pointed to a door at the end of the hall, with the name of the occupant in gold lettering on a wooden plaque.
“Oh, no,” groaned Nora. “No.”
They found Roger Brisbane ensconced in his Bauhaus chair, crisp Turnbull & Asser shirt rolled up at the cuffs, looking every inch the lawyer. His prized gems still nestled in their glass box, the only touch of warmth in the cold immaculate office. He nodded toward two chairs opposite his desk. It did not look like Brisbane was in a good mood.
“Special Agent Pendergast,” Brisbane said, glancing from his appointment book up to Pendergast without acknowledging Nora. “Now, why is that name familiar?”
“I’ve done work in the Museum before,” said Pendergast, in his creamiest drawl.
“Who did you work for?”
“You misapprehend. I said I did work inthe Museum, not forit.”
Brisbane waved his hand. “Whatever. Mr. Pendergast, I enjoy my quiet mornings at home. I fail to see what the emergency was that required my presence in the office at such an hour.”
“Crime never sleeps, Mr. Brisbane.” Nora thought she detected a note of dry humor in Pendergast’s voice.
Brisbane’s eyes veered toward Nora, then away again. “Dr. Kelly’s responsibilities are here. I thought I made that clear on the telephone. Normally the Museum would be delighted to help the FBI, but I just don’t see how we can in this particular case.”
Instead of answering, Pendergast’s gaze lingered on the gems. “I didn’t know the famous Mogul Star Sapphire had been taken off public display. That isthe Mogul Star, is it not?”
Brisbane shifted in his chair. “We periodically rotate the exhibits, to give visitors a chance to see things that are in storage.”
“And you keep the, ah, excess inventory here.”
“Mr. Pendergast, as I said, I fail to see how we can help you.”
“This was a unique crime. You have unique resources. I need to make use of those resources.”
“Did the crime you mention take place in the Museum?”
“No.”
“On Museum property?”
Pendergast shook his head.
“Then I’m afraid the answer is no.”
“Is that your final word on the subject?”
“Absolutely. We don’t want the Museum mixed up in any way with police work. Being involved in investigations, lawsuits, sordidness, is a sure way to draw the Museum into unwelcome controversy. As you well know, Mr. Pendergast.”
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 Timesthat 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 outsideof 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 fromthe 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.