Smithback glanced around at the apartment. The real estate broker caught his eye, quickly looked away. He lowered his voice. “Nora, you do love me, right?”
She continued looking out the window. “Of course. But . . . this is just a really bad day for me, okay?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re engaged.”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Not talk about it? Nora, thisis the apartment. We’re never going to find a better one. Let’s settle the broker’s fee.”
“Broker’s fee?”
Smithback turned to the agent. “What did you say your fee was for this place?”
The agent exhaled a cloud of smoke, gave a little cough. “I’m glad you asked. It’s quite reasonable. Of course, you can’t just rentan apartment like this. I’m doing you a special favor just showing it to you.”
“So how much is this fee?” Nora asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen what? Dollars?”
“Percent. Of the first year’s rent, that is.”
“But that’s—” Nora frowned, did the calculation in her head. “That’s close to four thousand dollars.”
“It’s cheap, considering what you’re getting. And I promise you, if you don’t go for it, the next person will.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. That’s how much time you have to make your decision.”
“What about it, Nora?” Smithback asked.
Nora sighed. “I have to think about this.”
“We don’t have time to think about it.”
“We have all the time in the world. This isn’t the only apartment in Manhattan.”
There was a brief, frozen silence. The real estate broker glanced again at her watch.
Nora shook her head. “Bill, I told you. It’s been a bad day.”
“I can see that.”
“You know the Shottum collection I told you about? Yesterday we found a letter, a terrible letter, hidden among that collection.”
Smithback felt a feeling akin to panic creeping over him. “Can we talk about this later? I really think this is the apartment—”
She rounded on him, her face dark. “Didn’t you hear what I said? We found a letter.We know who murdered those thirty-six people!”
There was another silence. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker, who was pretending to examine a window frame. Her ears were practically twitching. “You do?” he asked.
“He’s an extremely shadowy figure named Enoch Leng. He seems to have been a taxonomist and a chemist. The letter was written by a man named Shottum, who owned a kind of museum on the site, called Shottum’s Cabinet. Leng rented rooms from Shottum and performed experiments in them. Shottum grew suspicious, took a look into Leng’s lab when he was away. He discovered that Leng had been kidnapping people, killing them, and then dissecting out part of their central nervous system and processing it—apparently, for self-administered injections.”
“Good God. What for?”
Nora shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this. He was trying to extend his life span.”
“That’s incredible.” This was a story—a giganticstory. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker. She was now intently examining the door jambs, her next appointment seemingly forgotten.
“That’s what I thought.” Nora shuddered. “God, I just can’t get that letter out of my head. All the details were there. And Pendergast—you should have seen how grim his face was while he was reading it. Looked as if he was reading his own obituary or something. And then this morning, when I went down to check on some more Shottum material that had turned up, I learn that orders had come down for some conservation work in the Archives. All the Shottum papers were included. And now, they’re gone. You can’t tell me that’s coincidence. It was either Brisbane or Collopy, I’m sure of that, but of course I can’t come right out and ask them.”
“Did you get a photocopy?”
The dark look on Nora’s face lifted slightly. “Pendergast asked me to make one after we first read the letter. I didn’t understand his hurry then. I do now.”
“Do you have it?”
She nodded toward her briefcase.
Smithback thought for a moment. Nora was right: the conservation orders, of course, were no coincidence. What was the Museum covering up? Who was this man Enoch Leng? Was he connected to the early Museum in some way? Or was it just the usual Museum paranoia, afraid to let out any information that wasn’t buffed and polished by their PR people? Then of course there was Fairhaven, the developer, who also happened to be a big contributor to the Museum . . . This whole story was getting good. Very good.
“Can I see the letter?”
“I was going to give it to you for safekeeping—I don’t dare bring it back into the Museum. But I want it back tonight.”
Smithback nodded. She handed him a thick envelope, which he shoved into his briefcase.
There was a sudden buzz of the intercom.
“There’s my next appointment,” said the broker. “Should I tell them you’re taking it, or what?”
“We’re not,” said Nora decisively.
She shrugged, went to the intercom, and buzzed them in.
“Nora,”Smithback implored. He turned to the real estate agent. “We aretaking it.”
“I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m just not ready.”
“But last week you said—”
“I know what I said. But I can’t think about apartments at a time like this. Okay?”
“No, it’s notokay.”
The doorbell rang and the broker moved to open the door. Two men came in—one bald and short, one tall and bearded—gave the living room a quick look, swept through the kitchen and into the bedrooms.
“Nora, please,” Smithback said. “Look, I know this move to New York, the job at the Museum, hasn’t been as smooth as you hoped. I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean you should—”
There was a lengthy interval while the shower was being turned on, then off. And then the couple were back in the living room. The inspection had taken less than two minutes.
“It’s perfect,” said the bald one. “Eighteen percent broker’s fee, right?”
“Right.”
“Great.” A checkbook appeared. “Who do I make it out to?”
“Cash. We’ll take it to your bank.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Smithback said, “we were here first.”
“I’m so sorry,” said one of the men politely, turning in surprise.
“Don’t mind them,” said the broker harshly. “Those people are on their way out.”
“Come on, Bill.” Nora began urging him to the door.
“We were here first! I’ll take it myself, if I have to!”
There was a snap as the man detached the check. The broker reached for it. “I’ve got the lease right here,” she said, patting her bag. “We can sign it at the bank.”
Nora dragged Smithback out the door and slammed it shut. The ride downstairs was silent and tense.
A moment later, they were standing on the street. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Nora said, looking away. “We can talk about this tonight.”
“We certainly will.”
Smithback watched her stride down Ninety-ninth Street in the slanting light, the trenchcoat curling away from her perfect little behind, her long copper hair swinging back and forth. He felt stricken. After all they had been through, she still didn’t want to live with him. What had he done wrong? Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him for pressuring her to move east from Santa Fe. It wasn’t his fault the job at the Lloyd Museum had fallen through and her boss here in Manhattan was a prize asshole. How could he change her mind? How could he prove to her that he really loved her?
An idea began to form in his mind. Nora didn’t really appreciate the power of the press, particularly the New York Times.She didn’t realize just how cowed, how docile and cooperative, the Museum could be when faced with bad publicity. Yes,he thought, this would work.She would get the collections back, and get her carbon-14 dating funded, and more. She would thank him in the end. If he worked fast, he could even make the early edition.