The Inner Circle Read online

  Nora moved the microscope over the patch, using its camera to take a series of photographs at various magnifications. Then she fixed a macro lens and took another series. She worked efficiently, aware that Pendergast’s eyes were upon her.

  She put the microscope aside and picked up the tweezers. “Let’s open it up.”

  With great care, she teased the end of the thread out and began to undo the patch. A few minutes of painstaking work and it lay loose. She placed the thread in a sample tube and lifted the material.

  Underneath was a piece of paper, torn from the page of a book. It had been folded twice.

  Nora put the patch into yet another Ziploc bag. Then, using two pairs of rubber-tipped tweezers, she unfolded the paper. Inside was a message, scratched in crude brown letters. Parts of it were stained and faded, but it read unmistakably:

  i aM Mary Gree Ne agt 19 years No. 16 waTTer sTreeT

  Nora moved the paper to the stage of the stereozoom and looked at it under low power. After a moment she stepped back, and Pendergast eagerly took her place at the eyepieces. Minutes went by as he stared. Finally he stepped away.

  “Written with the same splinter, perhaps,” he said.

  Nora nodded. The letters had been formed with little scratches and scrapes.

  “May I perform a test?” Pendergast asked.

  “What kind?”

  Pendergast slipped out a small stoppered test tube. “It will involve removing a tiny sample of the ink on this note with a solvent.”

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Antihuman rabbit serum.”

  “Be my guest.” Strange that Pendergast carried forensic chemicals around in his pockets. What did the agent not have hidden inside that bottomless black suit of his?

  Pendergast unstoppered the test tube, revealing a tiny swab. Using the stereozoom, he applied it to a corner of a letter, then placed it back in its tube. He gave it a little shake and held it to the window. After a moment, the liquid turned blue. He turned to face her.

  “So?” she asked, but she had already read the results in his face.

  “The note, Dr. Kelly, was written in human blood. No doubt the very blood of the young woman herself.”

  EIGHT

  SILENCE DESCENDED IN THE MUSEUM OFFICE. NORA FOUND she had to sit down. For some time nothing was said; Nora could vaguely hear traffic sounds from below, the distant ringing of a phone, footsteps in the hall. The full dimension of the discovery began to sink in: the tunnel, the thirty-six dismembered bodies, the ghastly note from a century ago.

  “What do you think it means?” she asked.

  “There can be only one explanation. The girl must have known she would never leave that basement alive. She didn’t want to die an unknown. Hence she deliberately wrote down her name, age, and home address, and then concealed it. A self-chosen epitaph. The only one available to her.”

  Nora shuddered. “How horrible.”

  Pendergast moved slowly toward her bookshelf. She followed him with her eyes.

  “What are we dealing with?” she asked. “A serial killer?”

  Pendergast did not answer. The same troubled look that had come over him at the digsite had returned to his face. He continued to stand in front of the bookshelf.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  Pendergast nodded again.

  “Why are you involved in this? Hundred-and-thirty-year-old serial killings are not exactly within the purview of the FBI.”

  Pendergast plucked a small Anasazi bowl from the shelf and examined it. “Lovely Kayenta black-on-white.” He looked up. “How is your research on the Utah Anasazi survey going?”

  “Not well. The Museum won’t give me money for the carbon-14 dates I need. What does that have to—”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Dr. Kelly, are you familiar with the term, ‘cabinet of curiosities’?”

  Nora wondered at the man’s ability to pile on non sequiturs. “Wasn’t it a kind of natural history collection?”

  “Precisely. It was the precursor to the natural history museum. Many educated gentlemen of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries collected strange artifacts while roaming the globe—fossils, bones, shrunken heads, stuffed birds, that sort of thing. Originally, they simply displayed these artifacts in cabinets, for the amusement of their friends. Later—when it became clear people would pay money to visit them—some of these cabinets of curiosities grew into commercial enterprises. They still called them ‘cabinets of curiosities’ even though the collections filled many rooms.”

  “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 Penderg
ast,” 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 in the Museum, not for it.”

  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 is the 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 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 acceptin
g 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 all: 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!”

  There was a slow shuffling, then the sound of numerous locks being unfastened. The door opened, revealing a short, round, elderly man. He had a vastly hooked red nose, and a fringe of long white hair descended from the gleaming dome above it. As he looked up at her, a smile of greeting broke out, dispelling the air of melancholy on his veined face.

  “Ah, come in, do come in,” he said. “Don’t let all these locks frighten you. I’m an old man, but I don’t bite. Fortunate senex!”