AT HIS FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD COFFEE SHOP,SMITHBACK LINGERED over his breakfast, knowing the Museum did not open its doors until ten. Once more, he glanced over the photocopies of articles he’d culled from back issues of the Times. The more he read them, the more he was sure the old murders were the work of Leng. Even the geography seemed consistent: most of the murders had taken place on the Lower East Side and along the waterfront, about as far away from Riverside Drive as you could get.
At nine-thirty he called for the bill and set off down Broadway for a bracing fall walk to the Museum. He began to whistle. While he still had the relationship with Nora to repair, he was an eternal optimist. If he could bring her the information she wanted on a silver platter, that would be a start. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever. They had so much in common, shared both good and bad times together. If only she didn’t have such a temper!
He had other reasons to be happy. Although every now and then his instincts failed him—the thing with Fairhaven was a good example—most of the time his journalist’s nose was infallible. And his article on Leng had gotten off to a good start. Now all he needed was to dig up a few personal nuggets to bring the madman to life—maybe even a photograph. And he had an idea of where to get all of it.
He blinked in the bright fall light, inhaled the crisp air.
Years before—during the time he’d spent writing what had started out as a history of the Museum’s superstition exhibition—Smithback had grown to know the Museum very well. He knew its eccentric ways, the ins and outs, the shortcuts, the curiosa, the hidden corners and miscellaneous archives. If there was any information about Leng hidden within those walls, Smithback would find it.
When the great bronze doors opened, Smithback made sure he buried himself within the throngs, staying as anonymous as possible. He paid the suggested admission and pinned on his button, strolling through the Great Rotunda, gaping like all the others at the soaring skeletons.
Soon he broke away from the tourists and worked his way down to the first floor. One of the least known, but most useful, archives in the Museum was here. Colloquially known as Old Records, it housed cabinet upon filing cabinet of personnel records, running from the Museum’s founding to about 1986, when the system was computerized and moved to a gleaming new space on the fourth floor and given the shiny new name of Human Resources. How well he remembered Old Records: the smell of mothballs and foxed paper, the endless files on long-dead Museum employees, associates, and researchers. Old Records still contained some sensitive material, and Smithback remembered that it was kept locked and guarded. The last time he was in here, it was on official business and he had a signed permission. This time, he was going to have to use a different approach. The guards might recognize him; then again, after several years, they might not.
He walked through the vast Hall of Birds, echoing and empty, considering how best to proceed. Soon he found himself before the twin riveted copper doors labeled Personnel Records, Old. Peering through the crack between them, he could see two guards, sitting at a table, drinking coffee.
Two guards. Twice the chance of being recognized, half the chance of pulling a fast one on them. He had to get rid of one.
He took a turn around the hall, still thinking, as a plan began to take shape. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked out into the corridor, up the stairs, and into the huge Selous Memorial Hall. There, the usual cadre of cheerful old ladies had taken their places at the information desk. Smithback plucked the visitor’s button from his lapel and tossed it in a trash bin. Then he strode up to the nearest lady.
“I’m Professor Smithback,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes, Professor. What can I do for you?”The lady had curly white hair and violet eyes.
Smithback gave her his most charming smile. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course.” The woman handed him the phone from under the desk. Smithback looked through the nearby museum phone book, found the number, and dialed.
“Old Records,” a gruff voice answered.
“Is Rook on duty there?” Smithback barked.
“Rook? There’s no Rook here. You got the wrong number, pal.”
Smithback expelled an irritated stream of air into the phone. “Who’s on in Records, then?”
“It’s me and O’Neal. Who’s this?”The voice was truculent, stupid.
“ ‘Me’? Who’s ‘me’?”
“What’s your problem, friend?” came the reply.
Smithback put on his coldest, most officious voice. “Allow me to repeat myself. May I be so presumptuous to ask who you are, sir, and whether you want to be written up for insubordination?”