Moments later, O’Shaughnessy was sliding into the white leather cocoon of the Rolls. When the door shut with a solid, reassuring thunk, blessed silence returned. He still couldn’t figure out what to make of Pendergast—maybe the guy, for all his expensive tastes, was on the up-and-up. He sure as hell knew this: he was going to keep his eyes and ears open.
“Across the park to the New York Museum of Natural History, please,” Pendergast told the driver. As the car accelerated into traffic, the agent turned to O’Shaughnessy. “How is it that an Irish policeman came to love Italian opera?”
O’Shaughnessy gave a start. When had he mentioned opera?
“You disguise your thoughts poorly, Sergeant. While you were looking at the drawings from The Barber of Seville, I saw your right index finger unconsciously tapping the rhythm to Rosina’s aria, ‘Una voce poco fa. ’”
O’Shaughnessy stared at Pendergast. “I bet you think you’re a real Sherlock Holmes.”
“One does not often find a policeman with a love of opera.”
“What about you? You like opera?” O’Shaughnessy threw the question back at him.
“I loathe it. Opera was the television of the nineteenth century: loud, vulgar, and garish, with plots that could only be called infantile.”
For the first time, O’Shaughnessy smiled. He shook his head. “Pendergast, all I can say is, your powers of observation aren’t nearly as formidable as you seem to think. Jesus, what a philistine.”
His smile widened as he saw a look of irritation cloud the FBI agent’s face for no more than an instant. He had finally gotten to him.
FOUR
NORA USHERED PENDERGAST AND THE DOUR-LOOKING LITTLE POLICEMAN through the doorway of Central Archives, a little relieved she’d had no trouble finding her way this time.
Pendergast paused inside the door, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh. The smell of history. Drink it in, Sergeant.” He put out his hands, fingers extended, as if to warm them on the documents within.
Reinhart Puck advanced toward Pendergast, head wagging. He wiped his shining pate with a handkerchief, then stuffed the cloth into a pocket with awkward fingers. The sight of the FBI agent seemed to both please and alarm him. “Dr. Pendergast,” he said. “A pleasure. I don’t think we’ve met since, let’s see, the Troubles of ’95. Did you take that trip to Tasmania?”
“I did indeed, thank you for remembering. And my knowledge of Australian flora has increased proportionately.”
“And how’s the, er, your department?”
“Splendid,” said Pendergast. “Allow me to introduce Sergeant O’Shaughnessy.”
The policeman stepped out from behind Pendergast, and Puck’s face fell. “Oh, dear. There is a rule, you see. Non-Museum employees—”
“I can vouch for him,” said Pendergast, a note of finality in his voice. “He is an outstanding member of the police force of our city.”
“I see, I see,”Puck said unhappily, as he worked the locks. “Well, you’ll all have to sign in, you know.” He turned away from the door. “And this is Mr. Gibbs.”
Oscar Gibbs nodded curtly. He was small, compact, and African-American, with hairless arms and a closely shaven head. For his size, his build was so solid he seemed fashioned out of butcher-block. He was covered with dust and looked distinctly unhappy to be there.
“Mr. Gibbs has kindly set up everything for you in the Research Room,” said Puck. “We’ll go through the formalities, and then if you’ll be so good as to follow me?”
They signed the book, then advanced into the gloom, Puck lighting the way, as before, by the banks of ivory switches. After what seemed an interminable journey, they arrived at a door set into the plastered rear wall of the Archives, with a small window of glass and metal meshing. With a heavy jangle of keys, Puck laboriously unlocked it, then held it open for Nora. She stepped inside. The lights came up and she almost gasped in astonishment.
Polished oak paneling rose from a marble floor to an ornate, plastered and gilded ceiling of Rococo splendor. Massive oaken tables with claw feet dominated the center of the room, surrounded by oak chairs with red leather seats and backs. Heavy chandeliers of worked copper and crystal hung suspended above each table. Two of the tables were covered by a variety of objects, and a third had been laid out with boxes, books, and papers. A massive, bricked-up fireplace, surrounded by pink marble, stood at the far end of the room. Everything was hoary with the accumulated patina of years.