She began to make a list of correspondents and the nature of their work. Of course, it was always possible this was a waste of time, that the killer might have been the building’s janitor or coal man—but then she remembered the crisp, professional scalpel marks on the bones, the almost surgical dismemberments. No, it was a man of science—that was certain.
Taking out her notebook, she began jotting notes.
Letters to/from Tinbury McFadden:
CORRESPONDENT SUBJECTS OF CORRESPONDENCE POSITION DATES OF CORRESPONDENCE
J. C. Shottum Natural history, anthropology, the Lyceum Owner, Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities New York 1869–1881
Prof. Albert Blackwood The Lyceum, the Museum Founder, New York Museum of Natural History 1865–1878
Dr. Asa Stone Gilcrease Birds Ornithologist New York 1875–1887
Col. Sir Henry C. Throckmorton, Bart., F.R.S. African mammals (big game) Collector, explorer sportsman London 1879–1891
Prof. Enoch Leng Classification Taxonomist, chemist New York 1872–1881
Miss Guenevere LaRue Christian missions for Borrioboola-Gha, in the African Congo Philanthropist New York 1870–1872
Dumont Burleigh Dinosaur fossils, the Lyceum Oilman, collector Cold Spring, New York 1875–1881
Dr. Ferdinand Huntt Anthropology, archaeology Surgeon, collector Oyster Bay, Long Island 1869–1879
Prof. Hiram Howlett Reptiles and amphibians Herpetologist Stormhaven, Maine 1871–1873
The penultimate name gave her pause. A surgeon. Who was Dr. Ferdinand Huntt? There were quite a few letters from him, written in a large scrawl on heavy paper with a beautifully engraved crest. She flipped through them.
My Dear Tinbury,
With regard to the Odinga Natives, the barbaric custom of Male Partum is still quite prevalent. When I was in the Volta I had the dubious privilege of witnessing childbirth. I was not allowed to assist, of course, but I could hear the shrieks of the husband quite clearly as the wife jerked on the rope affixed to his genitalia with every contraction she experienced. I treated the poor man’s injuries—severe lacerations—following the birth…
My Dear Tinbury,
The Olmec Jade phallus I herewith enclose from La Venta, Mexico, is for the Museum, as I understand you have nothing from that extremely curious Mexican culture…
She sorted through the packet of correspondence, but it was again all in the same vein: Dr. Huntt describing various bizarre medical customs he had witnessed in his travels across Central America and Africa, along with notes that had apparently accompanied artifacts sent back to the Museum. He seemed to have an unhealthy interest in native sexual practices; it made him a prime candidate in Nora’s mind.
She felt a presence behind her and turned abruptly. Pendergast stood, arms clasped behind his back. He was staring down at her notes, and there was a sudden look on his face that was so grim, so dark, that Nora felt her flesh crawl.
“You’re always sneaking up on me,” she said weakly.
“Anything interesting?” The question seemed almost pro forma. Nora felt sure he had already discovered something important, something dreadful, on the list—and yet he did not seem inclined to share it.
“Nothing obvious. Have you ever heard of this Dr. Ferdinand Huntt?”
Pendergast gave the name a cursory glance, without interest. Nora became aware of the man’s conspicuous lack of any scent whatsoever: no smell of tobacco, no smell of cologne, nothing.
“Huntt,”he said finally. “Yes. A prominent North Shore family. One of the early patrons of the Museum.” He straightened up. “I’ve examined everything save the elephant’s-foot box. Would you care to assist me?”
She followed him over to the table laid out with Tinbury McFadden’s old collections, a decidedly motley assortment. Pendergast’s face had once again recovered its poise. Now Officer O’Shaughnessy, looking skeptical, emerged from the shadows. Nora wondered what, exactly, the policeman had to do with Pendergast.
They stood before the large, grotesque elephant’s foot, replete with brass fittings.
“So it’s an elephant’s foot,” O’Shaughnessy said. “So?”
“Not just a foot, Sergeant,” Pendergast replied. “A box, made from an elephant’s foot. Quite common among big-game hunters and collectors in the last century. Rather a nice specimen, too, if a little worn.” He turned to Nora. “Shall we look inside?”
Nora unclasped the fittings and lifted the top of the box. The grayish skin felt rough and nubbled beneath her gloved fingers. An unpleasant smell rose up. The box was empty.
She glanced over at Pendergast. If the agent was disappointed, he showed no sign.