Brisbane’s hand tightened around the envelope. What was it that arrogant FBI agent, Pendergast, had said? Most of the work will be archival in nature.
He unwound the string and slid out a single piece of paper. A whiff of dust rose from the envelope and Brisbane hastily raised a protective tissue to his nose. Holding the paper at arm’s length, he read:
Dear Dr. Kelly,
I found another small box of papers on Shottum’s Cabinet, which somehow had been recently misplaced. Not nearly as astonishing as what you have already uncovered, yet interesting in its own way. I will leave it for you in the Archives Reading Room.
P.
Color crept into Brisbane’s face, then drained out again. It was just as he thought: she was still working for that arrogant FBI agent, and she was continuing to enlist Puck’s help. This thing had to be stopped. And Puck had to go. Just look at this note, Brisbane thought: manually typed on what was clearly an ancient typewriter. The very inefficiency of it made Brisbane’s blood boil. The Museum was not a welfare program for eccentrics. Puck was a fossilized anachronism who should have been put out to pasture long before. He would gather suitable evidence, then draw up a recommended termination list for the next Executive Committee meeting. Puck’s name would be at the top.
But what about Nora? He remembered the words of the Museum director, Collopy, at their recent meeting. Doucement, doucement, the director had murmured.
And softly it would be. For now.
SEVEN
SMITHBACK STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, MIDWAY BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND Amsterdam, gazing speculatively up at the red-brick facade before him. One hundred eight West Ninety-ninth Street was a broad, prewar apartment house, unembarrassed by any distinguishing architecture, bright in the noonday sun. The bland exterior didn’t bother him. What mattered lay within: a rent-stabilized, two-bedroom apartment, near the Museum, for only eighteen hundred a month.
He stepped back toward the street, giving the neighborhood a once-over. It wasn’t the most charming Upper West Side neighborhood he had seen, but it had possibilities. Two bums sat on a nearby stoop, drinking something out of a paper bag. He glanced at his watch. Nora would be arriving in five minutes. Christ, this was going to be an uphill battle anyway, if only those bums would take a walk around the corner. He fished into his pocket, found a five dollar bill, and sauntered over.
“Nice day if it don’t rain,” he said.
The bums eyed him suspiciously.
Smithback brandished the five. “Hey, guys, go buy yourself lunch, okay?”
One of them grinned, exposing a row of decaying teeth. “For five bucks? Man, you can’t buy a cup of Starbucks for five bucks. And my legs hurt.”
“Yeah,” said the other, wiping his nose.
Smithback pulled out a twenty.
“Oh, my aching legs—”
“Take it or leave it.”
The closest bum took the twenty and the pair rose to their feet with histrionic groans and sniffles. Soon they were shuffling toward the corner, heading no doubt to the nearby liquor store on Broadway. Smithback watched their retreating backs. At least they were harmless rummys, and not crackheads or worse. He glanced around and saw, right on schedule, a blade-thin woman in black come clicking down the block, a bright, fake lipstick smile on her face. The real estate broker.
“You must be Mr. Smithback,” she said in a smoker’s croak as she took his hand. “I’m Millie Locke. I have the key to the apartment. Is your, er, partner here?”
“There she is now.” Nora had just rounded the corner, cotton trenchcoat billowing, knapsack thrown over her shoulder. She waved.
When Nora arrived the agent took her hand, saying, “How lovely.”
They entered a dingy lobby, lined on the left with mailboxes and on the right with a large mirror: a feeble attempt to make the narrow hall look bigger than it actually was. They pressed the button for the elevator. There was a whir and a rattle somewhere overhead.
“It’s a perfect location,” said Smithback to Nora. “Twenty-minute walk to the Museum, close to the subway station, a block and a half from the park.”
Nora did not respond. She was staring at the elevator door, and she did not look happy.
The elevator creaked open and they stepped in. Smithback waited out the excruciatingly long ride, silently willing the damn elevator to hurry up. He had the unpleasant feeling that he, not just the apartment, was undergoing an inspection.
At last they got out at the sixth floor, took a right in a dim hallway, and stopped in front of a brown metal door with an eyehole set into it. The real estate broker unlocked four separate locks and swung the door open.
Smithback was pleasantly surprised. The apartment faced the street, and it was cleaner than he expected. The floors were oak; a bit warped, but oak nevertheless. One wall was exposed brick, the others painted sheetrock.
“Hey, what do you think?” he said brightly. “Pretty nice, huh?”