The Cabinet of Curiosities (62 page)

“We cannot be sure, exactly, when he first learned of Leng. He spent a lot of time digging around in the Museum Archives, following up some line of research or other. At some point, he came across information about Leng in the Museum’s Archives. Whatever he found gave him two critical pieces of information: the nature of Leng’s experiments, and the location of his first lab. Here was this man who claimed to have succeeded in extending his life. You can imagine how Fairhaven must have reacted. He had to find out what this man had done, and if he had really succeeded. Of course, this is why Puck had to die: he alone knew of Fairhaven’s visits to the Archives. He alone knew what Fairhaven had been examining. This wasn’t a problem until we found the Shottum letter: but then it became essential to remove Puck. Even a casual mention by Puck of Fairhaven’s visits would have linked him directly to Leng. It would have made him suspect number one. By luring you down there, Dr. Kelly, Fairhaven figured he could kill two birds with one stone. You had proven yourself unusually dangerous and effective.

“But I get ahead of myself. After Fairhaven discovered Leng’s work, he next wondered if Leng had succeeded—in other words, if Leng was still alive. So he began to track him down. When I myself started to hunt for Leng’s whereabouts, I often had the sense someone had walked the trail before me in the not too distant past.

“Ultimately, Fairhaven discovered where Leng had once lived. He came to this house. Imagine his exultation when he found my great-grand-uncle still alive—when he realized that Leng had, in fact,
succeeded
in his attempt to prolong life. Leng had the very secret that Fairhaven so desperately wanted.

“Fairhaven tried to make Leng divulge his secret. As we know, Leng had abandoned his ultimate project. And I now know why. Studying the papers in his laboratory, I realized that Leng’s work stopped abruptly around the first of March 1954. I wondered a long time about the significance of that date. And then I understood. That was the date of Castle Bravo.”

“Castle Bravo?” Nora echoed.

“The first dry thermonuclear bomb, exploded at Bikini. It ‘ran away’ to fifteen megatons, and the fireball expanded to four miles in diameter. Leng was convinced that, with the invention of the thermonuclear bomb, the human race was destined to kill itself anyway, and far more efficiently than he ever could. The march of technology had solved his problem for him. So he gave up his search for the ultimate poison. He could grow old and die in peace, knowing it was only a matter of time before his dream of curing the earth of its human plague came true.

“So, by the time Fairhaven found him, Leng had not taken the elixir for many years—since March 1954, in fact. He had grown old. Perhaps he almost wanted to die. At any rate, he refused, even under brutal torture, to reveal his formula. Fairhaven pushed too hard and killed him.

“But there was still another chance for Fairhaven. There was still Leng’s old lab, where crucial information—both in the form of human remains, and especially in the form of Leng’s journal—might be found. And Fairhaven knew where the lab was: underneath Shottum’s Cabinet. Of course, the lot was now covered by apartment buildings. But Fairhaven was in the perfect position to buy the land and tear down the buildings, all in the name of urban renewal. Construction workers I’ve spoken to mentioned that Fairhaven was conspicuously present at the site while the foundation was being dug. He was the second man to enter the charnel pit, after the worker who originally found the bones had fled. No doubt he found Leng’s notebook in there. Later, he was able to study the effects taken from the tunnel at his leisure. Including the bones—and that, no doubt, is why the marks on both the old corpses and the new were so similar.

“Now, Fairhaven had Leng’s notebooks. He began trying to replicate Leng’s experiments, hoping to retrace the path Leng had taken. But of course, his attempts were amateurish, with no real understanding of Leng’s true work.”

As Pendergast’s narrative ceased, the old house settled into a profound silence.

“I can’t believe it,” Smithback said at last. “When I interviewed him, Fairhaven seemed so confident, so calm. So… so
sane.
”

“Madness wears many disguises,” Pendergast replied. “Fairhaven’s obsession was deep, too deep and abiding to show itself openly. And one can reach the gates of hell just as easily by short steps as by large. Fairhaven seemed to think that the formula for longevity had always been destined for him. Having taken in Leng’s life essence, he now began to believe that he was Leng—Leng as
he should have been.
He took on Leng’s persona, his manner of dress. And the copycat killings began. But a different sort of copycat killing than the police ever imagined. Killings, by the way, that had nothing to do with your article, Mr. Smithback.”

“Why did he try to kill you?” Smithback asked. “It was such a risk. I never understood that.”

“Fairhaven was a man who thought far, far ahead. That was why he was so successful in business—and, of course, one reason why he was so frightened of death. When I succeeded in finding Mary Greene’s address, he realized it was only a matter of time before I found Leng’s. Whether I believed Leng was alive or dead didn’t matter—he
knew
I would come to Leng’s house, and then all his efforts would be ruined. It would expose the connection between the modern-day killer known as the Surgeon and the old killer named Leng. It was the same with Nora. She was hot on the trail; she’d been to visit McFadden’s daughter; she had the archaeological expertise I lacked. Clearly, it was only a matter of time before we figured out where Leng lived. We couldn’t be allowed to proceed.”

“And O’Shaughnessy? Why kill him?”

Pendergast bowed his head. “I will never forgive myself for that. I sent O’Shaughnessy on what I believed was a safe errand, investigating New Amsterdam Chemists, where Leng had procured his chemicals many years ago. While there, it seems O’Shaughnessy had the luck to find some old journals, listing chemical purchases in the 1920s. I call it luck, but it turned out to be quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I didn’t realize Fairhaven was on high alert, monitoring our every move. When he became aware that O’Shaughnessy not only knew where Leng bought his chemicals, but had managed to retrieve some old sales books—which might be extremely useful, and certainly dangerous in our hands—he had to kill him. Immediately.”

“Poor Patrick,” said Smithback. “What a terrible way to die.”

“Terrible, terrible indeed,” Pendergast murmured, the anguish all too clear on his face. “And the responsibility for it lies on my shoulders. He was a good man, and a fine officer.”

Looking up at the rows of leather-bound books, at the worm-eaten tapestries and peeling wallpaper, Nora shivered.

“Oh, God,” Smithback murmured at last, shaking his head. “And to think I can’t publish any of this.” Then he looked over at Pendergast. “So what happened to Fairhaven?”

“That which he feared most, death, came at last. In a nod to Poe, I walled up the poor wretch within a basement alcove. It would not do for his body to surface.”

This was followed by a short silence.

“So what are you going to do with this house and all these collections?” Nora asked.

A wan smile played about Pendergast’s lips. “Through a tortuous route of inheritance, this house and its contents have ended up in my possession. Someday, perhaps, some of these collections will find their way anonymously into the great museums of the world—but not for a very long time.”

“And what’s happened to the house? It’s torn apart.”

“That brings me to one final request I would make of you both.”

“And that is—?”

“That you come with me.”

They followed Pendergast down winding passageways to the door leading to the porte-cochère. Pendergast opened the door. Outside, Pendergast’s Rolls was silently idling, jarring in this forlorn neighborhood.

“Where are we going?” Smithback asked.

“Gates of Heaven Cemetery.”

The drive out of Manhattan, into the crisp winter hills of Westchester, took half an hour. During that time, Pendergast said nothing, sitting motionless, wrapped in his own thoughts. At last they passed through the dark metal gates and began climbing the gentle curve of a hill. Beyond lay another hill, and then another: a vast city of the dead, full of monuments and ponderous tombs. In time, the car stopped in a far corner of the cemetery, on a rise dotted with marble.

Pendergast got out, then led them along a manicured path to a fresh row of graves. They were long frozen mounds of earth, laid out in geometrical precision, without tombstones, flowers, or markings of any kind save a spike at each head. Aluminum frames were set into each spike, holding cardboard placards, and on each placard was written a number, streaked with moisture, already mildewed and faded.

They walked along the row of graves until they came to number 12. Pendergast stopped over it and remained there, head bowed, hands clasped as if praying. Beyond, the weak winter sun shone through the twisted branches of the oaks, and the hill fell away into mist.

“Where are we?” Smithback asked, looking around. “Whose graves are these?”

“This is where Fairhaven buried the thirty-six skeletons from Catherine Street. It was a very clever move. It takes a court order to get an exhumation, a long and difficult process. This was the next best thing to cremation, which of course he wasn’t allowed to do, by law. He did not want anyone to have access to these skeletons.”

Pendergast gestured. “This grave, number 12, is the final resting place of Mary Greene. Gone, but no longer forgotten.” Pendergast reached into his pocket and removed a tattered piece of paper, folded into a small accordion. It trembled slightly in the breeze. He held it out, over the grave, almost as if it were an offering.

“What is that?” Smithback asked.

“The arcanum.”

“The
what?
”

“Leng’s formula for extending human life. Perfected. It no longer required the use of human donors. That is why he stopped killing in 1935.”

In the sudden silence, Nora and Smithback exchanged glances.

“Leng eventually worked it out. It wasn’t possible until the late twenties, when certain synthetic opiates and other biochemical assays became available to him. With this formula, he no longer had need of victims. Leng did not enjoy killing. He was a scientist; the killing was merely a regretful necessity. Unlike Fairhaven, who clearly took pleasure in it.”

Smithback stared at the paper in disbelief. “You mean to tell me you’re holding the formula for eternal life?”

“There is no such thing as ‘eternal life,’ Mr. Smithback. Not in this world, at least. This course of treatment would
extend
the human life span, by how much exactly I don’t know. At least a hundred years, perhaps longer.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was hidden in the house. As I knew it would be. I knew Leng would not have destroyed it. He would have kept a single copy for himself.” The look of internal conflict in Pendergast’s face seemed to grow stronger. “I
had
to find it. To let it fall into other hands would have been…” His voice trailed off.

“Have you looked at it?” Nora asked.

Pendergast nodded.

“And?”

“It involves fairly straightforward biochemistry, using chemicals obtainable at any good chemist’s. It is an organic synthesis that any reasonably talented chemistry graduate student could perform in a well-equipped laboratory. But there’s a trick involved, an original twist, which makes it unlikely it will be independently rediscovered—at least, not in the foreseeable future.”

There was a silence. “What are you—what are we—going to do with it?” breathed Smithback.

As if in answer, there was a sharp rasping sound. A small flame now hovered over Pendergast’s left hand: a slim gold lighter, burning yellow in the dim light. Without saying a word, he touched the flame to the end of the paper.

“Wait!” cried Smithback, lunging forward. Pendergast, holding the burning paper aloft, adroitly sidestepped his grab.

“What are you doing?” Smithback wheeled around. “For God’s sake, give me that—”

The old, accordioned sheet was already half gone, black ash curling, breaking off, dropping to the frozen earth of the grave.

“Stop!” Smithback gasped, stepping forward again. “Think this out! You can’t—”

“I
have
thought it out,” Pendergast replied. “I’ve done nothing, these last six weeks of searching,
but
think it out. It was a member of the Pendergast family, to my everlasting shame, who brought this formula to light. So many died for it: so many Mary Greenes that history will never know. I, having uncovered it, must be the one to destroy it. Believe me: this is
the only way.
Nothing created out of such suffering can be allowed to exist.”

The flame had crawled up to the final edge; Pendergast opened his fingers, and the unburned corner flared into ash on its way to the turned earth. Gently, Pendergast pressed it into Mary Greene’s grave. When he stepped back, nothing remained but a black stain in the brown earth.

A brief, shocked silence followed.

Then Smithback put his head into his hands. “I can’t believe it. Did you bring us here just to see that?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Why?”

“Because what I have just done was too important to do alone. It was an action that required witnesses—if only for the sake of history.”

As Nora looked at Pendergast, she saw—behind the conflict still evident on his face—a bottomless sorrow, an exhaustion of spirit.

Smithback shook his head miserably. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve just destroyed the greatest medical advance ever made.”

The FBI agent spoke again, his voice low now, almost a whisper. “Can’t you see? This formula would have destroyed the world.
Leng already had the answer to his problem right in his hand.
Had he released this into the world, it would have been the end. He only lacked the objectivity to see it.”

Smithback did not reply.

Pendergast glanced at the writer for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze to the grave. His shoulders seemed to droop.