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?”
Nora said nothing.
“It’s the bargain of the century,” said the broker. “Eighteen hundred dollars, rent-stabilized. A/C. Great location. Bright, quiet.”
The kitchen had old appliances, but was clean. The bedrooms were sunny with south-facing windows, which gave the little rooms a feeling of space.
They stopped in the middle of the living room. “Well, Nora,” Smithback asked, feeling uncharacteristically shy, “what do you think?”
Nora’s face was dark, her brow furrowed. This did not look good. The real estate broker withdrew a few feet, to give them the pretense of privacy.
“It’s nice,” she said.
“Nice? Eighteen hundred bucks a month for an Upper West Side two-bedroom? In a prewar building? It’s awesome.”
The real estate broker leaned back toward them. “You’re the first to see it. I guarantee you it’ll be gone before sunset.” She fumbled in her purse, removed a cigarette and a lighter, flicked on the lighter, and then with both hands poised inches apart, asked, “May I?”
“Are you all right?” Smithback asked Nora.
Nora waved her hand, took a step toward the window. She appeared to be looking intently at something far away.
“You did talk to your landlord about moving out, didn’t you?”
“No, not quite yet.”
Smithback felt his heart sink a little. “You haven’t told him?”
She shook her head.
The sinking feeling grew more pronounced. “Come on, Nora. I thought we’d decided on this.”
She looked out a window. “This is a big move for me, Bill. I mean, living together…” Her voice trailed off.
Smithback glanced around at the apartment. The real estate broker caught his eye, quickly looked away. He lowered his voice. “Nora, you do love me, right?”
She continued looking out the window. “Of course. But… this is just a really bad day for me, okay?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re engaged.”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Not talk about it? Nora, this is the apartment. We’re never going to find a better one. Let’s settle the broker’s fee.”
“Broker’s fee?”
Smithback turned to the agent. “What did you say your fee was for this place?”
The agent exhaled a cloud of smoke, gave a little cough. “I’m glad you asked. It’s quite reasonable. Of course, you can’t just rent an apartment like this. I’m doing you a special favor just showing it to you.”
“So how much is this fee?” Nora asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen what? Dollars?”
“Percent. Of the first year’s rent, that is.”
“But that’s—” Nora frowned, did the calculation in her head. “That’s close to four thousand dollars.”
“It’s cheap, considering what you’re getting. And I promise you, if you don’t go for it, the next person will.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. That’s how much time you have to make your decision.”
“What about it, Nora?” Smithback asked.
Nora sighed. “I have to think about this.”
“We don’t have time to think about it.”
“We have all the time in the world. This isn’t the only apartment in Manhattan.”
There was a brief, frozen silence. The real estate broker glanced again at her watch.
Nora shook her head. “Bill, I told you. It’s been a bad day.”
“I can see that.”
“You know the Shottum collection I told you about? Yesterday we found a letter, a terrible letter, hidden among that collection.”
Smithback felt a feeling akin to panic creeping over him. “Can we talk about this later? I really think this is the apartment—”
She rounded on him, her face dark. “Didn’t you hear what I said? We found a letter. We know who murdered those thirty-six people!”
There was another silence. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker, who was pretending to examine a window frame. Her ears were practically twitching. “You do?” he asked.
“He’s an extremely shadowy figure named Enoch Leng. He seems to have been a taxonomist and a chemist. The letter was written by a man named Shottum, who owned a kind of museum on the site, called Shottum’s Cabinet. Leng rented rooms from Shottum and performed experiments in them. Shottum grew suspicious, took a look into Leng’s lab when he was away. He discovered that Leng had been kidnapping people, killing them, and then dissecting out part of their central nervous system and processing it — apparently, for self-administered injections.”