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Yacht Club sailing regatta on the Hudson earlier that afternoon； the miraculous curative properties of the Wilsonia Magnetic Garment。
There were still gaps； of course…hazy dark patches； like fog…about which Pendergast had little or no information。 No memory crossing was ever plete。 There were details of history that had been irrevocably lost。
When the train at last reached the lower stretches of the Bowery； Pendergast disembarked。 He stood on the platform a moment； looking around a little more intently now。 The elevated tracks were erected over the sidewalks； rather than along the middle of the street； and the awnings below were covered in a greasy film of oil drippings and ash。 The Chauncey M。 Depew gave a shriek； beginning its furious dash to the next stop。 Smoke and hot cinders belched from its stack； scattering into the leaden air。
He descended skeletal wooden stairs to ground level； alighting outside a small shop。 He glanced at its signboard： George Washington Abacus； Physiognomic Operator and Professor of the Tonsorial Art。 The broad thoroughfare before him was a sea of bobbing plug hats。 Trams and horsecars went careering down the center of the road。 Peddlers of all kinds jostled the narrow sidewalk； crying out their trade to all who would listen。 〃Pots and pans！〃 called a tinker。 〃Mend your pots and pans！〃 A young woman trundling a steaming cauldron on wheels cried； 〃Oysters！ Here's your brave； good oysters！〃 At Pendergast's left elbow； a man selling hot corn out of a baby's perambulator fished out an ear； smeared it with a butter…soaked rag； and held it out invitingly。 Pendergast shook his head and eased his way into the milling crowd。 He was jostled； there was a momentary fog； a loss of concentration； and then Pendergast recovered。 The scene returned。
He moved south； gradually bringing all five senses fully alive to the surroundings。 The noise was almost overwhelming： clattering horseshoes； countless snatches of music and song； yelling； screaming； whinnying； cursing。 The air was supercharged with the odors of sweat； dung； cheap perfume； and roasting meats。
Down the street； at 43 Bowery； Buffalo Bill was playing in the Scout of the Plains stage show at the Windsor。 Several other theaters followed； huge signs advertising current performances： Fedora； Peck's Bad Boy； The Darkness to the North； Kit； the Arkansas Traveler。 A blind Civil War veteran lay between two entrances； cap held out imploringly。
Pendergast glided past with barely a glance。
At a corner； he paused to get his bearings； then turned onto East Broadway Street。 After the frenzy of Bowery； he entered a more silent world。 He moved past the myriad shops of the old city； shuttered and dark at this hour： saddleries； millinery shops； pawnbrokers； slaughterhouses。 Some of these buildings were distinct。 Others…places Pendergast had not succeeded in identifying…were vague and shadowy； shrouded in that same indistinct fog。
At Catherine Street he turned toward the river。 Unlike on East Broadway； all the establishments here…grog shops； sailors' lodging houses； oyster…cellars…were open。 Lamps cast lurid red stripes out into the street。 A brick building loomed at the corner； low and long； streaked with soot。 Its granite cornices and arched lintels spoke of a building done in a poor imitation of the Neo…Gothic style。 A wooden sign； gold letters edged in black； hung over the door：
J。 C。 SHOTTUM'S CABINET OF NATURAL PRODUCTIONS & CURIOSITIES
A trio of bare electric bulbs in metal cages illuminated the doorway； casting a harsh glare onto the street。 Shottum's was open for business。 A hired hawker shouted at the door。 Pendergast could not catch the words above the noise and bustle。 A large signboard standing on the pavement in front advertised the featured attractions…See the Double…Brained Child & Visit Our New Annex Showing Bewitching Female Bathers in Real Water。
Pendergast stood on the corner； the rest of the city fading into fog as he focused his concentration on the building ahead； meticulously reconstructing every detail。 Slowly； the walls came into sharper focus…the dingy windows； the interiors； the bizarre collections； the maze of exhibit halls…as his mind integrated and shaped the vast quantity of information he had amassed。
When he was ready； he stepped forward and queued up。 He paid his two pennies to a man in a greasy stovepipe hat and stepped inside。 A low foyer greeted his eye； dominated on the far side with a mammoth skull。 Standing next to it was a moth…eaten Kodiak bear； an Indian birchbark canoe； a petrified log。 His eyes traveled around the room。 The large thighbone of an Antediluvian Monster stood against the far wall； and there were other eclectic specimens laid out； helter…skelter。 The better exhibits； he knew； were deeper inside the cabinet。
Corridors ran off to the left and right； leading to halls packed with teeming humanity。 In a world without movies； television； or radio…and where travel was an option only for the wealthiest…the popularity of this diversion was not surprising。 Pendergast bore left。
The first part of the hall consisted of a systematic collection of stuffed birds； laid out on shelves。 This exhibit； a feeble attempt to insinuate a little education； held no interest to the crowd； which streamed past on the way to less edifying exhibits ahead。
The corridor debouched into a large hall； the air hot and close。 In the center stood what appeared to be a stuffed man； brown and wizened； with severely bowed legs； gripping a post。 The label pinned below it read： Pygmy Man of Darkest Africa； Who Lived to Be Three Hundred Fifty…Five Years of Age Before Death by Snakebite。 Closer inspection revealed it to be a shaved orangutan； doctored to look human； apparently preserved through smoking。 It gave off a fearful smell。 Nearby was an Egyptian mummy； standing against the wall in a wooden sarcophagus。 There was a mounted skeleton missing its skull； labeled Remains of the Beautiful Countess Adele de Brissac； Executed by Guillotine； Paris； 1789。 Next to it was a rusty piece of iron； dabbed with red paint； marked： The Blade That Cut Her。
Pendergast stood at the center of the hall and turned his attention to the noisy audience。 He found himself mildly surprised。 There were many more young people than he had assumed； as well as a greater cross section of humanity； from high to low。 Young bloods and fancy men strolled by； puffing on cigars； laughing condescendingly at the exhibits。 A group of tough…looking youths swaggered past； sporting the red flannel firemen's shirts； broadcloth pantaloons； and greased 〃soap…lock〃 hair that identified them as Bowery Boys。 There were workhouse girls； whores； urchins； street peddlers； and barmen。 It was； in short； the same kind of crowd that thronged the streets outside。 Now that the workday was done for many； they came to Shottum's for an evening's entertainment。 The two…penny admission was within reach of all。
Two doors at the far end of the hall led to more exhibits； one to the bewitching ladies； the other marked Gallery of Unnatural Monstrosities。 This latter was narrow and dark； and it was the exhibit that Pendergast had e to see。
The sounds of the crowds were muffled here； and there were fewer visitors； mostly nervous； gaping youngsters。 The carnival atmosphere had changed into something quieter； more eerie。 The darkness； the closeness； the stillness； all conspired to create the effect of fear。
At the first turn of the gallery stood a table； on which was a large jar of thick glass； stoppered and sealed； containing a floating human baby。 Two miniature； perfectly formed arms stuck out from its forehead。 Pendergast peered closer and saw that； unlike many of the other exhibits； this one had not been doctored。 He passed on。 There was a small alcove containing a dog with a cat's head； this one clearly fake； the sewing marks visible through the thinning hair。 It stood next to a giant clam； propped open； showing a skeletonized foot inside。 The label copy told the gruesome story of the hapless pearl diver。 Around another corner； there was a great miscellany of objects in jars of formaldehyde： a Portuguese man…of…war； a giant rat from Sumatra； a hideous brown thing the size of a flattened watermelon； marked Liver； from a Woolly Mammoth Frozen in Siberian Ice。 Next to it was a Siamese…twinned giraffe fetus。 The next turn revealed a shelf with a human skull with a hideous bony growth on the forehead； labeled The Rhinoceros Man of Cincinnati。
Pendergast paused； listening。 Now the sounds of the crowd were very faint； and he was alone。 Beyond； the darkened hall made one last sharp turn。 An elaborately stylized arrow pointed toward an unseen exhibit around the corner。 A sign read： Visit Wilson One…Handed： For Those Who Dare。
Pendergast glided around the corner。 Here； it was almost silent。 At the moment； there were no other visitors。 The hall terminated in a small alcove。 In the alcove was a single exhibit： a glass case containing a desiccated head。 The shriveled tongue still protruded from the mouth； looking like a cheroot clamped between the twisted lips。 Next to it lay what appeared to be a dried sausage； about a foot long； with a rusty hook attached to one end by leather straps。 Next to that； the frayed end of a hangman's noose。
A label identified them：
THE HEAD
OF THE NOTORIOUS MURDERER
AND ROBBER
WILSON ONE…HANDED
HUNG BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD
DAKOTA TERRITORY
JULY 4； 1868
THE NOOSE
FROM WHICH HE SWUNG
THE FOREARM STUMP AND HOOK OF WILSON ONE…HANDED
WHICH BROUGHT IN A BOUNTY
OF ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS
Pendergast examined the cramped room。 It was isolated and very dark。 It was cut off from view of the other exhibits by a sharp turn of the corridor。 It would fortably admit only one person at a time。
A cry for help here would be unheard； out in the main galleries。
The little alcove ended in a cul…de…sac。 As Pendergast stared at it； pondering； the wall wavered； then disappeared； as fog once again enshrouded his memory construct and the mental image fell away。 But it did not matter： he had seen enough； threaded his way through sufficient passages； to understand。
And now…at last…he knew how Leng had procured his victims。
TWELVE
PATRICK O'SHAUGHNESSY STOOD on the corner of Seventy…second and Central Park West； staring at the facade of the Dakota apartment building。 There was a vast arched entrance to an inner courtyard； and beyond the entrance the building ran at least a third of the way down the block。 It was there； in the darkness； that Pendergast had been attacked。
In fact； it probably looked just about like this when Pendergast was stabbed…except for the old man； of course； the one Pendergast had seen wearing a derby hat。 Astonishing that the guy had almost managed to overpower the FBI agent； even factoring in the element of surprise。
O'Shaughnessy wondered again just what the hell he was doing here。 He was off duty。 He should be in J。 W。's hoisting a few with friends； or messing about his apartment； listening to that new recording of The Bartered Bride。 They weren't paying him： so why should he care？
But he found； strangely enough； that he did care。
Custer； naturally； had dismissed it as a simple mugging： 〃Friggin' rube out…of…towner； no surprise he got his ass mugged。〃 Well； O'Shaughnessy knew Pendergast was no rube。 The man probably played up his New Orleans roots just to keep people like Custer off guard。 And he didn't think Pendergast had gotten mugged； either。 But now it was time to decide： just what was he going to do about it？
Slowly； he began to walk toward the site of the attack。
Earlier in the day； he'd visited Pendergast in the hospital。 Pendergast had hinted to him that it would be useful…more than useful…to have the coroner's report on the bones found at the construction site。 To get it； O'Shaughnessy realized； he would have to go around Custer。 Pendergast also wanted more information on the developer； Fairhaven…who Custer had made it clear was off…limits。 It was then O'Shaughnessy realized he had crossed some invisible line； from working for Custer to working for Pendergast。 It was a new； almost heady feeling： for the first time in his life； he was working with someone he