The Cabinet of Curiosities by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

O’Shaughnessy smiled. He shook his head. “Pendergast, all I can say is, your powers of observation aren’t nearly as formidable as you seem to think. Jesus, what a philistine.”
    His smile widened as he saw a look of irritation cloud the FBI agent’s face for no more than an instant. He had finally gotten to him.

FOUR
    N ORA USHERED P ENDERGAST AND THE DOUR-LOOKING LITTLE POLICEMAN through the doorway of Central Archives, a little relieved she’d had no trouble finding her way this time.
    Pendergast paused inside the door, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh. The smell of history. Drink it in, Sergeant.” He put out his hands, fingers extended, as if to warm them on the documents within.
    Reinhart Puck advanced toward Pendergast, head wagging. He wiped his shining pate with a handkerchief, then stuffed the cloth into a pocket with awkward fingers. The sight of the FBI agent seemed to both please and alarm him. “Dr. Pendergast,” he said. “A pleasure. I don’t think we’ve met since, let’s see, the Troubles of ’95. Did you take that trip to Tasmania?”
    “I did indeed, thank you for remembering. And my knowledge of Australian flora has increased proportionately.”
    “And how’s the, er, your department?”
    “Splendid,” said Pendergast. “Allow me to introduce Sergeant O’Shaughnessy.”
    The policeman stepped out from behind Pendergast, and Puck’s face fell. “Oh, dear. There is a rule, you see. Non-Museum employees—”
    “I can vouch for him,” said Pendergast, a note of finality in his voice. “He is an outstanding member of the
police
force of our city.”
    “I see, I see,”Puck said unhappily, as he worked the locks. “Well, you’ll all have to sign in, you know.” He turned away from the door. “And this is Mr. Gibbs.”
    Oscar Gibbs nodded curtly. He was small, compact, and African-American, with hairless arms and a closely shaven head. For his size, his build was so solid he seemed fashioned out of butcher-block. He was covered with dust and looked distinctly unhappy to be there.
    “Mr. Gibbs has kindly set up everything for you in the Research Room,” said Puck. “We’ll go through the formalities, and then if you’ll be so good as to follow me?”
    They signed the book, then advanced into the gloom, Puck lighting the way, as before, by the banks of ivory switches. After what seemed an interminable journey, they arrived at a door set into the plastered rear wall of the Archives, with a small window of glass and metal meshing. With a heavy jangle of keys, Puck laboriously unlocked it, then held it open for Nora. She stepped inside. The lights came up and she almost gasped in astonishment.
    Polished oak paneling rose from a marble floor to an ornate, plastered and gilded ceiling of Rococo splendor. Massive oaken tables with claw feet dominated the center of the room, surrounded by oak chairs with red leather seats and backs. Heavy chandeliers of worked copper and crystal hung suspended above each table. Two of the tables were covered by a variety of objects, and a third had been laid out with boxes, books, and papers. A massive, bricked-up fireplace, surrounded by pink marble, stood at the far end of the room. Everything was hoary with the accumulated patina of years.
    “This is incredible,” said Nora.
    “Yes, indeed,” said Puck. “One of the finest rooms in the Museum. Historical research used to be very important.” He sighed. “Times have changed.
O tempo,O mores,
and all that. Please remove all writing instruments from your pockets, and put on those linen gloves before handling any of the objects. I will need to take your briefcase, Doctor.” He glanced disapprovingly at the gun and handcuffs dangling from O’Shaughnessy’s service belt, but said nothing.
    They laid their pens and pencils into a proffered tray. Nora and the others slid on pairs of spotless gloves.
    “I will withdraw. When you are ready to leave, call me on that telephone. Extension 4240. If you want