The Devil's Due

by Monique Martin

“Is Mr. Hall here?”

  “Who is it?” a man's voice called from inside the house.

  Elizabeth had seen pictures of Manly Hall before, but they didn't do him justice. He looked like a very handsome and very big Harry Houdini. With black hair and penetrating eyes, he cut an impressive figure. Considering the creepy creepiness of others of his ilk, Aleister Crowley and Max Heindel, Manly definitely got all the occult chicks.

  “I'm Manly Hall,” he said in a deep and yet gentle voice.

  Simon introduced them and, without asking why they were there, Hall invited them in. Simon waved to dismiss the taxi and they joined Hall in his, well, hall.

  “I'm a great admirer of your work,” Simon said. “Your Secret Teachings of All Ages is seminal.”

  Hall was pleased. “You've read it?”

  “Several times,” Simon said. “I especially found your thoughts on alchemy and its exponents fascinating. In particular, the section on Paracelsus.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “The depth of your research and understanding, it's astounding,” Simon said. Elizabeth feared he was laying it on a little thick, but Hall seemed used to such effusive praise.

  “Thank you,” he said and then added, clasping his hands, “And how may I help you today?”

  “I'm working on a paper myself. Nothing, of course, compared to your work, but I was wondering if you might allow access to some of your collection.”

  Hall looked them both over quickly and nodded. “Lovers of wisdom are always welcome.”

  Hall's library was immense, although obviously in a state of flux. Unsorted crates of books were stacked high along the far wall. “He seemed nice,” Elizabeth said once Hall had left them alone to research.

  “He's brilliant, but a classicist and more than a little anti-Semitic.” Simon scanned the spines along the top shelf. “Ah, Malleus Maleficarum and Grandier.” He pulled two large tomes off the shelf and handed Elizabeth one. “These will do to start.”

  For the next several hours they looked for something, anything that might give them a clue about how to help Alan. She read about Father Urbain Grandier, a French catholic priest who supposedly bewitched and bedded, with the help of several demons, a group of nuns in the early 1600's. The book even had plates depicting his contracts and signed by the demons themselves. Apparently, demons signed books like seventh grade girls, with little pictures and swooshes. She could swear one of them was actually a little heart. The priest had been promised “three days of whoring” for his soul. Not a good deal.

  She read passages about the Osculum infame, or the Devil's kiss that supposedly sometimes sealed contracts with witches who'd promised allegiance to Satan. In one of them, the witch had to literally kiss the Devil's butt. Only men could come up with stuff like this. They did find a few more “contracts,” but they were clearly little more than ancient religious propaganda.

  From Popes to blues guitarists, people throughout the ages had claimed or been accused of pacts with the devil, but there was little actual evidence to support it. Simon and Elizabeth had even gone so far as to research a dozen or so of the so-called Devil's Bridges that were scattered throughout Europe. Each of them had a story, but none of them offered any help.

  The entire day had come up seven and two and off-suit, until Simon found a small volume on Giuseppe Tartini, an eighteenth century Italian composer and violinist. Neither of them had ever seen the book before. Previous accounts of Tartini's life tangentially mentioned his deal with the devil. But this book went into great detail and the story it told was frighteningly familiar, right down to a drawing of the Devil's mark Tartini supposedly had on his forearm. It was a perfect match for the scar on Alan's arm. Worse yet, was the claim that Tartini had extended his contract several times over his lifetime by offering proxy souls - all of them women, and all of them apparently so deeply in love with him that they gave themselves willingly.

  “Well, that's good, I guess, about the proxies,” Elizabeth said, stretching her arms over her head to work out the kinks in her back.

  “Is it?”

  “I like Alan,” Elizabeth said with a grin, “but my heart, and soul, belong to another.”

  Simon frowned and closed the book. “Let's hope that's enough.”

  Elizabeth leaned over and kissed him. “It always has been. I just wish we'd found something out that would help Alan.”

  “We're not beaten yet,” Simon said with confidence, but she could tell he was worried, about her, about Alan, about all of it.

  Truth be told, she was too.

  ~~~

  The Brown Derby was as fun and quirky on the inside as it was on the outside. The exterior was shaped like a giant derby hat, but actually extended into a long room in the interior. Two rows of plush, back-to-back, deep half-moon booths split the room down the middle. Tall dividers and the occasional strategically placed potted palm gave every table a feeling of intimacy and privacy. As she and Simon walked down the center aisle, Elizabeth could just imagine Lucy Ricardo looking over from her booth into William Holden's.

  She spotted Jack sitting in a corner booth beneath a wall of the Derby's famous caricatures. He caught her eye and slipped out to greet them. Jack kissed her cheek and shook Simon's hand. “How'd the research go?”

  “Mostly fruitless, I'm afraid,” Simon said as he waited for Elizabeth to scooch into the center of the crescent-shaped booth before sliding in after her.

  “There was fruit,” Elizabeth said. “It wasn't much, but it did mirror Alan's experience.”

  Jack sat down opposite Simon. “That's good, right?”

  “Well,” Simon admitted, “it is something. However, I'm still far from convinced that what's happening with Thorn,” he said lowering his voice, “is anything more than some sort of mesmerism or coercive persuasion.”

  Jack looked to Elizabeth for a translation.

  “Mind control,” she said.

  “Really?” Jack sounded curious.

  “Mesmer, Rasputin—” Simon said.

  “Most of your Alan Rickman films,” Elizabeth offered with a smile that was quickly quelled by Simon's unamused glare.

  “Svengali,” Simon finished. “There is ample evidence of people throughout history who had incredible powers of persuasion. Religious leaders, politicians. Even actors. Some cult leaders are able to use their personalities and the weakness of their followers to convince them to do unimaginable things, commit crimes and even suicide.”

  “I heard rumors about stuff like that during the war,” Jack said. “Interrogation techniques, brainwashing, but…”

  “And yet it happens.” Simon unfolded his white linen napkin and placed it on his lap. “More often than we'd like to think.”

  “Have you ever wanted something so badly,” Elizabeth asked Jack, “that you'd do anything for it?”

  In a very un-Jacklike way, Jack toyed with the silverware of his place setting. He quickly noticed Elizabeth watching him, frowned and consciously tried to stop fidgeting.

  Elizabeth filed his odd behavior away. “Imagine that someone incredibly charismatic comes along and tells you that he can give you what you want. For a price.”

  Jack shook his head. “Yeah, but saying you can do it and pulling it off are two different things.”

  “True, but—” Simon started to say, but fell silent as the waiter approached. They placed their orders and paused until the waiter left the table before continuing their conversation.

  “Believing something is a powerful thing,” Elizabeth said.

  Jack sighed and Elizabeth saw his jaw work as if he were trying to keep from saying something. Finally, he settled on a distracted sounding, “Yeah.”

  Whatever was bothering Jack was big. Super-spy or not, they'd spent enough time together, unguarded honest time, for her to see that he was troubled.

  Simon continued, oblivious to it. “The other complication is this notion of a proxy. That someone can be offered in a signee's stead.”

  “Y
ou mean trick somebody into taking their place?” Jack asked.

  Elizabeth cast a quick glance at Simon and shook her head. “The other person has to do it willingly. Or at least that's what Alan and this book we found said.”

  “I'm taking both of those sources with a healthy dose of skepticism,” Simon said. “I'm not sure we can trust Grant's judgment in this, and the book we found also claimed that listening to Tartini's sonata too frequently could result in insanity.”

  “Exhibit A: 'It's A Small World'.”

  “Elizabeth, this is hardly a joking matter,” Simon said before turning his attention back to Jack. “My dear wife not only managed to get shot at yesterday, she also caught Thorn's eye. He told Grant that she would make an excellent trade should he chose to exercise that option in his contract.”

  Jack leaned forward, concern etched on his face. “I don't like the sound of that.”

  “No,” Simon said. “Neither do I.”

  “Neither did Alan,” Elizabeth said taking a sip from her water glass, “if anyone cares. Look, you shouldn't be worried about me—” Both men snorted and she chose to ignore that, “We should be worried about Alan. Whether we believe his deal is the real-deal or not, he does. And, in his mind, tomorrow, it expires and so does he.”

  Jack and Simon exchanged some testosterone-coded looks before Jack sat back in his seat. “What can I do to help?”

  “I'm not sure,” Simon said. “Did you learn anything else about Roth?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not much more than what I told you on the phone. I haven't found any connection between him and the kid, but I'll keep digging.” He scratched his chin in thought. “He's desperate enough to do something like that, though. We were at dinner last night at the Shooting Star, that's his favorite club, and I overheard a few people talking how bad business was and that the cops weren't biting on his deal. They can afford to wait him out though. They can get his properties for peanuts once his business dries up.”

  Abruptly, Jack ducked his head and Elizabeth turned to see what had alarmed him. “Speak of the devil,” Jack said under his breath as he shifted in his seat, turning slightly into the booth.

  “I thought that was you,” Benny Roth said to Simon as he approached their table. “I didn't get a chance to thank you properly last night for saving my brother.”

  He stuck out his hand to Simon who reluctantly shook it. “We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “Modest,” he said, looking more distrustful than impressed. “Most people'd be looking for a way to cash in.”

  Simon shook his head. “We're just glad everyone was safe.”

  “Good people are hard to find,” Benny said, looking them both up and down in a way that made Elizabeth distinctly uncomfortable. He looked at Jack for the first time and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  Jack looked up and smiled. “I don't think so.”

  Benny narrowed his eyes and looked a little harder. “You sure? I could swear-”

  “I've just got one of those faces,” Jack said as amiably and casually as possible.

  “Yeah,” Benny said, clearly not agreeing.

  Whatever was going on, Jack obviously didn't want to be the center of Benny's attention.

  “I was sorry to hear about Ruby,” Elizabeth said, hoping to shift Benny's focus.

  His eyes flashed to hers. They were like ice and then a cold smile lifted the corners of his mouth. It sent shivers up her spine and she had to consciously keep from flinching. Attention shifted, Elizabeth thought miserably.

  “Did you know Ruby?” Benny asked.

  “No, I was just—”

  Simon reached across the table and squeezed Elizabeth's hand in a display of support, but what he really meant was: Please, for the love of God, stop talking.

  “No,” Simon said. “Sadly, we never had the chance. Your brother is all right, I take it?”

  And the hot potato of Benny's attention changed hands again.

  “Yeah,” Benny said in a voice that wasn't exactly brimming over with brotherly love. “Thanks to you.”

  “Please give him our best,” Simon said hoping to put an end to the conversation.

  “I'll do that.” Benny smirked and bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dessert.”

  He left the table and Elizabeth felt another shiver. She assuaged herself with the last bite of chocolate cake.

  Simon glared at Elizabeth, clearly not pleased. “I don't know where to start. Drawing the ire of the local gangster or doing it by mentioning his dead girlfriend?”

  “It was the first thing I could think of,” Elizabeth said.

  Jack raised a hand to stop Simon. “She was just trying to help. Maybe he did recognize me from one of the clubs,” he added with a shrug, “I'd rather he didn't connect the dots, but there's not much of a picture if he does.”

  Simon grunted in displeasure, but had to agree with Jack. He gave Elizabeth one last frustrated look and then thoughtfully narrowed his eyes at Jack. “We?”

  “We what?” Jack said.

  Simon leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Before Roth came over you said 'we were at dinner'. Please tell me you were out with an informant and not out on a date with one of your conquests.”

  Jack looked down for a split second and then back up. “It's not like that.”

  Uh-oh. If it wasn't like that it was like something else, something worse. Worried and distracted Jack plus “we” and “it's not like that” equaled trouble. Elizabeth had never been very good at math, but she could put two and two together.

  Simon was apparently way ahead of her. He shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “A woman? How many times did we go over the risks involved in your being here?”

  Jack raised his hands in submission. “Don't worry. I get it.”

  “Do you?” Simon said. “A seemingly insignificant change to your life here can have serious repercussions in the future.”

  Despite the fact that Jack offered a quick, “I know,” Elizabeth knew him well enough to see that he was still working through it all. And for a woman to unbalance someone like Jack, whatever was going on had to be big or bad, or love.

  Relationships were his kryptonite. At first, Elizabeth had thought it was just the life of a spy - never letting himself get too close to anyone. But, Jack had dropped a few hints in conversations, when he was alone with her, when his guard was down. Somewhere along the way, he'd fallen in love and been burned. So badly, that he'd never really let anyone get close again. If he was serious about this woman, it was serious.

  “This woman,” Simon said. “Is she someone your other self knows? Is involved with?”

  “It's under control,” Jack said tightly.

  “Is it?” Simon said. “If you do something here that alters your own past — a past that Elizabeth and I are part of — is it still under control? Is any…liaison,” Simon said lingering over the word significantly, “worth that?”

  Simon didn't see it, but Elizabeth did. Just the slightest wince at the word. This was definitely more than one of Jack's usual casual encounters. There was nothing casual about the pain in his eyes. Elizabeth's heart filled and broke for him in the same instant. Congratulations on your doomed romance.

  Oblivious to Jack's pain, Simon leaned forward and his hands clenching into fists as he tried to keep a check on his own growing worry. “If you are doing something that changes the original 1933 Jack's life, something that led him to not enlist or join another branch of the service, have you seriously considered the consequences?”

  Jack looked away again, sighed and nodded. His shoulders fell a little as he sat back in his seat. “You already gave me this lecture.” His protest was half-hearted and she could see he was silently castigating himself.

  “And I'm going to give it to you again,” Simon said. “Because here's what happens. You aren't in the OSS, so you aren't assigned to London. No one is there to stop King Zog's men from shooting Elizabet
h. If by miracle she survives that and isn't imprisoned, without your help she's…tortured by Nazis, we're both probably killed. But that's hardly worst of it. Without your help, the Shard is surely lost. The Nazis gain control of it. Power shifts and the allies lose the war.”

  Wow. Simon Cross, painter of bleak pictures, now available for children's parties and bar mitzvahs. Elizabeth chewed her bottom lip in worry. Between Simon's dire predictions and Jack's demeanor, she felt a little queasy.

  “So, as you can see,” Simon said, leaning back, “I do worry. And with good reason.”

  “You don't know that's how it'll be,” Jack said.

  “Is that a risk you're really willing to take?” Simon said.

  Jack stared down at his empty plate and when he looked up, it was the most serious she'd ever seen him. He looked at Elizabeth briefly with a mixture of apology and reassurance. And then turned to Simon. There was no trace of his usual lighthearted charm and he met Simon's gaze with a steel glare and a hint of melancholy. He didn't say anything, but the answer was in his eyes. A man like Jack, who'd given everything for his country, who'd risked his life over and over for the cause, had one more sacrifice to make.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The midday sun reflected off the concrete of the studio. Being between the ground and buildings, it was like standing in a kiln. Elizabeth fanned herself with the script to Through the Dark Continent, which was at least good for something, and wondered at the mystery that was her husband.

  Simon looked at the bicycle with far less distaste than she'd expected. In fact, he seemed almost amused. He shrugged off his jacket and folded it into the basket that hung off the handlebars.

  “It's a long walk,” Mr. Fox said seeing Elizabeth's expression of mistrust.

  She nodded and he waved as he headed back into the writers' building.

  She and Simon had come to the studio to talk to Alan. It still amazed her that he'd come to work today. All morning she'd felt the clock ticking down toward midnight. If his contract was real, it was scheduled to expire tonight. If she had less than a day to live, she wouldn't spend it here. Or maybe it was Alan's way of pretending none of it was happening.