Getting up, she opened a door leading to an inner office and informed Paxton of his arrival.
“Go on in,” she said brightly, holding the door open for him.
“Sam!” said Paxton familiarly. “Glad you could make it before classes started. Take a seat. Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks John. Had some earlier and one cup’s enough for me.”
Shrugging, Paxton reseated himself and leaned back a bit in his big leather chair. Behind him, the early morning sunlight streamed in from a triptych of tall windows that gave onto a view of the quad. In the distance, the school’s nineteenth-century chapel cast a shadow across the old campus and beyond the church, receding rooftops suggested the city of Arkham that spread out below the hill upon which the grounds of the university were located.
“Well then,” said Paxton. “I’ll get right to the point. You know about the situation with Prof. Pondwaithe?”
“Only from what I’ve read in the papers and office gossip,” Bowditch replied.
“And that is…?”
“That George…I mean Prof. Pondwaithe…disappeared a few weeks ago apparently stealing an artifact apparently made of human tissue belonging to the Peabody Museum’s Asian collection.”
“Exactly. Pretty horrible as historic artifacts go. But the situation, as you may have guessed, is quite embarrassing for the university as Pondwaithe was a tenured faculty member doing research at the Peabody. His disappearance along with property belonging the museum has reflected badly on Miskatonic’s reputation, and I can assure you that the Board of Regents is very interested in retrieving the artifact and restoring the university’s professional reputation.
“Unfortunately, the police have made little progress in finding Pondwaithe or the artifact, and have informed me that they have placed their investigation aside pending any new development. I suppose I can’t blame them if they have nothing to work with, but I decided that was no reason the university could not pursue the case on its own. Thus, I’ve received permission from the board of regents to hire a specialist in this area, a fellow by the name of Anton Zarnak; ever heard of him?”
Bowditch shook his head.
“I’m not surprised as his name most often comes up in those trashy tabloids one finds around the checkouts at the supermarket,” chuckled Paxton. “But I assure you, that is simply sensationalism intended to sell papers. The real man is quite accomplished in the field of psychology, and holds a number of degrees in anthropology. In fact, he has lectured here at the university in the past but that may have been before your time.”
“It must have been.”
“Well, in any case, I contacted Zarnak and he agreed to look into the case,” continued Paxton. “It was on his advice that I also assign one of the faculty’s anthropologists familiar with Pondwaithe’s area of study to work with him. It was Zarnak’s feeling that someone who knew Pondwaithe and his work might find something that the police had overlooked.”
“It’s true that I’ve followed Pondwaithe’s recent work with interest, especially his discovery of that pre-Nihongi mask,” said Bowditch. “But I’m not sure how his research could shed light on what happened to him.”
“Nevertheless, you’ll work with Zarnak on the case and present me with a final report of your findings no matter how the issue turns out,” said Paxton with an air of
“All right. So, when is this Mr. Zarnak supposed to arrive in Arkham?”
“He’s driving up from New York tomorrow so I expect him to be here sometime in the afternoon,” guessed Paxton. “I’ve arranged for Lossner and Phillips to take over your classes for the time being so after Zarnak arrives, you’ll have all the time you need to conduct your investigation.”
“Well, seeing as things have all been arranged, I guess there’s nothing more to say than that I’ll do the best I can,” said Bowditch.
“I knew I could count on you, Sam,” said Paxton familiarly. “Good luck.”
Bowditch rose and took Paxton’s hand. Outside the administration building again, he wondered what his first move should be. Should he wait until Zarnak arrived from New York the next day, or begin the investigation on his own? In the end, he decided to spend the day refreshing his memory about the work Pondwaithe had been doing just prior to his disappearance.
It felt strange to be home in the middle of a school day, but after delivering his lesson plans to Lossner and Phillips and making sure they had everything they needed to properly cover his classes, Bowditch returned to the old campus and the new Albert Wilmarth Wing of the university library. There, he settled himself in the periodicals section pulling out scholarly magazines that Pondwaithe had used to publish his findings regarding the pre-Nihongi mask he had found.
The story of its discovery was summarized in an early article written by Pondwaithe for the Archeological Review of March, 20--:
I was in the midst of a larger project to identify the uncategorized pieces in the Peabody Museum’s Far Eastern collection when I first laid eyes on the mask. Now, anyone uninitiated in Japanese pre-history would be justified in their surprise as the mask and its use in religious ritual is not a well known fact. The earliest reference to it is in an obscure passage from the Nihongi, admittedly a late period history of Japan written about the 8th century but which purportedly describes events as early as 660 BC, a time of turmoil when city-states struggled with one another for control of the countryside. That said, I have reason to believe that the mask was used chiefly in rights practiced among coastal peoples along the northern shores of Kyushu. I say that due to circumstantial evidence indicating that use of such masks seems to have crossed the Korean Strait during the Chou Dynasty. The cult to which the mask belonged, however, is much older than that with stray mention of it in the writings of Confucius who speaks of it being present in China even before 2,000 BC. Thus, the reader can imagination my excitement when I pulled an unidentified item from its padded crate there in the basement of the Peabody Museum…
Putting down the Review, Bowditch took up a copy of Far Eastern Studies dated May, 20--; sort of a chatty space where scholars “let their hair down” in rambling exchanges among themselves. Relatively free of jargon, the magazine had a very small, one might say even elite, circulation. It was in an email received by the magazine that Pondwaithe seemed to pick up his tale where the Review piece let off:
Oh, yes, I immediately recognized the mask for what it was: a very rare item. Besides never having been itemized by the museum (a fact I verified over several days searching through the institution’s records), it appeared to fit no known cultural practice. However, its preservation was superb, having suffered little of the ravages of time. And yet, holding it my hands, I couldn’t help but shudder at its origin and wonder to what horrid rites it had been attached. Certainly, aspects of its features suggested a victim who had been of Chinese origin and I was sure that DNA analysis would place it at the time of the T’ang Dynasty.
It was getting late by the time Bowditch reached the final publication in the pile he had retrieved from the periodical files. Picking up the July issue of Cahier de Nippon, he was relieved to find that Pondwaithe’s definitive paper on the subject of the mask had been printed in both French and English.
Given that Shinto soon became the national religion of Japan, the movement had its beginnings in pre-recorded times when the natives lived a primarily sea-faring existence sustaining themselves on raw fish, vegetables, and rice. With their lives depending so heavily on the vagaries of the weather, it was only natural that some early peoples would develop a notion of fate; a belief system positing that events were out of the hands of humans who were powerless to influence them. However, if a force could be found powerful enough to control at least key aspects of their daily lives, protection from inland tribes for instance, such a deity could be quite useful. Such was the case, I believe, with the “puppet lord,” whose two limbs are commonly shown as being covered by hand puppets of the sort that children sometimes play w
ith today. In them, the deity symbolically controls the lives of human beings and, as it was hoped by its worshippers, in doing so protect them from their enemies. The worship of the puppet lord was not altogether in contravention with Shinto that would evolve out of an amorphous polytheism in which the various kami or spirits such as Amaterasu the sun goddess or even Mount Fuji itself, were amalgamated into a single belief system.
Bowditch threw the magazine atop the others and sighed heavily. Outside, night had fallen and the lights along the paths that crisscrossed the campus were blazing brightly. In the farther corners of the parking lots, the distinctive blue glare of emergency phones glowed like eerie ghosts risen from the graves of nearby Alumni’s Rest.
Although he had learned much more about Pondwaithe’s last project, Bowditch was disappointed that there appeared to be no clue as to why his colleague would steal the artifact and disappear with it. There was no mention anywhere of its possible value and even if it was worth something, how would a scholar like Pondwaithe know the connections needed to sell such an item on the black market?
Shrugging, Bowditch hoped that something would turn up at police headquarters on the next day. Outside, he turned his collar up against the cold wind and followed drifting leaves to where he had parked his car. Pulling away from the curb, he wondered vaguely about Anton Zarnak and decided to run a brief google on him before turning in for the night.
Zarnak did not turn out to be what Bowditch had expected.
He was just finishing up breakfast when the telephone rang. On the other end was an unfamiliar voice whose owner identified himself as Dr. Anton Zarnak.
“Dr. Zarnak!” said Bowditch. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“I arrived early this morning and have just settled in to my rooms in alumni housing,” replied Zarnak. “When will be a convenient time to get together?”
“I’m ready now,” replied Bowditch, impressed with Zarnak’s willingness to get right to work. “Shall I meet you on campus?”
“By all means. Say in about an hour?”
“Fine.”
Bowditch hung up and washed the breakfast dishes before throwing on a light coat against the brisk fall temperatures and heading down to the garage stall. A minute later, he had backed out of his unit and was tooling across central Arkham toward the campus of Miskatonic University.
Delayed by a number of traffic signals, Bowditch entertained himself by recalling what he had read about Zarnak on the computer the night before. Except for a stray article or two about his standing in the field of psychology and his popularity on the lecture circuit, most of the information available on the man was of a tabloid nature concerned with flying saucers, exorcisms, voodoo cults, and ghost hunting. Items that only verified Bowditch’s first impression of the man when Paxton first brought up his name.
Truthfully, the sound of Zarnak’s voice over the phone, calm and measured, went far to disabuse him of the questionable profile he had of the man from his brief readings. There was something about it, a quality of reassurance that put the listener at his ease. As he pulled onto the campus of Miskatonic University, Bowditch was certain that if circumstances warranted it, Zarnak would have no trouble with hypnosis, if psychologists were still using the technique these days.
He had no more time to ruminate on the matter as he found an empty spot in the parking area reserved for alumni. He was just getting out of his car when a tall gentleman in slacks and tweed jacket approached him from the sidewalk. Over one arm was folded what appeared to be an overcoat and as he drew nearer, Bowditch noticed a distinctive slash of silver that zig-zagged like a bolt of lightning through his otherwise dark hair.
“Prof. Bowditch, I presume,” said the man. He smiled as he extended his hand in greeting.
“No need to be so formal, doctor,” replied Bowditch shaking hands. “Call me Sam.”
“You may call me Anton,” said Zarnak. “So we are to work together.”
“So I was told,” said Bowditch. “Are you familiar with the case?”
“Quite. I’ve been keeping track of it since Pondwaithe’s disappearance and have since read up on his articles relating to the missing artifact.”
“Then may I make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“I thought we might drive over to the Peabody Museum before looking over Pondwaithe’s place in Dean’s Corners,” suggested Bowditch. “As Paxton told me, maybe people more familiar with Pondwaithe’s field of study might pick up information that the police have missed.”
“I agree; especially since it was me who gave him the idea,” said Zarnak. “But might I also suggest that we stop by the police station in Dean’s Corners too? It cannot hurt to review the more mundane results of crime scene investigation.”
“Good idea. Well, then. Shall we take my car?”
“Just let me get my briefcase,” said Zarnak, going over to a sporty BMW parked a few spaces away.
A moment later, the two men sat side by side in Bowditch’s less flashy Cavalier as he headed north to Route 128. While they made their way through Arkham traffic, there was little talk about Pondwaithe as Bowditch pointed out various places he thought might be of interest to a newcomer in town. Zarnak seemed to appreciate the preponderance of historic structures that had been preserved in the town’s historic district, remarking that he had visited Arkham in the past but that it had been many years since the last time. At last, the car made its way up a ramp onto 128 but only a few miles down the highway, turned off again on Route 114 toward Salem. Almost immediately, they entered traffic again and crawled slowly toward the center where they found parking in a multi-level garage off Essex Street.
“The Peabody Museum is just a few steps over here,” said Bowditch leading the way from the garage to the museum with its modernistic new wing dedicated to contemporary art. Across the street was the older-style building that held the administration offices, library, and storage for older items in the institution’s collection.
“I think the man we want to see is Oliver Smithson, director of Asian collections,” said Bowditch as he started up the steps to the administration’s main entrance. “It was he with whom Pondwaithe was in contact when he made his discovery of the mask.”
At the front door, Bowditch pushed through one of its leaves and then through a second set of interior doors to the tiled hallway beyond. Looking around, Zarnak pointed to a young woman sitting at a small table.
“We would like to see Oliver Smithson,” said Bowditch as they approached the girl. “I called yesterday for an appointment.”
The girl smiled sweetly and consulted an appointment book on the table.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mr. Smithson is in his office downstairs. Just take those stairs and then left at the bottom. You can’t miss it, his name is printed on the door.”
Thanking the girl, the two men took the stairs and found themselves in a corridor a good deal more gloomy than that above. On either side stood ranks of old file cabinets and tables piled high with cardboard boxes and other packaging material. Among them was a door of pebbled glass with Smithson’s name on it. Bowditch tapped it a few times before pushing it open.
Inside the office, a middle-aged man looked up from a battered metal desk. Around him were more file cabinets and more boxes but this time actual artifacts and other objects lay revealed here and there.
“Are you Samuel Bowditch?” asked Smithson.
“Yes, and this is Dr. Anton Zarnak,” replied Bowditch gesturing to his companion. “We’re looking into the disappearance of Prof. Pondwaithe for the university and were told you might be able to answer some questions for us.”
“Not about his disappearance maybe, but if you want to know what he was doing while he was here, I can tell you that,” said Smithson.
“What can you tell us about the mask Prof. Pondwaithe identified while he was working here?” asked Zarnak before Bowditch could say another word.
“Not much,” adm
itted Smithson rising from his chair. “I know from the scant notes that were included in the packaging along with the artifact that it had been stored here at the museum for quite a while, about 175 years to be exact.”
“How exactly did it come into possession of the museum,” Zarnak wanted to know.
“Near as we could figure from the notes, it was donated to the museum in 1915 by Zelia Carney, the widow of Captain Able Carney. The donation was one of about a dozen items given by Zelia from a collection that had belonged to her husband. Seems the captain had a yen for offbeat kinds of Asian art and managed to bring back quite a few pieces from voyages he made there before the Civil War. Unfortunately, the captain didn’t have a trained eye for such things and when his collection was presented to the museum, experts at the time classified them as nothing special and stored them away. When they opened the new wing a couple years ago, the museum’s directors decided to go through all of the uncataloged items in storage and invited Prof. Pondwaithe to help identify them.”
“And was the professor excited when he found the mask?” asked Zarnak.
“Not at first,” said Smithson, tucking his hands in his pockets. “He just seemed puzzled. But he did put it aside and later went upstairs to the library where I supposed he did some research to help identify it. I don’t know if he found anything useful, but a couple hours later he came back down and returned to work. It was only after he left for the evening that I noticed the mask was missing. I thought maybe I just couldn’t find it amid all the packing material and other items lying around, but after the professor was reported missing, I had second thoughts and told the directors about my suspicions. They instructed me to repeat them to the police. I guess you know the rest.”
“Since the professor’s identification of the mask, has there been anyone else here asking about it?” Zarnak wanted to know.
“Besides the police and the directors? No; and frankly, I can’t imagine who’d be interested. The thing is pretty disgusting.”
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 44
