“This ain’t no Chicago speakeasy, mister,” he said. “I don’t want any illegal drinking in my house.”
If he had been in Chicago at all, he would have known better than to say no to a gangster, especially in front of others.
Moran was a big man, but he moved fast. He stood up, one hand moving in a long arc that passed Pretski’s face with a sound like an axe striking wood. Pretski rocked back on his feet with a grunt. Moran had a gun in his hand, a big .45 automatic. Pretski stepped back, stunned, as blood trickled from the cut on his temple.
A less confident man would have pistol-whipped Pretski again. Moran placed the pistol on the table in front of him and sat down.
“Just bring five glasses, friend. Six, if you’d care to join us.”
Pretski looked blank, but moved quickly when Moran turned. Moran was that type of guy. Pretski brought the glasses and placed them on the table with hands that trembled, without saying a word.
“Thank you, Mr. Pretski,” said Moran, and started pouring.
There are two types of liquor in the Second City: imported bootleg from over the border, and moonshine made in garages and sheds. The bootleg is the good stuff, but it didn’t take long for some wiseguy to realise that it went further if you mixed it with a little moonshine. Then a little moonshine became as much as you could get away with, and the product went downhill fast. These days the genuine item was harder to find than a ham sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah. Labels meant nothing; there was a lively trade in empty bottles, and I can personally guarantee that nothing which says Scotch on the label has ever been within a thousand miles of a set of bagpipes.
We toasted the Volstead Act, the source of all the money in Chicago. I’d tasted the stuff they were shipping from the North Side before and I was ready for it. It still felt like it was taking the enamel off your teeth, though. Either Moran was a poor judge of hooch, or getting the good stuff was harder than I thought.
“Got quite an edge,” said Ricca to Moran. “You oughta sell that with a wood rasp to smooth it down.”
“And how,” said Cristillo.
Ricca brought out a bottle too, the South Side’s own brand, and we tried that one. There was some debate on the finer points, but however you cut it, the stuff was just as rough as Moran’s.
“Aw, who cares what it tastes like?” said Cristillo, downing a second shot. He was an easy-going sort, I decided.
“See if this changes your mind,” said Wilson, unscrewing a hip flask as if he were laying down a trump.
Wilson’s brew was mellower. If you didn’t mind the aftertaste of shoe polish, it could have passed for a halfway decent bourbon.
“Not bad,” said Moran. “How much does a case of it go for in your neck of the woods?”
Then talk turned to business, and everyone took to bragging about their operation. I felt like the odd one out, a temperance preacher in a bar. The boys were doing a good job of shutting out the night, but I could feel it pressing around, and their mood was brittle. None of them showed fear, but I could feel it.
I was the first one to turn in; hanging around too late was beginning to feel too much like snooping. In places like Newfane, when night closes in you’re left in a little bubble of light all alone in the dark. And when you turn that light out you start to hear the noises: the murmuring of a million trees. To a city boy used to hearing traffic, it can be unsettling.
The sheets felt slightly damp, and that mildew smell crawled up your nostrils.
Around three o’clock I was woken by dogs barking. When I looked out the window the only lights were stars. More dogs barked: it was as if someone were moving down the street, setting all the dogs off one by one as they went. I could almost make something out, a darker smear in the darkness, but too indistinct. I decided it must be a wolverine looking for garbage. A wolverine or whatever the hell it is they have in these places.
I thought about getting up to use the outhouse, then thought better of it. I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was five, but there’s such a thing as needless risk. Besides, when you do stakeouts, you develop a strong bladder. But someone else had been woken up too, and I heard the creak of a door and heavy footsteps as one of my neighbours went out. I held my breath, and he was back two minutes later. That would be Moran. None of the others felt like going out either.
III
I was up early the next day, poking around a little and exploring Newfane. There wasn’t much to see, but I figured I was getting paid to investigate. I came back soon after, and Pretski’s wife served a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of weak coffee. Wilson was up too, and Moran had gone out for some target practice with his .45. The others didn’t show much interest in rousing themselves just yet. Noon is an early start in that business.
I passed the morning playing checkers with Wilson for dimes. We won about half the games each. I wondered if he was waiting for the right time to suggest raising the stakes to fifty bucks and slaughter me.
“Good morning, gentlemen!”
A man was beaming at us from the doorway, hanging up his hat and removing a knapsack from his back. Dr. K. was not a tall man, maybe five foot seven, built like a circus strong man. He had broad, powerful shoulders and a thick neck, with wrists like my biceps. His ruddy face was topped with a mass of dark hair which matched his thick beard, and when he put on half-moon reading glasses he looked the part of the European professor. He still had a strong German accent, but his English was practically flawless.
“Pretski,” he said to the landlord, handing him a bundle wrapped in a kerchief. “I couldn’t resist picking a few mushrooms. Have your wife cook these in butter with my breakfast.”
Pretski went off obediently with the bundle, and the doctor turned to us. He clicked his heels when he shook hands and seemed genuinely happy to meet us.
“I have been in the jungle too long,” he said, looking down at himself. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I stink too much for civilised company.”
His eye fell on our game.
“Draughts—but does either of you play chess?” he asked. I nodded. “Set up the board, and we will play.”
Pretski had already prepared a hot bath in one of the other rooms, and while Dr. K. was soaking a hearty breakfast was laid out on the table, plate by plate: crisp smoked bacon, fried eggs, and a stack of fresh pancakes, with a side dish of fried mushrooms. And to follow, a wedge of apple pie with a dollop of whipped cream. Pretski’s wife kept coming and going, finishing by solemnly laying out a pot of fresh coffee and a jug of canned orange juice. There was enough to feed any three men.
“Looks like he’s on the deluxe boarding plan,” murmured Wilson, deftly lifting a strip of bacon between his thumb and forefinger while rearranging the rest with a pinkie to cover the gap. He bit off a piece of bacon and winked. “How do we sign up to that one?”
Dr. K. bounced into the room, pummelling his hair with a towel which he tossed over a chair. He poured coffee, then moved a white pawn.
“Your move, Mr. Jones,” he said.
I pulled up a chair and made my move, which he countered rapidly. He ploughed through his breakfast and continued to play while carrying on a conversation between mouthfuls.
“Are those mushrooms safe?” Wilson asked. “How do you tell?”
“Some fungi are dangerous, some are delicious,” said Dr. K. “The coward goes hungry, the fool poisons himself, and the wise man eats well and grows strong. So the others have arrived also?”
“The gang’s all here,” said Wilson. “When does the show start?”
“I have a few things to attend to,” said Dr K. “I have been away for some time. Pretski! When can my laundry be ready—by this afternoon?”
Pretski was a different man around the doctor. He came in and meekly assured him that it would be all ready by two o’clock. He was not entirely changed, though; when Wilson asked for a cup of coffee he just said “You wish, pal” and went out.
Our pawns battled it out in the middle of the board,
and I moved a knight forward. He moved one of his knights in response.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” said Dr. K. with a smile. “Chess and life are always so difficult when you do not know the other man, no?”
“Same for everyone,” I said.
“Well, let me tell you,” he said, leaning closer. “I am the wandering Jew—but I am not Jewish. You know the story of Faust? Well then, you know me. I am Heinrich Faust!”
“Faust, who made a deal with the devil?” I said.
Dr. K. was silent, then moved his knight again and looked up.
“Exactly. Like him, I am a scholar, a man of learning, who wants to find out everything, and who resorts to a pact with the devil,” he said. “And so you find me living in the woods and working my experiments like an old wizard. That is my story—what is your story, Mr. Jones?”
“Just another sorry gumshoe. You must have read all about us.”
“A smart gumshoe,” he said, taking a pawn. “But perhaps you think I’m playing games with you?” He gave a great big ho-ho-ho laugh. If the beard had been white instead of black he could have been a muscular Santa Claus.
“So now we’ve met, how about giving us a name?” said Wilson.
“If I gave you a name, it would be a lie,” said the doctor. “My name would bring me trouble. I prefer just to be K., and deceive nobody. K. because I work underground with the Kobolds.”
“Are those your associates?” I asked. “I’d worked out you weren’t doing it all on your own.”
“My associates in the woods will not be any trouble to you. Like kobolds— gnomes, you say—they stay out of sight. The people here prefer not to deal with them.”
After breakfast Dr. K. went off to the store and post office, leaving the game unfinished. He came back with a stack of letters, some magazines, and several small packages. He called to Pretski for writing paper and a fountain pen and sat at the dining table, working through his correspondence. After first arranging his mail into neat piles he started scribbling out replies. The postmarks showed some of the letters came from Europe, and even from the other side of the room I could see there were sketches of equipment.
The two Southsiders were stirring now. Moran stuck his head through the door, and Dr. K. stood up to greet him formally. He said we would be heading out in an hour or so.
It took a little longer for Dr. K. to complete his correspondence and for the others to get ready. We assembled outside Pretski’s like a group of hikers, Dr K. stuffing a few apples into his knapsack.
“I just want you to know,” said Moran to the doctor. “If there’s any funny business, the first bullet is yours. I don’t miss.” He said this in the tone another man would say he had brought an umbrella if it rained.
“Of course,” said Dr. K., smiling. “No funny business.”
Dr. K. was in the lead, swinging a walking stick; for a short man he moved pretty fast, even with a full pack on his back. Moran was right behind him. Then came Ricca and Cristillo, looking about warily. Cristillo carried a long coat with something inside it. You can disguise a Tommy gun that way walking half a block in Chicago, but for a hike in the woods it looks ridiculous. I was after them and Wilson trailed at the rear.
We took a path leading uphill which turned into a track, which turned into a deer track and then no track at all. The domed hills were crowded together and we kept changing direction.
It was a moist, humid forest, glistening green moss everywhere on the dark stones. Underfoot it was soft and spongy; brooks trickled down every fold in the landscape. The trees were a mixture of oak and pine and I don’t know what else. It smelled earthy and woody. Fungus sprouted from fallen trunks and old stumps: vivid orange growths, masses of tiny grey stems like a pixie forest, old-fashioned red and white toadstools. Enormous mushrooms stuck up through the forest floor. The whole place was rank with mould. Spencer Wade’s bill was going to include some dry cleaning.
“Stop!” ordered Moran, and we all froze.
Moran had his automatic in his hand. He scanned the forest behind us and over on the left.
“There was someone over by that tree,” he said after a minute.
“Possibly a deer,” said Dr. K., looking back over his shoulder.
“Let’s take a look,” I said. I ambled over to the spot he indicated and examined the ground. There were marks, but nothing that could have been left by a boot or shoe. Hooves maybe. “I don’t think it was a person.”
“You an Indian tracker?” said Moran. “I tell you, I saw someone.”
“We’re being watched,” said Ricca. “I can feel it.”
“Creepy place,” said Cristillo, fingering his Tommy gun.
“Please, let us carry on,” said Dr. K. “There is nobody here. ‘Nobody except us chickens.’”
We trudged on, but the others were wary now. I noticed how few birds there were in the forest. The hanging Spanish moss and encrustations of fungi had the look of a dark fairy tale. Dr. K. stopped to let the rest of us catch up.
“We’ll never get there at this rate,” muttered Ricca, eyeing the shadows around the tree trunks.
“But we are here already,” said Dr. K. “Welcome to my little laboratory in the woods.”
I couldn’t see any buildings, just more trees and rocks and hillside. Dr. K. pointed with his stick to an opening twenty yards ahead of us about four feet in diameter. He lit a lantern and stooped to go through it.
“Down the rabbit hole, gentlemen.” His muffled voice came back to us. “Into the underworld!”
“Well, how d’ya like that,” said Moran. “A secret underground lair.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” said Ricca. “We’re going in there?”
None of us liked it, but we all filed in after Dr. K. I expected rock walls or perhaps brickwork, but when I got a chance to stop and examine them, it appeared to be just compacted vegetable matter and dirt. It reminded me of some of the bunkers from France; it also reminded me of being inside an anthill. You had to stoop as you walked.
Enormous tree roots erupted from the ceiling; some of the walls were wet and some of them were practically fungus gardens. In some places things ran along the walls which might have been ducts or pipes, but which looked organic, as though they were also roots. When I looked back I saw there were regular patches of faint luminescence on the ceilings—again, some sort of fungus. The air was stale and thick with mildew.
The tunnel made sharp turns, branched and branched again. Dr. K. carried on without pausing.
There were few signs of human occupants. I glimpsed some vague forms like stacked melons in one side chamber, and what might have been racks of bottles in another that caught the lantern light. Then we came to a row of white lab coats hanging along one wall. An incongruous oak dresser sat in its own recess, and the tunnel opened up into a larger chamber.
“So here we are at last. One moment, gentlemen, please,” he said, putting down the lantern and disappearing into an opening. We could hear a mechanical scraping, and a second later a string of electric lights lit up the room.
“There is no proper lighting,” he said. “So I have had to put in this arrangement myself.”
The room was half industrial laboratory workshop, half underground cave. It was the size of four double garages put together. One side was piled with boxes and what appeared to be shipping crates for instruments and glassware. Benches took up two other sides, and in the middle were two more benches, each with an elaborate set-up of pipes and boilers. Each was, as far as I could see, a small distillery. Pipes led up through the ceiling. “This is the result of all my work and all your money, gentlemen,” he said.
“Is that it?” said Moran.
“See one moonshine joint, you’ve seen ’em all,” said Ricca.
“Appearances are deceptive—and I must please ask you to refrain from smoking,” he said as Cristillo made to light up. “The alcohol vapour is flammable. A fire here would be regrettable, as we do not have
the fire escapes which are so popular in your city.”
Dr. K. then drew our attention to the workbenches and started on a lecture about the science of distillation and purification.
It took me right back to chemistry lessons all those years ago in England, with Mr. Fotherington-Jones boring on about reduction and oxidation. But everything I knew about this business, I picked up in Chicago. Anyone with an interest in drinking knows about how you brew up a ‘beer’ by fermentation, then filter it and then distill it into whisky. The beer—vile stuff, though some folks claim to like it—is about ten proof, so you distill it to get the healthy eighty proof that the city has such a thirst for.
“We distill, but we must filter first to remove the less desirable compounds, such the precursors of methanol. You know methanol?”
“Wood alcohol; it makes you blind,” said Wilson. “The lousy hooch these jokers sell is full of it.”
“Indeed,” said Dr. K. “With this new filtration technique I guarantee removal of the substances that cause it, with no methanol in the finished product. I cannot save you from your sins, but I can at least offer you some purification!” He gave his ho-ho-ho laugh again.
The details of his filter were way beyond me or anyone else in the room. I got as far as understanding that there was a stack of ceramic discs, but that was about it. The doctor enjoyed having an audience. He seemed like a man who had spent too much time alone, but the scale of the place puzzled me. I had expected a log cabin in the woods, but a place this size suggested a whole organisation. So were his invisible associates here?
“Anyway,” Dr. K. finished, “enough of the technical details. What you gentlemen want to know is, does it work? Here we have the perfect demonstration. Two sets of apparatus which are identical except for this additional filter here.” He tapped a brass cylinder the size of a coffee cup. “Both will distill for the same length of time and you will taste the results for yourselves. You will see how the filter will make a big improvement to the end result.”
Dr. K. duly emptied buckets of fresh-brewed beer into each of the two boilers. The test would take twenty-four hours, and he wanted us to come back the next day. He then showed us how the apparatus was sealed and taped it to show it would not be tampered with. Each of us signed over the seal. It was pretty elementary magic-show stuff, and I could think of half a dozen ways that it could be beaten without leaving any sign.
The Dulwich Horror & Others Page 16
