by George Mann
It was Mullins who’d tracked the Englishman down, going through the museum to trace the manager of the exhibition. It seemed he’d arrived in town aboard the Centurion, along with his exhibits and a small army of assistants, who’d already been set to work assembling the displays for the grand opening.
He really didn’t seem pleased to see Donovan, and that had Donovan wondering if there was more to it than his hurry to get to breakfast.
“So tell me, Inspector—what is this all about? I’ve only been in town for a couple of days, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not quite up to speed on all the local news.” He rubbed a hand over his jowls.
“Murder,” said Donovan, already beginning to lose patience with the man. “I’ve got two bodies, both connected by an Ancient Egyptian symbol. I want you to take a look at it, is all, and tell me if it’s familiar.”
Landsworth gave a visible sigh of relief. “Oh, is that all? You could have had one of the team at the museum do that.”
“No,” said Donovan. “I said that I wanted you to take a look at it, Mr. Landsworth.” He placed his coffee cup down on the sideboard and crossed to where Landsworth was perching on the end of his bed. “Here.” He handed him a photograph.
Landsworth blanched at the sight of Allen’s carved flesh. “Oh dear,” he said, redundantly. “How awful.”
“Yes, we’re aware it doesn’t make for tasteful viewing, Mr. Landsworth,” said Mullins, much to Donovan’s surprise, “but if you could tell us whether you recognize the marking?”
“Well yes, of course. I wouldn’t be much of a scholar if I didn’t. It says ‘Thoth’.”
“As in the deity?” said Mullins.
“Yes, officer, precisely.” Landsworth beamed. “You know, it’s good to meet a young man who’s been educated in the classics. Too few these days show an interest in our early history.”
“Yes, yes,” said Donovan, making it clear he was directing his frustration at Landsworth, and not Mullins. “So why would anyone carve the name of an Ancient Egyptian god into the back of a dead woman?”
“Well how should I know?” said Landsworth defensively. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking?”
“Not at all, Mr. Landsworth,” said Mullins. He eyed Donovan, just making sure that he wasn’t stepping out of line by interceding. Donovan nodded, and reached for his cigarettes. “The thing is, this wasn’t the only mark left on the woman’s body that night. The men who did this to her pinned her down and used the tip of a sharp knife to cut these Ancient Egyptian symbols into her skin. Then, once she’d finished screaming, they throttled her to death and left her for us to find, hours later, in the gutter.” He rubbed his chin. “So you see, we’re very anxious to find the men responsible.”
“I can imagine so,” said Landsworth.
“Then this morning, as the Inspector has already intimated, another body turns up, this time in a trash cart down in Greenwich Village. At last count the dead man had suffered fifty-two separate knife wounds. He’d bled all over the floor. And what do we discover? He has a tattoo on his wrist. A tattoo of this same symbol.” Mullins tapped the photograph, still clutched firmly in Landsworth’s grip.
“I really can’t see what this has to do with me?” said Landsworth. He looked shaken, but was feigning confidence. Mullins had him on the run.
Donovan was impressed. He’d never seen Mullins so riled.
“It seems like an awful coincidence that a new exhibition arrives in town at just the same time that bodies start to turn up, marked with these Ancient Egyptian symbols,” said Mullins. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Landsworth. “But coincidence is all it is. I can’t see how I, or any of my associates, could be in any way connected. I’ve been in Egypt for months, as I explained, and only entered the country a couple of days ago. This man with the tattoo, for example—I presume it wasn’t a recent embellishment? He’d had the marking for some time?”
Mullins frowned, glancing at Donovan.
“Yet to be established,” said Donovan. He decided to try a different approach. “Your new exhibition? Does it feature any exhibits pertaining to Thoth?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, the whole thing is pretty much dedicated to him. Him and Sekhmet, anyway. That’s what we were excavating out there, in Egypt. A temple dedicated to Thoth.”
“We?” said Donovan.
“Well, yes, one doesn’t undertake such endeavors alone, Inspector. I have a partner, an archaeologist called Jacques Amaury.”
“And where is this Amaury?” said Mullins.
“Luxor, I’m afraid. He doesn’t much go in for this end of things. Much prefers to be in the thick of it all with his trowel.”
There had to be a connection. It was too much of a coincidence. Donovan was sure the man was hiding something.
“Do people still worship Thoth?” said Mullins. It was another unexpected question, but a good one, considered Donovan. He made a mental note to congratulate Mullins when they were done.
“Not so far as I’m aware,” said Landsworth, “but it’s not inconceivable.”
“Then the man with the tattoo might have belonged to some sort of revivalist cult?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Landsworth. “It makes for a fine story, detective, but I’m not aware of any so-called ‘revivalist cults’, or what business they would have murdering young ladies in New York City.” He looked at Donovan. “Now, if you’re finished with your questions, I really must be getting along. I have a great deal to do before the exhibition opens.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Landsworth,” said Donovan. He dropped the butt of his cigarette into his coffee cup, drowning it in the dregs. “Just one more question?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“What can you tell me about a woman called Ginny Gray?”
He watched Landsworth’s face drain of color. “I… well… nothing at all, Inspector. I’ve never heard of a woman by that name. Who is she?”
“Just someone we’re looking into,” said Donovan.
Landsworth gave an affected shrug.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Landsworth. We may yet have cause to call on you again.”
“At a more reasonable hour, one should hope,” said Landsworth. “You’ll probably find me at the museum.”
Donovan stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. “That’s one lying bastard,” he said to Mullins, as they walked down the hall. “Put a tail on him, night and day. He’s in this up to his neck.”
“And then what, sir?”
“Get some rest. I need you in good shape for later. You did good work in there, Mullins.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, and call the precinct, tell them I won’t be coming in.”
“You’re heading home too, sir?”
“No. I have to pay a visit to a friend.”
ELEVEN
“If you don’t hurry up and open this godforsaken door, I’m shooting off the lock and coming in regardless. I know you’re in there.”
Gabriel rolled over and groaned. The pounding in his head seemed to be keeping perfect time with the thumping on the apartment door. He’d already tried burying his head under the pillow, but that didn’t seem to be doing much to keep the noise at bay.
“All right, all right!” he called, finally deciding that Donovan wasn’t going to be dissuaded. He glanced at the clock. He’d only been in bed for three hours, and he ached all over.
He rolled out of bed, nearly tripped blearily over his boots—which he’d abandoned in the bedroom doorway the night before—and stumbled over to the door, just as Donovan started beating on it again. He yanked it open, and Donovan almost tumbled inside.
“Good God, you look dreadful,” he said, when he’d righted himself.
Gabriel glanced down at himself. He was still wearing his trousers, but had ripped his shirt off before getting into bed, and now, in the light of day,
could see the streaks of dried blood, open wounds, and massive purple bruises that had formed across his chest. Even looking at them hurt.
“Rough night?” said Donovan, pushing the door shut and crossing to the drinks cabinet.
“Something like that,” said Gabriel.
“Mind if I…?” Donovan held up the whisky decanter.
Gabriel nodded. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t really been to bed,” said Donovan. He dropped into one of the chairs by the window, threw back his head and downed the drink. He placed the glass on the windowsill with a clink. He looked at Gabriel, and then wrinkled his nose. “You might want to think about giving this place a bit of an airing.”
Gabriel laughed, wincing as it set off a series of wracking pains in his chest. “Yeah, maybe next week, when I’ve got a bit more time on my hands.”
Donovan smiled. “Tell me.”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, you first. You’re the one dragging me out of bed at such an ungodly hour.”
“Funny, you’re the second person to complain about that this morning.”
“Then maybe you should pay attention,” said Gabriel. “Perhaps the universe is trying to tell you something.”
Donovan offered him a withering look. “We’ve found another body,” he said. He scratched at his beard absently. “Different this time. A man. All slashed up and dumped in a trash cart.”
“And you think it’s connected?”
“I know it’s connected. He had a tattoo, on the underside of his wrist. The same cartouche we found cut into the back of Autumn Allen. Mullins thinks it might be a reprisal killing.”
“From the mob?” said Gabriel. “That would make sense, I suppose.”
Donovan nodded. “It would have to be the Reaper’s boys. He’s the only real game in town these days. Although we still haven’t got anything concrete to link him to the dead woman.”
“I’m planning to put in an appearance at the Café Deluxe this evening,” said Gabriel. “I thought it sounded like just the sort of place that Gabriel Cross might like. I’ll ask a few gentle questions, listen to the chatter, see if I can’t pick up on anything that might help.”
“Be careful,” said Donovan. “In a place like that you’ll be surrounded. They’ll have all the exits covered, and there’s no way I could even get close. There won’t be any cavalry riding in to bail you out if something goes down.”
“As if I’ve ever needed that,” said Gabriel.
“Hmmm,” was Donovan’s only response.
Gabriel lit a smoke and threw his cigarette tin to Donovan. “Anyway, the ship. Things happened there last night, Felix. Things I can’t quite explain. There’s something very wrong with that exhibition.”
He outlined the previous night’s events for Donovan, including his encounter with the statues, and the fact he’d found evidence not only of the symbol, but that a woman had been transported, possibly against her will, inside the crate.
“Of course, you realize I can’t do anything with that information,” said Donovan, “at least not officially. But I knew that bastard was lying.”
“Your other early riser?” said Gabriel.
Donovan nodded. “Robert Landsworth. An Englishman. He’s in charge of the exhibition, and was partners on the dig with another man, Amaury, who’s still out in Egypt. Mullins and I gave Landsworth a bit of a rough time this morning, and I got the sense he was hiding something. Now I’m sure of it. He knew what was on that ship. He probably put it there.”
“He can’t be behind the murders though, can he? At least, not the woman. He was still on the ship.”
“I know. And I don’t think he’d be capable of it, either. Physically, I mean. But it’s a ruddy great coincidence that his exhibition is linked to Thoth, and so are these murders.” Donovan pulled the ignition patch on his cigarette, and leaned back, taking an appreciative draw.
“Thoth?” said Gabriel.
“He told us that’s what the symbol meant. The cartouche. It’s the name of an Ancient Egyptian god. Mullins seemed to know all about it. Turns out he’s a bit of a history buff.”
“Thoth was the god of knowledge,” said Gabriel, “responsible for keeping the heavens in check. That’s about as much as I remember.”
“Well, whoever he was, he’s got a lot to answer for,” said Donovan. “Mullins wondered if it was a cult of some kind, a revivalist sect, trying to bring the old religion back.”
“He’s a smart kid. You should listen to him.”
“What do you think I’m doing here, reciting it all to you?”
Gabriel laughed, and then, wincing, decided to get up and search for some painkillers. He found them in a bureau drawer, and, after spilling a heap of unopened mail onto the carpet, took six, swallowing them dry. He left the landslide of post where it had fallen.
“Keep on like that and the medication will get you faster than the injuries,” said Donovan.
“It’s not as if I have any other options,” said Gabriel, “except to strap it up and keep going. We’ve got work to do. These murders might be the key to bringing down the Reaper, if we can prove there’s a connection. It’s the best shot we’ve had in months.” He walked over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. “And then there’s Ginny. I’m determined to make sure she’s all right, Felix, even if she doesn’t want to see me.”
“About that,” said Donovan. “When I mentioned her name to Landsworth, he went as white as a sheet. Denied all knowledge, of course, claimed he’d never heard of her, but there was something there, a spark of recognition.”
Gabriel placed his empty glass on the counter. “Sounds as if I should pay him a visit.”
“Not yet. I know you’re anxious to find her, but give me a couple of days before you go roughhousing. I’ve got a tail on him. If he so much as twitches, I’ll know about it. At the moment he’s the best lead we’ve got. I can’t risk scaring him off.”
“All right,” said Gabriel. “A couple of days. The first sign you get that she’s here in New York, though, you let me know.”
“Of course. I want her back as much as you do,” said Donovan. “She’s the only one who knows how to keep you in check.”
Gabriel smiled. “Two days. Then I’m going after him.”
“If you’re in any fit state. You need to rest.”
“And you need a vacation. Neither of us is very good at getting what he wants.”
Donovan pulled himself up out of his chair. “Isn’t that the truth.” He took another cigarette from Gabriel’s tin, before walking to the door. “Take care of yourself, Gabriel. And maybe take a shower.”
“You cut down on the cigarettes, and I’ll think about it,” said Gabriel.
He heard Donovan chuckling as he pulled the door shut behind him.
* * *
The Café Deluxe was pleasant enough, considered Gabriel, except that it reminded him of every other jazz club in every other city he’d ever visited. The lighting was low, the music was loud and the morals were loose. He supposed there was a time when that would have seemed like a draw, but now, it just left him feeling hollow. There was nothing to connect him to these people and their empty lives, their days filled with drinking and fucking and drinking some more.
Not that his own life was particularly exemplary. He couldn’t really argue that putting on a mask and flying around the rooftops brawling with mobsters was any better than what these people were doing—in fact, in the eyes of the law it was worse—but at least he felt he was doing something with his life. After returning from the war he’d soon fallen back into his old ways, playing host to the infinite party, blotting out the world and all its madness with booze, and girls, and anything at all that didn’t remind him of France, and the blood-spattered faces of his comrades, and the thing he’d seen out there in the farmhouse.
The Ghost made him better. It gave him a purpose, a means of fighting back against the horror. That had to make it better than th
is, didn’t it?
Gabriel placed his empty glass on a nearby table, and decided to take a walk to the bar, cutting across the main lounge.
It was as ostentatious as only the very rich can palate: cut-glass chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, dark wood paneling lined the walls, and sweeping balustrades separated the main seating area from the dance floor.
On stage, a jazz quartet played a swaying, bluesy lament, fronted by a dark-haired woman who clutched the microphone stand tightly with both hands, as if it were her only anchor to the real world. Her voice floated above the smoky chatter, stirring feelings of loss within Gabriel.
Mob men—clearly identifiable by their attitude, if not their attire—swilled expensive drinks, smoked pungent cigars, and generally treated the women in their company with the utmost contempt, ignoring them for the most part, except to grab at them inappropriately or send them to fetch more drinks.
Gabriel tried not to watch, for fear he’d feel moved to intercede. It was the arrogance that grated on Gabriel—the sense of assumed ownership over another person. He could never claim to have behaved well toward the women in his life—he had always kept too much from them, for a start—but he had always shown them respect.
This particular brand of ill behavior, however, seemed reserved for men who believed themselves to be in control, or else saw it as a casual means to assert that they were; men who thought themselves invincible, above the law—the sort of men who worked for the Reaper.
Gabriel found a quiet spot toward the end of the long bar and pulled out a stool, placing himself within earshot of a large table of mobsters. He called the barman over and ordered a whisky sour, then settled in to eavesdrop.
It wasn’t the most riveting discourse, but the men seemed to be discussing the recent reports of the floating apparition, and how a number of their colleagues had been attacked by the specter in the midst of carrying out one of their “jobs”.
He listened for a while to their speculation, most of it wild, claiming that it was the spirit of the Reaper’s dead girlfriend, come to avenge them for her untimely death, or else it was an Angel of the Lord, unleashed from heaven to bring judgment down upon the unworthy. One of them, a quieter, brooding man with a stick-thin physique and harelip, even claimed to have seen it himself, floating above Fifth Avenue, trailing ghostly bandages behind it as if caught in an unearthly gale.
