by Alan K Baker
And about that, they were wrong.
The red, winged creature flew low over the immaculately-tended grounds surrounding the house and alighted on the flagstones of an elaborate stone portico, within which a heavy, iron-studded door stood closed and locked.
The glistening batwings folded upon the creature’s back and diminished in size, merging with the muscles, which were themselves already shrinking, returning to their former size and configuration. The skin of the beast likewise turned from hell-red to soft, smooth alabaster. When the transformation was complete, a woman, beautiful, naked and entirely human, stood before the door.
In her left hand she held the Martian Falcon. With her right, she tugged on the large wrought iron bell-pull. From the other side of the door, a tinkle sounded, faint as the bell of a ghost ship.
There was an electrical click, and the door unlocked. Rusty Links turned and smiled in the direction of the concealed camera. She knew this house well – the house and its defensive installations. She turned the handle, opened the door and stepped into a vast, empty entrance hall.
Her bare feet made no sound on the marble floor as she crossed the hall, heading for another door set in the flank of the colossal staircase that curved up and around to the minstrel’s gallery spanning the entire length of the room.
There was a heavy, lifeless silence which Rusty’s instincts told her extended throughout the house. No one was here, and the stark emptiness of the place, combined with the chill of the air made her shiver slightly.
She went quickly through the door at the base of the staircase and along a short corridor which terminated in a set of double doors, made of grey steel and shut tight. She pressed a brass button set into the wall, and the doors hissed open to reveal a featureless cubicle about ten feet square.
As she stepped across the threshold and the doors slid shut behind her, a male voice, soft and gentle, issued from a hidden loudspeaker. ‘Welcome, Rusty,’ said the voice. ‘I see you’ve brought me a gift… how very kind of you.’ The voice chuckled, and Rusty Links shivered again.
*
With a slight judder, the elevator began to descend into the bedrock beneath the house. Rusty forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly, growing more and more uncomfortable in her nakedness. For ten cents, she would have changed back into her previous form and met her host on slightly more equal terms. Reluctantly, she shrugged off the temptation, since those terms would indeed have been only slightly more equal; and in any event, he had told her more than once that he far preferred her human form to any other.
She should have been flattered, she supposed.
For several minutes (which to Rusty felt like several hours) the elevator continued its descent. The only sound was the faint hiss of the lowering piston on which the elevator car was mounted. She held the Martian Falcon between her breasts, gripping it tightly, as if it might offer her some protection.
You don’t need protection, she thought. You can handle yourself… even against him.
And then she thought: Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.
Presently, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.
Although she had been here several times before, Rusty still hadn’t got used to the scene which greeted her. She doubted that she ever would. She doubted that she would ever want to.
The cavern was immense. Its ceiling, dripping with stalactites, was at least two hundred feet high, its glistening, roughly-mottled walls perhaps half a mile away, almost lost in the subterranean gloom. At the centre, upon a vast circular rug whose embroidered designs made her slightly dizzy to look at, were the furnishings of an elegant drawing room: leather sofa, wing chairs, tables bearing exotic and not-quite-identifiable ornaments, and freestanding bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. The only things missing were the walls that normally would have enclosed such a scene.
Far off to the right, a vehicle constructed of strangely-curved metal components sat upon a single rail, which wound off across the floor of the cavern before vanishing into the semicircular mouth of a tunnel in the far wall.
‘A little mood lighting,’ said the same voice that had spoken to her when she’d entered the elevator. It echoed strangely in the vast space of the cavern, so that she couldn’t decide from which direction it came. ‘Romantic, wouldn’t you say? I thought it appropriate, given your current state of undress.’ The voice gave a soft, ironic laugh.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Crystalman,’ Rusty said in a loud voice, forcing herself to smile. She stepped away from the elevator car, which had descended on its piston through a hole in the ceiling far above.
The voice laughed again. ‘Your confidence is well-placed, of course, since I care not for physical contact with either women or men. But you might have maintained the conceit a little longer.’
‘Romance is the last thing on my mind,’ Rusty replied. ‘Especially in this place.’
She caught movement in one of the wing chairs, which had its back to her. A figure stood up and turned to face her. It was tall, a little over six feet, and was dressed in black trousers and a black Nehru jacket. She could not see – had never seen – its face, for it always wore a featureless mask which appeared to have been fashioned from a single piece of smoky quartz.
‘I fail to understand your aversion to my home, Rusty,’ the figure said. ‘I have told you before that these Dero caves have been abandoned for centuries… and even if the Dero tried to reclaim them, they would fail.’
‘That makes me feel a whole lot safer,’ Rusty said sarcastically.
Chuckling, Crystalman held out a black-gloved hand. ‘Come, join me. I wish to see it up close.’
‘I don’t suppose you have anything for me to wear,’ she said as she joined him on the strangely-embroidered rug.
Crystalman wordlessly gestured to the sofa, on which lay a white silk dressing gown.
‘How thoughtful,’ she said as she handed him the Martian Falcon and went to put on the gown.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, without looking at her, his attention fixed totally upon the statue. ‘It was very kind of Mr. Sanguine to steal it for us. It saved a lot of trouble. And to think his only motive was to eliminate Mr. Capone from his tawdry little plans for Chicago. I would have expected more from a vampire.’
‘Capone’s going to be mad, that’s for sure,’ said Rusty. ‘This might even start a war…’
‘I doubt it. Capone would rather settle this quickly and quietly, which makes a change for him. He doesn’t want this affair to escalate; that’s why he’s hired some outside help.’
‘What do you mean outside help?’ asked Rusty.
‘He’s engaged the services of a private detective, a gentleman by the name of Charles Fort, to get him out of the frame for the theft.’
‘Fort… I’ve heard of him. Got a bit of a reputation, good at his job.’
Crystalman shrugged. ‘He knows a little Magick, but nothing serious. A dabbler, rather than a player.’
‘How do you know he’s involved?’
Crystalman chuckled. ‘Because it’s my business to know these things.’ He produced a small magnifying glass from an inside pocket of his jacket and began to examine the Falcon more closely. ‘Magnificent!’ he whispered.
‘Do you really think it will work?’ asked Rusty as she crossed her legs and tapped at the air with her foot.
‘Don’t you think it’s worth a try?’ he responded.
‘That statue is made of obsidian – nothing more. That’s what the report said when the NCPE analysed it.’
‘And if it isn’t… if there is something more to it, if the implications contained within the hieroglyphs found in the temple are even half correct, this may be the most powerful object on the face of the Earth.’
Rusty shook her head. ‘The NCPE doesn’t think so, otherwise they wouldn’t have r
eleased it to the Metropolitan Museum.’
‘They’re fools.’
‘Really? They’ve got some pretty smart guys and gals working for them.’
‘And yet some of them are unnerved by what the hieroglyphs say, aren’t they?’ said Crystalman, who was still passing the magnifying glass slowly over the Falcon. ‘You said as much, when you returned from your infiltration of Cabo Cañaveral.’
‘Yeah, some of them, and their colleagues never pass up a chance to rib them about it. If the NCPE were really concerned, they’d have taken the Falcon back from the Museum.’
‘Not much chance of that now, is there?’ Crystalman chuckled.
‘I guess not. Which reminds me: I believe my payment is due.’
‘Of course. I’d almost forgotten. Over there.’ He indicated an attaché case standing next to one of the chairs.
Rusty stood up, went to the case and picked it up. Had she been dealing with anyone else, she would have opened the case and checked that the money was all there, but she was not prepared even to risk offending Crystalman.
‘Ten thousand, as we agreed,’ he said. ‘I would offer to have one of my men drive you to wherever you wish to go, but I don’t suppose that’s necessary, is it?’
‘No, but I’ll take the dressing gown with me. I think it suits me, don’t you?’
Crystalman said nothing, merely returned his attention to the Falcon.
‘You really don’t feel anything, do you?’ said Rusty.
‘I feel many things, my dear Miss Links… but not that. It was something I was simply born without, like a conscience.’
Rusty grinned. ‘There speaks the world’s greatest super-criminal.’
‘You flatter me. I merely follow in the footsteps of greater men: Moriarty, Fantômas, Fu Manchu… they are the real masters. I am merely their acolyte.’
Rusty looked at the elegant furniture standing so incongruously in this strange, dank, frightening place. She wanted to get out as quickly as she could, as always… and yet, as always, something made her want to linger. In spite of the fear even she felt in the presence of Crystalman, something made it difficult to leave. What was it? Curiosity? Admiration? The desire to see what lay beneath his mask – both literally and figuratively?
‘Why do you live like this?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said without looking at her.
‘Here, in this godawful cave, with the Dero still running around on the lower levels, who knows how close by? This furniture belongs in that house up there. Why don’t you live there instead of down here in the rotten bowels of the Earth?’
‘You’re restless today, Rusty,’ replied Crystalman quietly. ‘Why is that?’
She said nothing.
Crystalman sighed. ‘I could live anywhere in the world, but it suits me to live here. For one thing, this little hideaway of mine is utterly impregnable; for another, it amuses me to place a few of the trappings of wealth and comfort down here, in this harsh and ugly environment. It serves to remind me of how ephemeral such things are, how fragile; and because of that fragility, how worthless.’
‘You equate fragility with worthlessness?’ said Rusty. ‘That statue you’re holding is fragile, but it’s worth a hell of a lot to you.’
‘This statue has survived for at least five million years,’ replied Crystalman. ‘It survived the downfall and destruction of the entire Martian civilisation. I wouldn’t call that fragile. It’s as permanent as the cavern in which we are standing; it has known vast spans of time. The entire history of human civilisation is but a heartbeat to it.’
‘And you think there’s a reason for that: you think it’s because of what it might contain.’
‘Why do you think the NCPE decided against releasing the key to the decipherment of the Martian hieroglyphs?’
Rusty shrugged. ‘Probably because they think that to do so would cause more trouble than it’s worth. Who knows how many crazies would come out of the woodwork, bombarding them with questions, coming up with all kinds of whacko theories about Mars and the end of the civilisation there? They don’t want that distraction.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Crystalman. ‘They’ve kept the information to themselves because they’re afraid.’
Rusty sighed and shook her head. ‘Then why give the Falcon to the Metropolitan Museum? Why not lock it up in a vault somewhere?’
‘Perhaps they don’t trust their own people to leave it alone; perhaps they thought that the museum would be the safest place for it.’
Rusty smiled. ‘How wrong they were.’
‘Indeed. Now, regarding the hieroglyphs, there’s something else I want you to do, something for which your peculiar talents are well suited.’
‘Let me guess: you want me to go back to Cabo Cañaveral and steal the ninth rock book.’
‘Quite so. I need it, and I must have it.’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘I’m aware of that. Your fee for this service will be one hundred thousand dollars.’
Rusty’s breath caught in her throat, but she maintained her composure. ‘That’s a good fee.’
‘I’m aware of that also. I would like you to begin immediately.’
‘It’ll take a much deeper infiltration than last time – you do realise that, don’t you? I’ll need to access areas of the complex I didn’t need to before.’
‘I do realise that. Open the case.’
Rusty glanced down at the attaché case, then placed it on the sofa and opened it. Inside, lying on top of the neatly-packed wads of banknotes was an unmarked manila envelope.
‘That contains all the information you will need,’ said Crystalman. ‘You will know what to do with it.’
Rusty closed the case, picked it up and began to walk towards the waiting elevator. She hesitated, and turned back to Crystalman. ‘If you’re right about the Falcon and I get the ninth rock book for you… what are you going to do?’
Crystalman looked at her, and she could sense him grinning behind his quartz mask. ‘That’s not the right question, Miss Links. The right question is: what am I not going to do?’
CHAPTER 7
Carter and Wiseman
Fort was asleep in bed when the street-doorbell rang. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It said 12.30 am. He waited in the darkness.
The bell rang again.
He sighed, got out of bed and went to the telephone-box by the corridor door and lifted the receiver. ‘Yeah?’
‘Charlie,’ said a tinny voice. ‘It’s John Carter.’
‘It’s twelve thirty, Lieutenant,’ said Fort.
‘I know. Mind if we come up and talk to you for a few minutes?’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Dave is with me.’
‘Wiseman?’
‘Yeah, Wiseman,’ said another voice. ‘Come on, Fort, open up.’
Fort was about to say something, decided not to, and instead pressed the button that released the lock. He went into the bedroom and put on his dressing gown.
A couple of minutes later, there was a knock at the corridor door. Fort opened it and said, with exaggerated innocence, ‘What’s this all about, officers?’
‘You know damn well what it’s about,’ said Wiseman as he and Carter stepped into the hall.
Fort smiled as he led them through to the living room. ‘Have a seat, boys,’ he said. ‘You want some coffee?’
‘No, thanks, Charlie,’ said Carter.
‘I think I’ll make some anyway,’ said Fort, and went to the tiny adjoining kitchen.
‘Damn it, Fort!’ said Wiseman loudly.
Fort heard Carter remonstrating with Wiseman in hushed tones while he made coffee. When he returned to the living room with the coffeepot and a mug, he saw that Carter had taken a seat
on the sofa, but Wiseman was still standing.
The two policemen made an odd pair. Lieutenant John Carter was tall and lean in the manner of a welterweight boxer, with good strong features and piercing eyes, while Detective-sergeant David Wiseman would have had to lose fifty pounds to qualify as a heavyweight. His heavy-lidded eyes and flabby jowls, however, belied the fact that he was every bit as quick and astute as his superior.
‘Sure you boys won’t have some?’ asked Fort, pouring coffee and sitting at the small table beside the slightly-open window, through which a light breeze entered the room tentatively, as if eavesdropping on them.
‘No thanks, Charlie,’ said Carter.
‘You ready to talk now, Fort?’
‘About what?’ asked Fort, taking a sip of coffee.
‘About Al Capone,’ said Carter quietly.
Fort shrugged and said nothing.
‘We know you went to see him yesterday,’ Carter continued. ‘We always keep an eye on the Algonquin while he’s in town.’
‘That’s how we know you were there,’ rumbled Wiseman. ‘You arrived with three deadwalkers, waltzed right on in like you owned the place. What did you and Capone talk about, Fort?’
‘We talked about the Martian Falcon,’ Fort replied matter-of-factly.
Carter gave a small smile. ‘Thanks for being straight with us. So… what was said?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
Carter sighed. ‘Come on, Charlie! Do you really want to continue this conversation down at the station?’
‘No, you come on, John. What cause do you have to pull me in?’
‘How about accessory to theft?’ said Wiseman, with a smug look on his fat face.
‘You think I helped Capone steal the Falcon?’
‘Tell us we’re wrong, Fort,’ said Wiseman, leaning forward. ‘Tell us why we’re wrong.’
Fort sighed, took his tobacco pouch from the table and rolled himself a cigarette. He lit it and tapped ash into the ashtray at his elbow. ‘Capone didn’t steal the Falcon.’
‘How do you know?’ Carter asked.
