Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties)

by Jenn Bennett

  “I thought as much. Money isn’t a problem. Whatever you think is fair. But if you’re interested, I have a proposition for you, related to the amulet, for which I’m willing to pay a much higher sum. It’s right up your alley, I think.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I used to excavate in Egypt every year when I was younger, you know.” He leaned back in his chair. “Half the museum’s Egyptian collection, I found personally.”

  “I’m aware,” Lowe said.

  “What if I were to tell you that I’d found the four missing crossbars of the djed years ago?”

  Lowe stilled. Was the man serious? A piece of the amulet was one thing, but the entire thing, assembled? That would be worth—well . . . so much more.

  “If that’s true—” Lowe started.

  “Why haven’t I sold them? The first reason would be that the amulet has personal meaning. But the second reason, the pressing one, is why I’m interested in hiring your services. The four crossbars are here in the city. At least, I believe they are. I just don’t know where, exactly.”

  “I’m not following.”

  The man felt around his desk for a gold cigarette case. He managed to extract a cigarette with some effort. Watching him was painful, so Lowe offered to strike a match. “Thank you,” Bacall mumbled as he puffed the cigarette to life. “When I was younger, my excavation partner and I experienced what you might refer to as an occult phenomenon in Cairo. I won’t bore you with the details—”

  “I’m not easily bored.”

  “Suffice it to say, after that experience, we became enemies. Not the kind of enemies who squabble over petty things in the office, but the kind of enemies who spend much of their free time plotting to kill one another.”

  Well, well. “If you’re going to do something, might as well do it right.”

  “This isn’t a joking matter, Mr. Magnusson.”

  Grouchy old bastard, wasn’t he? “My apologies,” Lowe said. “Please continue.”

  Bacall took a long drag off his cigarette.

  “Before we became enemies, we spent a lot of time searching for mythical objects. The infamous Backbone of Osiris was one of them. Obsession does strange things to the mind, and I was obsessed to outdo my partner.”

  “So you hunted the amulet.”

  “For years. Such a disappointment to discover it had been split up in the Amarna Period. Imagine trying to find something whose pieces were scattered around an entire country almost three thousand years ago.”

  “But you did?”

  “Spent a fortune scouring excavation sites, only to find them all in one place. Not in a tomb or temple or any sort of excavation site, but in the hands of a wealthy British earl, who’d bought them from grave robbers in 1879.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, not exactly the victory a young archaeologist craves, but I didn’t care. So I gave the earl the better part of my wife’s gold fortune to acquire them. That’s when I ran into a problem.”

  “You didn’t have the base of the amulet.”

  “That was one problem, yes. But at the time, I believed I could eventually find it. The problem was, my partner heard a rumor I’d found the crossbars. And I couldn’t risk him stealing them from me before I found the last piece. Too dangerous to keep them, so I shipped them home to my wife.”

  Lowe crossed his legs. “Your deceased wife.”

  “She wasn’t at the time,” Bacall said. “The year was 1906. I had a lead on the last piece—a wrong lead, as you’ve proven—but I didn’t know that at the time. So I chased the lead to Cairo and instructed my wife to hide the pieces in our house. She hid them, all right. Hid them around the city of San Francisco. I got a series of telegrams from her, in which she explained that she was ending my obsession with the amulet in some misguided attempt to mend the rift between me and my partner. She tried to destroy the pieces—said no fire would melt the gold.”

  Fascinating. “So she hid them around the city?”

  “Indeed. Hid them, wrote a coded map of the hiding places, and hid the map as well. In her last telegram, she said no one would find the map or the pieces until I made peace with my partner. And before I could get back home to talk some sense into her, the earthquake hit. Vera didn’t survive.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “More than twenty-one years have passed, but I still miss her.” His mouth lifted in a soft smile. “Her hiding the amulet pieces didn’t surprise me in hindsight. She was always fond of puzzles, you see. Very good at deciphering code. A bit like you, actually.”

  Lowe exhaled heavily. “You want me to decipher your wife’s code?”

  “I’d like you to decipher her code and find where she hid the pieces, yes. A sort of urban treasure hunt, if you will. If you find them all, and if you hand them over to me along with the amulet’s base, which you’ve already found, I’ll write you a check for a hundred grand.”

  A hundred thousand! Enough to cover his debt with Monk, with plenty left to burn. A familiar thrill—one of possibility and the promise of his luck changing—made his pulse pound.

  “What’s the catch?” Lowe asked. There was always a catch. Always, always, always.

  The old man leaned back in his chair. “The catch is, you’ll have to speak to my dead wife to find out where she hid the map.”

  FIVE

  LOWE STARED AT THE blind man. “You want me to . . . ?”

  “Your sister-in-law is a spirit medium, I’m told. A real one.”

  According to Winter and Astrid, yes. Aida was channeling spirits on stage at one of the North Beach speakeasies, the Gris-Gris Club, when Winter first met her. She now worked out of a shop in Chinatown, holding private séances, performing exorcisms—that sort of thing.

  Did Lowe believe in her ability? He didn’t have any reason not to. If he saw it with his own eyes, he supposed he’d be swayed into a definite yes. He’d experienced some strange things in his life, the djed amulet’s unexplainable power being one of them.

  “Your sister-in-law can channel my wife’s spirit,” Bacall said. “You can talk with her, ask her about the map. Start there.”

  “Why don’t you do that yourself?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me when she was alive. I seriously doubt she’d do so now.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “I don’t want Hadley involved in this. Not at all. If you accept my proposition, I’ll tell her you’re hunting down old friends for me. She doesn’t need to know about her mother’s betrayal.”

  “Her mother hiding the pieces from you?”

  A pause hung in the air. “Yes. All she needs to know is that I’m purchasing the amulet base from you. End of story. That’s not negotiable.”

  Well, it certainly spoke to the man’s trust of his own family. Then again, who was Lowe to judge another man’s secrets? Especially not one who was willing to pay him.

  “The payment I’m offering is generous,” Bacall said. “Twice what the Alexandria stele sold for at auction last year. I’d wager you won’t find a museum that will give you that price, nor a private collector. And I’m willing to offer something else to sweeten the pot.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Due to my declining health, I’m retiring my post here soon. The board of trustees will vote on my replacement in a month. If you find the hidden amulet pieces for me, I’d be more than happy to make sure your name is the only one considered for the job. It pays well, and puts you in a position to be sponsored if you want to continue digging. And if you don’t? Well, it’s a cushy desk job with a bit of status.”

  A lot of status. Enough that he’d never have to dig in that godforsaken desert again, which was tempting. Then again, he wasn’t particularly excited by the prospect of being cooped up in an office, day in and day out.

  “Think abou
t my offer,” Bacall said. “Our director is throwing our annual Friends of the Museum party this weekend. James Flood’s widow is hosting it at her mansion on Broadway—just a few blocks down from your family home, I believe.”

  “Yes, I know the place.” The Flood’s marble palace. He drove past it all the time.

  “Dinner, coats and tails, an orchestra,” Bacall said. “Great chance to rub shoulders with donors and people who could help your career. I’ll get you an invitation.”

  He glanced at the door Hadley had slammed, wondering if she’d be attending this soirée. Maybe he should stop fantasizing about erotic carnival sideshows and her interest in clocks, and concentrate on figuring out exactly why her father was offering him a small fortune served on a silver platter.

  After all, there was always a catch.

  • • •

  Hadley stared out the window in her father’s office, watching Lowe chat with one of the groundskeepers. Rather animatedly, at that. All smiles and laughter. Did he strike up friendly chats with every stranger he stumbled across during his day?

  “Everything all right, my dear?” her father asked as he switched on a desktop radio.

  Other than her complete and utter humiliation? Not really. Why in God’s name had she said . . . that? “Just seeing what the weather looks like.”

  “It’s going to rain. I can feel it in my knees.”

  “Mr. Magnusson took the amulet with him?” She didn’t sense it anymore, so he must have.

  “He’s going to arrange storage for it until the paperwork arrives from the Egyptian Ministry.” Her father fiddled with the radio dial, fine-tuning the signal until he was satisfied with the clarity of the music, some old-fashioned ragtime number.

  “How did he get the thing out of the country without the paperwork?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. His uncle is a fast talker. The whole family’s filled with criminals and con artists.”

  “Why do you trust him, then?”

  “Because I made him an offer he can’t refuse, and people like him sell their loyalty to the highest bidder.”

  She moved the curtain to get a better view of Lowe. He was tipping the brim of his cap at grumpy old Mrs. Beckett, who looked up at his face when she strolled into the building and smiled like he was St. Peter and she was trying to cheat her way into heaven.

  “What will you do with the amulet once you have it?” she asked her father. “Donate it to the museum?”

  “Not sure.”

  A lie if she’d ever heard one. When Father had first insisted she meet Lowe at the train station, he told her he’d attempted to find it himself when he was younger, and that it was a lifelong dream to finally own it. He wouldn’t go to so much trouble if he didn’t have plans.

  “By the way, I invited Mr. Magnusson to the party this weekend. Perhaps I’ll ask Miss Tilly to play escort.”

  Her stomach tightened. “He’s interested in Miss Tillly?”

  “She’s a lovely woman. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Who, indeed. Why this bothered her so much now, she didn’t understand. Lowe had paid her a couple of rude comments and touched her hand, and now her brain was sending proprietary signals to her heart? Ridiculous. “I hardly think you’d want to offer up your favorite secretary like she’s some kind of prostitute.”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Hadley. Jealousy isn’t becoming.”

  “I’m not jealous.” But she was, stupidly. And before she could control her emotions, the Mori specters spied into her thoughts and rose up from the floorboards to childishly shove the radio off the desk. Static crackled through the speaker after it hit the floor.

  Her father jumped. “What was that?”

  “I bumped into it,” she said, quickly snatching up the radio as she counted internally and turned the dial to find the station again. “It’s nothing.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I just want to keep him close until the sale of the amulet goes through, and Miss Tilly can introduce him to all the curators. I don’t think she’ll mind. She mentioned he was quite tall and uniquely handsome.”

  Oh, did she, now? Was that Miss Tilly’s polite way of accommodating his broken nose in her assessment? Admittedly, Hadley had been surprised to see him clean-shaven and wearing a decent suit, though the dramatic brown boots that laced up to his knees were a little much. He looked like he was dressed for cavalry duty or hunting quail on horseback.

  And why had Father asked a secretary her opinion about his looks instead of asking Hadley? Well, she supposed that was typical. Half the time, she swore he still thought she was a ten-year-old girl. If she told him Lowe had pressed his body against her underclothes, he’d expire from shock.

  What do you want, Hadley?

  She took one last look out the window. Lowe had finished his chat and was now straddling a bright red motorcycle. Why didn’t this surprise her? Guess the riding boots were for a horse, after all—a mechanical one. The engine was so loud, it rattled the closed window.

  He tugged his cap down and tapped the kickstand with his boot. My goodness, the man was nicely constructed. He took her breath away. Just a little.

  Maybe a lot.

  Because as he sped out of the parking lot, she felt unmoored.

  And she wished she could’ve been on the back of that motorcycle, riding away with him.

  • • •

  Lowe took back roads from the museum to the Fillmore District and parked Lulu in an inconspicuous spot. Since the Great Fire, the neighborhood had become home to an eclectic mix of immigrants and working-class families. He’d spent the first ten years of his life in a row house here before his father’s fishing business moved them closer to the Embarcadero.

  The block he headed down was the center of the city’s Jewish community; Russian Jews and Eastern Europeans owned most of the businesses here. He passed a Hebrew school, two kosher butchers, and several cigar shops before stepping into a movie theater alcove, where he stood in the shadow of the ticket booth for a minute—just to be safe.

  No one was following.

  The euphoric scent of freshly baked rye bread wafted from Waxman’s Bakery as he strode to the curb and waited to cross the busy street. Hopefully if any of Monk’s men were trailing him, they’d seen him enter the museum earlier and assumed he left the amulet there. He tried to relax, but his mind drifted back to Hadley, which distracted him from what he should’ve been watching: the place he was headed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of yellow darted from the delicatessen sitting catercornered and across the street from him. He turned his head in time to see Stella Goldberg bounding down the sidewalk in a buttercup dress.

  For a moment, he was smiling at her plump face as the four-year-old girl silently ran down the sidewalk to greet him. Then he looked up and saw the obstacle in her path.

  Two workers were hauling some sort of industrial fan up the side of the building with pulleys and ropes. The square fan was the size of a car hood, and from the way the men were straining, it was heavy. A foreman stood by, directing their efforts while shouting to another man on the roof.

  The foreman saw Stella. He shouted for her to stop.

  She couldn’t hear him. Stella was deaf.

  Unaware of their presence or the danger they posed, she plowed down the sidewalk beneath the rising fan, which dangled from the ropes a story above. And in her haste, she tripped over one of the worker’s outstretched feet and fell facedown on the sidewalk.

  Her ragged cry echoed off the building.

  The man whose foot over which she tripped lost his balance. The rope slipped through his gloves. The fan plummeted several yards, its shadow growing larger over Stella’s tiny body.

  Lowe lunged off the curb and dashed across the road, his own hearing temporarily stunted by the blood pounding in his ears. His long legs carried him out of a Flivver�
��s path on one side of the road—just barely. He reached the sidewalk in a leap. The foreman was grabbing the slack rope.

  The pulleys squealed.

  Someone was shouting.

  Lowe didn’t look up. Just leaned down and scooped her up as the fan dropped—

  Inches above the sidewalk. That’s where they stopped it. She was one extended second away from being crushed.

  Lungs burning, he squeezed her against his chest, a ball of yellow flounce, dark curls, and fragile limbs. Her arms clung to his neck, her heartbeat like a hummingbird’s.

  “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he assured her, speaking against her head so she could feel it.

  As if a switch flipped somewhere inside her, she stopped sobbing.

  A gaggle of women poured out from a nearby shop, shouting in distress. Stella peeled her tear-damp face from his shoulder and panicked when she saw the chaos surrounding them.

  He held a hand up to the bystanders. “She’s fine. Don’t scare her.” He ducked his head to catch her gaze and smiled. “Close one, old girl. You nearly had that last hurdle.”

  She gave him a toothy smile.

  “There you go, right as rain.” The workers lowered the fan to the sidewalk with a boom that shook the soles of his shoes. He adjusted Stella’s weight onto his right hip and sidled around the downed fan. “You recognized your Farbror Lowe—and after six months away. Such a smart girl. Now then, let’s find your papa before these men drop the damned thing again.”

  “That kid could’ve injured my man,” the foreman shouted as his workers looked on in silence. “You’re lucky we didn’t drop this thing or you would’ve paid to repair it.”

  Lowe kept his face calm for Stella’s sake and spoke through a tight smile. “You’re lucky I don’t beat your face into a pulp and break both your legs before I get my family’s lawyer to sue your company for negligence.”

  “Now, you see here—”

  Stella made an indistinct noise and looked toward Diller’s Delicatessen, where her father burst from the door in a panic.