by Graham, Jo
It had been a dog that had saved them, some farm dog who led the old Frenchman to the downed plane, creeping out at night across lands that were once his before they were claimed by war. An ordinary black and white dog, leading a man through the woods. "Please help us, please…" He didn't speak French and the man spoke no English, but their uniforms spoke for them, Robbie's blood spoke for them.
The hunter's bow, dark on bright, hunter's truth. I kill that I may live. Lady of the Hunt, Lady of Wild Places….
The amulet glittered in his hand as though it were made of glass, cool and smooth beneath his touch.
"That's beautiful," Alma said softly as he lifted it, turning it around in the light of the incandescent bulb. "I had no idea you could do that."
"Neither did I," Lewis said shakily.
Alma unfastened the chain around her neck and slid one end through the hole in her amulet, letting it slide down to rest against her wedding ring.
"You did good work," said Mitch. He nodded solemnly. "Let's anoint each one of these, and then take the working wards down."
"So that I can check into a hotel later with my three identically reeking gentlemen friends," Alma said, giving Lewis' hand a squeeze. "I always like all my boys to smell alike!"
"We won't be checking in anywhere soon," Jerry said, casting a glance at his watch. "The Chief gets here in about an hour."
They took a cab to Dearborn Station under slowly paling clouds, the sky red as a furnace in the east. Red sky at morning, Mitch thought, stifling a yawn. They’d done well to get in ahead of the weather. The clock in the massive tower showed a quarter to five. Jerry paid off the cabbie, and they pushed through the doors into the main hall. It was busier than Mitch had expected, the station already springing to life. Shoeshine boys were already waiting for patrons, and the first bundles of the day’s papers were opened beside the newsstands, vendors whose sour faces said they’d seen everything deftly pinning a sample to the stand before folding the rest away. The milk train was just in, and a steady stream of passengers, mostly laborers in dungarees with lunch pails in hand, made their way toward the streetcar stops across West Polk. A trio of younger men with too-sharp suits and weary eyes had stopped at the lunchroom counter, were ordering eggs and coffee from the Harvey girl in her old-fashioned uniform, while a couple in evening dress walked slowly past them, the girl giggling as she leaned on her boyfriend’s arm. The left-luggage office was open, and they stopped to check their bags, Alma tucking the claim tickets into her purse. She had changed into a plain shirtwaist, a little crumpled from travel, and the same blue cloche she had worn before.
“The Chief’s on time,” she said, as they drifted back into the enormous main hall.
Mitch slipped his hand into his pants pocket, feeling for the amulet. The rough lines were reassuring, armor against the worst that could happen. He felt heavy, stupid from lack of sleep, and shook himself hard. “Ok,” he said. “So now what?”
“We find out where he’s going,” Jerry said impatiently. “We follow him.”
“Yes, but how?” Lewis asked. He rubbed his chin, dark with stubble. “I mean, isn’t there something, I don’t know, magical that would work better?”
“That’s more likely to attract its attention,” Jerry said.
“More than us flailing around?” Lewis said.
“You may have a point,” Alma said, with a quick grin. “But we’ve only got ten minutes to come up with a better plan if we’re going to.”
“It’s very simple,” Mitch said, and hoped it was true. “Me and Lewis will wait by the gates and follow him. Al, you and Jerry stay in the concourse — the benches over there, maybe, they’re discreet. You’re the ones Davenport knows best, he could care less about me, and he’s never met Lewis at all.”
Alma nodded.
“We’ll follow him,” Mitch went on. “You back us up, catch him up if he gets past us. Otherwise, you’ll stay here, and we’ll either come back for you or have you paged.”
Jerry nodded reluctantly. “We’ll have to collect the luggage anyway if he’s going to a hotel.”
“Which I, for one, hope he is,” Alma said. “What I wouldn’t give for a nap right now!”
“What about a cup of coffee instead?” Lewis said, but she shook her head with regret.
“No time. The Chief will be here any minute.”
“Right,” Mitch said, with more confidence than he actually felt. “Come on, Lewis.”
They made their way through the main concourse and through the swinging doors to the head of the platform. Porters were already swarming the platform, and a conductor stood by the open gate of Track 9, checking his watch. The air was much warmer all of a sudden, and stank of coal smoke, diesel and hot metal. Already there were other people waiting — a young man carrying flowers, an older couple arm in arm, a handful of drivers and servants in uniform — and Mitch picked a spot in the lee of the newsstand, trying to make himself inconspicuous. Lewis bought a paper, and folded it back to pretend to study the racing pages.
A bell clanged in the distance, the sound quickly drowned in the heavy chuffing of the engine and the long screech of brakes. The Chief pulled slowly into the platform, stopping with a last rush of steam and a clatter as the conductors began to open the doors. Mitch straightened and saw Lewis tuck the paper under his arm. The first passengers bustled past the gate, hurrying toward the main concourse. Mitch saw the boy with the flowers embrace a tall girl in a plain hat, and the older couple stoop to welcome a tired-looking woman with a pair of toddlers in tow. There were businessmen, lots of them, porters trailing them eagerly; couples, the men in good suits, the women in smart hats and well-cut traveling sets; another family with a squalling baby; a pair of college boys arguing with a porter over a trunk —
“There,” Lewis said. He nodded toward the gate. “There he is.”
Mitch looked where he’d indicated. Sure enough, it was Davenport, looking a little haggard in his good gray suit. He had dispensed with a porter, and was carrying his own suitcase, striding briskly along as though he had someplace to go. Mitch pulled himself away from the wall, and let himself blend into the crowd a few yards behind him, Lewis at his heels.
In the main concourse, Davenport stopped and looked around as though he was getting his bearings. Mitch brought his hands to his face as though he were lighting a cigarette, peeping between his fingers and the brim of his hat. It must be hell, that thing wearing Davenport like an old overcoat, trapped screaming inside his own head while the creature used him, body, mind, and soul…. Davenport was strong, he always had been, but clearly he’d been no match for this thing. Mitch just hoped the amulets would be protection enough, once they figured out how to confront it.
Davenport was moving again, heading for the main doors. The crowd was thinner there, attenuated by the sheer size of the concourse, and Mitch hung back, not wanting to be seen. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alma angling toward them, carefully casual, and he risked waving her back. She saw and slowed her steps. Davenport was at the door, heading for the waiting taxis, and Mitch hesitated. He was too far away to follow if Davenport took a cab, but he didn’t dare get closer. There weren’t enough people there to cover him. Then Lewis brushed past him, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, came out the doors ahead of Davenport and stopped to light a match. Beside him, Davenport spoke to the cabbie; the man touched his cap and tossed Davenport’s suitcase into the trunk, then held the door for him. Mitch pushed through the doors as the cab pulled away, and saw Lewis standing beside a second taxi.
“He said the Great Northern Hotel,” Lewis said.
“Right,” Mitch answered, and slid into the seat behind him.
“Great Northern?” the cabbie asked, and Mitch reached into his pocket, dangled a five dollar bill over the cabbie’s shoulder.
“Your buddy who just left,” he said, and the cabbie gave him one quick and comprehending glance. “We want to go where he goes.”
“Cops or private?�
�� The cabbie grabbed the bill, and put the taxi into gear.
“He owes us money,” Lewis said.
“He said he was going to the Great Northern,” Mitch said, “but we’d like to be sure.”
“You got it, boss,” the cabbie said. “He ain’t got far.”
Mitch leaned back in his seat as the cab slid into the line of traffic four or five cars behind Davenport’s cab. They made their way quickly down Dearborn Street, traffic still light enough that it was easy to keep the other cab in sight. In the end, though, it didn’t really matter. Davenport’s cab pulled up decorously in front of the Great Northern Hotel, and Davenport climbed out, collected his bag, and headed into the lobby. Their own cabbie looked over his shoulder with a grin and a shrug, and at Mitch’s nod pulled into the curb just shy of the dark gray canopy.
“That’s got to be the easiest five bucks he ever made,” Lewis said, as the cab pulled away.
“Yeah.” It was, Mitch thought, starting to be an expensive trip all around. Through the glass doors, he could see Davenport at the massive desk, obviously booking a room, and he reached for his cigarettes, buying time to see if Davenport was going to go to his room or just check his bags and head somewhere else. But, no, the clerk had summoned a bellboy, and they were trailing off into the depths of the lobby. “Ok,” he said aloud. “I guess it’s time we got a room.”
Lewis winced at that, and Mitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait here, make sure Davenport doesn’t come back down.”
The Great Northern’s lobby was enormous and old-fashioned, with a huge skylight two stories high and an enormous carved marble clock on the mezzanine above front desk. They’d made an attempt to make it look more modern by laying rugs over the ornate marble tile, and by painting the ironwork green and gold, but it still looked like exactly what it was, a grande dame settling reluctantly into middle age. Gil would have had a story to match the place, Mitch thought, some excuse that went with the marble scrolls around the clock and the picture gallery on the second floor — White Russian countesses and stolen crown jewels, something straight out of Oppenheim. He’d be lucky if he could get the clerk to give him a room at all.
He still hadn’t worked out what to say when he reached the counter. The clerk was a young man, maybe twenty, so fair Mitch doubted he shaved more than twice a week. There was a copy of Black Mask face-down on the ledge beneath the bank of pigeonholes, and Mitch suppressed the instinct to smile.
“The guy who just checked in,” he said. He reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet to flash his pilot’s license, and took it away again before the clerk could get a good look at it. “Bill Davenport. I’m looking to get two rooms as close to his as possible. Across the hall would be best.”
The clerk blinked. “Sir, I’m not sure —”
“There won’t be any trouble for the hotel,” Mitch said. “I can promise you that.”
“Sir —” The clerk stopped again, tried for sophistication. “Sir, if it’s divorce —”
Mitch shook his head, gave an easy smile. “No, nothing like that. And nothing to get the cops involved. It’s a matter of — well, there’s a letter written by a lady, an actress, and the studio wants it settled. Very quietly, if you understand me. It’s just a matter of making sure he keeps his part of the deal.” He slid another five dollar bill across the countertop.
The clerk looked quickly down, then nodded. “Oh. That’s — I suppose that’s all right. But there’s to be no trouble.”
“None in the world,” Mitch said.
The rooms weren’t as nice as the rooms at the Roosevelt, Alma thought, but they would certainly do. Somehow Mitch had arranged it so that she nominally had the room directly across from Davenport, and the three men had the room next door, but the connecting door was unlocked, and Lewis lugged his suitcase in with hers. She held out the bag of doughnuts she’d bought at the station, and Mitch accepted one, his eyes closing in pleasure as he bit into it.
“Thank God,” he said. “I was starving.”
“I didn’t know if we’d want to risk the restaurant,” Alma said. “Or room service.”
“This is good for now,” Lewis said, with a quick smile.
There was a noise from the hall, a door opening, and she turned quickly to look through the peephole. It was Davenport’s door, all right, and Davenport himself, setting his shoes out to be shined. It seemed extraordinary that he should think of that, or that the demon should. She watched him close the door again, and turned back to the others. “I think he’s settling in for a while. He just put his shoes out.”
“I could stand a nap myself,” Mitch said. He did look beat, his eyes red and tired, and Alma nodded.
“Why don’t you and Lewis get some sleep? Jerry and I can keep an eye on things here.”
For a second, she thought Lewis might protest, but Mitch nodded. “Sleep, then a shower. I may never wear Musgo Real again.”
Lewis looked back at her. “You sure you don’t want me to take the first watch?”
“I slept on the plane,” Alma said. It was more or less true, even if it had been more of a doze than solid sleep. “Go ahead.”
She waited until the door closed behind them, then reached for another doughnut. They were good, fresh and sweet, and she let herself savor it. Maybe later they would order lunch — it was Henry’s dime, and that reminded her, she should probably wire him for more cash if they were going to be in Chicago for a while.
“What do you think he’s after, Jerry?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.” Jerry had stretched out on one of the twin beds, his coat draped over the back of a chair, his hat and tie set neatly on top of it. He hadn’t taken off his leg, just rested it on the mattress, the wooden knob that served for a foot nearly denuded of rubber. Another thing she needed to fix, Alma thought, and pulled the stool of the dressing table closer to the door. It wasn’t very comfortable, but that ought to help keep her awake.
“Something like this,” Jerry said softly. His glasses lay beside him on the pale coverlet, and his eyes were closed. “It wants power, Al. Power and death and sorrow and destruction. Corruption. Those are the things it needs, that it feeds upon. I’ve been thinking….” There was a long silence, long enough that Alma wondered if he’d nodded off, but then he opened his eyes again. “The ancient sources generally agree that Caligula’s reign started out quite reasonably — he was genuinely popular, did things like stop the treason prosecutions Tiberius had begun at the end of his reign, when he was getting old and paranoid. And then he fell ill with a fever. His life was despaired of, but he recovered. And his first act then was to order the deaths of two of his dearest friends who had offered their lives to the gods in exchange for his. The rest — everyone knows. Murder, depravity, madness —”
“He made his horse a senator,” Alma said. “That’s one thing I remember.”
“And a priest,” Jerry said. “Though that was fairly benign. He declared himself a god in AD 40, and proceeded to behave as though he did in fact have god-like powers of life and death. Supposedly there was a day at the games when he ran out of criminals before he ran out of wild beasts, so he picked a random section of the crowd, and sacrificed them instead.”
“And we have to stop it.” A shiver ran up Alma’s spine. Caligula reborn.
“Somehow,” Jerry said. He swung himself upright. “Look, I’m not going to be any use here. Chasing Davenport around the city is not going to be my strong suit. There’s material at the Oriental Institute that can help us — maybe— find a way to bind this thing.” He was knotting his tie as he spoke, sleeking his hair into shape again.
“Don’t you want a nap first?” Alma asked.
Jerry picked up his hat and cane, gave her a sideways smile. “The rest of you did all the work getting us here. It’s about time I did something useful.”
He slipped out the door without waiting for her answer, and Alma shook her head. “Oh, Jerry,” she said, softly, and settled again to liste
n for Davenport’s door.
Chapter Thirteen
Alma had just checked her watch for the fifth time — ten o’clock — when she heard water running in the bathroom next door. A few minutes later, the connecting door swung open, and Mitch poked his head in, hair still damp from the bath.
“I don’t suppose there are any doughnuts left,” he said. “Where’s Jerry?”
“He went to the Oriental Institute,” Alma answered. “He said the library there has things that might help him figure out what we do next.”
Mitch found the paper bag, and retrieved the last doughnut. “That would be good. Look, I’m going to order us some sandwiches and coffee, but why don’t you take a nap till they get here?”
Alma started to protest, but a yawn overtook her. Mitch grinned, and she smiled ruefully. “You’re right. Wake me the minute he moves.”
“He’ll have to get his shoes back first,” Mitch said. “Go to sleep, Al.”
She refrained from pointing out that Davenport might have packed more than one pair of shoes, and retreated into the adjoining bedroom. It was a mirror image of the other, the beds on the opposite wall, but otherwise identical. The men had drawn the shades, but the cloudy light filtered in around the edge of the window. Lewis was asleep in the far bed, stripped to shorts and undershirt, clothes folded on the nearest chair. The other bed was barely mussed, just the pillow tugged free of the blankets: typical, she thought, that Mitch would sleep so neatly, almost as though he was never there.
She pulled off her dress and hung it up in the narrow closet, and after a moment’s hesitation unhooked her stockings. If they had to move fast, she’d have to go bare-legged, but it was worth it to be able to sleep in comfort. She fluffed up the pillow on the unoccupied bed, and Lewis said softly, “Al?”
“I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“Not really.” He gave her a sleepy smile. “There’s room to share, if you want.”
“Yes,” she said, and he folded back the sheet, leaving her half the narrow bed. She slid comfortably down against him, fitting herself to his arms, and laughed softly at the lingering scent of Musgo Real on his hands.
