Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  Visser snorted. “Probably because it’s on a good many buildings hereabouts. The Orne family has deep roots in Arkham and many branches.” He paused. “He was another of the expedition’s financial backers. The main one, in fact.” He had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  “Did he bring you in, or did you bring him?” she asked, somewhat archly. Tad had a habit of spending other people’s money. It made him a good client, but a terrible friend.

  “He brought me in. As well as a few others.”

  “If he’s as rich as you say, why would he need you?”

  “A smart investor spreads the risk.” Visser shrugged. “Truth is, I’ve been hoping for something like this for months. Orne’s a popular fellow, if you pay attention to that sort of thing. Knows all the right sort of people. And the right sort of wrong people as well.” He leaned close. “Word has it he’s in bed with the local bootleggers.”

  “What rich American isn’t, these days?”

  “I’m not,” Visser said, a trifle defensively. Alessandra gave him a steady look. Visser’s smile was weak. “All right, I would be, if the opportunity arose…”

  She almost laughed, but restrained herself. Her eyes narrowed as she spied a uniformed police officer standing near the inner doors, conversing quietly with a security guard. Young, good-looking in a rough sort of way. The sort of young man who looked born to wear a uniform. “A policeman,” she murmured. Visser followed her gaze.

  “Yes, Orne is on a first name basis with both Chief Nichols and Sheriff Engle, I understand. He gets a good rate for security.”

  “And they look the other way while he serves alcohol at his party?”

  “That too.”

  “The officer doesn’t look happy.”

  “I assume he’d rather be out catching criminals.” Visser nudged. “Come on. Looks like they’re letting us in. Stick close.”

  “Worried I might embarrass you?”

  “Worried you might try to pick a pocket or three.” He smiled as he said it, so she didn’t hold it against him. She hooked his arm and allowed him to escort her into the exhibition room. Visser made for excellent cover, whatever else. A woman alone was easily noticed. One on the arm of a man – merely part of the background, as far as many people were concerned.

  The room was large and square. Glass-topped cases lined the walls, between ornamental pillars and decorative statuary. Every effort had been made to make the space seem larger than it was, and it was plenty large already. Alessandra noted a large door at the back of the room, and a smaller one to the left, partially hidden behind some form of native blanket.

  A set of calculations began. She’d always had a head for geometry and a talent for off-the-cuff measurements. They’d served her well so far and looked to do so now. There were at least two floors above, which meant access by the roof would be tricky. A lot could go wrong in two floors. But the rear door held potential. If it led to the kitchens or a loading dock, that meant there would be access to the backyard, and the street behind.

  She’d seen no sign of guard dogs. At least nothing obvious. A human guard was more likely – a night watchman. Low paid, likely little in the way of skill. A policeman being paid under the table, perhaps. Someone to make a thief think twice. A common thief, rather. But she was anything but common.

  If she could identify them, there was the possibility of exploitation. It was a trick she’d used before to great effect, but required time – unless they were a drunk, or excessively gullible. She glanced at the policeman on duty. He was young but didn’t look particularly gullible. Quite the opposite in fact. His gaze was sharp, hawk-like. The way he scanned the crowd was somewhat unnerving. If he was the one on duty at night, she’d have to find another avenue of approach. The usual tricks weren’t going to be good enough.

  As she was observing him, a familiar face surfaced from the crowd – Whitlock. The insurance man said something to the policeman and glanced around. Alessandra quickly ducked her head, and interposed Visser between herself and Whitlock.

  “Problem, Alessandra?” Visser murmured, without looking at her.

  “An unwelcome suitor.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Over by the policeman. The man in the gray suit. Do you know him?”

  “Can’t say that I do. Not your sort of fellow at all, though. Slumming it, are we?”

  Alessandra frowned. “No. He’s an insurance man.”

  “Ah. That explains it – Orne’s taking no chances at all. He slapped a fat policy on that shriveled up thing. Just in case, he said. Just in case of what, I want to know.” He looked at Alessandra. “Though, knowing you, I’m starting to get the picture.”

  “I am not here for any reason besides curiosity, Tad.”

  “So you say. Would you tell me if you were?”

  Alessandra paused. He had her there. Before she could reply, Visser caught her arm. “There’s Carl Sanford,” he said. Alessandra saw an older man, with a slight build and an air of refinement, talking animatedly with Orne.

  “And he is…?”

  “Head of the Silver Twilight Lodge.” Visser took her empty glass from her and set it down on a passing tray.

  Alessandra looked at him blankly. Visser frowned. “Closest thing this town has to the Masons, though they’ve got branches in Boston and New York; the usual stuff… charity work, bake sales, and a big holiday supper every year.”

  “I see.”

  Visser looked at her. “I don’t think you do. The members list is like a who’s who of the wealthiest and most influential people in town.”

  “Is Orne a member?”

  Visser paused. “Well… no.”

  “Is that why Sanford looks upset?”

  Visser grimaced. “I gather Sanford is a bit hot under the collar because Orne didn’t invite him to invest in the expedition.”

  “Is that so?” Alessandra murmured, filing the information away. “And why not?”

  “Not a clue.” Visser snagged two glasses of champagne from a waiter and handed one off to her. She sipped at it appreciatively. “He didn’t include any Lodge members that I know of, though heaven knows you can’t throw a rock in this town without hitting one.”

  “Perhaps not the wisest course,” a new voice interjected. A young man, dressed to the nines, with a pencil thin mustache, had joined them unobtrusively. Visser smiled.

  “Hallo, Preston, how’s tricks?”

  “Poorly as ever, Tad.” The newcomer turned his smile on Alessandra. “Introduce me to your companion, would you?”

  Visser laughed. “Preston Fairmont, may I introduce Countess Alessandra Zorzi?” He leaned close. “Preston’s well-heeled, as they say. Rich as Croesus.”

  “Not quite.” Fairmont shook his head. “And a countess? In Arkham?”

  “By way of Venice,” she said, smoothly. She extended her hand and Fairmont took it, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

  “A pleasure to meet you. Though I must question your taste in friends.”

  “Hey now,” Visser began. Fairmont slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Easy, old man, just playing.” Fairmont looked around. “I’m starting to regret turning down Orne’s invitation. This may well be the find of the century.”

  “Or so the newspapers say,” Alessandra murmured. Fairmont grinned boyishly.

  “They do like to bandy that phrase about an awful lot, don’t they?” He smoothed his moustache. “Still, it is quite the show. Matthew has gone all out. Speaking of which…” He looked at Visser. “I need to borrow Tad for a moment, countess. If you don’t mind?”

  “Take him, with my compliments.”

  Visser threw up his hands. “See how I’m treated.”

  Now on her own, Alessandra wandered among the cases, studying their contents with an appreciative eye, even as she made sure she stayed away from Whitlock. Most of it was the sort of thing that any local museum might see fit to commemorate. Bits of pottery and arrowheads; beaded necklaces and
rotting moccasins; pistol balls and old Bibles. Amazonian relics and animal bones. The ephemera of history.

  There were more interesting oddments as well. Pieces of more recent manufacture, with obvious importance. But strange, unlike anything she’d ever seen – they reminded her of the sort of thing she usually purloined.

  She looked up and saw Orne standing nearby, frowning down into a case, as if its contents had personally offended him. He was a good-looking man, despite his age. Acting on impulse, she sidled up to him. “Strange to see such things in a museum,” she said.

  Orne started. He’d obviously been lost in thought. He gave her a wan smile. “The influence of one Carl Sandford. A new exhibit. These objects relate to the history of the Silver Twilight Lodge, in Arkham. Or so he insists.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I’m a skeptic by nature, Miss…?”

  “Countess, actually. Countess Alessandra Zorzi.” As she’d done for Fairmont, she held out her hand. Orne took it, but did not kiss it. His grip was warm and strong. The handshake of an honest man. She wondered if he practiced it.

  “Well, countess, I am Matthew Orne. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He peered at her. “Forgive me, but… you seem familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I am sure I would remember if we had.”

  Orne smiled, pleased by the implied compliment. “Ah well. I’m getting older. Memory isn’t what it used to be.” He paused. “I noticed you came in with young Tad. A friend of his?”

  “Something like that.” She turned. “Really, I came to see the great discovery. Find of the century, you know.”

  Orne chuckled. “So I’m told. Would you care to see it up close?”

  Alessandra smiled. “I would love nothing more.”

  Abner Whitlock watched the crowd, taking in the faces and matching them up to the names in his mental filing cabinet. He was looking for one in particular, but all of them bore watching, in his opinion. He’d never yet met a rich man who didn’t have at least one skeleton in the closet. Matthew Orne was no exception.

  His eyes strayed, searching for the client. The hall was crowded, but he spotted Orne over near the doors, talking with someone. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look, but saw only a flash of a shapely shoulder. He grunted. Orne was a ladies’ man. He liked women, and liked to show off for them. That was a problem.

  He’d met Orne for dinner the previous night, and his first impression hadn’t been all that favorable. Orne had too much money and not enough sense, in Whitlock’s professional opinion. He’d talked a lot but said little. Orne had other problems than the ladies, too.

  Still, he was a client of Argus Insurance and Whitlock had a responsibility to make sure their investment remained safe and sound. The thought made him turn his mind back again to the previous night. After dinner, he’d scoped out the Independence Hotel, hoping to get a look at Zorzi. He’d imagined confronting her – convincing her to get the next train to Boston.

  Part of him was glad she’d been out. He realized that he wanted her to try something. He’d catch her this time. He was sure of it.

  “Lot of swells here today,” Muldoon said, from beside him. Whitlock looked at the uniformed officer and frowned. Officer Muldoon was a good kid, but he was still just a rookie. Not the sort of backup Whitlock preferred.

  “Kind of the point,” he said, tersely. “You talk to Lynch?” Lynch was the head of museum security, such as it was. Four guys, one of whom was out sick and one of whom was Lynch.

  “I talked to him.”

  “And?”

  Muldoon grunted. “He’s a security guard.”

  Whitlock nodded. “So, did he see anyone who shouldn’t be here?”

  “Yeah, me.”

  “Funny,” Whitlock said, without a trace of a smile. “You’re not here to make jokes.”

  “Still not sure why I’m here at all.”

  “Because my company’s client wants protection, and your boss was only too happy to provide it.” Whitlock turned away. “Cheer up. Could be worse.”

  “How?”

  Whitlock considered this. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” he said, finally. “Now keep your eyes open and your hands off the canapes.” Muldoon might be young, but he had that hungry look in his eye – he wanted to make a name for himself. Whitlock sympathized. But that didn’t mean he was going to take any guff from a rookie cop.

  “I don’t even know what a canape is,” Muldoon protested.

  “They’re tasty, is what they are,” a voice said, from behind them. Whitlock and Muldoon turned. Professor Ferdinand Ashley smiled thinly and wiped a few errant crumbs from his mouth. He was a tubby sort, with slicked back hair and round, open features. “How are the defenses looking, gentlemen?”

  “Defenses?” Muldoon said, in obvious confusion.

  “As tight as can be expected,” Whitlock interjected. He didn’t like Ashley, though they’d only just met this morning. The professor was the twitchy sort. Whitlock wondered what had him so nervous. Maybe it was just the exhibition. From what he knew, Ashley’s continued career with the local university hinged on this shindig going well. “Shouldn’t you be with the mummy?”

  “I was hungry,” Ashley said, somewhat petulantly. “And anyway, Tyler – Professor Freeborn that is – is handling things on that end well enough.” He gestured to a nearby waiter and took a glass of champagne. Muldoon frowned, but pretended not to notice. “Surely you’re not against a bit of bubbly, officer?”

  “Prohibition is the law of the land,” Muldoon said, not looking at him. Ashley turned to Whitlock, as if seeking support. Whitlock shrugged.

  “I don’t drink.”

  Ashley sniffed and knocked back the champagne. He was already a bit flushed and from the way he wobbled on his pins, Whitlock suspected that it wasn’t his first drink of the day. Ashley smacked his lips and turned, as if looking for someone. Absently, he dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. He was sweating bullets.

  “You worried about something, professor?” Muldoon asked. He’d noticed as well.

  Ashley started. “No, no. Just… just a touch of nerves. I always get this way at these things, you know. Not one for parties, really.”

  “Just party food, huh?” Whitlock said. Ashley looked at him in momentary incomprehension. Then he laughed. The sound was brittle. Uncertain.

  “Ha, yes. Yes indeed. Forgive me, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to it. Excuse me.” He turned and headed back into the main exhibit hall. Whitlock watched him go.

  “That strike you as odd?” he said, softly.

  “Yeah. Just a bit.” Muldoon straightened his coat and his hand drifted across the service revolver holstered on his hip. He looked around. “He’s a squirrelly one.”

  “I wonder why,” Whitlock said. He looked around. “Something feels off.”

  Muldoon nodded. “It’s that damn ugly thing in there, is what it is,” he said.

  “The mummy, you mean?”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Not up close,” Whitlock said. He frowned. Orne was still in the same spot, but Whitlock had a better line of sight to his companion now. And he didn’t much like what he saw. Countess Alessandra Zorzi, bold as brass. “Why?” he added, absently.

  “No reason. Gave me the creeps, is all.” Something about the way Muldoon said it made Whitlock look at him. Muldoon was pale, his gaze turned inwards. Like his mind was elsewhere. Annoyed, Whitlock prodded him.

  “Then don’t look at it. Look at the crowd.” Whitlock spied a knot of men entering through the main doors. They were dressed well, but something set his alarm bells off. He frowned. “Like them, for instance.”

  Muldoon followed his gaze, and his face hardened. He’d picked up the same vibe Whitlock had. The newcomers telegraphed trouble. “Maybe I should go take a closer look.”

  “You do that.” Whitlock turned away. “I’m going to stick close to Orne, just in case.”

  Chapter Ei
ght

  Whitlock

  The crowd flowed around the large, central case in knots and tangles. The photographers had already been and gone, but there were still a number of journalists scribbling away in notebooks as they hobnobbed with the guests.

  “What do you think of our fine town, then?” Orne asked. “Does it compare favorably with… the European vintage?” He gave her an expectant look.

  “I have seen worse towns, certainly.”

  Orne’s smile went brittle. “Damning us with faint praise.”

  She patted his arm. “That was not my intention, I assure you.”

  The crowd parted for them without so much as a murmur. A tall, thin man stood attentively nearby. Obviously an academic. A perfect example of the species, Alessandra thought.

  “Professor Freeborn,” Orne murmured into her ear. “I am burdened with he and Professor Ashley for my sins.” He laughed and she laughed with him, touching his arm as she did so. Orne was charming, despite being at least two decades her senior. Or at least, he thought of himself as such. That could be useful.

  Alessandra did not favor breaking and entering. She’d done it often enough, but it was so much easier when the mark invited you inside and showed you their valuables. The problem was, it took time to win someone’s trust, and Zamacona struck her as the impatient sort. He might well make a move himself if he thought she was taking too long.

  The professor hovered like a mother hen, ensuring no one got too close to the thing. He looked up as they drew near. “Where’s Professor Ashley gotten to then?” Orne asked, loudly. “Raiding the refreshments again?”

  “You know how he is,” Freeborn said. “He should have been back by now, though.”

  “Go find him,” Orne said, a note of command in his voice. Here was a man used to being obeyed. Freeborn frowned, but did as he was told. Orne turned back to her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

  Alessandra looked down at the ancient thing. It was beautiful, but in the way of Goya’s so-called “Black Paintings”, abstract and unpleasant. She had never found the dead inherently terrifying. The living were more than frightening enough, when they put their minds to it.