Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  “Join you? What do you mean?”

  “I told Matthew, I said, if Sanford can have a man like Chauncey Swann on the payroll, why shouldn’t we? But he wouldn’t hear of it. I thought… I thought if you could find the mummy, maybe… but…” He trailed off. “But I think I messed it all up.”

  “Chauncey Swann…” Alessandra stiffened and slapped the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “That is who he was!”

  “Who?”

  “Someone was looking for Professor Ashley. The description matches Chauncey Swann. He always had a predilection for seersucker.”

  Visser stared at her. “You know him?”

  “He’s an acquisitionist, like myself. Only I heard that he was no longer his own man. Why is he in Arkham?” She paused. “You mentioned Sanford. Chauncey works for Carl Sanford.” She paused again, as her thoughts caught up with what she’d heard. “Join you? What do you mean? Is Orne willing to talk to me?”

  Visser shook his head and looked away. “He refused to even talk to me about it. I think someone spilled the beans about your – ah – profession to him.”

  Alessandra sat back. “Whitlock.”

  “The insurance fellow?” Visser frowned and nodded. “He came to talk to me as well.” He was silent for a moment. Then, “I think you should go with me, Alessandra.”

  “A nice offer, Tad, but you know I cannot.” She patted his hand and he returned her smile, if weakly. Visser had fancied her, once. Since then, his affection had become something milder, more friendly. She was aware that she played on it, at times, and he encouraged her. It was rare she had a client that she actually felt some fondness for.

  “So, you really are intent on playing detective, then?” He fished out his cigarette case and offered her one. She took it with a nod of thanks.

  “I do not have much choice at the moment.” She thought of Zamacona and the crunch of the cab against his towering frame. A normal man would have been hurt or dead. But she had come to the unpleasant conclusion that Zamacona was anything but normal – and that went double for his servants. A sudden thought occurred to her.

  “You say you think you’re being followed… Have you seen them?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s just a feeling.”

  Alessandra frowned. “You will be careful, won’t you, Tad?”

  He smiled again. “My train is tomorrow morning. Earliest I could get a seat. I was hoping we might have dinner tonight in the hotel restaurant, if you were up for it.”

  “I will be there. And thank you for your help, Tad. I appreciate it.”

  “Much good it did you,” Visser said. “Think about what I said, Alessandra. I don’t think this town is safe for the likes of us.” He stood and departed. Annoyed, she pushed her plate away, her meal half-finished.

  Visser was clearly frightened, and that worried her. She paid and left a few moments later, her mood sour.

  For his sake, she hoped Professor Freeborn was willing to talk this time.

  Gomes made his way down the tunnel beneath the cemetery, his mood sour. He’d screwed up. He knew it, just as he knew that there was no way he could go back for Wilma now. His arm ached worse than it had before, and his back hurt as well. It had taken him most of the night, well into the wee hours of the morning, to make his way back to the cemetery and safety. The worst of it was, Phipps had been right.

  He winced and rubbed his arm. That damn woman – what had she been doing there? More to the point, what had Jimmy been doing there? He’d spotted McTyre’s gunsel sitting at the bar, watching the whole encounter. When Jimmy had looked as if he was going to deal himself in, Gomes had gone for his gun and made a run for it. Now Donohue’s goons would be looking for him as well. Phipps wasn’t going to like that.

  Then, maybe it was time Phipps suffered an accident like Jodorowsky. Why split the money two ways, when one was better? Besides, it might make up for losing Wilma. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He patted his pistol, cheered somewhat.

  But when he reached the chamber, Phipps was nowhere in sight. Instead, a man clad in strange oxblood robes sat atop a stack of coffins, cradling a skull in his hands. “Where were you?” the robed man asked. Gomes recognized him, despite the funny get-up. “You were supposed to be here this morning.”

  Gomes hesitated before answering. “I was laying low. I got hassled last night by some dame – and then some of McTyre’s boys got on my tail. And I don’t think either one of us wants him showing up here.”

  The robed man was silent. Gomes nodded, as if he’d answered. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Where’s Phipps? And fat boy?”

  “The professor is otherwise engaged. You’re certain you weren’t followed?”

  Gomes sniffed. “Nah. Even if I was, so what? You got your mummy, and when I get my money, I’m gone. No need to worry.”

  “I am not worried. Merely cautious. This woman – who was she?” Something in the man’s voice made Gomes tense. It was as if he already knew the answer to his own question.

  “Some dame with an accent. She was there during the robbery. She’s the one who shot me.” Gomes tapped his arm. “Tried to clip me again last night.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  Gomes laughed. “Who the hell knows? Some dames just hold grudges.” He looked around, but saw no sign of the box or the mummy. “Already loaded it up, huh? What are you going to do with it, anyway?”

  “Do you honestly care?”

  “Sure.” Gomes smiled. He scratched his unshaven chin. Something felt off, but he couldn’t say what. Where was Phipps?

  “We’re going to eat it,” the robed man said.

  Gomes blinked, certain he’d heard wrong. “What?”

  “We are going to eat it. Leathery strip by leathery strip.”

  “You’re crazy. This is a joke, right? Very funny.”

  The robed man sighed. “Have you ever thought about what the dead might know? Or what power might yet remain in them?” He lifted the skull and turned it so that the light of the lantern danced across it. “What strange alchemy percolates in the suppurating marrow of an inhumed corpus? The ancients knew, and they passed that wisdom down to us. Often in their own flesh, appropriately enough.”

  He set the skull down and stood, still talking. “In Tibet, for instance, it is the practice of would-be sorcerers to seek out the body of another of their sort, and eat the tongue in a ritual of appalling intimacy. The Gauls used to pluck out the eyes of the dead for consumption, so that what they had witnessed might not be lost.”

  Gomes stared at him in confusion. “What?”

  “Knowledge is just another nutrient, after all. Something required for survival. To eat of a thing is to partake of its life, its experiences… its soul. To add the sum of it to your own whole, and thereby grow fat on wisdom.”

  Gomes drew his weapon, and the robed man paused. Gomes couldn’t tell, but he thought the man was frowning beneath his mask. A moment later, the robed man continued with his impromptu lecture. “You wouldn’t understand, of course. The concept is beyond your limited comprehension.” He turned. “There is a potency in the dead. Like wine, they grow finer with age.”

  Gomes looked around. “What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Phipps?”

  “Mr Phipps has received his reward. Now it is your turn.”

  Gomes didn’t quite lower his weapon. “That’s more like it. Where’s the cash?”

  “Who said anything about cash?”

  Something hard hit Gomes across the back of his skull, and he went down in a heap. Head ringing, he tried to get up. A second blow caught him between the shoulder blades and he fell, his pistol clattering out of sight. He groped for it blindly, groggily.

  “A third should do it, I think, professor,” the robed man said, mildly.

  Gomes rolled over and looked up into Ashley’s flushed, flabby features. Ashley lifted the femur he held in both hands like a club. Gomes tried to speak, but all that came out was
a croak. The blow fell, and the shadows rolled in.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Swann

  Freeborn wasn’t in his office when Alessandra and Pepper arrived. The office itself wasn’t hard to find. It was in the same building as Ashley’s had been, just one floor up. Freeborn’s office was a marked contrast to Ashley’s. It was tidier, though not much larger. The door wasn’t locked, so they let themselves in.

  Alessandra conducted a quick search, flipping through books, rifling drawers, searching under the desk for hidden compartments or false bottoms. Pepper kept watch. “Anything?” she asked, after a moment.

  “A revolver and a box of ammunition.” Alessandra put both on the desk and sat down in Freeborn’s chair. “An unlocked door means he will be coming back. Go back downstairs and sit across the courtyard, so that I can see you from the window. Signal me if you spot him – or anyone else who looks suspicious.”

  Pepper frowned, but didn’t argue. She closed the door behind her as she went. Alessandra leaned back and watched the morning shadows crawl across the walls. They stretched with the light, creeping around. Twisting.

  Moving.

  She blinked. No. That was ridiculous. They hadn’t moved. Not in the way she’d thought. She shook her head. Just the last tatters of a bad dream. Even so, the thought stayed with her. It was only when she spied Pepper signaling frantically from the courtyard below that she realized how long her preoccupation had lasted.

  She heard the sound of someone approaching down the hall. She stood and moved behind the door, holding the revolver.

  Freeborn entered a moment later, looking harried. She said nothing as he went to the desk. He opened the drawer and cursed. She pushed the door closed, startling him. “Looking for this?” Alessandra aimed the revolver at him.

  Freeborn froze. “You.”

  “Me.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I had a few questions.”

  “I’m not talking to you.” His eyes flicked to the door. He was nervous.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Someone’s following me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But he has a gun.”

  “So do you.” Alessandra tossed him the revolver. “When he gets here, let me do the talking. Understood?”

  Freeborn nodded jerkily. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because afterwards, you are going to answer my questions. Does that sound fair?”

  Freeborn swallowed and nodded again. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good. Sit.” Alessandra took up her position behind the door again and waited, one hand on the sap in her pocket. Soon, the sound of someone approaching echoed down the hall. She signaled for Freeborn to remain still. As soon as the door opened, she kicked it shut and heard a curse and a clatter as a small pistol fell to the floor, knocked from the intruder’s hand. She kicked it further into the office and ripped the door open. She saw a flash of white, and realized Freeborn’s stalker was running for the stairs. She recognized him easily. The same man who’d been in Ashley’s office – Chauncey Swann.

  He made the stairs, but she caught up to him easily. Too much good living had eroded his endurance. She caught the rail and vaulted over, dropping down in front of him. Startled, he stepped back, slipped on the stairs and fell onto his rear.

  “Hello, Chauncey. How’s tricks?”

  The acquisitionist tried to get to his feet. Alessandra gave him no chance. She drove the palm of her hand into a point just below his breastbone, and he gasped, his face going white. He sank down to his knees, sucking air with desperation. Alessandra took his hat and flung it away. “Why are you following the professor, Chauncey?”

  He mumbled an obscenity and tried to rise to his feet again. Chauncey wasn’t very big, or very strong, but she had no intention of testing her strength against his. She hit him again, with the sap this time. Just a light tap on the side of the head, enough to ring his bell a bit. Chauncey collapsed onto the stairs with a groan.

  Alessandra sat beside him and waited for him to stir. “I will hit you again, if you give me cause, Chauncey. Why are you following him?”

  “Why do you think?” he grunted, as he levered himself into a sitting position. He looked as petulant as she recalled. She and Chauncey rarely ran in the same circles, but they knew each other, in a roundabout sort of way, and well enough not to like each other. “I’m looking for his pal.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you stupid?”

  “No, but I want to hear it.”

  “The mummy. My employer has a vested interest in acquiring it. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll haul your keister out of here and let me get back to it.” Chauncey leaned over and spat. She tapped him with the sap again. He yelped. “What was that for?”

  “Manners. Focus, Chauncey. I do not require an editorial. Merely the facts.” She rested on her heels and studied him. “Your employer is interested, fine. What does that mean to me?” She raised the sap threateningly.

  Chauncey shrank back. “Nothing! Jesus. Nothing yet. Sanford wants to know who stole it and why.” He gave her a sly look. “You know who he is, don’t you? Carl Sanford, grand poohbah of the Silver Twilight Lodge. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  “Perhaps. Does he think Ashley is responsible?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  “What did I say about manners?” She tapped her palm with the sap. Chauncey blanched and raised his hands in a placatory fashion.

  “Fine, yes, he thinks he did it.”

  “And if you find him?” Alessandra pressed. “What then?”

  “Let’s just say no one quits the lodge. And no one crosses it.”

  She rose to her feet. “It would be best for you if I did not see you again, Chauncey. I will not settle for giving you a love-tap next time.” She pulled back the edge of her jacket, revealing her Webley. Chauncey frowned.

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  “Are you certain? I shot the Turk, after all.”

  Chauncey blanched, and made to cover his crotch. “That was you?”

  “Someone needed to do it, you will agree.” She stuffed the sap into her pocket and stepped aside. “Go, Chauncey. I will not tell you a third time.”

  He clambered to his feet and headed for the door at the bottom of the steps. As he blasted through it, he nearly collided with Pepper. Alessandra helped her to her feet. “Were you listening at the door?”

  “I wanted to see if you needed help,” Pepper said, unapologetically. “Who the hell was that?”

  “No one important.”

  “And who was the Turk?” the cabbie demanded. “Something else I should know about? There a murder rap hanging on you too?”

  Alessandra smiled. “No. The Turk is very much alive, though he will be singing castrato for the remainder of his life.”

  “Casta-what?”

  “Never mind. Come. Professor Freeborn is waiting for us upstairs.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not in?” Whitlock demanded. The servant, one of Orne’s household staff, merely shook his head and closed the door firmly in the insurance investigator’s face. Whitlock stared at the door for long moments and then vented his spleen for another few minutes. When he’d finished, he walked back down the steps and across the lawn to the waiting patrol car.

  The house was a large, three-story residence, situated almost at the apex of French Hill. Like its neighbors, it showed signs of genteel neglect, with overgrown hedges and trees spreading obtrusive branches over the nearby sidewalk. Only the truly rich could afford to look so shabby.

  “He’s not in again?” Muldoon said. He stood beside the patrol car, arms crossed. “That’s twice now. Think he’s ducking us?”

  “He damn well is,” Whitlock said, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He could feel the frustration bubbling through him. Ever since they’d found Jodorowsky, things had gotten complicated. The cops had managed to keep it quiet, but that wouldn�
�t last. Someone would talk, they always did. And then there’d be reporters everywhere underfoot.

  Muldoon looked amused. “Maybe you shouldn’t have told him she was a thief.”

  Whitlock looked at him. “I have a responsibility to the company’s clients.” He glanced back at the house. “Even the dumb ones.”

  “Maybe we can talk the chief into leaving a couple of the boys out here to keep an eye on things. Just in case.”

  “You mean just in case he gets murdered like the other two investors? Yeah, might be a good idea.” Whitlock ran a hand through his hair. This case was turning into a perfect mess. Three murders connected to it, maybe more. An international criminal running around town. And now the client was ducking him. “What do you think?” he asked, reluctantly.

  “About the murders?”

  “No, about the White Sox,” Whitlock said. “Yeah, the murders.”

  “I think we need to talk to the other investor – what’s his name? Visser?” Muldoon sighed. “He might be in danger as well.”

  “I don’t get it. Jodorowsky, I understand. Criminals kill each other all the time. But these guys? What have they done?”

  “Paid for the mummy to be found and removed from its resting place,” Muldoon said.

  Whitlock looked at him. “What – you’re saying it’s some sort of curse? Howard Carter and King Tut and all that?”

  Before Muldoon could reply, Whitlock heard the door of Orne’s house open. Both men turned to see Matthew Orne coming down the walk. He was dressed in a silk dressing gown, but otherwise looked as if he were ready to face the day. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I gave instructions not to be disturbed. They weren’t meant for you, obviously.” He strode to meet them, hand extended. Whitlock shook it grudgingly, Muldoon less so.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Orne, but we’ve been trying to get in touch for a few days,” Muldoon said, taking off his hat. Whitlock snorted, earning him a steady look from Orne.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been rather busy. The robbery… came at an inconvenient time.”