Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  Most of the houses on the street had substantial gardens around back. Orne’s was no different. She slipped through an ornamental hedge and into something out of a landscaping magazine. Marble statuary overlooked neatly tended beds of flowers, all beneath the shade of several overhanging trees.

  To her left, the back of the house rose. A glass atrium projected out into the garden. There was movement inside. Someone stepped out – a heavyset man she didn’t recognize. He hunched forward to light a cigarette against the morning breeze, turning himself away from her. She drew the sap from her pocket and padded towards him.

  Just as she was about to pounce, Orne stepped out into the garden and spotted her. “Countess?” he asked, clearly startled. The heavyset man whirled, reaching for what she took to be a weapon. She went for her Webley. “Leon, stop,” Orne snapped. Both Alessandra and the big man froze. “Go back in the house,” Orne continued, not taking his eyes from Alessandra. “Tell Maxwell to bring out another cup for coffee. We have a guest.”

  Alessandra slid the sap back into her pocket and smiled. “Hello, Matthew.”

  “Countess. I am surprised to see you. I thought I told Tad–”

  “Tad is dead,” Alessandra said, flatly.

  Orne hesitated. She could read the moment of calculation in his face. “When?”

  “Last night.” She paused. “Of the four men who invested in the Binger expedition, you are the only one left.”

  “Am I a suspect, then?” He started to smile, but stopped. “But you are not a police officer, countess. Why are you here?”

  “To see you. To find out whether you know where Professor Ashley is.”

  “And why would I know that?” He turned away before she could answer. “Would you like to come inside? I’ve had breakfast laid out.” He went into the atrium. After a moment, she followed.

  Orne gestured to a round patio table. “Sit please.” There was a pitcher of juice on the table, and a carafe of coffee, as well as two cups. He poured her a cup of coffee as she sat.

  She looked around. The atrium was awash in vibrant hues, and familiar smells. Orne was an orchid man. That spoke to money. More, it spoke to patience. Obsession, even. She’d once procured a book on horology for a fat man in New York. He’d been an orchid man as well. “You did not seem surprised to hear that Tad is dead.”

  “The last I heard, the police intended to speak to him. I guess they didn’t get to him in time.” He began delicately unraveling the croissant on his plate. He caught Alessandra’s look. “There’s a bakery just down the hill. The oldest in Arkham. I have a standing order. They make me a fresh batch twice a week.”

  He popped a sliver of pastry into his mouth and chewed with relish. “Not as good as those made in Paris, I expect, but good enough for Massachusetts.” He wiped his fingers on a napkin and looked at her. “You know, Mr Whitlock said I wasn’t to trust you. Why is that, do you think?”

  “I am sure I do not know.”

  “He wouldn’t like me talking to you.”

  “Mr Whitlock is not here.”

  Orne nodded. “True enough.” He paused. “I don’t know where Ashley is. Nor do I know who killed Tad, though I would quite like to get my hands on them.” He leaned towards her. “I expect you would as well.”

  “Why would someone want to sabotage the expedition?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I spoke to Professor Freeborn. He mentioned several incidents.”

  Orne was silent for a few moments. Then he smiled. “You truly are a remarkable woman, countess.” He sat back, dusting crumbs of sugar from his hands. “There were some problems, yes. Nothing out of the ordinary, or so they assured me.” He studied her. “I asked young Tad about you, you know.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “That you are a woman of singular ability and resourcefulness.” Orne looked her up and down. “Was he exaggerating?”

  “Not remotely.”

  “I intended to contact you myself, eventually. But here you are.”

  “And why were you planning to contact me?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “Not to ask me out for a romantic evening, I think.”

  “No. Tad said that you specialize in acquiring objects of certain provenance.” Orne refilled their cups. “If that’s true, I might have some business for you, if you were interested.”

  “Always.” She watched the morning light fall through the glass of the atrium in scintillating ribbons. “But for now, I am already engaged.”

  “Oh? Might I ask by whom?”

  “No. Did you know that Professor Ashley was a member of the Silver Twilight Lodge?” She asked the question bluntly. He was too comfortable. Too assured.

  “Ex-member.”

  “Are you certain?”

  He hesitated. “Why?”

  “I am told Carl Sanford bears you a grudge.”

  Orne frowned and tapped his fingers on the table. “This whole business is like blood in the water, you know. I can feel the sharks circling.”

  “Then consider this your life raft. Why does Sanford have it in for you?”

  “Similar interests do not always lead to fast friendships.” Orne sat back and looked down the hill, past the gate. “French Hill was once the beating heart of Arkham, you know. It was the spoke of the wheel.” He looked at her. “I’d like to help Arkham grow. Men like Sanford want to keep it small.”

  “An admirable goal.”

  “He invited me to join his little club, once. Everyone who’s anyone in Arkham is a member. Even the mayor. And more besides… Congressmen, senators, even a few foreigners. The Lodge might have begun as a small-town club, but it has become something else entirely since its founding.” He paused. “I declined the invitation.”

  “Why?”

  He paused. “There’s something… not right about Sanford.” He peered at her. “You think he’s behind it – behind Tad’s death?”

  “I do not know. That is another reason I came – to ask you.” She looked out at the garden. In the morning light, the statues seemed to be dancing. Something about it made her queasy. Orne grunted. There was a speculative look on his face.

  “He’s been trying to put me out of business, you know. Ever since I turned him down. Something like this would be par for the course for him.”

  “Even murder?”

  Orne’s frown deepened. “I’ve heard stories. Sanford makes the local bootleggers look like choirboys.” Behind them, someone coughed. She turned to see a servant standing in the doorway leading into the house, holding a telephone in a glass jar.

  “Call for you, sir. One of your guests.”

  Alessandra looked at Orne. “Guests?”

  “Do you recall that private party I invited you to when we first met?” he said, with a smile. “The invitation is still open, by the way.”

  Alessandra stood. “No. Thank you.” She turned to leave the way she’d come in. Orne stopped her.

  “What will you do, if you find out he’s involved? Sanford, I mean.”

  She left without replying. Orne didn’t call after her again.

  When she got back to the cab, Pepper was reading her magazines and watching the police cars. She jumped slightly as Alessandra slid into the backseat. “Well?” Pepper asked.

  “He is hiding something.”

  “So?”

  “So we may need to come back. But later. For now, we should go.”

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  Alessandra drew her pistol. She cracked it open, checking the cylinder. Then she snapped it closed.

  “The Silver Twilight Lodge.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Silver Twilight Lodge

  The house which gave the Silver Twilight Lodge its name was located high on French Hill, overlooking Arkham. From the street, it looked like a Victorian mansion. Or perhaps a funeral home.

  It was neither as large as Orne’s home, nor as well kept. The lawn was overgrown and full of rustling we
eds. The iron fence was liberally striped with rust and the trees that surrounded it like towering sentries were dead, or doing a good impression.

  Alessandra studied the house from the backseat of Pepper’s cab. “An unwelcoming sort of place.”

  “That’s putting it nicely,” Pepper said. “Looks like it’s haunted.” She paused. “Then, so do most of the houses around here. I hate this neighborhood.” She turned in her seat. “You sure you want to go in there?”

  “No. But it seems I must.” She’d considered simply waiting for night, and slipping in, but something told her the house would be a hard nut to crack. Deadly, even. These fraternal lodges were paranoid about intruders. Especially her sort of intruder. So she would take it slow and steady. She would play it safe. She already had a story in mind. It would get her into the lodge, at least. And if it got her in to see Sanford, so much the better.

  From there, it was anyone’s guess as to what might happen.

  “Really?” Pepper gestured. “Those ain’t two-bit hoodlums in there. That’s some serious mojo is what it is. They got members in the government even. And it ain’t like you’re a cop. So what are you going to do?”

  Alessandra shrugged. “Nothing. This is merely a… scouting mission. I am gathering information. Orne believes Sanford is behind the robbery, though he did not come out and say so. And it is no coincidence that Chauncey Swann was sniffing around Ashley’s office.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I shall be back shortly.” Alessandra got out.

  “Yeah, I bet a lot of people have said that,” Pepper called through her open window. “Bet none of them came back either!”

  Alessandra ignored her. Pessimism had its place, but not here and not now. Thievery required a sort of optimism from its practitioners. She’d learned that, among other lessons, from Mr Nuth, her tutor in the art of skulduggery.

  Nuth had been a slight man, old when she’d met him, but clever – oh so clever. And good at his profession. Better than she was now, though she was still learning. A day without learning was a day wasted. Another of Mr Nuth’s lessons.

  She doubted he would have approved of her current preoccupation with this matter. Mr Nuth had always erred on the side of caution, and had urged her to do the same. Thieves only survived by being cautious and careful. No, Mr Nuth would have left at the first hint of things going sour. Better to fail than to be caught – or worse.

  But she could not leave. Not now. Not after Tad.

  She crossed the street quickly. There was no traffic, though there were plenty of automobiles parked along the road. Perhaps there was a meeting going on. Her pulse quickened as she reached the iron gates. The walkway beyond had been cleared of weeds and growth. The pale stones wound through a corridor of brittle grass. Something about it made her uneasy. It looked like an animal’s gullet.

  She reached for the gate. Something growled. She stopped. The grass was swaying. Another growl, from her left this time. She opened her clutch and felt for her pistol.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a woman’s voice called out. Alessandra looked up. A tall, red-headed woman stood on the porch, staring at her. She wore a gray dress of fine quality, but somewhat archaic cut.

  Alessandra smiled and snapped her clutch shut. “Hello. I was wondering if I might come in?” The growling continued. Two black mastiffs emerged from the grass and stood together on the path, staring at her intently. She wondered what would have happened if she’d actually tried to enter the gate.

  The woman walked down the path. Her face was cool and composed. She calmed the dogs with a touch. She studied Alessandra with eyes like chips of jade. She gestured, and the mastiffs vanished back into the grass. “No visitors today.”

  “Oh, I am not a visitor. I am an applicant.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. Then, she gave a sharp smile. “Very well. Come in.”

  Alessandra hesitated. There was something in the woman’s voice that she didn’t like – a calculation. But it was too late to turn back now. That would only raise suspicion. Instead, she maintained her smile and opened the gate. She expected it to creak, but it made no noise at all. Recently oiled, perhaps. The facade of the lodge’s crumbling grandeur might well be just that – a mask.

  “I am Sarah Van Shaw, the lodge warden. Your name, traveler?” The words sounded ritualistic and Alessandra thought it best to answer honestly. Or as honestly as she ever did.

  “Countess Alessandra Zorzi.”

  Van Shaw’s eyebrow rose and she looked Alessandra up and down, taking in her clothes and general air of dishevelment. “A countess… how intriguing. Follow me.” She turned and strode towards the house, her dress swishing about her legs. “There is a meeting today. You will wait in the antechamber until I announce you.”

  “Of course. Had I known there was a meeting I might have chosen a better time.”

  Van Shaw opened the door and gestured. “After you.”

  Alessandra stepped past her and into the Silver Twilight Lodge. It was warm inside, almost cheery. A fire burned in the great hearth farther along the exterior wall, casting red shadows along the spines of the innumerable books that cluttered the large shelves lining the opposite wall. A long Chesterfield rested on golden gargoyle feet before the fire, its back to the nearest door. A second door, opposite the entryway, sat at the far end of the room. There was a smell on the air – incense. It reminded her of a backroom in Cairo where she’d once spent an uncomfortable few hours.

  Curious statuary occupied the nooks and crannies. Some she recognized as Etruscan or Babylonian. Others she thought might be Ponapean, or even Narragansett. All of them were ugly. Grotesque little things that glared blindly at the room and all within it. She could tell that they had been placed to enhance that effect. The antechamber was meant to make guests uncomfortable – nervous. Carl Sanford liked his visitors off balance.

  Van Shaw gestured to the couch. “Have a seat, countess. I will inform the master of your arrival.”

  “The master?” Alessandra gave a lazy smile. “Does he ask you to call him that?”

  Van Shaw gave her a steady look. “You will call him that as well, if you are wise.” She turned away without a further word, and went to the door opposite the couch. As it closed, Alessandra took the opportunity to scan the shelves. On occasion, she was asked to acquire the occasional grimoire or volume of magical theory. All nonsense of course, but her clients paid well for the new additions to their libraries.

  Given that these were out in the open, she thought them likely to be less than valuable. She was immediately proven wrong. Several of them were first editions. Like the statues, they were meant to send a message.

  She crossed to the far door and tested it. Locked. As she’d expected.

  There was a sound, from the other side. A faint noise, but… persistent. She leaned close, straining to hear. It sounded like breathing. She recalled a similar moment at the hotel and stepped back, eyes narrowed.

  The breathing stopped. The whole room seemed to tense, like a predator readying itself to leap. Her hand edged towards her Webley, though she could see no target.

  “That won’t be necessary,” a voice said. She turned to see Van Shaw watching her, a slight smile on her face.

  “The master has agreed to see you,” the other woman said. The door opposite the couch opened, and several figures filed out, in the midst of a conversation. One was a grossly fat man, with wide features and deep-set eyes. Another was a youngish man, dressed well, with a pencil-thin moustache and a sly look about him. A third looked like an academic, down to the bowtie and patches on his elbows.

  Their conversation petered out as they caught sight of her, and they headed for the door, casting curious looks her way. She filed their faces for future reference. She had expected to find a bunch of rich, educated Arkhamites looking to amuse themselves with explorations into the taboo. But this looked more like the end of a business meeting.

  Van Shaw showed her in and c
losed the door behind her. The room was large, and occupied by a great, oblong table made from dark wood and inlaid with gilt, surrounded by high-backed chairs. At the far end of the table sat Carl Sanford, looking much as she had seen him at the exhibition – older and silver-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard and a suit that had cost good money. Sanford was clearly a man of taste and refinement, or at least he wanted people to think of him that way.

  He rose and gestured to a seat beside him. “Sit, please, countess. When Miss Van Shaw told me you were here, and seeking membership no less – well, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”

  She sat, keenly aware that she was under scrutiny. Sanford’s eyes roamed freely over her – not in a lecherous way, but as if he were memorizing her every detail. “You were at the exhibition, I believe.”

  “Yes. A most exciting afternoon.”

  “One could say that.” Sanford chuckled. He studied her. “Chauncey Swann has nothing but good things to say about you.” Sanford peered at her, and tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “A calculated gamble, coming here.”

  “Has it paid off?”

  “You have five minutes. Depending on what you say in that time, I might have Miss Van Shaw sic her pets on you.” He leaned back. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Alessandra sat back. “Chauncey told you what I am, no doubt.”

  “Yes. Do you know a woman named Standish, by chance? Ruby Standish. Young woman. Quite clever.”

  “Standish? No. I know no one by that name.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Ruby Standish was an alias, used by another thief of her acquaintance. An American, with more ambition than skill, but a great talent for pilfering expensive artifacts.

  “Oh? Never mind then.” Sanford smiled widely. “I’m surprised you came in the front door. Bold of you.”

  “I am not here to steal from you. I am here to ask questions.”