by Byron Craft
“I guess it will have to do,” exasperation getting the better part of me. “Until then can you at least give me a clue?”
Otto Meldinger mulled it over for a couple of seconds and answered, “I am reasonably certain that the relics were not used as any adornment or weapon.”
“Then what are they?” I demanded.
He stared long and hard at me, “They are part of a mechanism.”
***
I decided that it was best to play Otto Meldinger’s little game and return in the morning. Little did I know that our return would be under gruesome circumstances.
It was 7 a.m., two hours before the museum was due to open. Bell and I were sitting at Granny Bertram’s counter having our morning coffee. Nora had volunteered to be a chaperone on a field trip for Allison’s class, and they had left extra early to catch their bus. I was left to fend for myself, again. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, as long as Granny’s coffee was fresh it was the best in town. A lot better than the swill they served up at Station House 13. I was on my second cup when Vinnie, our coroner, came running through the door at a waddling pace. Vinnie was a good hundred-pounds overweight. “Chief sent me,” he shouted out of breath. “There’s been a break in and a possible homicide at the Arkham Museum of Antiquities.”
***
We left our coffee to get cold and jumped into the Model A. Robber had been waiting patiently in the car. I was not about to leave him alone all day in the apartment where unattended; he might lift his leg on the sofa. I tried to get him to lay down on the backseat but was unsuccessful. He sat up front between Bell and me, peering out the windshield as we sped along; Bell drove.
On the front lawn of the museum was a life-size statue of Jeremiah Arkham, the founder of our town, his surname immortalized, as was his Uncle’s, who founded the Arkham Asylum. The bronze effigy had turned black over the years, a reluctant icon of a dark city. At the entrance was a uniformed security guard setting up an A-frame sign that read, “Museum Closed.” He stood his ground, and one of our uniforms joined him. They became the guardians of the gate to a world of carnival oddities and now maybe death itself. People aren't bad, not good either, just indifferent at times, but given a chance to gawk at the remains of a crime scene and the crowd will flood in like the water into a dam.
We stepped over the threshold into the marble hallway. Two more uniforms stood at the back of the museum in the library section. One of the officers was O’Malley; he looked relieved to see us. “Good morning, Sirs,” he greeted touching the brim of his hat.
“The Corpus delicti, Corporal?" I challenged. My mood was pretty foul. Not enough caffeine in my bloodstream to cheer me up.
“Over by that desk, Sir. It has all the looks of a burglary, and Sir there is a body.”
It was a dame, pince-nez, Elspeth. She was lying face down next to the marble pedestal. The top of the glass case had been flipped back. The interior was empty. The two artifacts were missing. The glass wasn’t broken. The lid had been forced. A crowbar is a useful tool for forcing windows and doors, but the wood frame of the case appeared as if it had been clawed open. It gave me an uneasy feeling. I remembered our encounter with Francisco Sayter. He wore black leather gloves over unusually large hands with unnaturally extended appendages.
I bent down and gently turned Elspeth over. There was a permanent rictus on her face. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her neck was at a weird angle to her torso. It looked like the head had been violently jerked to one side breaking Elspeth’s neck. I felt for a pulse. She was as cold as ice. “Good night Duchess,” I softly bid her goodbye.
“Is she . . . dead?” stammered Bell.
"Never saw deader." Time would take its toll on her. What was time, but a mere tyranny? They will encase her in a pine box, a pillow under her head. Six-feet deep, she would lay there, for eternity, in the cold, until the conquering worm had its way. I was in a black mood. The lack of a couple of good night's sleep contributed, but the job that morning was doubtlessly the low spirit that had me in the dumps.
“Where’s Otto Meldinger?” I demanded.
“In his office, over there,” answered O’Malley pointing to the other end of the museum. “And Detective, he's pretty shaken. Mr. Meldinger was the one who found the body.”
“I’ll go easy on him.” I had Robber in tow, and when coming close to the pedestal with the empty glass case, he let loose with a fierce growl. I could barely hold him back. I had never seen him act that way. If I didn’t know any better, I would have expected him to be foaming at the mouth. Something that the mutt got a whiff of was driving him insane. Vicious barking followed the crazy growls. I jerked him back, gave the leash to Bell and instructed him to take Robber out to the car.
I walked in the direction that Officer O’Malley had indicated. I was responsible for the death of Elspeth. If I hadn’t swiped Sayter’s knife and medallion, she would still be alive. Poor Elspeth was more than likely an innocent bystander. Probably came across Francisco in the act of pilfering and paid for it with her life. What he wanted with the medallion and the dagger I didn’t have a clue, but I knew that Francisco Sayter had to be the thief, the assassin, I just didn’t have any proof, yet. If forensics didn’t come up with something to link him to the crime scene, then I’d beat a confession out of him. For the time being, I still needed to talk to Otto. He was the only one that might know the “function” of the two relics.
Circumnavigating Pickman's model of Ithaqua I came face to face with Ian Woodhead. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was about to shout out his name until I noticed that he was transparent. I looked down and saw that he had no feet, no ankles either. The cuffs of his trousers hovered roughly six-inches above the carpet. I slammed the back of my hand against the nine-foot tall sculpture hoping the pain would snap me out of the reverie. Was I dreaming again? Was I walking in my sleep? The throbbing of my right hand was an absolute indicator that I was wide awake. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it of the nonsense. At least, this time, he wasn’t sporting any wings.
Ian motioned me to come closer. He was saying something. Ian’s lips moved, but no sound came out. I stepped within an arm’s length, realizing that he was intently and deliberately repeating the same word over and over. What was he saying? I studied the careful mouthing of the word forgetting, momentarily, that I was staring at an apparition. As if recognizing my dilemma, Ian slowed down his utterance. It was two syllables. Dun, dun . . . “Dunwich!” I howled.
“What was that Sir?” asked Bell. He had returned from escorting Robber to the car and was standing behind me.
“Nothing, just thinking out loud.”
“Very loud Sir, I might add.”
I gave him one of my big boss hard stares and ordered, “Go see if forensics has shown up and tell them that I want the results of their investigation yesterday. Also, put out an APB on Francisco Sayter!”
The kid took off in a hurry. Turning back, I saw that Ian Woodhead was gone.
A case that stood wrapped in frustration now added Dunwich to the mix. The name of the town rattled my brain. Was that where Ian had gone?
***
There was a handful of small offices in a back corner of the museum. It wasn’t difficult to discover which one was Otto Meldinger’s. My cop sense directed me towards faint whimpers that came from behind a door with frosted glass. The same cop sense confirmed that it was Otto’s office because his name was on the glass.
I quietly turned the knob and entered. Otto didn’t notice me coming in. His arms were folded together on top of an enormous Victorian style desk, and his head was down, cradled in his arms. He was sobbing uncontrollably. I wished that someone would have shot me then and there. I did not want to intrude upon the man’s grief, but cops do that all too often. I had a job to do. “Otto,” I whispered and repeated his name again, a little louder, after realizing that he didn’t hear me the first time.
Otto Meldinger looked up at me with eyes as red as blood and wiped an oozing
nose with a crumpled handkerchief. I glimpsed something I had seen once before, in my own father’s eyes when the old man had lain on his deathbed: absolute misery. I didn't say anything else, only stood and watched his tortured face. “Oh, it’s you . . . Detective,” he whined, slipping on a pair of wire rimmed spectacles . . . “I am sorry, but I cannot help it.”
“I am the one that is sorry Professor Meldinger for intruding upon you at this time.”
“No, no . . . No time like the present. We need to get the person that did this to Elspeth.”
I pulled out a chair and sat across from him. I chucked my fedora onto an empty chair nearby and waited patiently. Otto opened the middle drawer of his desk and produced a miniature box covered in velvet. Lifting the tiny lid, he revealed a diamond engagement ring. The stone was very small. “After I published my thesis I was going to ask Elspeth to marry me,” he sobbed. “Now that she is lost to me I don’t care if I ever publish it.”
Each utterance was clearly painful for him. “I can come back at another time if this is too difficult for you.” I offered, hoping that he wouldn’t take me up on it.
Carefully choosing his words and with great difficulty, he resumed, “Like I said before, I want to help you get this fiend.”
“Glad to hear it, Professor. We have a suspect in this case. But no motive. Hopefully, you can help us by shedding some light on our investigation with your archaeological research. At this point in our investigation, I am not at liberty to reveal the name of our suspect, but I can tell you that we are very close to making a collar.”
“Very well, I respect your authority and the concealment. You indicated to me, at our last meeting, that the purpose or should I say the functionality of the two . . . Now stolen, artifacts are what interests you. Am I correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then I will illustrate. I truly hope that this will be essential to your inquiries.” He reached behind him and pulled a book off a shelf. It looked like the same leather bound one he had been studying when we first met the day before, except now it had been crammed full of papers as thick as the Arkham telephone directory. The title on the cover read, “Espenshade’s Ancient History of Britton.” Otto’s red eyes were still alight with torment although there was a faint glimmer of determination, as if the mechanical telling of his story might, in some manner, serve to revitalize his crushed mind. I hoped that this wasn’t going to entail a long lecture.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot of material there, Professor. If you would be so kind, please cut to the chase.”
“I intend to. I do appreciate brevity when it comes to a police investigation, Detective.” He removed the wad of papers and gently tossed the book to one side of the desk. Amongst the stack, he produced a yellowed parchment. “This document is close to four-hundred-years old. It is a hand drawn reproduction of a device, a mechanism, that was copied from one of many ancient copper scrolls.”
“Copper scrolls?” I questioned, “never heard of such a thing.”
“Yes,” he answered and started to talk to me as if I was a third grader. “It was not uncommon, in ancient times, that certain writings, considered invaluable, were engraved upon sheets of copper and sometimes even silver to preserve them for posterity. Parts of the Book of Genesis were recently discovered etched into silver. This copy I hold is believed to be done by the hand of a Doctor Dee.”
“Heard of him. John Dee, a sixteenth-century scholar and Elizabethan magician who allegedly translated ancient writings.” A little tidbit I picked up at Miskatonic University in another case.
“Exactly,” he beamed. “Then this should go quickly.” I think Otto believed that he had just encountered a kindred spirit. Laying the old drawing down flat on his desk, he turned it around so I could get a gander. “This is the mechanism,” a bit of his misery dissolved into the pride of discovery. It was some sort of device drawn with great precision. There was a pedestal holding it upright, a series of large and then smaller disks with pointed needle-like spires surrounding what appeared to be a handle next to a coin, or was that a medallion on top?
I felt for the one in the pocket of my trench coat and fingered the octopus design embossed upon its face. The same octopus image screamed back at me with familiarity from the surface of the parchment.
Otto’s index finger drew my attention back to the contrivance. “The mechanism is constructed primarily of gold; small amounts of silver comprise part of the works, and the larger circular items you see are mirrors. It is called a Windlass. I was able to translate the runic symbols that accompany the diagram with the aid of Espenshade’s book here,” he confirmed patting the leather-bound book with his left hand.
“That coin and the handle on top, Professor, looks just like the two artifacts that were swiped from the museum.”
“A good detective has to be a good observer. I am impressed by your deduction.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I was in possession of their twins and that I had become familiar with them over the past thirty-six hours. “Thanks, Prof, all part of the job. But what in the Sam Hill does the thing do?”
“The beauty is that the dagger and the medallion are not a dagger and a medallion,” he almost shouted with excitement, totally forgetting his grief. “They are the pièce de résistance! The dagger is a lever, a forward and reverse switch in the truest form, while the medallion mates with the crown of the mechanism. You will notice that each tentacle of the octopod, on the so-called medallion, radiate evenly around the circle. They are calibrations! It is, beyond doubt, the amalgamation of art and function.”
“Yeah, but what does it do?”
“It enables the user to travel through time and possibly space, as well.”
I leaned back in my chair, “Sounds like a bunch of pulp fiction bunk.”
“It is difficult to swallow I admit, especially for one that is not well versed in antiquities. I believe that it is more than mere legend. I am certain that such a machine, at one time, did exist and maybe still does. My research has been far and wide. I even tracked down references to it in an ancient tome known to a few as the Necronomicon. There is an old man living in Germany, a self-professed sorcerer, by the name of Todesfall that claims to have one in his possession. I have yet to verify his claim though. However, I have had the rare privilege to examine many arcane documents kept under lock and key at the Miskatonic University. Several allude to the Windlass as an actuality. The Necronomicon was, undeniably, the utmost informative.
“I am familiar with the book,” I got a raised eyebrow for that one. I had come across the disgusting book bound in human flesh while working a case in Innsmouth; Ian Woodhead gave it to his cohorts at the OSS. The last time was when Professor Henry Armitage at Miskatonic U aided me in the removal of that devil that came to Arkham, the Nightgaunt, Corvus Astaroth.
“I apologize, Detective, if my attitude has been somewhat condescending. It appears we have much in common,” he offered humbly.
“Think nothing of it. I wear a coat of many colors.”
“There is a conundrum, that you should be aware of, Detective,” he proposed. “It may not be difficult to solve, though, given time to study it further. It is a broad term and covers any number of different types of probabilities.”
“What is it Professor,” I was beginning to grow tired of his open-ended statements. He talked as if he was thinking out loud, making proclamations to an empty room.
“If the Windlass can, in fact, traverse space as well as time then it means that it would be capable of dimensional manipulation.”
“Which means,” I almost yawned.
“Inter-dimensional travel!” he announced, his enthusiasm growing by leaps and bounds. “You would be able to crisscross space to any spot on the planet in an instant. Good Lord!” he exclaimed as if he just tripped over a previously unknown fact. “You might even be able to open up dimensions to other worlds.”
“You’ve probably given me the mot
ive, Professor. So, our thief,” I didn’t want to use the word “murderer” in his presence. Otto’s spirits had lifted some after our talk, and I did not intend for him to spiral back to the doldrums of despair. “If he has the two artifacts,” I continued, “he would be able to do all those things?”
“Providing one is in possession of the Windlass as well.”
“By the way Professor, what drives this thingamajig?”
“At this point in my investigations, there is no way of telling. Perhaps it is powered by the cosmos.”
I grabbed my hat, and he followed me out of his office and escorted me outdoors. The sun was shining brightly; it felt warm against my face. I removed my trench coat and draped it over my left arm. The knife and medallion rattled in the coat pocket. I never planned on telling Otto that I had duplicates of the stolen artifacts. It would just add to his depression if he found out and, besides, his grief might turn to anger towards me if he learned about my part in the death of his sweetheart. That could end any future cooperation between us regarding the case.
Bell and Robber were waiting in the Ford with the motor running. Otto didn’t seem to want to leave my side. I guessed that the prospect of being alone wasn’t particularly appealing to him. “Is your suspect, Detective . . . normal?” he asked almost as an afterthought.
“Normal?” I returned.
“I mean does he have any abnormal physical characteristics?”
“Yeah, he’s very big with legs the size of an elephant’s.”
Meldinger scratched his chin and looked up at the sky, “Then I would exercise caution when you attempt to apprehend him. The legend of the Windlass goes far back before the dawn of humanity. It was written that it was created by an elder race, huge tentacle laden creatures of immense proportions. Your suspect may be a mongrel of their one-time existence or an alien being, either could be very dangerous.”
“I’ll watch my back, Professor,” trying to inch my way towards the car and out of the conversation.
