Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology (14 page)

John shrugged again, making a gesture meant to impart his lack of knowledge. Dupes didn’t believe it for an instant. Then Magillicutty leaned forward. “Not what you expected, was it?” He grinned the same way he’d probably done to the last dozen business competitors he’d bested and ruined, making Nate wish he could do nothing more than punch out a few of the bigger man’s teeth.

* * *

The ride back to town was long and depressing. Dupes had little doubt that the local constabulary was in league with the landowners, so trying to get them to open even a cursory investigation would be impossible. Adding to his frustration was the fact that he’d already telegraphed back to Pinkerton Headquarters and told them he’d found the missing painting, so there as a certain expectation that he would actually produce it.

Back in Douglas, he dropped off his horse and went to Calumet House. It was smaller than where he’d met Johnson, but promised to be a little more civilized.

Dupes was on his third glass of claret when a proud-looking young Mexican, wearing a broad-rimmed hat, approached him. He wore a bandolier across his wool suit and his trousers were tucked into shined—but worn—brown boots. At his side was a .40 caliber pistol, the trigger guard released.

“My name is José Doroteo Arango Arámbula,” he told Nate as he stopped in front of the table. “But I’m known around here as Arango. Can I join you?”

Nate waved at the empty chair, watching as Arango settled onto it. “I followed you from Magillicutty’s,” he admitted. “I must tell you that I am curious about your relationship with that man.”

Nate weighed his words, then carefully explained that he’d been looking for something he’d been sure Magillicutty had, following with the landowner’s denial and that Dupes had no way of figuring out where the object now was.

Arango nodded, not bothering to ask for details. “I have the same problems with this man. He has no respect for Mexican men, women, or children. He’d rather feed a coolie than a Mexican. He’s said this.”

Admitting that he’d rather feed a Chinese rail worker than a descendant of Spanish ancestors spoke to a larger issue, one which if correctly divined might give Nate the necessary insight to move the proverbial mountain.

Arango was an interesting sort, as well. The Mexican sat with his back ramrod straight, as if he were of royal blood, but Nate could tell by the man’s handsome yet broad features that any remnant of the blood from Hernán Cortés de Monroy y Pizarro or his Conquistadors had been so watered down it was nothing but an echo of old Spain. Still, the young man was proud and elegant in a battered fighter sort of way.

Calumet House wasn’t the sort that cow punchers frequented, but there was still some rough trade at the bar. Occasionally someone would glance in Arango’s direction with conspiracy in their eyes. The Mexican never turned or acknowledged the looks, but Nate could tell he knew everything that was happening.

“Do not worry about me, Nathanial,” he said, making the
th
into a hard
t.
“Men like these do not concern me. They look for the now and forget the future. In that, us Mexicans are like Magillicutty’s coolies. The Chinese play the long game, as do we. There will be change. There will be revolution. And that which has been taken will be returned to us.”

Nate watched the man as he sipped another claret. Arango had a purity of purpose that he couldn’t help but admire. That Nate was one of the people Arango would ultimately align himself against didn’t bother him at all. As Arango had said, that was then—the future—and this was now.

“The disappearance of the girls must be weighing hard on you,” he said. By Arango’s reaction, Nate might as well have shot the man.

“It is an unholy thing that Magillicutty is doing,” he said in a low voice.

Nate held up a hand. “I’m not making light of it. I’m serious when I say this.” After glancing around, Nate asked quietly, “Do you have proof of his guilt?”

Arango shook his head. “No. We watch him. He’s careful. But we know.”

“There’s a place for supposition if you can back it up. Do you have any evidence at all?”

But Arango didn’t—it seemed no one did. That meant Magillicutty was innocent, or he was guilty but just too crafty for anyone to figure it out. The latter was the most probable, and Nate decided it was time for a little subterfuge.

* * *

Nate returned to his room and changed his appearance. Not being a big man, he’d perfected several different disguises. Although many were designed for a more civilized environment, the presence of the rail hub meant his Oriental persona could just be the key he needed to open certain doors.

A few hours later he was dressed like a Chinese businessman, his skin tinted yellow with a tincture he’d designed from lychee and turmeric. He settled himself at a table in the Silver Stop, a few blocks down from Calumet House and a few hundred levels beneath anyplace J.C. Magillicutty would frequent. Among the many hard-faced men in the dark, single-story bar were several Chinese, who by their pale skin and broken nails had traded the rail hammer for the mine pick. These were the men he targeted, and believing Nate’s claim of being the result of a Dutch and Chinese union, they allowed for his passable Chinese and found it easy to speak with him, especially since he kept their mouths loose with drink.

Because he was deep in conversation with the Chinese, Nate wasn’t in his room when the men came to get him, nor did they give him a second look when he passed them later on the street.

After all, he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He was just some uppity, over-dressed Chinese coolie.

* * *

Nate found Arango in Calumet House around noon the next day. At first the Mexican failed to recognize him as he sat down, then it became clear that beneath the makeup was none other than the Pinkerton detective he’d met the previous evening.

“I need my kit,” Nate said, meaning his bags. “But there are men up in my room, waiting for me.”

Arango smiled slyly. “Why don’t you let them take you?”

“I’d rather have more control than that over my immediate future. Besides, I learned something last night that might be of interest to both of us.” When he saw he had the other’s attention, Nate asked, “Have you ever heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?”

Arango shook his head. “Is this a church?”

“Of sorts. It has a Christian basis for certain, but it propounds the idea that God made the universe by combining four elements and has on hand seven divine spirit guides. It claims that through ritual, one can use these guides to help elevate one’s spirit.”

That calculating look slipped back into Arango’s expression. “Agave will elevate your spirit much easier.”

Nate almost laughed. “I agree, although I could do without the hangover.”

“You can’t have one without the other.” Arango’s grin showed bright white teeth.

“The Golden Dawn thinks you can. They believe you can ascend to a higher level with no penalty.”

Arango studied him. “You asked me about evidence before. Now I ask you: how do you know this?”

“By certain symbols and signs.” Nate went on to explain, drawing invisible versions of each symbol on the tabletop as he described them. “Magillicutty brought in a bunch of miners to clear several chambers of the old mine behind his home. There was a symbol of a square and compass etched into one wall, which is a Masonic designation. There were many other symbols the Chinese didn’t understand, and my guess is that’s because they were Qabalah. But the most telling symbol which was described to me was of an ornate golden cross with six-pointed stars etched into it. These are Stars of David, and their presence on a Christian cross would be deemed sacrilegious... unless that cross was a ritual device of the Golden Dawn.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m an art expert. Iconology goes hand in hand with knowing art.”

“And these Golden Dawn types are dangerous?”

“Anyone
who believes in magic is dangerous. More importantly, there is a version I have heard of that says human sacrifices are needed for certain rituals.”

Arango’s eyes widened. “And this is in Magillicutty’s mine?”

“That is what I believe.”

“And you have a plan?”

“I do, but it involves you and many men. Are you in?”

Arango grinned again, but there was no joy in his features this time, rather an echo of an unnamed violence that had yet to happen.

* * *

Now that things had been arranged, Nate cleansed his skin of the tincture in a trough and then returned to his room. The men waiting were kind enough to let him change before they escorted him out; they took along all of his things, paid his bill, and let him ride his own horse. Nate wasn’t fooled by their courtesy; if he suddenly disappeared, there’d be nothing remaining to show he left of anything other than his own free will.

They didn’t bother taking him to the big house. Instead, they went straight into the mine, where they tied his horse inside the entrance. Just beyond, the walls were covered with sconces, and chandeliers hung from the ceilings; so many candles were lit it was almost as though the mine had sunlit windows.

Burt Johnson himself escorted Nate into the first chamber, which had benches surrounding a circular raised stage; through the second chamber, which held an altar and had an array of painted diagrams on the floor; and finally into the third and smallest chamber. This was a library with a table holding an alchemist’s kit; off to the side were several cages. Inside one stood a goat, bleating pathetically. The middle cage was empty, but the third cage held the prize: twin girls, both alive, but drugged.

Nate had found Eloise and Marie Duvall.

He’d taken a huge risk, and this was the part of his plan he hadn’t been able to predict. Would Magillicutty kill him outright—he certainly hoped not—or would Nate be allowed to see them make a different offering? Goats were the classical sacrifice if you couldn’t get your hands on a virgin, but here were
twin
virgins, young and innocent, and this promised some kind of special upcoming ritual. Although this made Nate believe that he might not be killed right away, as he stared at the angelic faces of the two lethargic girls, he did not feel better for it.

Locked securely in the middle cage, Nate’s captors made him wait until it had to be well past nightfall, with the hours passing as slowly as the sun over a dying man in the desert.

Finally, the sound of men in the other rooms grew louder, and eventually Magillicutty swept into the room, wearing a maroon ceremonial robe and a hat shaped like a pyramid with an all-seeing eye brocaded into the yellow silk. As Magillicutty approached the cage, Nate said casually, “I feel underdressed for the ceremony, Magister.”

Magillicutty froze in his tracks and his eyes narrowed. “I’m a Magus!” He examined Nate as if his eyesight could tell him more than what they saw. “And you are?”

“I am Practicus. First Order.”

“Who brought you in?”

“Aleister Crowley. We met in Switzerland.”

“Who was the second?”

“Algernon Blackwood. I met him at Wellington College.”

Magillicutty went to a bookshelf and brought down a tome. He opened it on the table and began to search through it. “When was this?”

“1891.”

After a few moments, Magillicutty looked up. His expression was hard, but there was still uncertainty in his eyes. “I found Blackwood and we know of Crowley, but of you there is no report.”

Nate kept his eyes steady. “I see on your shelf you have
De Occulta Philosophia
written by Cornelius Agrippa. I also see you have Baron Rosenroth’s translation of the
Zohar,
titled
Kabbala Denudata,
or
Kabbalah Unveiled.
I found it much easier to read than Agrippa’s work, especially as it detailed the
sephiroth.”

His words had the desired result. Magillicutty’s mouth dropped open and his aura of self-importance wavered.

“If there’s to be a ceremony,” Nate continued, “I’d like to participate. I’ve been in the backwater for so long that it’s a rare occasion to find someone, much less a
Magus,
with an active order.”

Magillicutty glanced back the way he’d come, then at the twins, before he made his decision. “You seem to be a brother. A
Practicus,
you say?”

“I traveled to the Far East and was out of touch for several years. As it is, I am rusty when it comes to ceremony.”

The man walked over to Nate’s cage and opened it with a key he had tied to his waist. “You may participate, Mr. Dupes, but at the smallest hint of deception, I’ll have Johnson shoot you through the heart.” He brought his face close enough for Nate to smell onions on his breath. “Even if you are a
Practicus.”

Everything Nate had said was true. He had been inducted into the Golden Dawn, but it wasn’t because he believed in all the
ooga booga.
Instead, he’d been desperate for the affection of Maud Gonne, an aspiring Irish actress he’d met in London. He’d followed after her like a sad puppy for the better part of a year, dining where she dined, drinking where she drank, being friends with her friends. Ultimately she’d run off with a Frenchman, igniting the fuel that had sent Nate to China. Half a world away would put her as far out of sight as possible, and make him incapable of following through on his ill-thought plan of trailing after her to France.

Out of the cage and potentially a free man, Nate followed the Magus into the center chamber, which was now filled with three dozen men. Each wore a colored robe associated with their rank and position on the Golden Dawn Tree of Life.

The First Order was comprised of five ranks, with the Practicus the third. The Second Order was for Adepts and had three levels. The Third Order, those who were given access to the magical texts, also had three levels, Magister Templi, Magus and Ipsissimus. It was a rare occurrence to run into a Magus, and Nate had been told there were only five Ipsissimi in the world.

Nate was handed a light blue robe with three stripes on the arms to designate his rank. He slipped into it and found a place with the others of his color, who made up the outer ring of a half circle, which itself formed around the altar.