The Arcanum (10 page)

“C’est fou. What was I to do, Arthur?”

“Nothing.”

“You want to discuss it?”

“What is there to discuss? I was a fool. Duvall was my friend for thirty years and . . .” Doyle faltered as he met her gaze.

“And what choice did you give me? To follow you to England?”

“No, of course not—”

“Meet your wife, perhaps? Your family?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m no man’s secret save I choose to be.” Marie’s voice was sharp.

“I was selfish.”

“Spoiled,” Marie added, with emphasis.

Color rose in Doyle’s cheeks. “Is this why you went to all the trouble of dragging me here? To tear the dressing from old wounds? There was enough injury done on all sides, my dear. None of us was innocent—least of all you.”

Marie stiffened. “I was the cause, then?”

“Let us put the matter to rest,” he growled. “I’ve lost a dear friend; you, a lover. In his memory, let us try to heal the breach.”

Marie’s expression softened. “I was never good enough for either of you, was I?”

Their eyes locked. Doyle swallowed. The left side of her lip curled in a question mark, an enticement.

He broke the spell, not trusting himself further. “Howard’s in prison.”

“
Oui.
I know.”

“He’s in terrible shape. His mind. Someone’s gotten to him.”

“Howard, he’s been courting the fire too long.”

“He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t tell me everything. He believes he’s being watched.” Doyle acknowledged Marie’s smile. “Yes, I know he always thinks that, but this Book of Enoch is different. We need him.”

“So, how we s’posed to get him outta that jail?”

Doyle did not answer. His eyes said it all.

“You went to see him?” Marie demanded.

“I had no choice.”

“
Encore, c’est fou!
Why? You know what he say.”

“I had hoped he’d changed.”

“Better chance of a thousand sparrows flyin’ out of my behind. We better off without that magician.”

“Then how do you propose we free Lovecraft?”

Marie stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. Her breasts strained against the low-cut bodice of her dress. “We all have certain powers of . . . persuasion.”

Doyle cleared his throat. “So it appears.”

17

THE BURST OF flash powder turned Detective Mullin’s head. The alley lit up briefly with daylight.

“Got a smoke, Detective?” Rags asked. She was a rail-thin prostitute with the face of a horse and only a tattered shawl to protect her from the cold.

Mullin offered her a cigarette as more flash powder burst in the alley. Police officers milled on the sidewalk, their breath steaming in the wet, chill night.

“You were sayin’?” Mullin turned back to Rags.

“So, Jimmy, he’s a regular, an’ he likes to do it standin’, but he felt all strange about the playground. He’s got two daughters, y’know. So I took ’im in the alley, an’ that’s . . .” She trailed off.

“Anyone touch ’im?”

“No, Detective,” Rags answered. Mullin noticed a tremor in her hand as she brought the cigarette to her lips. Rags was one of the tougher girls. She’d seen bodies before. She’d even cut a john’s throat with a piece of broken glass, and that was one of the bloodiest messes Mullin had ever seen. Now her lips were pursed as though she might cry.

“Dexter was a special person.” Her voice broke.

“Go on home, Rags. Get warm,” Mullin suggested.

“Thanks, Detective.”

Mullin rubbed his bruised hand through his black leather glove. The cold throbbed in the bones. Flecks of icy rain added to his misery as he left the playground near City Hall and trudged over to the alley in question. The officers hunched their shoulders to stay warm and stepped aside, making a path.

The police photographer knelt in the middle of the alley, his fedora tilted back as he pointed his camera at a windswept drift of garbage and newspapers against the wall. His finger compressed a button connecting to a wire.

Mullin was blinded for a moment, dazzling suns looping behind his eyes.

He waved the photographer off. “That’s enough for now. Go on.”

The photographer rose and straightened his hat. “Just a couple more, Detective. This one’s a beauty.”

“Get lost,” Mullin ordered.

The photographer grabbed his light stand and marched out of the alley in a huff.

Mullin took his time on the short walk to the middle of the alley, perhaps unnerved by the tremor in Rags’s hand.

Dexter Collins was no senile old woman or young maid. Mullin had known Dex and thought him a decent egg. The boy had a toughness that wasn’t faked or forced, and Mullin had seen him intimidate gangsters twice his size. Dexter knew how to take care of himself.

But not this time, apparently. Blood vessels had burst in Dexter’s eyes, which, in the cold, had swelled and turned a milky blue. His close-cropped beard was caked with blood, as were his ears. Mullin counted at least a dozen puncture wounds, deep and gouging. His body was flat gray in pallor. Stranger still, intricate pathways of blue veins had risen to the surface of the skin, extending from the forehead, across the torso, to the bottoms of Dexter’s feet.

Mullin heard the officers shuffle in behind him.

“Turn ’im,” Mullin told them as he stood up and got out of the way. The officers positioned themselves at the head and foot of Dexter’s body, then lifted and turned him. Newspaper pages stuck to the frozen blood on Dexter’s thighs and shoulders as they set him facedown on the pavement.

Mullin tore aside the newspapers, revealing what he already knew. Dexter’s spine, like the others, was missing. But because of the frozen condition of the body, Mullin couldn’t tell if the body had been killed last night, or a week before. Which meant Lovecraft was still the prime suspect. But regardless of the evidence, Mullin knew that Dexter, even one-handed, could snap Lovecraft like a toothpick. It made no sense. None of it did.

Dexter had been killed by multiple assailants. And more than one meant a conspiracy, whether Paul Caleb liked it or not.

But what Mullin couldn’t determine was the reason. The victims weren’t rich, they weren’t famous, they weren’t special in any way. Except to their mothers, perhaps.

And this brought Mullin’s thinking back to Doyle. He had also found it hard to imagine the old dog as a murderer, though he swung his cane like a man half his age. But if he wasn’t the murderer, what the hell did he want with Lovecraft? And why bother lying about letters?

And who had thrown Lovecraft’s name into the ring in the first place?

THIS TRAIN OF thought was what led to Mullin freezing his ass off in a parked police car outside the Bellevue asylum next to a snoring Wally. A great many questions converged upon Mr. Lovecraft, and Mullin assumed he wasn’t the only one looking for answers. Lovecraft had only had one visitor, a Mr. Watkins, but Mullin figured it was a false name. So, was Lovecraft a killer or a convenient pawn? A man swept up by events, or an intelligent psychotic? And if he was a puppet, who pulled the strings?

“I’ll be buggered,” Mullin whispered, and whapped Wally awake with a fist to the chest.

Wally blinked. “What did you do that fer?”

“Shut yer trap,” Mullin snarled, and pointed to the sidewalk outside the Bellevue asylum building. “Three o’clock. Mr. Doyle.”

Beneath a lantern, several car lengths ahead, he could make out Doyle and some woman in quiet conference. Every few seconds, they looked about in search of observers.

“Who’s he wit’?” Wally asked.

“Hooker, looks like.” Mullin scowled, puzzling over the new turn of events.

“Likes ’em dark, then.” Wally lifted a flask to his mouth and drank. “Well, you was right, boss. Let’s do this thing.”

Wally reached for the door handle but Mullin stopped him. “No. Let’s wait and see what they—”

A hairy face suddenly blocked the passenger window. “Pardon, gents! I’m bone cold out ’ere, fellas, and couldn’t ’elp observin’ some spirits in that bottle there. I’m jus’ lookin’ fer somethin’ to heal the cold, the winds just fiercely goin’—”

“Shut yer hole, ya mutt,” Wally muttered.

“Get ’im outta here,” Mullin growled, his gaze still fixed on Doyle.

“ ’Ave I interrupted a rendezvous? That weren’t me intention, boys.” The vagrant pressed his nose to the glass.

“What’d that clown say?” Wally fought with the door handle. “I’ll show ’im!”

“You wanna blow our cover?” Mullin hissed, yanking Wally back.

“Gimme a drink. A drink.” The vagrant’s voice echoed off the buildings.

Mullin had had enough. He wrestled his .45 out of its holster.

Wally flashed his badge at the window. “Police business. Go on. Get lost.”

“Police?” The vagrant shouted loud enough to be heard in Newark. “Why didn’t ye say so in the first place?” And he licked the window in thick strokes.

“Jesus!” Wally exclaimed, disgusted.

“Goddamn it!” Mullin punched the dashboard, for Doyle and the woman were nowhere to be seen.

“Motherless son-of-a . . .” Mullin was out of the car and rounding the hood as the vagrant scuttled around the back, circling his fists in the air like a pugilist.

“No call fer violence—”

“I’ll give ya some drinks, you stinkin’—”

The vagrant scampered into the shadows, cackling. Mullin fumed for a moment, then returned his .45 to its holster and got back in the car. The engine sputtered and they rolled off down the street, their cover blown.

DOYLE HELD MARIE by her exposed shoulders. They were both pressed to the alley wall. The growl of Mullin’s car drifted into the distance.

“Have they gone?” Marie asked.

“I believe so.” With the danger passed he released her, suddenly aware of their closeness. He cleared his throat and crossed the alley. “Aren’t you cold?”

She smiled. “Not anymore.”

“Marie—”

Her hand went up. “Ssh!”

Footsteps approached.

Doyle wrapped his hands around his walking stick and stepped in front of Marie.

“
Non,
Arthur. Pretend we embrace,” she whispered, and pushed the cane down. She took him by the arms and pulled him to her, pushing his head into the curve of her neck and cooing like a prostitute. Doyle’s hands went to her hips as the vagrant stumbled into the alley, muttering, “Threaten me to tell you something or other rat bastard mixing me up all I ever wanted to tell you . . .”

Doyle and Marie broke their hold.

“Spare a penny for a sinner, Cap’n?” And the vagrant grinned.

Marie winced. “My lord, he smell.”

“Shove off, friend,” Doyle advised.

“Get a load of them bubbies.” The vagrant widened his eyes and advanced on Marie.

Doyle placed the tip of his cane against the man’s chest. “Watch yourself,” he threatened.

“Aye, I’ll watch meself. But in the meantime, who’s watchin’ you, eh?” The vagrant’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ye’ve got the police on yer tracks, boyo. ’Ave you been a bad boy, then?”

Doyle scowled. “Who are you?”

“I’m me, myself, and mine. But who’s in that buildin’ over there, isn’t that the key question? They’re sayin’ it’s the Occult Killer, that one who’s doin’ away with all them nice Mission folk, eh?”

Doyle snatched him by the collar, ignoring the smell. “Who sent you?”

“Who sent me? Oh, ye’ don’t want to cross her if I tell ye. She’s feared by anyone with any good sense.”

“Who, then? Out with it!”

The vagrant’s eyes glanced left, then right. “They call her . . . Bess.”

“Bess?”

Marie sighed. “He had to make his grand entrance,
n’est ce
pas?
”

The vagrant’s head turned sharply. “The papers said you were dead, Marie, but I never doubted you for a second.”

“Nor shed a tear, I’m sure . . . Herry.”

“Houdini, please.”

“Bollocks!” Doyle pushed Houdini off.

The magician spat the fake gums from his mouth and smiled. He sniffed his coat. “Goodness, I do need a bath.”

“What in the bloody hell are you up to?”

“Only saving your clumsy behinds, Doyle. You’ve got detectives following you; you’ve bungled everything, of course.” Houdini pulled the wig and beard off in one movement. “I won’t get a moment’s rest while you’re in this city, of that I am certain. In the meantime, what’s a friend to do? Let you flop along until I have to bail you out? I’m here to talk some sense into you.”

“You can’t be serious. After everything I told you?”

“Times have changed, for God’s sake. We’re public figures. The scrutiny is too great. Howard made his bargain with the Devil. Fine; that’s his problem. Now he’s reaping the rewards.”

“What did I tell you?” Marie said.

Houdini turned to her. “If I were less of a gentleman, I’d have plenty to say to you. I finished with you many years ago.”

“Va t’en!”
Marie shot back, then spit on the ground. Her hand made the sign of Devil horns.

Doyle frowned. “You’ve wasted your time, Houdini. And you’ve wasted ours.”

Houdini unbuttoned his soiled coat. “There’s no talking you out of this, then?”

“No,” Doyle avowed.

Houdini’s breath puffed in the cold air as he emerged from his costume, wearing only a tattered jacket, a white T-shirt, and trousers. He shook his head. “Well, then, let’s get this over with.”

SEAMUS AND PARKS, two uniformed police officers, lingered at the chain-locked front gates of Bellevue, huddled against the cold. Their beat for the evening required them to provide extra security—against what, Detective Mullin had not said.

“Some kind of vampire’s what I heard.” Parks slapped his gloved hands together to warm himself.

“Whaddya mean?” Seamus feigned skepticism. In truth, he’d always been scared of vampires.

“You didn’t hear? The bodies they found was blood-drained. And he took the spines out.”

“The spines?” Seamus glanced at the quiet sanitarium.

“Callin’ him the Occult Killer in Fourth Ward.” Parks’s eyes always glowed with a hint of paranoia; in this case it added to the suspense. “They say this Lovecraft had body parts in his ice-box, frozen up like steaks.”

“C’mon.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I don’t want my dinner comin’ up, is all. You been talkin’ all night. Give it a rest.”

“But I ain’t got to the best part yet—”

Just then, the sanitarium gates creaked open and something lumbered in their direction.

“Jesus,” Parks whispered. “Is he a guard or an inmate?”

“I hope to hell he’s a guard,” Seamus answered, feeling small even at two-hundred-plus.

The man didn’t bother with a coat. His breath steamed out of his nostrils like dragon breath. He wore black rubber gloves up to the elbows, handled a rolled cigarette clumsily, and stuck it between his lips. His dull eyes blinked with crocodile boredom as he towered in front of Seamus and Parks.

“Evenin’,” Seamus offered with a nod.

“Match,” the gorilla said.

“Sure, sure.” Parks fumbled in his pocket, produced a match-book, and threw it at him. The man, dressed like an orderly, turned like a swaying tree and headed back into the grounds of the asylum.

“Yeah, keep ’em,” Parks offered, like it was his idea.

Seamus swatted Parks’s arm. “That was the last of ’em, you bozo.”

“So go ask fer ’em back,” Parks suggested.

Seamus watched the hulking figure retreat into the gloom. “Ah, screw it.”

DISEMBODIED WORDS BIT at Morris the orderly’s ear like tiny fish. With a growl, he sucked the smoke from his crumbling butt, extinguished it between his rubber-gloved thumb and forefinger, then flicked it against a tree. He swayed on the stoop of Bellevue’s main entrance and clenched his fists. His knuckles popped. Disembodied voices in his head raged at him. Women’s voices. A grandmother with hands knotted from arthritis. She would strike Morris on the forehead with those bony fists and tell him he was stupid. Morris couldn’t learn the lessons at school, and the other children called him “Morris Doris” because his grandmother wouldn’t cut his hair. He wasn’t allowed to go back to school after he pulled a little girl’s arms out of their sockets. Didn’t matter; he couldn’t remember the lessons anyway. But Morris remembered the girl crying, thinking she looked funny with stretched-out arms like a character in a funny book. He got beat on the head plenty for that. The things he liked to do always got him beat on the head. He’d figured he’d just have to get used to it.