The Arcanum (16 page)

25

THE TOWERING GOLD doors gave way to the cavernous lair of William Randolph Hearst. The publisher stood before a wall-sized window, the sprawl of the city unfolding behind him. With a lit cigar clamped in his teeth, billowing smoke, he appeared to be some sort of demigod, straddling New York City much as the Colossus did the harbor of Rhodes.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

Houdini and Doyle exchanged glances as they crossed the threshold.

Hearst’s invitation worried Houdini. He had specifically requested Doyle’s presence, but Doyle was supposed to have been in America anonymously. Letters had been forwarded to Houdini’s Harlem brownstone, to his Hoboken studio, and to the Penn Hotel. Every effort was made to suggest a specific agenda as opposed to a simple meet-and-greet.

Further muddying the waters was the presence of Barnabus Wilkie Tyson, the promoter extraordinaire and current man of the hour. Houdini knew Tyson could sniff out celebrities like a foxhound.

Houdini noted the somewhat leisurely fashion in which Tyson rose from his chair to greet the new guests. It was not the standard forced casualness of sycophants in the presence of celebrities, but a deliberate form of disrespect. Houdini took an immediate dislike to the man.

But ignoring an invitation from Hearst was just not an option. William Randolph Hearst
was
New York City. Everyone paid homage to the man—even the mayor and the chief of police. For they knew it was through Hearst’s lens that not just the city, but the whole nation viewed itself. He was a frequent guest at the White House, regardless of whether the occupant was a Democrat or Republican; the desire for favorable press knew no party affiliation. With a single word, Hearst could move stock markets in Tokyo and Berlin, annihilate hallowed reputations, and sway public opinion to match his own. In this age of party bosses and political machines, Hearst fit in perfectly. Business and politics operated with the same methodology as organized crime, and in that environment, Hearst was the kingpin.

The office reeked of stale cigar smoke, which had seeped into the mahogany shelves and desks, and the leather chairs imported from Paris. Red velvet curtains hung from the rafters in luxurious splendor.

Hearst eyed Doyle. “Why have you been hiding this man, Houdini? Shame on you.” Hearst shook Doyle’s hand. “Sir Arthur, New York City welcomes you.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Hearst,” Doyle answered.

“And I speak for her, sir; be assured of that.” Hearst’s smile was thin. “Have you met Barnabus? Quite the impresario of late.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hearst,” Tyson said unctuously. His smile was openmouthed and accompanied by an unpleasant breathy growl. He gestured to a coffee table and some assembled chairs. “Scotch, Sir Arthur? Wine? What’s your pleasure?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Doyle took a seat next to Houdini. They exchanged another look; Houdini shrugged at the presence of Tyson.

Hearst gestured to a room-sized humidor in the corner of the office. “Cigar? I’ve some marvelous Monte Cristos. They go wonderfully with a glass of port.”

“I came armed with my own tobacco, Mr. Hearst.” Doyle presented his pipe and tin.

“Call me William, please. Houdini? What would the Great One like?”

“You know me. One drink and I’m talking to the furniture.”

Tyson growled a laugh as he returned with his own sloshing glass of scotch. As he sat, all the air escaped the cushions with a rush.

Hearst did not sit; he preferred to circle. “Barnabus has impressed me of late. He’s got your appetite for publicity, Houdini, and knows how to use it. Who knows? Someday he may give you a run for your money.”

“No, Houdini’s still the master of promotion,” Tyson said diplomatically.

Houdini chuckled and crossed his legs.

“Barnabus has built quite an interesting roster of clients. He’s chosen very strategically, and Hearst Incorporated has taken an interest in a few of them for the stage and the motion pictures. But it’s a delicate time. The public needs time to get to know these people through our newspapers and magazines, through public speaking events and the like. There’s money to be made.” Hearst nodded to Tyson. “But I don’t have to tell you this, Houdini.”

“No, indeed.” He looked over to Doyle again with a questioning arch of his brow.

Hearst had stopped circling and paused behind Houdini’s chair. “I heard you had an interesting meeting with the psychic seer Madame Rose.”

Houdini looked directly at Barnabus Tyson as he answered. “Yes, we had a gay old chat.”

Tyson wore a lazy look of defiance as he sipped his drink.

“I was told there may have been a misunderstanding,” Hearst went on.

“There was, William. There most certainly was. You see, Madame Rose appears to be under the impression that she is some kind of channel for spirit voices from the Great Beyond, whereas I had the distinct impression that she was a craven fraud and shameless thief. And I believe it was upon this point that our paths diverged.”

“What business is it of yours, I might ask?” Tyson growled.

“You might ask that, but I don’t suggest you do,” Houdini snapped.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen; come,” Hearst chided. “It’s too easy to get your goat, Houdini.” Hearst began to pace again, trying his best to seem amiable. “You can’t say I haven’t spent some ink on your medium-busting exploits, my friend.”

“And?” Houdini never felt he had to thank anyone for the publicity he generated.

Hearst’s smile faded. “This is a special case. We’ve invested some time and energy into Madame Rose, and would hate to see all that go up in flames. Besides, we’re easing her out of the medium business and into acting. Move her into the pictures, that sort of thing. So she needn’t disturb your sensibilities any longer.”

“What if I went out and told the world how you busted out of those handcuffs, eh?” Tyson offered, unhelpfully.

Houdini leveled Tyson with a look of contempt. “My good man, I dare you to try. In fact, I insist that you try. But I feel compelled to remind you just who I am. You may have gotten used to being a big fish in a little pond, but that tends to overinflate one’s sense of one’s position in the world. I am Houdini. There is only one. Irritate me, as you’re beginning to, and you’ll earn yourself a most daunting enemy.”

“Barnabus misspoke, Houdini. Be merciful.” Hearst placed a hand on his shoulder. “What are your plans?”

“My plans for what?”

“For Madame Rose, of course.”

“I plan to tell the truth.”

Tyson sat up and crushed his cigar in the ashtray. “I don’t have to sit through this,” he snarled.

“No, you don’t. And don’t let me keep you.” Houdini winked at Tyson.

Clearly seeking to change the subject, Doyle motioned to the floor-to-ceiling window. “Quite the view.”

“Best in the city,” Hearst answered proudly. Then he stepped away from Houdini’s chair and strode over to the window, his face a mask of concern. “She is my garden, you know. I control the knowledge that feeds her, and weed out her enemies. Water her roots with money. But no matter how many fences one builds . . .” Hearst sighed. After a moment he turned back to Doyle and Houdini. “There is a perverse murderer loose in my city, Sir Arthur. He was caught briefly, but escaped from Bellevue’s asylum for the criminally insane—escaped with the aid of accomplices, I’m told.”

Houdini raised an eyebrow.

“Finding this madman and bringing him to justice . . . Well, frankly speaking, it’s become my obsession,” Hearst continued.

Tyson nodded to himself, solemnly.

“A few banner headlines and you’ll feel better,” Houdini said.

Hearst turned to Houdini with a frown. “Your cynicism wounds me. These crimes are horrendous, and the victims are missionaries, of all things—citizens striving to save the most unfortunate souls in the city. And the killer is apparently an occultist. A vile organism. Lovecraft’s his name.”

Houdini’s sip of water went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, breaking Hearst’s train of thought.

“The story has taken many strange turns. The strangest of all places you, Sir Arthur, at the residence of the accused.” Doyle seemed about to answer, but Hearst cut him off. “You’re outraged, I’m sure. And I don’t blame you. It’s nonsense, of course. But as you well know, once the public starts to pick up the scent of a story, even the most outrageous rumors have a way of transforming into fact.” Hearst shook his head, regretfully. “It’s just the unfortunate reality of the news business.”

“I haven’t been following the story,” Doyle said tersely, and puffed on his pipe.

“Yes, well, I’m sure your business here, whatever it is, is very important and very distracting. But I should warn you that being associated with something of this nature—even falsely— could harm your reputation. It’s certainly the last thing your fledgling Spiritualist Movement needs right now.”

“The Movement can take care of itself, I’m certain,” Doyle responded tightly.

But Hearst knew how to play his cards. “Sooner or later, I may be pressed to come forward with this information, unsubstantiated as it may be. The story becomes its own animal, you see. And the public hungers for new information. At some point, I may need more wood to feed the fire.”

“Is that a threat?” Doyle demanded.

“But there may be,” Hearst went on, sidestepping Doyle’s question, “a way to spin this information into a positive.” Hearst crossed to his desk. “Yes, I do believe events transpire in the order they do for a reason—a divine reason.” He plucked up a newspaper, then returned to the coffee table and leaned closer to Doyle. “What do you say, Sir Arthur? Let’s make some news.” Hearst laid down the
Daily Journal,
revealing a headline that read:

SHERLOCK HOLMES HUNTS OCCULT KILLER

Doyle said with disinterest, “Make some news, eh? Beats reporting it, I imagine.”

Hearst smiled coldly. “Tomorrow’s headline. When the safety of the greatest city in the world is threatened, then one must call upon the greatest detective in the world to protect her.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows and put a match to his pipe. “Is it the custom in America to report the news before it’s happened?”

Hearst frowned. “It’s disappointing to find you acting so cavalierly about such a serious matter.”

“And you find this to be a serious approach, do you?” Doyle responded.

Tyson curled his lip. “Arthur, you’re new to these shores.” He turned to Houdini. “Have you explained to him how things work in New York City?”

“It’s ‘Sir’ Arthur, you charmless pup,” Houdini answered. “And you’re not fit to kiss his boots.”

Hearst sighed. “I must say, I’m surprised. There’s no better currency in the world than good publicity. I thought you would leap at the opportunity, considering the bruising you’ve been taking in the British press, Sir Arthur.”

“You were wrong. I’ll neither lend my name, nor the name of Sherlock Holmes, to a false investigation. And if you attempt to do so without my consent, I’ll publicly rebuke you in the
New
York Times.
”

“Well, I can always go with the first story. Perhaps that’s the better angle anyway. I’ve a police detective for a witness, and you can’t find a better source without paying. ‘No’ is not a word I’m accustomed to hearing.”

“No.” Doyle stood up and offered his hand to Hearst. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Thank you for the view, Mr. Hearst.” And Doyle headed for the door.

Houdini rose as well. “You run that story, they’ll laugh you out of town,” he said.

“Perhaps. Or maybe you can keep your opinions to yourself for once, and we won’t have any problems at all.”

The muscles in Houdini’s jaw tightened.

Hearst turned to Doyle as he was leaving. “It’s refreshing to see someone so unmoved by what others think of him.”

Doyle hesitated.

“My hat’s off to you. If you find any ghosts or goblins or faeries during your stay here in New York, I do hope you’ll tell me. I’m thinking of running a children’s section in my Sunday
Journal.
Your Spiritualist reports would fit in splendidly.”

Doyle was about to respond, but Houdini put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

In the silence, Tyson slunk over and spoke in a hushed tone. “I hate to see things end like this, gentlemen.” He handed them an engraved invitation. “Consider it a peace offering from Madame Rose. It’s a costume ball, seeing as Halloween is coming. It is this Saturday night at her estate. She said you, Houdini, would find it particularly diverting.”

“Did she?” Houdini said, fingering the invitation. “I’ll check my date book.”

“We’ll have a few drinks and put all this unpleasantness behind us.”

Sensing, like Houdini, both an opportunity and a trap, Doyle shook Tyson’s hand. “Please inform Madame Rose that I look forward to meeting her.”

26

MADAME ROSE REMOVED her earrings and placed them on the top of her bureau as she gazed at herself in the mirror. Her purple silk nightgown was concealed beneath a paisley robe. The material flowed over her body like water. Her eyes went to the bed, as reflected in the mirror, then she noticed a figure standing in her doorway, cloaked in shadow. Madame Rose went still. He entered her room, quiet as the shadows that concealed him, and did not stop until he was close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. Unconsciously, she grasped the marble bureau top tight enough that her knuckles went white.

“Darian,” she whispered in a small voice.

His fingertips grazed the points of her hipbones and softly caressed the smoothness of her belly.

“Darian,” she said again, warning him.

His thumb and forefinger pulled at the flimsy belt of her robe, and Madame Rose’s breath went shallow as she shrank inside herself. The robe fell open. His left hand reached around and cupped her right breast, crushing the other with his forearm.

“Darian.” Her voice was sharp.

His other hand clasped her groin, feeling every hidden part of her beneath the silk.

“No, Darian, we can’t. We can’t,” Madame Rose insisted.

He bit and sucked on the white of her shoulders and the back of her neck, paying no heed to her words. She struggled beneath his advances, feeling herself softening and weakening.

“Please . . . please, no,” she begged.

He pushed her, painfully, until her breasts pressed on the cold marble of the bureau top. Suddenly her nightgown was about her waist, and the roughness of his hands on her buttocks shocked her into action.

“Stop it! Darian, stop it!” She whipped around to face him.

Then his hand was in her mouth, gripping her bottom jaw as he slammed her head backwards against the mirror. Madame Rose heard the glass crack as his other hand grasped her neck. His breathing was fierce. She thought she could hear his teeth grind as his thumb pressed on her throat.
So easy,
she could almost hear him think.

Then he suddenly released her and stormed out of her bedroom, the walls ringing with the slam of the door.

Madame Rose wrapped the robe tightly around herself with shaking hands as she sank to the floor, her heart racing.

FOUR HOURS LATER, though she lay in her bed, she was still wide-awake. She feared to sleep. All she could hear was the thud of her heart in her eardrums. The floorboards of the corridor outside her bedroom door groaned under the weight of a man.

He was outside.

Madame Rose shut her eyes tightly. In the past weeks she’d begun to fear Darian in an entirely new way. And she feared for him. Feared his silences. His distance. The feverish gleam in his eye. It was a look she knew and remembered all too well.

Candlelight filtered in under her bedroom door. Madame Rose waited, feeling the ache in her muscles from the hours of tensed expectancy. But gradually the light on her carpet faded to blackness. Darian had walked past her door. She thought she heard him on the stairs. His heels clicked in the distance; he was wearing his boots. Madame Rose checked the clock again. It was 2:25 in the morning.

Resigned to sleeplessness, she sat up and tucked her hair behind her ears. She slid her feet with their perfectly manicured toes into slippers and threw a robe around her shoulders.

From the landing on the second floor she could see the front door click softly shut. Madame Rose descended swiftly, the lightness of her frame causing little complaint from the stairs. She slipped out the front door, and immediately questioned her mission. The October winds were fierce, raising gooseflesh on her arms and legs. Her teeth chattered. She could hear the trees creaking, bent to the will of the front that moved in from the west. Dark clouds churned overhead, blocking out the moon. The wind whistled across the sloping hills of the estate and moaned over the green cliffs that loomed above the Willow Grove Cemetery.

Madame Rose caught a glimpse of lantern light vanishing around the southern portion of the mansion, and she followed, slippers padding over the huge, circular gravel drive. She slunk behind the tall shrubs sculpted in geometric shapes, and peered around the wall. The large marble pool was covered until next summer, and lawn furniture was turned upside down and stacked by the back wall of the house near the enormous piles of firewood.

However, the normally latched door to the gardener’s shed banged open in the angry winds. Madame Rose thought she saw firelight briefly flicker behind the dirty window. Wishing herself back in the warmth and safety of her bed, she dashed across the wet lawn up to the shed, pulling open the door.

The scent of earth and cobwebs filled her nose. The gardener kept his tools in an orderly fashion; rakes, shovels, and spades stood at attention along the walls. The only disarray was where a wheelbarrow had been tossed aside and a three-by-three section of the floor removed, revealing a large steel ring affixed to the ground. Pulling with both hands, Madame Rose wrenched the trapdoor open, revealing a ladder leading down into a secret abyss. And as she bent over and peered into the gloom, the ghost of Darian’s lantern light flickered like a distant beacon.

Madame Rose felt sick at the thought of entering the hole, yet fear had always been an attraction for her. Terror was her aphrodisiac, and she had tested its limits since she was a small child—thanks in large measure to the family she was born into. The early childhood ghost stories and bloody tales of goblins and stolen children not only caused her nightmares, but stimulated her sex and heart and mind in a way that would dictate the whole course of her life to come.

And since she had been a young teenager, she had chosen men who made her afraid as her sexual partners.

Yet Darian was the boundary she had thought she’d never cross. But in a way, they’d been slowly circling like satellite moons, drawn by an irresistible gravity into a slow, elliptical dance that was doomed to end in fatal collision.

It was why she was climbing down the ladder into the fetid stillness of an underground corridor.

It was why she loathed and thrilled at his mystery and cruel moods, running away but always returning, praying his vicious ways would end and conversely hoping they never would.

It was why every fiber of her being tingled beneath her sheer silk gown and desire filled her as the corridor reached out into charnal blackness.

It was why her mind recalled not Darian’s caresses of hours before, but the feel of his hand clutched around her throat.

Madame Rose walked in near-total blackness, grazed her fingers along the dirt wall for direction. A thrum from somewhere deep in the tunnels began to gradually take the form of a chanting voice, and the sound of it pulled her forward.

The tunnel pitched downward and curved, first right, then left, then right again, until she began to lose track of the path she’d taken. Then the tunnel moved downward at a steeper incline, prompting her to almost jog to keep up with the pitch. Her heart was like a clenched fist jabbing at the back of her sternum.

Moment by moment, another sound—a discordant hum— began to fill the corridor, drowning out the chanting voice. Madame Rose felt the hum throb in her temples. It was somehow an alien sound, coming from both inside and out.

Seeking to orient herself, she looked up at the low ceiling and barely made out the shadowy forms of tree roots reaching down through the dirt like tentacles. Sweat broke out across her back when she realized she was beneath the Willow Grove Cemetery—beneath even the graves. Her legs weakened. She couldn’t go on, and she couldn’t turn back. She was frozen and shivering in the dark tunnel, hearing sounds she imagined to be the moaning sobs of the dead. She felt them, just beyond the reach of her hand, watching her, studying her.

Then a root touched her shoulder and she screamed. It felt like a skeletal finger, and she whirled about, disoriented. She began to run, totally blind, her cries a feeble counterpoint to the warbling hum in her temples, which only deepened and vibrated.

The chanting echoed through the tunnels, and Madame Rose could now identify Darian as the speaker. His tone was hateful and exultant. He chewed the words of a foreign, yet beautiful, tongue into a bitter paste of bile.

A divot in the path turned Madame Rose’s ankle and she sprawled face-first, bloodying her lip and knocking what little wind there was from her lungs. Then she realized that there was light coming down the corridor.

Two church doors, painted black, waited at the end of the corridor. A candelabra flickered before them, set onto a small stone ledge projecting from the wall. The doors seemed to breathe with the pulsing of voices, and the discordant hum, which she could still feel in her molars and bones and stomach. She climbed to her feet, one bare from the loss of a slipper, and stumbled toward the church doors. The humming grew more intense than ever—so loud, so impossible, this deep beneath the ground.

Darian’s voice rose in pitch, and her heart ached because he sounded so in command, so filled with meaning. Maybe things could be different. Maybe there was a path out of darkness.

Madame Rose could see the dirt under her nails as she pressed her hands against the doors.

They opened.

And there was Darian at the altar, his smile dazzling, his eyes ecstatic and gleaming, his skin whiter than chalk.

There was an ancient tome in his hands, and from this he read a curious language, his lips twisting and contorting to fit the wonderful and strange new words.

Seeing her, a keening laughter rose to his lips, but the strange words continued to roll from them, caught up as he was in an electrified trance.

Tears of joy rolled down Madame Rose’s cheeks. She’d never seen him so blissfully and frighteningly alive, and she wondered to herself what blessed flock had the honor of this inspired sermon.

She spun around to see them, to celebrate with them. And they, in turn, swarmed toward her: a bobbing, ragged collection of ruby eyes and reaching, bandaged hands. Madame Rose’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came. The beings squealed like pigs at the slaughter, and she could now see that they were the source, too, of the nauseating hum that rattled in her bones.

Those piercing, ugly squeals mixed with Darian’s words, overwhelmed her senses. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as consciousness seeped away. And all was peaceful and quiet and dark.