Dismissing Smithson’s final comment, Bowditch wondered at Zarnak’s last line of questioning but immediately realized that the psychologist only wanted to make sure there was nobody else who could possibly have taken the mask. It was good thinking, but something he was sure the police had already verified. But then, Zarnak’s next question took him by surprise.
“There have been no foreigners asking about the mask? No evidence of break-ins into the building since Prof. Pondwaithe’s disappearance? Any other items from the same period or collection missing?”
“Why, no…of course not; I mean, not that I’m aware of,” said Smithson slowly. “In connection with the mask? Why should there be?”
Instead of answering Smithson’s questions, Zarnak turned to Bowditch. “Do you have any questions, Sam?”
Caught wondering about the psychologist’s line of questioning, Bowditch was unprepared for an immediate answer. Finally, he managed a “No, none.”
“Then might I suggest we take our leave? Thank you, Mr. Smithson.”
“Sure. Any time.”
Bowditch followed Zarnak from the room and moments later the two men were moving down Essex Street to the garage.
“I have to admit, that was an unexpected line of questioning, Anton,” ventured Bowditch.
“In what way?”
“Well, why foreigners especially might be interested in the missing mask,” said Bowditch. “What kind of foreigners were you thinking of?”
“I’m not sure myself,” replied Zarnak. “Do you mind if I keep my conjectures to myself for the time being?”
“Not if that’s what you want. But I have to say, you’ve got me wondering about your train of thought.”
Back in the car again, Bowditch had soon returned to Route 128 and after a short journey north exited the highway at the old Aylesbury Pike interchange. Sooner than one would expect, the landscape gave way to more open country and the occasional farmstead as they passed a roadside marker welcoming them to Dean’s Corners, established 1742.
“If my memory serves,” observed Zarnak as he studied the countryside, “the town of Dunwich is not far from here.”
“Never been there myself, but I think the turnoff is on the other side of Dean’s Corners,” replied Bowditch as a passing mileage marker indicated that Dean’s Corners was only 7 miles further on.
Soon, farmland shifted to a more wooded landscape with trees and unpruned underbrush crowding the sides of the roadway. The scent of browning leaves and fresh-cut grass was in the air and here and there, single family homes started to appear.
The day was becoming cloudier as they rolled into Dean’s Corners proper; not that there was much to look at. A typical small town, the main street was lined with local businesses: attorney’s and real estate offices, a café or two, a local branch bank, and a dozen or so consignment and antique shops. Bowditch aimed for the tall, white steeple of the Congregational Church and sure enough, right across a small common with the inevitable stone dedicated to Civil War veterans, stood the Town Hall and next to it, the tiny police station. There, the parking lot was empty but for a single cruiser and the building itself looked hardly big enough to handle more than a single prisoner.
Quickly, and perhaps unfairly, Bowditch judged that it was no wonder little progress had been made on Pondwaithe’s disappearance. The Dean’s Corners sleepy-looking Police Department did not inspire confidence in him that anything near a thorough investigation could have been possible.
Inside, a ceiling fan rotated slowly and the front desk was unoccupied. A card on the counter read “ring bell for service.” Bowditch looked questioningly at Zarnak who shrugged. He slammed his hand down on the bell and a voice called from an inner office.
“Can I help you?”
Bowditch leaned over until he could see around the door jamb to the other room. A man in a blue uniform sat behind a desk covered with a scattering of manila folders. At the front of the desk was a name plate that read “Chief Paul DiFriggio.”
Straightening, Bowditch walked to the open door and introduced himself and Zarnak.
“Don’t know if there’s anything more you can learn at the professor’s place,” said DiFriggio leaning back in his swivel chair. “We went over it pretty thoroughly. FBI even took an interest as it might have been a case of kidnapping. They went through the prof’s computers and cell phone but so far as I know, found nothing much.”
“Has the equipment been returned?” asked Zarnak.
“It never got taken,” replied the chief. “Seems these days they have gear that just sucks out the guts of computers on the spot. No need anymore to haul all of that stuff around.”
“So if we go over to Prof. Pondwaithe’s home, we’ll be able to check his computer files?” Bowditch wanted to make sure. “It’s important as my superiors at the university feel that people familiar with the professor’s work would be able to find something out of the ordinary that non-experts might not have recognized.”
“Don’t know if you’ll be able to find anything new, but yes, you’ll have access to the professor’s computers,” said DiFriggio.
“Aside from the computers, did you find anything else of value at his home?” Zarnak inquired.
“Only what you’ve read in the papers,” replied DiFriggio, rising. “We went over the premises for fingerprints and found quite a few aside from those of the professor but so far, we haven’t been able to identify them.”
The chief pulled open a file drawer and withdrew a folder. “Here they are if you want to look at them.”
Bowditch looked over Zarnak’s shoulder but as he figured, wasn’t able to make heads or tails of the prints.
“The only other thing we found was a picture of the item the professor is supposed to have taken with him,” continued DiFriggio, holding out a glossy photograph for their inspection.
This one Bowditch took and made a face when he saw what it was.
“Ugly thing, isn’t it?” asked the chief rhetorically. “Supposed to be a mask made from skin taken from a human head. Gruesome stuff. Supposed to have been made by Japanese cavemen or something.”
“They weren’t simple cavemen,” commented Zarnak absently.
Bowditch wondered what was on Zarnak’s mind but his thoughts were interrupted when the psychologist called his attention to the mask.
“Notice the detail, Sam,” Zarnak said, holding out the photograph so that Bowditch could have a better look. The photograph showed the mask mounted on what appeared to be one of the museum’s display stands.
“Whatever process the makers used to create it must have been quite elaborate.”
“Exactly. This mask is what has traditionally been displayed covering the hands of the ‘puppet lord’ worshipped by the ancient Japanese. Quite a literal symbol of the god’s purported control over man’s destiny wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose so,” mused Bowditch, disturbed more than he cared to admit at the imagery inspired by the empty mask whose features were made all the more disturbing in a photograph whose quality was so much better than the reproductions he had seen in the various periodicals at the library.
“Chief DiFriggio,” said Zarnak, “can you tell us what you know of Prof. Pondwaithe’s movements in town just prior to his disappearance?”
“Well, that’s difficult to say,” said the chief, rubbing his chin. “A week before his reported disappearance, which came to us from the university when he failed to show up for classes, he was seen doing errands around town.” DiFriggio consulted a notebook. “Grocery shopping at Harrellson’s, a fill-up at the quick mart, a visit to the historical society, he talked to some neighbors, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“One doesn’t usually associate such prosaic activity with Dunwich country,” commented Bowditch.
“Don’t compare Dean’s Corners with Dunwich, mister,” suddenly stormed the chief. “We’re nothing like that town. Dean’s Corners is a progressive community!”
“
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Just the same, people here are tired of having Dunwich’s reputation rubbing off on them,” said the chief, calming down immediately.
Clearing his throat, Zarnak returned the conversation to the disappearance of Prof. Pondwaithe.
“Tell me, Chief DiFriggio, have there been any foreigners reported in town lately; foreigners who tended to move around in a group?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” said DiFriggio. “Not many foreigners come to Dean’s Corners.”
“Would they have reason to visit Dunwich?”
“Now that’s an odd question. There’s always been talk of strangers in Dunwich but none that I ever noticed who didn’t look like me or you.”
“Well, thank you, chief, we appreciate you’re taking the time to talk to us,” said Bowditch, sensing that whatever the chief could offer them had been exhausted.
“You’ll find the key to Pondwaithe’s place under the front mat,” said DiFriggio in parting. “Be sure to put it back when you leave.”
Outside, Zarnak wondered if they could make one more visit before heading out to Pondwaithe’s home.
“Where to?” asked Bowditch sliding into the driver’s seat of the car.
“The historical society,” said Zarnak. “I’m curious about what reason Pondwaithe might have had for going there barely a week before he vanished.”
“Might as well hit all the bases while we’re here,” agreed Bowditch, pulling out of the parking lot onto the town’s main street. He had barely put on speed when he had to apply the brakes in order not to overshoot the historical society building which was headquartered not two doors down from the police station. With no off street parking, he had to station the car along the sidewalk and when he finally took the time to notice, saw that the society was located in a nineteenth-century building that he later learned had been the home of Judge Ezekiel Dean, who had once served in the cabinet of the second Cleveland administration and later made an unsuccessful run for governor.
Inside, most of the building’s original furnishings were gone and instead had been replaced with various glass counters displaying various artifacts from the town’s history. Bowditch was just looking at a set of rust-eaten horseshoes when his curiosity was interrupted by a woman’s voice.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” it asked.
When Bowditch looked up, he found himself staring at a not-unhandsome middle-aged woman dressed in the style of the late nineteenth century.
“As a matter of fact, you can,” said Bowditch, surprised to find himself bowing slightly at the waist. “We were told by police chief DiFriggio that before his disappearance, Prof. George Pondwaithe had paid a visit to the historical society and…”
“Forgive my colleague, madam, but we have been assigned by Miskatonic University to look into the disappearance of Prof. Pondwaithe,” interrupted Zarnak. “My name is Dr. Anton Zarnak and this is Prof. Samuel Bowditch.”
“Dr. Zarnak, the famous psychologist?” asked the woman, suddenly very interested.
“The same,” replied Zarnak to Bowditch’s consternation. “And you are?”
“Millie Thomases,” said the woman, obviously a bit overwhelmed to be in the presence of celebrity. “I’m president of the Dean’s Corners Historical Society.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” said Zarnak. “As my colleague was saying, we hoped that someone here might be able to tell us what reason Prof. Pondwaithe might have had for stopping by only a week before he disappeared.”
“Of course, we’ve all heard of the professor’s disappearance,” said Thomases. “A very disappointing affair I’m sure.”
“Something Dr. Zarnak and I have been asked to clear up,” said Bowditch. “We were hoping that whatever Prof. Pondwaithe had been doing here might help us in finding out what happened to him.”
“Hmm, well I’m not sure it will help,” said Thomases. “All he was asking about were the old stories of the Indian medicine man Misquamacus.”
“He was said to be a very powerful shaman in the early days of settlement wasn’t he?” asked Zarnak.
“Oh, yes,” said Thomases, obviously pleased that her visitor knew something about local history. “He stood very high in the estimations of the Wampanoags, the Indian peoples who lived in the Dunwich area at the time when European settlement was first moving into the region. Did you know that the Aylesbury Pike actually follows the road taken into the area by the first settlers? In fact, that path was said to have originally been an Indian hunting trail…”
“I see you include Dean’s Corners in with Dunwich?” said Bowditch. “Chief DiFriggio seemed to take exception to the town being lumped in with Dunwich.”
“Some older residents of town have that attitude,” said Thomases. “But it cannot be denied that all the towns around this area had once been part of Dunwich before becoming independent townships.”
“Did Prof. Pondwaithe say why he was interested in Misquamacus?” asked Zarnak, getting the conversation back on track.
“No. He just asked a few questions; the kind most people ask.”
“Did he ask to look at any documents; books of any kind?”
“Yes, he did,” said Thomases walking over to a cabinet and opening one of its glass-paneled leaves. Inside, were a number of old books, one of which she removed and held out to Zarnak. “This is the one I gave him. It has a few sentences about Misquamacus.”
Zarnak opened the book carefully and it fell open to a page marked by colored ribbon. One page showed an engraving of a group of Indians sitting around a campfire with the shapes of tree branches vaguely visible in the gloom overhead. Before them stood another Indian wrapped in a blanket and with one hand raised as if in speech. Beneath the illustration was printed the words: “Misquamacus speaks to the chiefs.”
Looking over Zarnak’s shoulder, Bowditch read from the text on the facing page which described Misquamacus and how he proselytized the gospel of something called Ossadagowah.
“What in the world…?” Bowditch found himself asking. “Are you sure this was the book Pondwaithe wanted to see?”
“I’m sure,” said Thomases. “It’s one of the oldest in our small collection. Not an original edition, I’m sorry to say.”
Keeping his finger between the pages to mark his place, Zarnak flipped the book shut displaying its title in faded letters on the cover: Of Evill Sorceries Done in New-England of Daemons in No Humane Shape. The pages about Misquamacus seemed to be only an excerpt from a longer account about how the medicine man came to Massachusetts governor William Bradford and told him of the fate of one Richard Billington, who seemed to have given up Christianity for the worship of a native spirit called Ossadagowah which was described as a “great toad” that yet had “no shape” but a face with “serpents grown from it.”
“Seen enough?” asked Zarnak.
“Plenty!” I said as he snapped the book shut and handed it back to Thomases. “What in the world was Pondwaithe doing reading this claptrap? Come, Anton, we might as well go.”
They thanked Thomases for her help and returned to the car.
By the time they cleared Main Street the afternoon was getting on and the late autumn sunlight was slanting steeply through the trees, casting long shadows along the ground. As they moved farther away from the center of town, they noticed that tall, conical hills began to dominate the landscape ahead of them and, as they rounded the flank of the first, the sun disappeared behind it and they were thrown into deep gloom. Bowditch was surprised to find how relieved he felt when the car emerged again into sunlight as the road began to twist and turn and the number of homes became less dense. At last, Zarnak pointed out a street sign indicating that they needed to take a turn off the main road if they were to continue on to Pondwaithe’s home.
“Never realized how far Pondwaithe was willing to commute,” observed Bowditch as he slowed down to more safely navigate the narrow road.
“He does s
eem to have enjoyed his privacy,” agreed Zarnak.
“You didn’t seem to find his interest in that old Indian legend too surprising,” ventured Bowditch.
“No, I didn’t,” said Zarnak. “I think there may be a connection.”
“A connection? In what way?”
“I’m not sure yet but hopefully we’ll find more substantial evidence in his home.”
“So you’re not prepared to elaborate?”
“Here’s your next turn,” said Zarnak.
Bowditch slowed almost to a halt as he eyed the unpaved road that opened among a thick growth of wild grape vines covering trees that grew along the road. An old wooden sign hung from the trunk of a massive oak; on it, faded lettering reading “Wampanoag Pond” was underscored by an arrow pointing down the narrow path.
Carefully, Bowditch left the paved roadway and turned into a dirt road that was indicated only by a pair of ruts hung over by tree branches. Over the next few minutes, they creeped past a number of openings in the underbrush marked by crooked mailboxes but as the light really began to fade, the mailboxes ended and they were left with a cavernous path lit only by the car’s headlights.
At last, openings among the trees indicated a body of water off to the right, and soon after they passed a mailbox marked by the number “37” and entered a grassy area that sloped up to a tidy little cottage overlooking what should have been “Wampanoag Pond” but looked more like a glorified swamp to Bowditch.
“Thirty-seven,” Bowditch said as he brought the car to a halt and snapped off the lights. “This is it.”
“More isolated than I expected,” said Zarnak getting out of the car and looking around.
Bowditch followed and, in the last light of the day, saw that the cottage sat on a narrow peninsula of land that stuck out into what must at one time have been a beautiful body of water, but now barely qualified as such with most of its surface choked in aquatic plant life. The ugly bulk of what could only have been an ancient weed harvester sat half submerged a few hundred feet away, mute evidence that at one time, at least, there had been an effort by Dean’s Corners to keep the intrusive species at bay. Here and there along the former shoreline, there were a few lights indicating that other cottages were occupied, but directly across the pond to the north, there was nothing by darkness.
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 45