Standing alongside this bizarre creature who had been a friend, I was unsure of how to proceed and waited for Malbrey to act first. When he didn’t, instead staring at the objects before us with the same expression as a proud parent might their newborn child, I reached for the book on the desk, only for Malbrey to slap my hand away with a speed bordering on the unnatural. I felt the sting on my flesh before the sight registered in my brain and when it did, I could only wonder at how his emaciated form possessed such alacrity.
“No!” he cried, with what sounded like terror rather than anger, and snatched the book to his chest protectively. “It’s mine! I just wanted…”
He didn’t finish the thought and my ire rose at having been struck, but I tamped it back down and crossed my arms over my own torso.
“All right,” I said. “Then can you tell me what this is about, Malbrey?”
The man looked confused, his brows furrowing, then his countenance shifted to annoyance, as if I’d asked what color the sky was or some other equally inane question. He shook his head and moved back behind the desk, making it a barrier between us, but remained standing. “You don’t…?” he began, and then grunted as his face twisted into a mask of resolution. “The ‘great’ Carnacki,” he whispered, then barked a single, harsh laugh. “I thought if anyone in the city was familiar with the play, it’d be you.”
I began to formulate an exit strategy; clearly, this man needed an alienist, not a detective or an occultist. I had no idea what he was babbling about, but suspected that this thing that had replaced the man called Malbrey was dangerous and I had no desire to further provoke him.
“Perhaps, I am,” I ventured and held out a hand, palm up. “May I see?”
“I think not,” Malbrey rasped. “This business isn’t for you after all. You should go now.” With that, he secured his treasure in a drawer of the desk, then scuttled around to my side and led me by the arm back to the office door, which he unlocked, opened and unceremoniously pushed me through. It left me with an inkling of what you chaps must feel after each of our little parties, rushed out into the night as you are, though I assure you there is no rancor in your ejections.
Jones stood rooted to the spot where I had left him minutes earlier; he wore an expression at once hard to describe and immediately recognizable: mixed relief at my reappearance and disappointment at my obvious failure to produce the results he desired. You understand what I mean? Well, I couldn’t really blame him, I suppose.
I made a little show of straightening myself out and said to Jones, as we headed back towards the front of the building, “Well, that was unusual.” My forced jocularity didn’t fool him, however.
“I’m sorry, Carnacki. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.” He shook his head sadly as he offered me a seat at the desk closest to the front door.
“Tell me,” I said. “How long has this been going on? I’ve not seen you at the club in many months. Is Malbrey’s illness the reason?”
“Lord, no!” he cried. “I’ve simply been very busy the last half-year. Believe it or not, Malbrey’s current state is a very recent development!” I asked him to explain; Malbrey looked as if he had been ill for a great length of time and the office was cluttered with years’ worth of junk.
Jones sighed deeply, took his head in his hands and said, “Just the beginning of last week.” (My involvement began on a Thursday, I should mention.) “On that Monday, in fact, Malbrey came into the office at eight o’clock, as usual, but while he put up a good front, I could tell something was wrong. He just wasn’t himself. Things around here have been somewhat bleak for many months—the business is not doing at all well, I am sad to say—but they have been normal. The way Malbrey acted was not. When I asked about it, he waved me off and said it was merely some trouble sleeping.
“After an hour or so, however, Malbrey pulled me aside from editing an article and confided that he hadn’t told me the whole truth; he’d had trouble sleeping the last few days, but it was because he’d been pestered by the same dream over and over and now he couldn’t get it out of his head. I asked what it was about and he said, ‘A play. One I’m not sure exists!’ Then he laughed as if it was some sort of jest, though I could tell he was actually quite serious. He said this play was called The King in Yellow and he knew from his dream that it was exceptionally rare.
“I said I should think so since it exists only in his dreams and chuckled at my own quip, trying to match his tone—forced though it was—and to alleviate some of the nervous tension I could feel building. He grew annoyed at this, however, and said he wanted to know for sure then tried to sell me on the idea of doing a special issue of the Bibliophile on it, as we did on Dumpley’s Acrostics some years ago. I wasn’t against the idea if the thing did exist, though I wanted to know more about it, of course. As I said: the magazine hasn’t been doing well the past six months or so. Circulation is less than half of what it was when we did that Dumpley’s issue and it wasn’t extraordinary back then. Without adequate circulation, our advertising sales slump and without advertisers we can’t afford to take any measures to boost circulation. It’s a vicious cycle. So, I told Malbrey that I wasn’t adverse to another special issue if he could actually find the thing and that I supposed there was no harm in his asking our usual suppliers and contacts. Either he’d quickly be put to right by finding out the thing didn’t exist, or if by some chance it did, that it might make a good issue and prop up our numbers a bit. What a mistake encouraging Malbrey’s quest was! I went back to work, but he spent the rest of the day contacting book, antique and curio-dealers near and far.”
I listened to Jones with one ear, while keeping my other attuned to our surroundings. Not for a moment did I forget that we were only a few yards from a man who might well be dangerous.
Jones, however, was lost in his own story—the words tumbled out despite any latent peril and I knew just the telling of his troubles was doing him a great deal of good. He continued: “Well, I came in the next morning to find the place sort of as you see it now—only not nearly so bad, of course. I was livid. I asked Malbrey what the meaning of this was; wasn’t he only looking for a single book? He gave me some nonsense about how the book ‘remained hidden’ and that it was necessary to leave no stone unturned. I protested, ‘This is a place of business, not your personal rubbish pile!’ He assured me, however, that he was using his own funds for the search—not the magazine’s—and that as soon as he had what he needed, he’d clear the whole place out. He said it with a look in his eye that I don’t know how to describe, only that I didn’t like it, or the way it made me feel, and so I assented to keep the peace between us and be done with him for the moment.
“It was like that all last week. Wagonloads of books and everything else you see would arrive at all hours throughout the day and Malbrey would give them a cursory look, then grow disgusted and retreat to the inner office. It went on until Friday afternoon. I’d had some business to attend to with our printer and returned from a visit to his shop to find a small parcel sitting on the stoop, addressed to Malbrey. I brought it inside, but before I could say a word Malbrey appeared from behind one of these stacks and snatched it from my hand, shouting ‘At last! At last!’ before even opening it! I asked, a bit skeptically, if he’d finally found this King in Yellow. He gave me the queerest look—sort of predatory, like I was being sized up—and said, ‘No, but now he’ll find me,’ and disappeared into the back. Until today, that was the last I saw of him.”
I nodded sympathetically and said, “How bizarre. As if I need to tell you, eh?” I looked Jones in the eye, a bit uncomfortable at what I felt needed to be said. “Still, I’m not sure what I can do. I think the man needs an alienist, or some manner of doctor, at least, and while I am many things, a man of medicine I am not. Have you brought anyone else in on this?”
“Of course!” he cried indignantly, then looked immediately contrite for his tone. “Well, I tried,” he added, more gently. “This past Monday, I thou
ght Malbrey hadn’t come in to the office. There was no sign of anything having been disturbed since I left on Friday, and he certainly wasn’t working, nor did he answer from the back room when I knocked or called his name. I went ‘round his place to see if perhaps he wasn’t feeling well and had stayed home. His wife wouldn’t see me, though their house-girl told me Malbrey hadn’t been home in over a week. She caught herself and said she shouldn’t have told me that, but I slipped her a shilling or two and promised strictest confidence—which I suppose I am now breaking, but it can’t be helped. She then confessed that there’d been a big row between Malbrey and the missus and that was the last she’d seen of him. Apparently Malbrey had been seeing a lady-not-his-wife a few nights a week—the girl believed she’d heard the name ‘Cassilda’, though she wasn’t sure—and Mrs. Malbrey had found it out somehow, then exiled him from their home. I was shocked! I’ve always thought of Malbrey as such an upright fellow, but I suppose each man has his secrets. And, you know, he has been putting an awful burden on himself since the magazine began to falter. He takes it very personally. Juggling secrets and all that work can’t have been easy.” Jones rubbed at his temples and made pitying noises for our friend.
“After that, I came back and got a little work done,” he resumed. “Though where Malbrey had got to worried me a great deal. I went to get some lunch and asked around the club if anyone had seen him lately. No one had, but several promised to let me know if they heard anything. It wasn’t long after I returned here that I tried to force the lock of the back office, thinking I’d at least have a look at what Malbrey’d been up to in there, and to my surprise he began shouting at me from inside. My God, such nasty things he said, too! Well, he wouldn’t come out for anything and would only shout for me to leave him alone. What could I do? It went on like that for two days, though I could scarcely bring myself to this place, much less work, and since I didn’t hear anything further from Malbrey, I just assumed he’d cloistered himself and would either come out when he was ready or starve to death. It sounds cruel, but what choice had I? Then, on Wednesday, I had reports from more than one person of him appearing all across the city very late at night, going back at least the last three evenings, sneaking about like some thief or spy, though no one seems able to figure what he’s up to. It’s the damnedest thing, Carnacki. I wish he’d just let me help.”
I steepled my fingers in thought and said, “This King in Yellow—you said you wanted to know more about it. So would I. What can you tell me?”
Jones barked a single, bitter laugh. “Nothing. Malbrey would not let me look at it, of course, and when I asked those of our colleagues who might have helped him find the damned thing they either claimed not to know anything of it or declared it a myth. All except one fellow who swore it was written by some mad Frenchman who had somehow sealed a portion of his own insanity into the very words of the thing and then killed himself. Sheer lunacy!”
I murmured agreement, but was not entirely certain; I have encountered stranger things in my time. I put the subject aside, however, for Jones’s sake.
Regardless of the probity of Malbrey’s fixation, it seemed clear to me that he was suffering from severe mental breakdown—the crumbling of his fragile home-life the catalyst that had set off the months of stress he’d placed on himself over their failing business and whatever indiscretions he’d made. I suggested such to Jones and he agreed, but only partially; he was certain there was more to it than that, but couldn’t elaborate as to why and dismissed out of hand the idea of the play’s causing madness when I brought it up. I shifted topics, asking if he’d thought to follow Malbrey on his supposed nightly jaunts ‘round the city and see for himself what his partner was up to, but he admitted that he was too timid to do so then suggested that perhaps I could track Malbrey’s activities. I knew that was coming as soon as I’d brought the subject up and saw little way to refuse, though I didn’t like the idea. As you know, I feel duty-bound to help, if I am able, when someone is in need—especially friends.
So, reluctantly, I agreed to follow Malbrey that night, but made no promises as to any further action on my part.
As it was still only late-afternoon, I returned here and tried to get a little sleep in anticipation of that night. I was uneasy, however, and rest did not soon come. I have known both Jones and Malbrey for years and the changes I’d seen in the two men were disturbing, to say the least. Jones, I understood—with his partner and friend of many years behaving so out of character, is it any wonder? But what could have so affected Malbrey? Business and marital troubles, while serious, hardly seemed enough to cause so severe a mental change and at the physical changes I would not even guess. The notion that the play he searched for was to blame crept into my mind and lodged fast; many are moved by their dreams, but this was beyond the pale. Perhaps it served merely as a focus for his mania? Still, it pressed itself into my thoughts over and over as I lay abed, wide awake and pondering. What was it that Malbrey had said to Jones? “Now he’ll find me.”
Eventually, sleep came and I woke around nine o’clock, whereupon I dressed, making sure to drop my revolver into my jacket’s side-pocket, then made my way through darkened streets and back to the offices of the Bibliophile and Book Table.
I was not at all certain of what to expect, but I was not left to wonder for long. I’d arrived shortly before ten and found myself a darkened doorway, across and down the way from the office, in which to loiter. Perhaps twenty minutes later, Malbrey emerged from the building and traveled at speed in the direction I’d come from—south and west. I followed discreetly, worrying over Malbrey becoming aware of me, but as we passed through street after street of offices and shops, all deserted at that hour, I began to doubt that I could have drawn his attention even had I desired to.
The man was like a bloodhound with a scent only he could discern. While he didn’t travel in a straight line—in fact, he took so many side streets, turns and loopbacks that I was at first under the impression he was attempting to elude me—he seemed to know exactly where he was going, or at least what he was looking for. What that could be I had no idea, but dutifully I moved from alley to alley, doorway to doorway, dogging his steps.
Before long, we entered Chelsea and I irrationally feared for a few moments that we were headed towards my own home. Malbrey turned, however, onto Old Church Street rather than to Cheyne Walk and here, at last, amidst a little restaurant district, we encountered a goodly number of people out and about on business of their own. My quarry was undeterred by their presence and pressed onward, moving so swiftly I nearly lost him even in the thin crowds and I had to hurry myself to keep track of him.
When I caught up to Malbrey, I found we were in an unfamiliar area. The neatly-cobbled streets of Chelsea had given away to rough-hewn bricks of a darkish, sandy color and I was surrounded by buildings that conformed to no architectural style I’d ever seen in London. Nor could I guess their purpose. Each seemed constructed of haphazardly-stacked blocks of stone, yet fitted together without any visible mortar. I could make no sense of it, for while they could certainly have been some avant-garde architect’s pet project, they were far too outré for the city to ever allow their construction. More so, the familiar gas-lamps and arc-lights that normally line the city’s streets were here replaced by dimly-flickering oil-lamps, under the vague light of which my imagination conjured strange shapes lurking in every nook and cranny.
“The creep” set in hard then, its icy fingers dancing across my scalp and raising the hair on my arms, but I had no time to allow it to work my nerves as I realized I’d lost track of Malbrey in those damned unusual courts and streets. I pressed on, but got turned around and soon gave it up as fruitless; with no inkling of where I was, I could not hope to locate another. I wandered back the way I’d come, carefully retracing my steps as best I could, my spine tingling uncomfortably, and trying not to examine too closely any of the structures I passed. I couldn’t say when it happened, or where the demarcation po
int had been, but I suddenly found myself back in familiar environs. I was baffled, but hadn’t the time to examine the phenomenon closely.
Instead, I returned to Malbrey and Jones’s offices, gaining access with a key Jones had provided, then made my way to the back office where the delicate application of a lock-pick gained me entrance there, as well. I entered, careful not to disturb any of the heaps of books Malbrey had arranged to form a sort of gateway just inside the door, and felt my way to the desk, there flicking on the lamp.
The materials on the desk were much as I’d seen them upon entering earlier—sheaves of paper and writing implements neatly arranged and rejoined by the book, apparently liberated from its hiding place after I’d left. Wondering why Malbrey had left it out if the thing was so precious to him, I hefted the book and by the weak light read the title picked out in small, neatly-printed letters on the cover: The King in Yellow. Before I could consider against it, I flipped open the cover and found… nothing! The whole thing was blank! Page after empty page, yellowed and crinkled with age. I removed the lamp’s shade and, gently, so as not to damage the thing, I held a single page up closely to the light-bulb, thinking perhaps some manner of invisible ink had been employed, but still saw nothing. The process yielded the same results on half a dozen other random pages and I concluded it was exactly what it seemed: a blank book, perhaps some sort of printer’s dummy as had happened with Dumply’s Acrostics.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 4