I didn’t doze. The whole room was soon wreathed in shadow, with only a thin stream of moonlight coming in through the window, but I didn’t close my eyes. My suitcase leaned against my foot, a comforting weight. Only half the things inside were clothes. I stared at the closed door, and then watched as it bulged outwards, shifting the desk. Footsteps sounded outside, heavy boats scraping across the wood.
“Weatherby,” I said, coming suddenly to my feet. Instinct kicked in, well-honed from hours of crawling through snow or mud, listening to the scream of falling artillery shells and the rattle of machine gunfire. “Someone’s outside, trying to get in. It ain’t room service.”
Weatherby sat upright and stepped off the bed. He slipped into his coat quickly. “They mean us harm?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I withdrew the Colt automatics from their shoulder-holster and looked to the window. The roof sloped downwards, leading to the badly paved main street. It wasn’t much of a jump. “Get to the windowsill,” I told him. “When the shooting starts, get out and slide down. I’ll join you in a sec.”
“All right. Be careful.” Weatherby moved to the windowsill and looked back, shivering slightly in the evening chill.
I bit my lip and watched the desk move. Finally, the battering outside was enough to knock it over, and the door slammed open. Half a dozen Innsmouth men looked in, all armed with stout cudgels and long curved fishing knives. I didn’t ask what they were there for. I just started shooting.
I dropped the first one with a round to the chest. “Weatherby!” I shouted. “Get down!” I heard him scrambling out the window and onto the roof as the Innsmouth men charged inside. I kept shooting, blasting open another guy’s knee and sending him howling to the ground. He didn’t scream, but made a gurgling retch and flopped around like a fish out of water.
The other Innsmouth men made for me, one swinging a lead pipe towards my head. I stepped back, taking the blow on my shoulder, and cracked the handle of my automatic against his flat nose. I heard something break, so I hit him again, and then pushed him back into his friends. I used the time to holster one gun, grab my suitcase and run like hell for the window.
I hopped outside. Weatherby was flat on the roof, sliding down the uneven tiles. Together, we made it off the roof, and then the short drop and the street. We hurried down the main street, hearing the snarls and growls of the men behind us. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn they weren’t human. Something told me Innsmouth had something rotten as six week-old halibut at its core.
After a while, I figured we could stop running. We were in what passed for the upper-class part of town, with decaying Victorian manors overlooking the dark street. A few automobiles were parked on the side of the road, the newest from around nineteen thirty-five. Lights blazed in some of the windows, and I didn’t like the idea of people in this town being awake at this hour. That’s when I heard several pairs of feet behind us.
Weatherby noticed it too. The kid reached into his frock coat. “Shall I draw my revolver?” he asked.
“Nope. I got enough problems already.” But more firepower was definitely gonna be needed. I opened the suitcase and pulled out my shotgun. It was twelve-gauge, a nasty number I had picked up in a Boston pub for forty bucks and a fresh pack of cigarettes. I racked it and turned around. “All right!” I called. “That’s far enough.”
A portly man stepped into view. “How much?” he asked, holding out his hands. He wore a neat light blue suit and vest, the kind you’d expect on any Wall Street big shot. A fedora rested in his hands, and he smiled with shark’s teeth. He had the same wide head, stubby fingers, watery eyes and slit nose as any Innsmouth man.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“How much is High Priest Hezekiah Gillman paying you?”
My mind raced. The Gillman House Hotel, doubtlessly owned by the High Priest of the same name, had been packed with toughs, waiting for a war. This guy must be from the other side. I named a sum, and the well-dressed fellow nodded.
“Tell you what,” he said, running a thick pink tongue along his sharp teeth. “I’ll double it, if you’ll come and work for me.”
All around us, more torpedoes were showing up. They stepped out on the sidewalk, popping up behind brick walls and aiming rifles and shotguns my way. Unlike Gillman’s boys, these guys were a mix of toughs in black leather jackets and sharply creased zoot suits, their thinning hair slicked back with a good deal of pomade. I couldn’t fight my way out, not with that many guns against me.
“Sounds like a deal,” I said. “But who exactly are you?”
“You don’t know?”
“Mr. Gillman is very secretive,” I said. “I guess he planned to tell me when I got here.”
“Heh. That sounds like Hezekiah all right. He loves his secrets.” The fat man pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m Mayor Malachi Marsh. I run this town, though High Priest Hezekiah Gillman doesn’t know it. And from now on, you fellows are on my payroll. You got names?”
“I’m Mort Candle and this is Weatherby Stein,” I explained. I lowered the shotgun, and then set it back in my suitcase. “Gillman didn’t tell me anything. I’m not sure what exactly the situation is here, but we’ve got no loyalty to him either way. And that payroll you mentioned sounds appealing.”
Mayor Marsh grinned. “Tell you what – come on back to the mayoral manor with the rest of the boys and I’ll level with you. I’ll give you some room, and all the guns and ammo a couple of professional shooters could ever want.” He looked at Weatherby. The kid hadn’t said a word this whole time, just stayed next to me and glared at Marsh. “Even if one does seem little more than a minnow.” He turned around and started walking down the street, his men falling in line behind him.
Weatherby turned to me. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he whispered harshly. “You can’t go to work for some degenerate gangster politician!”
“You got any better ideas?” I asked. “He knows what’s going on in town. He might know about Partridge. I’ll keep it subtle, ask in a roundabout way, but maybe I can find out what happened to him.”
“Fine,” Weatherby grumbled. “But after we have ascertained Mr. Partridge’s whereabouts, we will leave this town immediately. Right?”
“Right,” I agreed, and followed Marsh down the street. I was unsure, despite my answer. I didn’t know how deep this black ocean was – and what would happen when I hit bottom.
Mayor Malachi Marsh stayed in an opulent Victorian manor in the north of Innsmouth, not far from the waterfront and the winding road up to the cliffs and the jagged reefs. The Mayoral Mansion was well-furnished, with strangely finned golden ornaments and paintings of sea creatures on the walls. The furniture was chrome and angular, very modern. Mayor Marsh brought us to his parlor, and had cigars and brandy brought out. His gunmen stayed in the corners, slouched against the walls and chewing on smoldering cigarettes.
“Now, there’s two main powers in Innsmouth – the church and the government. You can guess what side High Priest Hezekiah Gillman is on.” Marsh tapped a short finger on his knee. “Gillman controls the Esoteric Order of Dagon. Now, I’m all for worshipping the old gods and the old ways, but Hezekiah Gillman takes it to extremes. He wants ancient rites practiced, ancient gods raised from their slumber, and the whole world torn asunder.”
“And you don’t?” I asked.
Mayor Marsh grinned. “Where’s the profit in that? I see a whole new future for Innsmouth – smuggling capital of the world. We’ve got a good set of docks, plenty of boats – not to mention other means of navigating the water. Gillman uses those docks all the time, bringing in strange books and artifacts, but I’ve got grander plans. Heroin. Smut. Stolen goods – taken from Europe, sold in Innsmouth and trucked out to the entire east coast. We’ll make a mint.”
As plans went, it was pretty good. But I gathered there was an obstacle. “And Gillman doesn’t like it.”
“No, he doesn’t. The less dealings with outside
rs, the better, he figures. That’s why I know he must be desperate, hiring an out-of-town gunman to come in and help his little church choir.” Mayor Marsh leaned in. “See, everyone’s on pins and needles now, waiting for the war to start. I don’t want to fire the first shot – I just want to fire the last. So I guess you and your associate will flop here, and go to battle when I give the word.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed. I stood up, reaching for my hat. Almost like it was an afterthought, I turned back to Marsh. “Say, there was another button man heading here, also on Gillman’s payroll. Name of Partridge, Vernon Partridge. Had a traveling salesman routine as a cover. You know what happened to him?”
Mayor Marsh smiled. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I do, as a matter of fact.” He folded his hands. “He stayed at the hotel. The usual gang got him and took him out to the reef. We cut him up and gobbled him down. I had his right hand. It was delicious.” Mayor Marsh laughed suddenly, a hacking little series of shrieks. “Keep that in mind, Mort Candle. Or maybe I’ll get to taste you.”
Weatherby and I left the room, with Mayor Marsh still laughing behind us. We knew the truth and it hit us like a slap in the face. Innsmouth was rotten. It didn’t take a professor to figure that out, but now he knew that it was worse than either of us could image. I’d had dealings with all kind of supernatural critters. I knew the kind of evil they could bring to ordinary human lives. I wasn’t exactly shocked by figure out that it was here in Innsmouth – but I was still a little surprised.
We headed to our guest room on the second story, infinitely better than the Gillman House. I slammed the door shut, dropped my suitcase and slumped on the bed. Weatherby stared at me.
“Why are we still here?” he wondered. “We have the information. We know of poor Mr. Partridge’s fate. We should tell his wife that he met his, well, demise, and that she should grieve and move on. I’d suggest sparing her the details.”
“Don’t like mentioning that her hubby’s an all-you-can-eat fish buffet?” I asked. I took off my trench coat, folding my hands and grabbing the cold handles of my automatics. I could feel the anger burning inside of me, a tiny spark growing into an inferno with each passing second. “No. We’re not going back just yet. I’ve got plans for this town – and for our good Mr. Mayor Malachi Marsh and High Priest Gillman.”
“What the devil are you talking about, Mort?”
“Trust me, kiddo. This town’s a goldmine.” I started thinking up a plan, a way to take out the two gangs and make some fast cash at the same time. “All it needs is a bloodbath.” I pointed to the bed. “Tell you what – lock the door, catch some sleep, and forget about it. I’ll do the rest.”
“Very well. But I don’t like it.” Weatherby hopped into the bed and folded his arms. Despite his protest, he was tired. He leaned back, setting his dark haired head on the pillow and closing his eyes. In a matter of seconds, he was sleeping like a baby. I leaned down and removed his glasses, setting them on the nightstand.
He was a good kid, but he didn’t understand how the world really worked. I opened my suitcase and withdrew a stripped down baseball bat, good for breaking skulls or kneecaps and small enough to hide in the folds of my coat. After I grabbed that, I headed for the door. It was the later part of night, and not many of Marsh’s men were around. I headed out a backdoor, and then started going to the docks.
The sun rose as I walked, cutting through the fog and stretching light across the bumpy streets in thin fingers. The mist was still rolling in, making everything seem indistinct and distant. It brought me back to the war and the time before, in Brooklyn, the bad old days of gangland squabbles that taught me to know the sound of gunfire well before I even got to France. I thought of what you needed to survive those times, where loyalty and justice just earned you a quicker death. You had to be cunning. You had to be tough. And more than anything, you had to be mean.
On the way to the docks, I found a small filling station and bought a bright red gas can, then filled it to the brim. I held that in one hand, and the baseball bat in the other, as I walked down to the docks. They were important to Gillman and Marsh – the source for their smuggling. If they went up, each side would blame the other, and the war would be on.
The docks were a sparse collection of crumbling piers, jutting out into the gray, frothing ocean. Several of them were decayed and crumbling after so many years of being battered by the ocean. Only a few boats were moored along the wharves, mostly rusty fishing scows and sailboats. With such a dismal fishing industry, I didn’t know how Innsmouth managed.
I headed to the main dock, where a trio of longshoremen were loafing around. They were big bruisers, dressed in worn oilskins, overalls and flat caps. The biggest of the three stood up, flicking away the dried fish he was chewing, and turning to face me. He had some kind of a skin condition, making it look like barnacles were splotched over his face.
“What are you doing, mammal man?” he asked. I didn’t recognize the slang. It must be local.
I set down the gas can, revealed the baseball bat, and cracked it against the underside of his chin. He went down, falling hard on the dock. A couple of his teeth fell from his mouth, clattering on the wooden pier. I gave one to his ribs, hard enough to make him howl. The other dock workers ran to help their pal.
I grabbed the gas can and shook it in their direction, letting a stream of gasoline drench their clothes. They stepped back, terrified and confused. They had no idea what I was planning to do. I gave them a hint by dropping the bat and drawing out a match. “You boys good at swimming?” I asked, shaking gas all over the wooden docks. “I hope you are.” I flicked the match to life.
The dock workers leapt off the pier, splashing down in the cold water below. The big longshoreman rolled over, joining his pals in the sea. I stepped back and tossed the match into the growing puddle of gas. It lit instantly, spreading a little warmth to that cold New England morning. The dock burned quickly, the flames growing until its entire length was ablaze.
I stood back and watched the pier burn, then went back to the gas can and the other docks. I emptied the gas can, setting fires until everything on the waterfront was burning. The few sailors and dock workers hurried away or dove into the ocean, trying to get out of the flames. I would have stayed and watched, but somebody might miss me back at the Mayoral Manor.
I stuck to the back alleys as I made my way back, hoping I wouldn’t be spotted. I hopped a pair of fences to reach the overgrown backyard behind Mayor Marsh’s mansion, and slipped in through the back exit. Now Gillman and Marsh had all the excuse they’d need. Innsmouth would bathe in blood. But that wasn’t enough for me. I thought about poor Vernon Partridge, so eager to earn a few more bucks for his wife and kids, getting carved up and eaten by the sick monsters who ran this rotten burg. I didn’t want Innsmouth to bathe in blood. I wanted it drowning.
I made my way back to our room. Weatherby was sleeping lightly, and he woke up when I came in. The kid sat up, blinking his bleary eyes. “You’re back?” he asked. “What exactly did you do out there?”
“You’ll find out,” I said. “Soon enough.”
I sat down and rested my eyes, and waited until there was a loud pounding on the door. I stood up and opened it, then looked down at Mayor Marsh. He was in his shirtsleeves, a snub-nosed revolver’s pearl handle reaching out of his belt. “It’s on,” he said. “Gillman’s goons hit the docks. Torched everything. All my smuggling operations are finished until I can make repairs!”
“You sure it’s him?” I asked. I was banking on Marsh seeing red – and not seeing clearly.
“Who else would it be, damn it?” Mayor Marsh shook his head. “Well, that fool’s just made his last mistake, by Dagon.” He turned around, and I saw the foyer of the mansion crammed with Marsh’s soldiers. “Spread out! Find out word of what’s coming next! Kill Gillman’s boy if you find him! Keep the pressure on, until he rears his ugly head!”
“You want me to go out, Mr. Mayor?” I asked
.
“Nah. I’ll keep you here. Better defense. Gillman will be looking for me, soon enough.” His round glassy eyes darted about the room. “Go out on the porch. Grab a heater from the armory. Wait until I give the order.” He hurried off, his thick legs propelling him swiftly down the hall. I got the feeling that Marsh had been waiting eagerly for the war, but had no clue how to actually fight one.
Weatherby faced me as we walked down to the porch, after I had selected a Thompson sub-gun from the armory. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, listening to the ocean waves pounding in, and the occasional rattle of gunfire from somewhere within Innsmouth.
“You’re the cause of this underworld conflict,” he said sourly, when we sat out on the porch, looking out at the gray empty street. “I have no idea what you intend to accomplish…”
I leaned back in my rocking chair, the tommy gun resting on my knee. “I’m hauling in a crimson catch,” I explained. “And this whole town is gonna be flopping around in my net.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Gillman’s gonna be desperate once the bodies start piling up. That’s when I’ll see him. I’ll drop some information, make like I’m switching sides, and set up another battle.”
“You’ll betray both of them,” Weatherby said, realizing exactly what I intended to do. “For money.”
“For Partridge,” I replied. “And for every other sap that wandered into this death trap.”
“It’s not going to bring them back. And you’re tangling with very powerful forces.”
“Yeah. This gang’s a regular Murder Incorporated.” I reached for a cigarette. “They’re fish out of water, Weatherby. There’s not a damn thing they can do about it.”
“No.” Weatherby turned to me, his pale face red. “My father taught me about the kind of men they are, particularly the Esoteric Order of Dagon. They’re an ancient cult, worshipping strange submarine gods and breeding with foul beings from the bottom of the sea. They have access to powers the human mind can scarcely fathom.”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) Page 4