by Pete Rawlik
It was the morning of Friday the sixteenth of May, and it was raining when I finally reached Bolton. The train ride from Boston had passed through Arkham, and I was tempted to disembark there and explore the locale that dominated my adolescence, but something held me back. I must admit that I have had doubts about this course of action, and on several occasions have pondered turning back, forgetting what I have deduced, and resigning my commission. Yet as much as those thoughts have wandered about in my mind, I still made my way to Bolton and disembarked in the cold and dreary rains that are typical of the region in May.
The streets were empty; smoke from the mills hung low over the town, and seemed to stain the rain gray with soot. The discolored torrents gathered in the gutters, which were insufficient to the task and overflowed across the walkway and streets. It made trudging up the hill past the company-owned row homes more difficult than it should have been. I should have come on another day, one with better weather, but my appointment had been made weeks ago, and the man I was meeting wasn’t likely to reschedule. It is no easy task to make an appointment with a United States Senator, particularly one as senior as Henry Paget Lowe. It was only because I had once worked with Lowe, in Paris, that I was granted an audience. Normally my skills would be applied in service to men like Senator Lowe. However, on this day, my only concern was using my talents for my own benefit, no matter how inappropriate that may have been.
The Eckert Building dominates the central city block of downtown Bolton, and towers a mighty five stories over the rest of the town. Only the smokestacks of the various mills and factories rise higher, and then not by much. This is where the vast majority of commerce for Bolton is carried out, the Eckert serving as the business offices of the firms that reside in the village. The manufacturing centers, the mills, and other factories are in general dirty and unseemly places; they are not places where genteel merchants are wont to meet with their suppliers. It is best to keep the men buying the product away from the men and women and children who spend their days manufacturing it. Thus the lower floors of the Eckert are home to corporate offices and the like, while the upper floors house lawyers, accountants, and the offices of Senator Henry Paget Lowe.
Despite its height, it is a rather unassuming building, almost utilitarian in design, a simple brick box with plain windows and entryways that does nothing to either cheer or sadden the surrounding neighborhood. Indeed, in a larger city the entire building might have been entirely nondescript, unnoticed amongst the more ostentatious or cleverly designed offices found in New York, Boston, or Providence. Indeed, as I reached the main entrance there wasn’t even a doorman to greet and direct me. There was a building directory, and I noted that Lowe’s office was on the top floor. Also catching my eye was the headquarters of the Delapore Chemical Manufacturing Company, which had offices on the second floor. I hadn’t known that before, but it made a kind of perverse sense, and made me slightly more cautious. My business with Lowe concerned Delapore, and I feared that one might leverage the other once my intent was made clear.
The interior of the building was just as plain as the exterior, and after shaking off the last of the rain I made my way up the simple, cut-granite stairs. Each of my steps echoed through the great central well of the building, filling it with what must have sounded like the footsteps of giants. Like the town itself the interior of the building was devoid of inhabitants. It was an eerie state, one that could easily have triggered my fears, but I knew from my investigation that this state was very common. During working hours most of the residents of Bolton were in the mills, the few children too young held in care centers staffed by elderly women who were too slow or infirm to be on the manufacturing floors. Elderly men were employed as cooks, janitors, and the like. It was, in the mind of the industrialists that ran the place, a perfect, almost utopian town. Still, it left the streets and office buildings empty and eerily quiet. It was not until I reached the top floor that I encountered another human being.
The door to Lowe’s office was flung open and from it emerged a rather angry young man whose red face contrasted with his formal, white shirt. I recognized him immediately as a local attorney of some notoriety named Arnold Schiff. He huffed as we passed each other and mumbled something about how no child of his was going to grow up in a town that didn’t know the meaning of law and order. I turned to say something to him, but he was already stomping down the stairs. If my footsteps had echoed like giants’, then his were not unlike those of a fallen angel tumbling from heaven. I caught the door before it swung shut and then politely introduced myself to the receptionist who sat behind the desk. She was a young woman, with dark auburn hair that flowed around a rather shapely face above a torso that had curves in all the right places. She was, I suppose, rather attractive, the kind of girl my buddies would call a dame, if you were into that look, but far too feminine for my tastes. A sign across the front of her desk said that her name was O’Meara.
I cleared my throat and she bore down on me with large piercing eyes magnified by sharp-rimmed glasses. “I have an appointment to see the Senator,” I managed to say without stuttering. “The name is Peaslee, Robert Peaslee. I’m a special agent with the Bureau of Investigation.”
I offered my hand and she took it—it was a reflex, and one she regretted almost immediately. Her grasp was dainty, gentle, and soft, but her fingers and palm were cold, barely above room temperature. She pulled her hand back and seemed annoyed. She pursed her lips and wrinkled up her nose at me, those dark eyes seeming to smolder, but whether it was with desire or contempt I couldn’t say. She rose from her desk, never unlocking her eyes from mine. When she spoke, her voice was husky and made me feel small. “Wait here.” She turned slowly and sauntered off through a door marked private. I stood there for a moment watching the door slowly swing shut, but before it could close and latch Miss O’Meara had returned and was ushering me in with those come-hither-but-stay-away eyes. “The Senator is ready for you, Agent Peaslee.” With that and a few steps I was through the door into the senator’s office. It was only when the door was fully shut that I took my eyes off her, removed my hat, and wiped my brow.
“Don’t you worry son, she has that effect on a lot of people.” Senator Lowe’s voice was gravelly and hinted at a Boston upbringing. It had been years since I had seen him, but he hadn’t changed much. He was still a large man, both broad and stout with a shock of gray hair that reminded me of an aged raccoon. His eyes were clear but the skin around them was old, sagging like wet bags. He smelled vaguely of cumin, always has, never bothered to ask him why. His smile was that of a man who was powerful enough to worry about nothing, nothing at all. He motioned for me to sit, pointing to a red, upholstered monstrosity of leather, brass, and oak that was obviously not designed for comfort.
As I found my seat, Lowe took the opportunity to reminisce. “How is civilian life treating you?”
“I’m doing fine, right as rain.” I lied, and he knew it, but we both let the pretense pass.
“That’s fine, Robert. I haven’t seen you in a long time, since dinner at the Café d’Ys. Do you remember that place, Robert? They served such a magnificent version of ratatouille there.”
“I remember the restaurant, Senator; you ate there quite a bit. A rather exclusive place, if I recall. I tried to take a girl there once, but couldn’t get in.”
Lowe nodded as he reminisced. “They were always packed to the gills; I made reservations six or seven times a week. Didn’t use them all, of course, but that was the only way to make sure you had a table.” He paused, still smiling. “You didn’t come here to talk about the old days.”
“No, sir, the reason I’m here is because of the Versailles Treaty. I have some questions. There are some things I don’t understand.”
Lowe leaned back in his chair; the gray light coming through the window behind him transformed part of the great man into a shadow. “Is this an official visit, Robert? Are you here on Bureau business? Because if you are . . .”
“No, sir,” I cut him off. “I’m here strictly on my own business. In the wind, as we say.” He nodded his understanding and I continued. “We spent all that time negotiating the treaty, and I went to Ylourgne for the accord. All that work, and then after President Wilson made his points concerning why the treaty was a good thing, you and other members of the Mission convinced Congress to reject the treaty, because you had reservations. May I ask why? What reservations could possibly have been so important as to cause the rejection of the treaty we had all worked so hard on?”
Lowe leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. He was studying me, assessing how much of the truth he could tell me, and trying to figure out how much I already knew. “Do you know what the Triple Entente was, how about the Triple Alliance?” I nodded. “Then you know that these agreements between the great powers of Europe were essentially a powder keg that started the Great War. The Europeans were so entwined with each other that it only took a small match to set off a chain reaction. The Versailles Treaty was like that as well; it would have tied us to our allies, forced our hand when anything went against one of them, regardless of when and where or why. It would have set up another chain reaction, one that we could not have avoided.” He paused. “It also would have prevented the United States from acting on its own, and would have forced allied states to act against us.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The old order of things is falling apart. The Great War has forever altered the map of the world, and not just for those who lost. There are grumblings in London and Moscow and Paris. Things are changing; the colonies have seen that the empires have grown old and weak. When they fall, and trust me, they will fall, there will be a power vacuum, and I intend to have the United States ready to fill it. The Imperial Dynasty of America will rise to fulfill its destiny and take its rightful place amongst the nations of the world, not as a nation of farmers, but as warriors and leaders of a new world order!”
There was something frantic in his eyes—madness had taken root and corrupted his brain. “This explains so much.” I reached into my coat pocket and tossed a satchel of papers onto his desk.
He snatched at it and tore it open like a rabid dog. “What is this? What do you think you have?”
It was my turn to ease back into my chair. “I’ve learned quite a bit, working for the Bureau. You’ve done a good job of covering your tracks, but I’ve learned a bit about accounting and receipts and bills of lading, and shell corporations. For example, those documents in the blue envelope show that you are the primary owner of Delapore Chemical, having taken over after the founder died in Anchester last year.”
“Is that a crime?”
“In itself no, sir, but the yellow envelope contains documents showing Delapore Chemical purchasing over the last six months, which has strangely shifted to unusual quantities of arsenic trichloride and acetylene, the primary ingredients in the manufacture of lewisite, also known as M1, jokingly referred to as the dew of death, a gas, one that smells like geraniums, that blisters the skin and irritates the lungs. Delapore is making chemical weapons, Senator Lowe. You know it, I know it, and these documents prove it, and you and I both know that the federal government is attempting to ban the use of chemical weapons. The Washington Naval Conference may have failed, but certainly the Geneva Protocols will not. President Coolidge is quite certain.”
“Coolidge is a fool, and he will do nothing but weaken this country and betray her destiny.” There was venom in his voice. “What, pray tell, is in the green envelope?”
“That is evidence of your involvement with Darrow Chemical and the transfer of an old farm and several acres of the local potter’s field to them so that they can expand their facility. I find it curious that while a great deal of earth has been moved, there has been no actual construction. The property was once occupied by Doctor Herbert West, about whom I know enough to be suspicious of these activities. I’m also concerned that Dr. Geoffrey Darrow himself has relocated to the farmhouse. If I’m not mistaken, Darrow, like West, studied at Miskatonic University. They were in the same graduating class. I’ve been watching the farmhouse for a month now. What does he do with all of those cats? It is so very odd, so many cats, dozens each week, and a furnace that only runs at night, and so many strange smells and sounds. A curious state of affairs, it really should be investigated. Aren’t you at all curious, Senator Lowe, or do the boxes of product marked Reserved for HP Lowe make you turn a blind eye?”
Lowe’s composure suddenly fell. “If it’s a game of secrets we’re playing, Agent Peaslee, are you sure that you don’t have anything to lose? What was that man’s name, the one in London? Valentine, wasn’t it? How inappropriate of both of you. It would be a shame if that information made its way to the Bureau. Your friend Hadrian Vargr might develop some reservations concerning the quality of your work.”
I half-smiled and laughed a bit. “Vargr already knows about that, and frankly I’m looking for a way out of working for him. You, Senator, are that way out. You see, with Coolidge moving forward with his plans, you and your little operation here in Bolton are a liability. If what you are doing here were to become public knowledge, the repercussions would be devastating, and believe me, if I can figure this thing out, there are sure to be others who can and will too. That would be bad for Coolidge. So you are going to shut Delapore down, and then you are going to shut down whatever is going on at Darrow Chemical and that farmhouse. Then when everything is taken care of you are going to retire, quietly, peacefully. You’ve earned it. And in return you will be left alone.”
“I’ll not be put on a reservation without knowing why. What do you get out of this?”
I leaned forward. “That is not your concern.”
“With your experience, your knowledge, you could have been an Army colonel. There’s another war coming, Peaslee. The terms of the Versailles Treaty all but assure it. We need to be prepared. We will need weapons, weapons that kill entire platoons in an instant, and soldiers that are stronger and more powerful than normal men, soldiers that are resistant to disease, and injury, and even death. We need soldiers who can be shot and still fight. You know this is coming; you were at Locus Solus, and Ylourgne. We need to prepare.” He reached into his desk and grabbed a small ampule. The liquid inside was radiant green and cast sick shadows against the walls. “This is what Darrow is working on. It’s a chemical that makes men resistant to death itself. There are side effects, certainly, but that is merely a matter of dosage. Some subjects retain all of their faculties and functions. You could join us.”
I smacked the ampule out of his hand. “And some subjects are reduced to mindless, ravenous beasts that attack and kill everyone in sight.” The small glass vial tumbled through the air before crashing to the floor and shattering against the tile. “We are supposed to be the righteous, Senator Lowe. The defenders of the weak and downtrodden. You and yours would make us conquerors, using monsters and madness to create an American Empire. Is that what you want, Lowe, an empire? Have you forgotten why we set this country up in the first place?”
He repeated his question, making it a demand. “What are you getting out of this, Peaslee?” He was on the verge of rage.
“I told you that was none of your concern.” I retrieved my hat and coat and stood to go. I gestured in the direction of the envelopes that were on his desk. “You can keep those. I’ve got copies. So do a few other people. They’re not a patient bunch, Senator, so I would suggest you start closing up shop as fast as possible.”
With that, I walked out of the senator’s private office and stalked past the desk of Miss O’Meara, who glared at me like I had spit in her soup. I paused, put my hands down on the desk, and got right up in her face. “The Senator’s retiring in the next few days. I suggest you cancel his appointments and reservations for the next week or so.” I smiled triumphantly, “You’re out of a job too, but not to worry. Someone of your qualifications should have no problems finding a position
in a library or bookstore. I think I saw an opening in Arkham, at the historical society. Maybe you could work there, organizing shelves, setting up book clubs for little old ladies.” With that I hightailed it out the door and down the stairs. I swear I could hear the two of them screaming at each other all the way to the front door.
Outside, the clouds had partially broken up and the sun was starting to peek out. I reached into my breast pocket and took out my badge: not my Bureau badge, but my new badge, the one that identified me as a member of the Massachusetts State Police. The position was a gift from Governor Cox, earned for blowing the whistle on Lowe, and of course delivering the message that he was done. I whistled a happy tune on my way to the station.
As I said, that was on the sixteenth. Three days ago, the news came out of Bolton: Lowe was dead, along with his long-time assistant Miss O’Meara. They had been at his hunting cabin near Aylesbury when a fire had broken out. At least, that is what the papers said. I used my contacts to get the official report, and that told a slightly different story.
A routine visit by a state game warden had found the cabin door open. Suspecting a break-in, Officer Sams found two bodies: Miss O’Meara had been shot at close range with a shotgun which had created a gaping hole through her torso. Lowe’s body was sitting in a chair nearby, a shotgun cradled in his lap. In most cases this would have made Lowe the most viable of suspects. In this case that was unlikely, for while Lowe’s body sat in the chair, his head sat on the table, eyes wide, blood pooling beneath the neck and dripping onto the floor.