Miss Thatcher was approaching him now, her lips set in a thin, rigid line.
“We are closing shortly, sir. May I have the volumes?”
Oates was about to expostulate because he assumed from the printed notices elsewhere in the building that it was hours from closing time. But something kept his mouth closed. Similarly, he had been about to point out the curious factor of the missing stories but again he remained silent. There was a curious rigidity; a sense of expectancy in the figures about him that impelled him to silence. He was a very cautious man and he had been in many tight corners. There was nothing sinister about the library; on the surface at any rate; but a sixth sense which every police officer must have told him that silence was the most prudent course at the present stage.
So he smiled pleasantly at the woman and helped her to carry the heavy volumes back to the racks from which they had been extracted. Obviously Miss Thatcher had telephoned some higher authority; or some higher authority had telephoned her. Oates was inclined to discount the latter because no one could know he was here. Or did they? He re-seated himself at the table, stroking his heavy chin. Someone in police headquarters at Arkham, perhaps? Or possibly Miss Thatcher, alarmed for some reason at a stranger’s questioning, had contacted her immediate superior in the same building and asked for instructions. That was more likely and he again began to relax, though aware more than ever of the curious, even alien eyes regarding him from the silent tables in the yellow dusk.
Miss Thatcher paused in front of the table.
“Ten minutes, sir,” she said in a clear, precise voice. “Then we close.”
Oates nodded.
“Thank you for your help, madam.”
The woman drew herself up as though startled. Then she recollected herself.
“Glad to have been of service, sir.”
She glanced at the big clock on the far wall.
“It is early closing today, you see.”
Oates nodded. The woman might well be right, in which case there was nothing sinister in her attitude. He would check from the notices on the way out. He waited until she had gone back to her desk and then produced a notebook from his pocket. He tore off a sheet from the top and started scribbling in pencil with a strong, steady hand.
Beneath FACTS he began to make notations under number headings.
1. A number of strange occurrences at Miskatonic University, Arkham, in the spring of 1932. Doors opening and shutting of their own volition; lights switching on and off without cause; taps ditto.
2. Great storm of 1932, which caused tremendous damage at Innsmouth, also affected Arkham. A corollary to the great tidal bore of the Manuxet in the autumn of 1930 which caused floods, drowning, and curious effects of “white lightning.”
3. Whirlwind which stripped roofs and caused much damage in Innsmouth and Arkham on the same night.
4. Thefts of numbers of arcane and esoteric books at the Library of the University of Miskatonic, Arkham, in a locked section kept by the Chief Librarian, Jethro Staveley. Great heat cracked window glass and shelves were charred. Thief never found.
5. Recently. Large stone cross on campus at the University suddenly collapsed, almost killing the Dean, Dr. Darrow. Inside of column seemed to be “rotted away,” though this was a manifest impossibility.
6. Large concourse and number of underground tunnels discovered beneath cross area by surveyor, Andrew Bellows.
7. He and Darrow descend to the catacombs. Darrow badly frightened by something he has seen, which he describes as “being like serpents.” Conversely, Bellows sees nothing. Most of these events are kept from press and authorities. My subsequent interview with Darrow elicits all these facts at third-hand.
8. Holroyd’s cryptological investigations into the typed copies of books from the sealed section of the library brought to an end by the smashing of his de-coding machine and the theft or mislaying of the decoded papers. Holroyd reluctant to let the authorities know the nature of his discoveries lest the police think him “fanciful.” Memory now affected.
9. MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL, the thing which brought the matter to our attention in the first place; the mysterious death of the college janitor, Jeb Conley, who was found floating in a pool fed by an underground spring, after being missing for some days. His features had been erased in a manner quite outside my experience and that of the Medical Examiner, Dr. Lancaster.
10. Another curious feature is that when Darrow and Bellows investigated the caverns, there were marks in the dust, obviously made by the passage of some heavy person or persons. Later, the marks were found to be completely erased and a perfectly engineered passage, leading in the direction of Innsmouth and the sea, incidentally, was found to be blocked by a fall of rock; the passages appear to be made of granite and the thing sounds like a manifest impossibility.
11. Are any or all of these events connected? If so, how?
12. Where do we go from here?
13. Obvious conclusion: fairly urgent that we should organise a thorough search of these tunnels without further delay.
Oates’ scribblings were interrupted by a loud creaking noise. He rose from the table to find himself alone, except for the old lady librarian, who was hovering by her desk with her hat and coat on. Already, she had extinguished most of the lights, and the detective found himself in semi-darkness.
He picked up the sheet of paper and walked briskly down toward the entrance to the reference section, his footsteps echoing loudly beneath the vaulted ceiling.
“Good afternoon, Ma’am.”
Miss Thatcher gave him a courteous little half-bobbing bow.
“Goodbye, sir,” she said primly.
Oates went on to the stairhead, hearing the grating of the lock behind him as she closed the big main door. The light above her desk was extinguished by an external switch in the corridor, he noted, before the angle of the passage hid her from view. As he paused at the top of the stairs he was startled by a sudden draught on the nape of his neck. It was icy and he was so taken aback he staggered for a moment.
The next instant, the sheet of notations pencilled on both sides of the large piece of notepaper went sailing down the shadowy staircase. But Oates was an astute officer and he had his wits about him. He was light on his toes for such a big man and he pounded downward, aware that the strange blast of air was keeping pace, holding the dancing sheet just out of his reach. As Oates reached the main doors of the library the ruled sheet was still whirling as though it had a life of its own; almost as if it were controlled by a string.
It was flapping desperately against the big double doors, as if it were trying to gain the street beyond. A thin man with a scar on his face was outside, struggling to get in. But Oates was on familiar ground now. He had the sheet firmly between thumb and forefinger, put his shoulder firmly to the door. It flew back, smashing the thin man across the side of his jaw. He gave a sharp yelp of pain and fell back, making a hissing noise between jagged teeth.
“I’m so sorry,” said Oates pleasantly. “I didn’t see anyone there.”
He put a match to the sheet of notepaper, used it as a spill to light a cigarette. He stood there savouring the expression on the thin man’s face as he watched the sheet turn to ash, while he nursed his jaw with a filthy handkerchief.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
The thin man hissed something incomprehensible from beneath the handkerchief and slid through the door like a snake. He ascended the steps two at a time while Oates was left with the impression of hatred in the dead-insect eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder, making sure the ash he ground beneath his feet would not leave any information for anyone who might pass that way, glimpsed a notice in the vestibule. Miss Thatcher was right. Today was early closing day for the library.
He went back to his car, parked in a side street. His trained eye immediately noted two things wrong. Someone had pulled at the tape on the door panels which hid its identity as a police vehicle. The second came after he had got into the drivi
ng seat, conscious of prying eyes behind shaded windows round about. He tested the brakes carefully; after a few pumping motions he found they faded suspiciously. He remembered the dark and twisting road that led through the gorges back to Arkham.
He sought out a garage in the same street, showed the sullen, reluctant man there his badge of authority; he had his vehicle towed to the workshop and stood over the man until he had made good the repair. When he had tested the linkage and was satisfied that it was secure he put a ten-dollar bill on the counter of the grimy office. He deliberately showed the man the butt of his revolver as he rebuttoned his overcoat.
“Take this as a warning,” he said. “And remember it. The state authorities know I’m here. So no more tricks.”
The man kept his eyes on the floor.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled.
“I think you do,” Oates said curtly.
He drove quickly out of Innsmouth, through the growing dusk. He watched the rear mirror all the way but there was no sign of anything or anyone following. Nevertheless he did not relax his precautions all the way through the miles of gorges, the sound of the Manuxet making a menacing roar in his ears. It was only when he gained the fresh air of the uplands that he relaxed his guard. He had much to think about as he reached the outskirts of Arkham.
X
Dr. Darrow slept badly that night. Such dreams as he had were troubled. When he awoke he found it was only 2:00 a.m. and he lay for a long time watching the moonlight at the window bars, his mind confused and distrait. Was he really losing his mental faculties? His confusion stemmed from the fact of an interview he had had with Captain Oates as soon as that officer had returned from Innsmouth late that afternoon.
Strangely, the air had then been hot and stormy and just after the two men met in the Dean’s study the tempest had broken; a wind like a roaring furnace followed by thunder, lightning and such a tornado of rain that the good doctor hadn’t seen in all his long years. Perhaps that was why the interview between the two men had partaken of melodrama.
The Dean had been on difficult ground, of course. Though he had been too polite to say so the former had been certain that the big detective had strongly disapproved of the University’s earlier actions; or rather lack of actions. That they had not reported the strange incidents to the police; and that they had tried to hush up even the discovery of the body of Jeb Conley. That had been a primary mistake, the Dean felt, and had not disposed the police favourably toward them. But Oates had been fair, he had to give him that.
The detective had read from his earlier notes of their first conversation, soon after the body had been discovered and the County had decided to send over one of its most efficient and high-ranking officers to take charge. All had gone well until the matter of the collapse of the memorial cross had come up. Tired of the great display of lightning at the windows the two men had drawn the drapes and retired to the Dean’s desk where they could talk and make notes in comparative comfort in an area where the storm was merely a distant disturbance.
“I’d just like to run through your earlier statements,” Oates had said.
The Dean nodded, listening half-impatiently, blinking violently from time to time at each clap of thunder, as though the unseen lightning troubled his eyes.
“You say you saw these strange creatures come out of the tunnel walls?”
“Eigh? What’s that,” Darrow interrupted sharply. “There must be some mistake. I really don’t understand.”
“I have it verbatim here,” Oates said shortly. “That’s what you told me. I have a complete description. Let me repeat what you first said. Perhaps that will refresh your memory.”
He had not read more than two sentences before Darrow interrupted again.
“That’s not what I said at all,” he commented irritably. “You must have got things wrong. That’s what happened to Bellows. He saw these things. Or so he told me. He was in such a state of collapse I had to help him out of the tunnel.”
There were spots of red on Oates’ cheeks now.
“Come now, Dr. Darrow,” he said sternly. “All this was said in the presence of a stenographer. She took notes separately and I’m sure she will corroborate what I’ve got down here. Apart from Bellows’ own statement, of course.”
It was the Dean’s turn to look bewildered. He licked his lips nervously.
“I’m sure I don’t understand, Captain. To the best of my recollection I saw nothing. It was Bellows who spoke of seeing these weird creatures.”
Oates paused and made another note in his book.
“And you’re prepared to swear to that,” he said heavily.
The Dean hesitated again.
“Well, I don’t quite know. What does Bellows say?”
Oates let out a heavy sigh, his brow clouded with anger.
“He says exactly what he’s always said, doctor,” he retorted crisply. “I think you’d really best reconsider your position. This is a very serious matter. And revoking a sworn testimony isn’t something a man in your public position ought to enter into lightly.”
There was a heavy silence between the two, while the thunder rumbled and rattled at the windowpanes of the curtained room. Presently the Dean made a nervous drumming noise with his fingers on the desk surface. He looked lost and miserable; out of his depth. Oates felt a stirring of pity for him, even amid his irritation.
“Perhaps you’d better sleep on it, doctor,” he said gently. “These events seem to have upset a great many people. And I shall have to prepare a party to descend into those vaults tomorrow. A number of State troopers will be here first thing. Do you feel fit enough to accompany us?”
The Dean flushed as though his integrity had been brought into question.
“Of course,” he said firmly.
It was Oates’ turn to look staggered.
“But you said categorically earlier that you were so nervous and shattered that nothing would induce you to go down there again!”
Red spots were standing out on Darrow’s cheeks as well now.
“Oh, did I?” he said vaguely. “If you say so, Mr. Oates.”
The big detective laid down his notebook as though it were about to explode and passed a hand over his face, his mind racing furiously over the booming concussion of the storm raging outside. He had just remembered something. Details that tied up with the Dean’s current mental lapse. Blank sheets of paper where there had been notes before. He would question Holroyd again about his own lapse of memory. And only this morning his own carefully prepared notes had almost been lost due to a malign breeze which had sprung up in an enclosed building. Was someone—or something—working in a way beyond his comprehension to obliterate knowledge of events taking place in Arkham and Innsmouth? Something connected with the cataclysms of two years earlier?
Something inimical to life as normal people knew it? Oates was a man of immense experience in his profession and intensely pragmatic. He bit his lip. Even he felt deep undercurrents into which he would rather not venture at the moment. So he stifled all his inner misgivings and merely dismissed the Dean as gently as possible. He would talk the thing over with the medical examiner later. The two men saw eye to eye and the doctor’s coldly professional expertise would give much-needed ballast to his own thoughts.
There was also the matter of the person who had tampered with the brakes of his car. That was of definite human agency. So much for the more fanciful imaginings of the Dean and Holroyd. Oates’ nostrils twitched with slight amusement at his recollection of Arkham’s police chief when the city detective had mentioned the matter of his expenses regarding the garage bill. He had fulminated about the difference between city and rural budgets. The recollection had lightened the tension slightly as Oates proceeded further into the dark morass into which he was becoming entrapped.
His musings had been interrupted by an urgent telephone call from the doctor. It was quite dark when Oates arrived at Oak Point police station on the outskirts
of the city and fireflies made a faint green miasma over the marshes that fringed the shore. Again, the croaking of frogs sounded loud and menacing in this God-forsaken spot. Oates wondered, not for the first time, why the city authorities had chosen to erect a substantial police building out here, with not only cells but a mortuary and post-mortem facilities.
But his questionings had been met with shrugs. Arkham had been expanding as a city at that time and there had been a railroad wreck in the area, which had badly strained both police and medical resources. Also, the city fathers had hoped to enlarge the urban boundaries by expanding housing facilities which had never materialised. Now, the station was manned by a sergeant and two other officers while the mortuary facilities were seldom used. Dr. Lancaster had his own theories, of course, but so far he had kept them to himself. He was more forthcoming on the autopsy findings, however. The mortuary had been currently re-opened at this remote spot halfway between Arkham and Innsmouth to avoid further press speculation. Not that there had been much; merely the odd paragraph or two.
The authorities had played down the death of Conley and the corpse had been removed here with such promptitude that no pressmen had been able to view the body before it left the area of the pond. A police car driven by the bored sergeant drove away as Oates arrived and he acknowledged the uniformed officer’s languid wave with a similar gesture of his own. He wondered what had been so urgent that Lancaster’s call could not have waited until morning.
He walked up the narrow concrete path to the front door of the reception office where a lanky, red-haired officer was speaking in low tones into the old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg type telephone. Oates lifted up the counter flap and went on in back, down a green-painted corridor where filing cabinets were glimpsed behind half-frosted panel doors, and where dim bulbs in stark metal fittings merely emphasised the bleakness of this lonely outpost of law and order.
Dr. Lancaster was waiting just inside the mortuary door, a serious expression on his face. He wore ordinary street clothes and he began without preamble.
Shadows Over Innsmouth Page 13