The clerk looked quickly down, then nodded. “Oh. That’s — I suppose that’s all right. But there’s to be no trouble.”
“None in the world,” Mitch said.
The rooms weren’t as nice as the rooms at the Roosevelt, Alma thought, but they would certainly do. Somehow Mitch had arranged it so that she nominally had the room directly across from Davenport, and the three men had the room next door, but the connecting door was unlocked, and Lewis lugged his suitcase in with hers. She held out the bag of doughnuts she’d bought at the station, and Mitch accepted one, his eyes closing in pleasure as he bit into it.
“Thank God,” he said. “I was starving.”
“I didn’t know if we’d want to risk the restaurant,” Alma said. “Or room service.”
“This is good for now,” Lewis said, with a quick smile.
There was a noise from the hall, a door opening, and she turned quickly to look through the peephole. It was Davenport’s door, all right, and Davenport himself, setting his shoes out to be shined. It seemed extraordinary that he should think of that, or that the demon should. She watched him close the door again, and turned back to the others. “I think he’s settling in for a while. He just put his shoes out.”
“I could stand a nap myself,” Mitch said. He did look beat, his eyes red and tired, and Alma nodded.
“Why don’t you and Lewis get some sleep? Jerry and I can keep an eye on things here.”
For a second, she thought Lewis might protest, but Mitch nodded. “Sleep, then a shower. I may never wear Musgo Real again.”
Lewis looked back at her. “You sure you don’t want me to take the first watch?”
“I slept on the plane,” Alma said. It was more or less true, even if it had been more of a doze than solid sleep. “Go ahead.”
She waited until the door closed behind them, then reached for another doughnut. They were good, fresh and sweet, and she let herself savor it. Maybe later they would order lunch — it was Henry’s dime, and that reminded her, she should probably wire him for more cash if they were going to be in Chicago for a while.
“What do you think he’s after, Jerry?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.” Jerry had stretched out on one of the twin beds, his coat draped over the back of a chair, his hat and tie set neatly on top of it. He hadn’t taken off his leg, just rested it on the mattress, the wooden knob that served for a foot nearly denuded of rubber. Another thing she needed to fix, Alma thought, and pulled the stool of the dressing table closer to the door. It wasn’t very comfortable, but that ought to help keep her awake.
“Something like this,” Jerry said softly. His glasses lay beside him on the pale coverlet, and his eyes were closed. “It wants power, Al. Power and death and sorrow and destruction. Corruption. Those are the things it needs, that it feeds upon. I’ve been thinking….” There was a long silence, long enough that Alma wondered if he’d nodded off, but then he opened his eyes again. “The ancient sources generally agree that Caligula’s reign started out quite reasonably — he was genuinely popular, did things like stop the treason prosecutions Tiberius had begun at the end of his reign, when he was getting old and paranoid. And then he fell ill with a fever. His life was despaired of, but he recovered. And his first act then was to order the deaths of two of his dearest friends who had offered their lives to the gods in exchange for his. The rest — everyone knows. Murder, depravity, madness —”
“He made his horse a senator,” Alma said. “That’s one thing I remember.”
“And a priest,” Jerry said. “Though that was fairly benign. He declared himself a god in AD 40, and proceeded to behave as though he did in fact have god-like powers of life and death. Supposedly there was a day at the games when he ran out of criminals before he ran out of wild beasts, so he picked a random section of the crowd, and sacrificed them instead.”
“And we have to stop it.” A shiver ran up Alma’s spine. Caligula reborn.
“Somehow,” Jerry said. He swung himself upright. “Look, I’m not going to be any use here. Chasing Davenport around the city is not going to be my strong suit. There’s material at the Oriental Institute that can help us — maybe— find a way to bind this thing.” He was knotting his tie as he spoke, sleeking his hair into shape again.
“Don’t you want a nap first?” Alma asked.
Jerry picked up his hat and cane, gave her a sideways smile. “The rest of you did all the work getting us here. It’s about time I did something useful.”
He slipped out the door without waiting for her answer, and Alma shook her head. “Oh, Jerry,” she said, softly, and settled again to listen for Davenport’s door.
Chapter Thirteen
Alma had just checked her watch for the fifth time — ten o’clock — when she heard water running in the bathroom next door. A few minutes later, the connecting door swung open, and Mitch poked his head in, hair still damp from the bath.
“I don’t suppose there are any doughnuts left,” he said. “Where’s Jerry?”
“He went to the Oriental Institute,” Alma answered. “He said the library there has things that might help him figure out what we do next.”
Mitch found the paper bag, and retrieved the last doughnut. “That would be good. Look, I’m going to order us some sandwiches and coffee, but why don’t you take a nap till they get here?”
Alma started to protest, but a yawn overtook her. Mitch grinned, and she smiled ruefully. “You’re right. Wake me the minute he moves.”
“He’ll have to get his shoes back first,” Mitch said. “Go to sleep, Al.”
She refrained from pointing out that Davenport might have packed more than one pair of shoes, and retreated into the adjoining bedroom. It was a mirror image of the other, the beds on the opposite wall, but otherwise identical. The men had drawn the shades, but the cloudy light filtered in around the edge of the window. Lewis was asleep in the far bed, stripped to shorts and undershirt, clothes folded on the nearest chair. The other bed was barely mussed, just the pillow tugged free of the blankets: typical, she thought, that Mitch would sleep so neatly, almost as though he was never there.
She pulled off her dress and hung it up in the narrow closet, and after a moment’s hesitation unhooked her stockings. If they had to move fast, she’d have to go bare-legged, but it was worth it to be able to sleep in comfort. She fluffed up the pillow on the unoccupied bed, and Lewis said softly, “Al?”
“I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“Not really.” He gave her a sleepy smile. “There’s room to share, if you want.”
“Yes,” she said, and he folded back the sheet, leaving her half the narrow bed. She slid comfortably down against him, fitting herself to his arms, and laughed softly at the lingering scent of Musgo Real on his hands.
“What?”
“You smell like Mitch,” she said, and settled deeper into his arms.
She woke to the sound of voices and clinking china in the other room. Lewis was gone, and she reached for her watch, frowning. It was after one o’clock, and she untangled herself from the sheets, feeling the muscles tighten at the base of her neck and in her arms. It had been a long flight, but all things considered, she felt surprisingly good. She dressed quickly, ran a comb through her hair, and pushed open the connecting door.
“Oh, good,” Mitch said. “I was just about to wake you.”
“What’s up?” As promised, Mitch had ordered food, and there was a coffee service and a big plate of sandwiches on a wheeled table. Alma reached for a sandwich, and took a quick bite.
“Davenport got lunch delivered about five minutes ago,” Lewis said. He was sitting on the stool by the door, a cup of coffee in his hand. He grinned. “No shoes, though.”
“Give him time,” Mitch said.
Alma poured herself coffee as well, managed to finish it and most of a second sandwich before they heard a knock at Davenport’s door. Lewis was on his feet in an instant, peering through the peephole.
“Right.” Mitch set his cup aside. “Sounds like he’s moving.”
Alma nodded, reaching for her purse.
“So what’s the plan?” Lewis asked.
“You go down to the lobby,” Mitch said. “Since Davenport doesn’t know you. We’ll stay here, just in case he does something else, and we’ll follow when he leaves.”
“And meet me in the lobby?” Lewis said.
“You follow him,” Mitch said. “That’s the main thing. We’ll catch you up.”
“Ok.” Lewis picked up his coat and hat. He’d shaved at some point, and looked almost entirely respectable.
“Do you have cash?” Alma asked, and he nodded.
“I’m good for now.”
The door closed softly behind him, and Alma looked at Mitch. “You’re good at this.”
“I have unplumbed depths,” Mitch answered, with a wry smile. “Al, I’m making it up as I go.”
Across the hall, Davenport’s door opened. Mitch pressed his eye to the peephole. “Ok,” he said, his voice suddenly tense. “This is it. Hat and coat — and he’s headed for the elevators. I can’t…. Wait, he’s caught one. Come on.”
One thing, Alma thought, there were plenty of elevators. They caught one almost at once, reached the lobby in time to see Lewis whisking out the main door. Mitch lengthened his stride to catch up, and as she hurried at his side, Alma caught a glimpse of Lewis making his way south on Dearborn. Davenport had to be ahead of him, but she couldn’t see him, and didn’t spot him until they caught up with Lewis at the next intersection.
“Well?” Mitch asked, and Lewis looked over his shoulder.
“He went up there.”
He nodded to the iron stairs that led to the elevated railway station across the street. Mitch looked at the stream of cars, the white-gloved policeman with his whistle directing traffic, and muttered something under his breath. But then the policeman gave another shrill blast, stopping the cars, and they joined the other pedestrians hurrying up the steps.
Luckily, the platform was crowded. Alma allowed herself one quick glance to be sure Davenport was there — yes, there he was, at the far end of the platform, looking distinguished and a little impatient — and melted back behind Lewis. The train arrived with a screech of brakes, and she hung back with the others until they were sure Davenport had gotten aboard, and then stepped into the next car. Lewis forged his way down the corridor until he was almost at the connecting door, where he could see into Davenport’s car, and Alma dropped reluctantly into one of the wooden seats. The train lurched into motion.
She had only the vaguest idea of Chicago’s geography. Jerry knew the city well, of course, he’d been a student here, but he wasn’t with them. She hoped one of the others had thought to buy a guidebook, or something. They were heading south, though, she could tell that much, under skies that were steadily darkening. She hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella or a raincoat, either, and hoped they wouldn’t get caught in a downpour. Lewis was still standing by the connecting door, relaxed and easy; after the first few stops, she decided there would be plenty of time to get off when Davenport did, and she let herself relax a little.
The train made its way slowly along the elevated tracks, brakes scraping on every corner. The buildings were close on either side, backs of tenements and apartments and shops, so that she wondered how anyone stood the noise. You’d get used to it after a while, she supposed, but still. Five stops, seven, ten…. The train kept heading steadily south, the crowd thinning with every stop, until Lewis had to take a seat, or become too conspicuous. Alma craned to see the station signs. Forty-Seventh Street, Fifty-First, Fifty-Fifth. The train slowed again, and she saw Lewis rise to his feet. The train pulled into the Fifty-Eighth Street Station, and she followed Mitch onto the platform. There weren’t so many people here, but Davenport seemed oblivious, and headed for the stairs as though he was in a hurry to get where he was going before the rain came.
At least it was easier to keep him in sight along these streets. He was heading east now, past houses and open lots and the occasional neighborhood shop. Trees rose ahead, a public park, and Lewis looked over his shoulder.
“Why would he — is he meeting someone, do you think?”
“No idea,” Mitch answered, but his voice was faintly worried.
Alma took a careful breath as they plunged into the tree-shaded walks. Whatever Davenport wanted here, at least she could feel the ground beneath her feet, the familiar solidity of earth untrammeled by the city. It was a comfort, if it came to a confrontation, to know it was there for her. They skirted a lagoon without stopping, and came out on the park’s eastern edge. The buildings were more crowded now, square, handsome buildings in brick and granite, and she realized they had reached the University.
“Mitch,” she began, and he answered, “Yeah. I see it.”
A new building rose ahead of them, its sign proclaiming it the Oriental Institute Museum. Davenport looked neither right nor left, heading up the steps into the shadowed doorway.
“Isn’t that where Jerry was going?” Lewis said, and Mitch nodded.
“We’d better find him,” Alma said.
The museum downstairs was not open yet, plastered walls still waiting for paint, signs proclaiming that soon it would be a luxurious and modern home for the University of Chicago Oriental Institute’s famed collection of Middle Eastern antiquities. The building was new and very large, boasting the best amenities scholars could want, and if the museum was not yet open the library and reading rooms on the second floor lacked nothing. Certainly the collection of classical works belonging to the University of Chicago was impressive. It was even better than it had been when Jerry finished his doctorate here in 1916.
He’d been twenty-seven then, a promising young scholar in the field. Whatever disadvantages anyone had dared to mention had been long since overcome. He’d worked on a dig in Palestine and another in Turkey, studied with Dorpfeldt and written a paper that earned the approbation of Arthur Evans. Perhaps some of his theories were a little outré, especially in terms of giving so much credence to early syncretic elements as evidence of cultural influence, but Evans had become a colossus by going out on a limb. Risk is how societies, and men, advance.
The war had changed all that, of course. Mathematics had proved useful for artillery, but it was being fluent in Italian that had sent him to Venice, to defend the city against the Austrians. And then there had been Gil.
He’d tried to return here, in the fall of 1919. He’d been more than welcome, a special assistant to a professor who had believed in him. A wound is an honorable thing, of course, especially one taken in the saving of precious civilization from the barbarian hordes. But there had been blood clots in the damaged foot, the last one cutting off circulation so that it swelled up alarmingly, the skin stretched tight like the surface of a balloon. Given the choice of his foot or his life the decision was logical. He read Seneca in the hospital, hoping it would serve.
A few weeks and he’d be back at work. Surely. But Stoicism did not conquer facts. A cold Chicago winter stretched ahead, living in rooms in a boarding house on an upper floor that he could not get to in his wheelchair, still too weak to transfer from wheelchair to bed without help. He’d sent a casual letter from the hospital. Doing fine, pesky foot. And he’d known or at least hoped what would happen.
Gil looked better. Well, a corpse would look better than Gil when he’d seen him last, in the hospital in Venice just before he’d been shipped home. They hadn’t thought Gil would live. They hadn’t known the war would end. Jerry had said goodbye, Gil wavering in and out of consciousness, knowing it would be final.
And now he sauntered in, his hair more gray than brown now, and the lines in his face deeply graven, but with a bounce in his step. “Come on, Jerry. We’re here to spring you.”
“Spring me?” He’d still been taking morphine by injection then. His hea
d wasn’t clear.
“We’re taking you back to Colorado. Now don’t worry about a thing. You’ll go in top comfort by air, just like you were the President!” Gil came over and put his hand to Jerry’s brow. “And you know Alma is as good as a nurse. She’s seen it all in the ambulance service. Better than a boarding house, and you know it.”
He did know it. He knew perfectly well he couldn’t live alone, but he’d hardly dared to hope….
Alma’s smile was warm. “How are you doing, Jerry?”
“I’m fine,” Jerry said, looking from Gil to Alma, her conservative black hat looking incongruous on her. He’d never seen her dressed like that, never seen her dressed like a lady. “I’m just fine now.”
He’d gone to sleep on the plane, an injection of morphine to ease the discomfort of travel, the pain of being jostled over and over. He’d gone to sleep to the white noise of the engines. Alma sat beside him, her profile sharp against the window as she read a book. She looked up, caught his drowsy gaze. “We’ll be home soon,” she said as he drifted off.
Nine years ago, now. He’d probably never go in the field again, not with his leg, and if he couldn’t go in the field he was more or less useless to any faculty. Still, there was utility in synthesis, and he was welcome at the Oriental Institute even if thirteen years meant that most everyone he had known at the University of Chicago were gone. He still had some contacts, still had the respect of some fellow scholars, even if they did feel terribly sorry for poor Dr. Ballard, whose career had seemed so promising.
He kept abreast of the work, of course, and still took every journal. He even wrote some, mainly reviews of other scholars’ work that he liked to think were sparkling with dry wit. He’d been able to keep up with that even during Gil’s final illness. He’d like to think it was a contribution.
At least, Jerry thought, looking up from the table in the main reading room, he’d kept abreast enough to have an idea of where to look for the information he needed. There had been some very promising work on Ephesian Diana since Hogarth’s excavations before the war, new votive material that was being worked on by a veritable army of graduate student translators. It was quite possible that the correct form of an Artemisian binding could be inferred. Hopefully it would not involve anything impossible, like sacrificing a bull.
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