The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  Danforth De Vere stared at the newcomer. His voice shook. “Who the devil are you?” His voice shook. He might have regarded Harvey as vermin and Clay as an amusement, but this tattooed figure clearly terrified him.

  The Tzadik folded his hands. “I am Rabbi Issachar Eisendrath. I am the Judgment of God.”

  Shadows burst from his sleeves and fluttered into the air. Fire followed the shadow, with sparks coiling down and hissing as they hit the marble floor. Wings appeared in the shadow, each outline of a feather trailing fire. De Vere ducked closer to his family, trying to protect them from the strange apparitions. Rabbi Eisendrath guided the flame-winged ravens without moving his hands. They orbited him about him, opening their shadowy beaks and spitting flame. Each bird looked big enough to pick up Harvey in its molten talons.

  “The A’arab Zaraq!” Harvey whispered. “Creatures of the Qliphoth—the Fiery Ravens of Dispersion.” He turned to Zipporah and Clay. “To control those creatures, to even summon them, must require immense power. They’re extremely dangerous—”

  “See to the De Veres,” Clay ordered. “I’ll deal with Eisendrath.” He didn’t give the others a chance to argue, but hurried past the exhibits and approached this new rabbi.

  Rabbi Eisendrath faced him, leaving the De Veres to the ravens. Zipporah and Harvey reached them and guided them away. A raven swooped toward them and Zipporah warded it off with a few slashes from her scimitars. Rabbi Eisendrath didn’t seem to care. He hadn’t arrived at the Museum of Venerable Antiquities to frighten some goyim. Instead, he stared at Clay, watching quietly as more of his ravens swooped around the rooms. Their sparks fell on the Judean artifacts in glittering, flame-colored waterfalls. He pointed at Clay.

  “Golem.” He said the word slowly, savoring the sound. “Creature of earth. Abomination.”

  Clay faced him. Behind him, the display case holding the Nephilim bones shattered. A raven swooped inside, its talons wrapping around the ancient bones. More followed. They were robbing the place. “What do you think you’re doing?” Clay asked. “You’re trying to attack Sickle City? Why? What’s the point?”

  “The same reason God brought about the deluge,” Rabbi Eisendrath explained. “Look at our people, golem—who you were created to defend. They are mocked, insulted, hated, and poor. Truly, we are the wretched amongst the nations.” He extended his hands, indicating the artifacts. “Look at these relics of ancient kingdoms, now nothing but forgotten dust. But we can be a mighty empire again, and this city will be our capital.”

  “You want to conquer Sickle City?” Clay asked.

  “And claim it from unbelievers and Apikorsim.” He casually used the Hebrew term for heretic. “Or the criminals who pretend to be holy men.” For the first time, a trace of emotion appeared on Rabbi Eisendrath’s face. Anger distorted his features, and he scowled at Clay. “Such as your employer and all his spawn.” He leaned closer. “They are bad men, Clay. Why else would they befriend an abomination like you?”

  That was all Clay could take. He felt the same cold, driving need to crush bone and spill blood that he felt when he had battled the Cossacks on the plains of Russia. He charged across the room, his boots pounding on the marble floor as his hands outstretched. He wanted to grab Rabbi Eisendrath, shatter his jaw, cave in his chest, and tear him apart. But that was just what Rabbi Eisendrath had been waiting for. He blinked once, and a flaming raven swooped down.

  It reached Clay and attacked, stabbing at him with its talons. The claws dug into Clay’s chest and lifted him up. The raven’s wings beat and carried Clay into the air. The raven dragged him to the nearest window. Clay struggled against the bird, ramming a fist against fiery wings. Sparks flew as his knuckles carved grooves in the wings, but the raven kept flying. It sped up to the window, and rushed through. Clay had a single look back at the exhibition hall. Zipporah defended Harvey and the De Veres from ravens, while more picked up the altar of Asmodeus. That was what the Dagger Men had wanted—and Clay had let them steal what they desired.

  Rabbi Eisendrath’s raven reached the window and flew through. Clay struggled against it as cold morning air mixed with the heat from the raven’s fire. They soared outside, over the golden dome. The raven stared at him, its beak glowing red hot, and then its claws opened. Clay fell. He hurtled down, bashed against the top of the dome, and kept falling. The arched roof caught him, and he continued his rapid descent. Another final drop sent him plummeting off the roof.

  He cracked the sidewalk when he fell. Clay lay on the ground, staring at the gray sky. He groaned. It was all he could do.

  ~~~

  An hour after the chaos at the museum, Clay and his friends got some rest in the Elephantine Hotel, back at Palisade Park. Zipporah didn’t say much and Harvey stayed quiet as he paged through all of his books on Asmodeus. According to Zipporah, the Dagger Men had stolen the altar and the giant bones, using legionary skeletons to cover their escape as they moved back into the Greek exhibit and then vanished before the security guards could reach them. The De Veres had left as well, in a mixture of panic and embarrassment. Darby had thanked Zipporah for protecting them before they hastened away. Now, Clay and his friends simply sat and waited—knowing full well that they had failed. The Dagger Men had stolen what they wanted, and their mad plan to conquer Sickle City—whatever that was—perhaps neared completion.

  Professor West sauntered inside, bringing a tray with cups of tea and pastries. “There, there.” He offered his biggest grin. “No need to be glum.” He set the tray down on the coffee table. “After all, tomorrow is a brand new day.” He jabbed his finger into the air as he made the pronouncement.

  “What does that even mean?” Zipporah asked.

  “A mere aphorism, my dear.” Professor West turned to Clay. “Oh, and there’s a phone call waiting for you.” He paused slightly, his optimistic facade cracking. “From our mutual employer. You can take it in the lobby.”

  “From my father?” Harvey asked.

  Clay stood. “I’ll let him know what happened.” He followed Professor West out of the parlor and into the lobby, where the phone waited at the desk. Clay picked up the speaker and receiver and brought them to his mouth and ears. “Rabbi?”

  “Hello, Mr. Clay.” Rabbi Holtz’s voice came over the phone, tinny and faint. “I heard there was a bit of a dust-up at the museum this morning. Some goyish bigwig made a stir, but it’s nothing a little money can’t smooth over. But I guess our Dagger Men friends remain at large?” He sounded busy, as if something else concerned him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Pity. Well, Mr. Clay, I’ve got another assignment for you. I’m going to a meeting with a whole pack of goyish bigwigs, and I need you along as my bodyguard. Edwin Eames, the Grand Sagamore of the Wigwam Club, has called the meeting, and quite a few city authorities will be in attendance—including Mr. Sapphire. I’d ask Monk to come along and watch my back, but his manners aren’t the best. You can look imposing and you’re smart enough to avoid causing a ruckus. Besides, maybe you can tell them about this Dagger Men nonsense. Perhaps we’ll get some help.”

  “You think so?”

  “We have to try. I’ll bring the car around to the front of the pier to pick you up.” Rabbi Holtz paused. “Oh, and say hello to Harvey, please.” The phone clicked empty. Clay hung up as well. He looked at his trench coat, battered and torn from his recent battles. It wouldn’t be suitable to wear for this kind of excursion, but he didn’t have anything else.

  He moved back into the parlor and reached for his fedora. “I’m going to a meeting.” He rested the hat on his head. “Your father invited me, Harvey. I’ll return when it’s through.”

  Harvey glanced up from his books. “Oh—you better warn them about the Dagger Men.”

  Zipporah had started a game of solitaire, playing with the same tattered deck that she had used during the Mesopotam
ian Campaign. “Warn them about the policemen’s strike as well.” She glanced at her next card and tossed it aside. “And don’t let those swells boss you around.” She nodded to Clay as he left and Harvey waved. He set his fedora on his head, straightened his tie, and went to meet the rabbi.

  He waited for only a few minutes before Rabbi Holtz arrived, driving his sleek Cunningham Touring Car. Clay took the passenger seat and they set off, zooming down Haven Street and heading toward the Uptown portion of the city. Rabbi Holtz didn’t talk much. He had dressed in a crisp suit for the meeting, and left his yarmulke back at his house. He kept his hands on the wheel as they arrived on Damocles and drove straight to Tier Tower—the largest building in Sickle City. Tier Tower sprouted above the other skyscrapers, a shining pillar of silver and glass with sleek ridges along the edge and a jagged needle at its pinnacle, piercing the gray clouds. Rabbi Holtz parked the Cunningham and motioned for Clay to head inside.

  Clay stared at Tier Tower. “We’re meeting inside?”

  “Not quite,” Rabbi Holtz explained. “Grand Sagamore Eames likes to be a little higher.”

  They went through the lobby, talked to the clerk, and went to an elevator in the corner. That carried them up through the entirety of Tier Tower, rushing past endless floors of offices, and then brought them to the very top. A single step through a short corridor brought them to a viewing platform, with all the city sprawled out below them behind brass railings. Wind whistled through the skyscrapers. Rabbi Holtz shivered a little as he walked onto the cement floor. A pair of policemen guarded a gangplank at the edge of the platform, which led to the undercarriage of a hulking zeppelin. The airship had a sleek, golden deck and a blue gasbag, its engine humming as it stayed in place.

  Rabbi Holtz turned back to Clay. “Watch your step, Mr. Clay. We’re in Eames’ world now.” He walked onto the gangplank. Clay followed him. They headed up onto the deck of the airship. Clay felt strange, being so far from earth. Perhaps it was part of a golem’s nature—he didn’t like being kept away from what had given him birth. Still, he followed Rabbi Holtz onto the deck.

  An airship crewman, dressed smartly in a blue coat with brass buttons and a peaked cap, met them on the deck. “This way, please—and welcome to the Heavenly Chariot.” He stepped through a gilded door, and into a stately dining room surrounded by high windows overlooking the clouds. A meal had been set on the white tablecloth, with a maid carefully filling tall crystal glasses with illegal wine, while a cook spooned some steaming meat in a creamy sauce on each plate. The other guests had already sat down, and they glanced up as Rabbi Holtz and Clay entered the dining room.

  Edwin Eames, Grand Sagamore of the Wigwam Club and perhaps the most powerful political boss in Sickle City, took the head of the table like some proud patriarch overseeing a family meal. “Rabbi Holtz! It’s wonderful to see you—and it seems you’ve brought a companion.” He waved his hand to the meal. “You’re both welcome to the meal.” Eames had the fat, contented look of a prize-winning farm animal. He had short, wavy gray hair over a plump face, and wore a white seersucker suit with thin pinstripes. A stiff collar and tie and a diamond stickpin added to his wealthy look. “We have much to discuss.” He pointed to the other people at the table as Clay and Rabbi Holtz sat down. “I trust you know Mr. Sapphire.”

  Sapphire stared at his food and wine, without touching it. He said nothing.

  “And I’m sure you know Chief Rufus McNally, commander of our valiant officers of the law.” Eames pointed to Chief McNally, who had swaddled his girth in his dark blue uniform. His peaked cap rested on the table, revealing a few strands of white hair, which matched his red face. He sipped illegal wine with a smile and waved to Rabbi Holtz. “There’s Danforth De Vere as well, a leading member of Sickle City’s business community.” Eames nodded to De Vere who sat next to the police chief. De Vere’s eyes settled on Clay, but he said nothing. He evidently wished to avoid embarrassment.

  Rabbi Holtz nodded. “It’s good to see you all. This is my bodyguard, Mr. Clay.” He looked at the food and then back at Clay. “He’s not hungry.” That was a relief. Clay stood back, and didn’t have to move food around and pretend to eat.

  Eames waved his empty glass at the maid, who hurried over with the bottle. “Now that we’re all here, I believe we may address the matter at hand—namely, the nascent threat of unions in the police department, and the specter of an encroaching strike. I know we all watched what happened in Russia with feverish terror, and we may fear similar radicals arriving here.”

  “Agreed.” De Vere sipped wine loudly. “I, for one, would like to know what my elected and dutifully funded civic officials are doing about it.”

  Chief McNally jabbed his fork into the air, in De Vere’s direction. “Calm yourself, Fauntleroy. My boys won’t strike. You’ll find no Bolsheviks wearing police blue, and that’s a fact. No need for a union, either. A pay raise—or at least, the promise of a pay raise—should placate them and take the wind out of the rabble-rousers’ sails.”

  “No union, then?” Rabbi Holtz asked.

  “Of course not.” Eames snorted. “Do you know how I would look if I even listened to their demands? Why, they’d be painting me the deepest shade of Red in every newspaper from here to Kalamazoo. Besides, their requests are ridiculous. Do you think the city has the money to pay for new uniforms or to keep their living quarters sanitary?” He sipped his wine and leaned back, smiling as the sun crept in through the window. The Heavenly Chariot had doubtlessly been purchased with cleverly embezzled city funds. “No. We merely need to wait them out.”

  “What if they do strike?” Sapphire asked the question without looking at anyone. He still hadn’t touched his food. Everyone stared at him. “What if you’re wrong, Mr. Eames, and the officers call your bluff? What is our course of action, then?”

  “No matter.” Eames adjusted his collar. “I already have made preparations to hire a number of private detectives—the Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency.” Clay stiffened a little. The name ‘Sinclair’ was familiar. “They’re Great War veterans—good men, doing security work and combat unions as well.” He glanced at Clay. “Are you a veteran as well, sir?”

  “Yes.” Clay didn’t elaborate.

  “Splendid! Always glad to meet a boy who made the world safe for democracy.” Eames raised his glass of illegal wine. “Here’s to you.” He drank his toast and then turned back to Sapphire. “The Sinclair-Koots boys will maintain order. And even if they can’t, I trust you to keep the criminal element in line. You have pull with the Yellow Chinese and the clannish Italians, do you not?”

  “That may change.” Sapphire stared ahead. “With the circumstances.”

  “Well, Mr. Sapphire, please do your best to make sure that does not change. Under any circumstances.” Eames glanced back over the table. “I just wanted to put your minds at ease—which I have done. Are there any other concerns?”

  Rabbi Holtz sighed. “Actually, Mr. Eames, there are.” He nodded to Clay. “Tell them about the Dagger Men. You know it better than I.”

  All eyes moved to Clay. He shifted a little and looked away. He would have to tell them. “Yesterday, my friends and I were sent after some robbers who hit one of Mr. Sapphire’s shipments. We discovered that the robbery was carried out by an ancient sect called the Dagger Men. They’re Jewish radicals, thousands of years old. Today, they attacked the Museum of Venerable Antiquities. I tried to stop them, and could not.” He pointed to De Vere. “You were there, Mr. De Vere. Anyway, I believe that the Dagger Men are preparing to launch an attack on Sickle City. They may very well use the chaos of the police strike to enact their plan.”

  Chief McNally laughed. “Jewish radicals? What do you they intend to do? Swindle us? Steal our money?”

  “They are mystics,” Clay explained. “Master sorcerers.”

  “Sorcery?” Eames offered a skep
tical raise of an eyebrow. “I’ve attended quite a few séances. My wife loves spiritualism, you see—but it seems to be a lot of bell-ringing and table-rapping and nothing more. I’m certain we have nothing to fear from such charlatans.”

  Sapphire folded his arms. “There are stranger things out there, Mr. Eames. Mr. Clay’s helped me banish them, many times. We should listen to him.”

  “Naturally, I’ll take your warning to heart.” Eames calmly made his politician’s promise. “But I really don’t think there’s much call for—” He stopped suddenly and sprang to his feet. He hurried around the table and grabbed the maid’s arm, tugging her closer to him. His benevolent grandfather act vanished and he suddenly became the political boss who had held power in Sickle City for generations. “What are you doing here? You goddamn shrew, who let you onto this vessel?” He tugged her close, as the police officers in the corner reached for their guns.

  The maid shrugged. “A new career, Grand Sagamore. Nothing more.” The maid had auburn hair, cut in a classic flapper bob. Her eyes gleamed. “Didn’t you say you wanted that for me, after you read my latest column? By the way, I can conjure up quite a few paragraphs about the way you’re accosting me now. Unless you want to hurl me over the side of your floating pleasure barge, of course.” She winked.