“I have lived an interesting life. I am finished. You may turn around now.”
Pepper turned, a frown on her face. “You ought to warn people when you’re going to shuck off. It ain’t polite.”
Alessandra laughed. “I do not have anything you haven’t seen before.” She smoothed her dress and paused. “Maybe the proportions are somewhat different, but…”
“Yeah, yeah. Nice dress, by the way. Bet it cost a bundle.”
“It was practically a steal,” Alessandra said, with a straight face. “What do the papers say? Anything of interest?”
“Depends on what you mean by interesting,” Pepper said, sitting on the bed. She tossed a copy of the Advertiser aside and looked at Alessandra. “You sure you want to pay me to sit and wait outside this thing for you?”
“Yes. I might wish to leave quickly. I trust you can occupy yourself for a few hours.”
“I could occupy myself better if I were going to this party of yours. What’s the big deal about some stiff anyway?”
Alessandra sat back. “Someone found a mummy in Oklahoma. A place where mummies are not commonly found.” It was something of an understatement. While Alessandra was no archaeologist, she knew enough to know how unexpected such a discovery must have been.
“Might be a hoax.”
“According to experts, it is not.”
Pepper snorted. “Experts. What do they know?”
“Yes, well, hoax or no it will be worth seeing, I think.”
“Only if it comes to life, like in the magazines.”
Alessandra frowned. “Magazines?”
“Yeah, you know… Weird Tales, Unknown, Startling Stories, Unspeakable… that kind of thing. High quality literature.” Pepper grinned. “Got a stack of them this morning. Figure it’ll keep me going while you’re inside.”
“You… enjoy these magazines?”
“Why not?” Pepper said, defensively. “Got all the good stuff in them. Monsters, guns, romance – what more could a girl want?”
“Yes, what more indeed?” Alessandra looked at herself in the room’s full length mirror. Her clothes were as much a disguise as what Pepper was wearing. In Paris or Milan, she would have been indistinguishable from other women. Here she would stand out, but that could be to her advantage. People would remember what she wore, but not her face. “I myself quite enjoyed the works of Marcel Allain and Pierre Souvestre when I was younger. Bodies substituted for church bell-clappers, plagues of rats, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds swell.” Pepper watched her preen. “Where are you going to hide the gun?”
“I will not be taking the gun, I think.”
“Probably a good idea. I hear they got cops all over.”
Alessandra paused. “Oh? And where did you hear that?”
Pepper shrugged. “I know a guy.”
“You seem to know a lot of guys. How many police?”
“No clue. Why do you care?”
Alessandra paused. She trusted Pepper, but not that far. Not yet. And whatever the young woman’s suspicions, she was keeping them to herself. “Curiosity,” she said, finally. “It seems that they are taking no chances.”
“God knows why. Ain’t like nobody would want to steal a mummy, right?”
Alessandra hid a smile. “No. I cannot imagine anyone doing so.” She retrieved her hat and coat, glancing out the window as she did so. She paused, frowning.
For a moment, she thought she’d seen someone by the entrance to the park. A small man, hunched, in a black coat and slouch hat. But he wasn’t there now, if he had ever been there at all. She shook her head and turned back to Pepper. “If you are ready, we can depart.”
“It’s your nickel.” Pepper rose. “Say – something going on I ought to know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you seemed pretty uneasy earlier. The thing with the gun and all.” Pepper peered at her. “Does this have something to do with last night?”
“No, not at all,” Alessandra said, forcing a smile. “I am merely cautious. Now, let us go see this great discovery. I am eager to see if it lives up to the excitement.”
Chapter Six
Miskatonic Museum
Pepper smacked the horn. “Get outta the way!”
A produce truck honked in reply as it lurched past, heading the opposite way along the bridge at uncertain speed. Pepper thrust her hand out the window and tossed off an obscene gesture. The truck driver slowed and shouted something, but Pepper gunned the engine and sped off.
She blinked against the sharp light of day. Her head hurt and her stomach was making unfriendly noises. She wished she’d stopped for breakfast. Even just a piece of pie from Velma’s. Pie and coffee. The thought of food made the headache worse.
As they passed over the bridge, she glimpsed the oblong island in the river. It was covered in gnarled trees and thick underbrush and even at a distance she thought she could make out what looked like stone pillars rising above the treetops. She shivered slightly and concentrated on the traffic. It never failed. Something about the island always put her ill at ease. That was why she tried to stick to downtown, and away from the river when possible. But money had a way of making her break old habits.
Behind her, Alessandra cleared her throat. “Your employer had no objections to you acting as my chauffeur, I trust?” Of course, she didn’t look any the worse for wear. Pepper frowned. They’d had fun, the night before. It had been a long time since she’d had fun, let alone hung out with someone who knew she wasn’t packing the right equipment.
“Not so as you’d notice. Mostly because I haven’t told him yet.” Nor did she intend to do so. De Palma was a tiny tyrant. The head dispatcher of the Miskatonic Cab Company hid in his office at the fleet garage until it was time to bully someone – usually one of the new drivers. He was short, fat and unpleasant. Pepper avoided him as much as possible.
“Won’t he get suspicious?”
“Nah. So long as the logbook looks straight he don’t care.” The only good thing about De Palma was his utter lack of scruples. He ran booze for the local outfits, using the cabs to carry it to the buyers. Pepper had made those runs once or twice herself. De Palma didn’t pay his drivers any extra for the risk. It was that or lose their jobs.
Pepper honked the horn again, in a more amiable manner this time. She waved at the driver of another cab, heading in the opposite direction, back across the bridge.
“Friend of yours?” Alessandra asked.
“One of the guys.”
“Does he know? That you are not one of the guys, I mean.”
“No,” Pepper said, flatly. None of them knew, especially De Palma. God only knew how he’d treat her then.
Alessandra was quiet for a moment. Any hope Pepper had of her dropping the matter, however, proved in vain. “Why pretend to be a man at all?” the other woman asked.
“What?”
“Your disguise. Why bother? It is not illegal for a woman to drive, after all. And you seem competent enough.”
Pepper was silent for a moment. “It’s easier, is all.” She hunched forward, over the steering wheel. “Safer too. Not all of us got guns, you know.”
“Maybe you should get one.”
“And maybe I should get a rich husband while I’m at it,” Pepper said and looked out the window. Decaying row houses rose along the riverside. Overgrown green spaces, covered in thorny weeds and rubbish, broke up their crumbling grandeur. Even through the glass, she could detect a miasma of fish and industrial waste. She hated this part of Arkham. It seemed worse every time she passed through it.
Alessandra was silent for a moment. Then, “Do you want one?”
“What?”
“A husband.”
“No!”
Alessandra laughed. “A sensible reaction.”
Pepper glanced at her. “I can’t figure you out, lady. You ain’t like nobody I ever met.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
/>
“Take it however you want. No skin off my nose.” Pepper fell silent. She wondered if she’d made the right decision. Last night seemed like a different country in the light of day. Whatever Alessandra Zorzi was up to, it wasn’t kosher. Whatever it was, Pepper hoped it wasn’t going to wind up costing her more than it brought in.
Gabled rooftops and red brick became more prominent, the farther from the river they drew. The houses were older here, and larger. She could almost smell the money on the air. Not much call for cabs up here. Everyone had their own cars – and their own drivers.
The closer they got to the university, the nicer the surroundings became. She’d always wondered what it was like to go to college, but doubted she’d ever have the chance to find out. Still, it was pretty enough.
“Here we are,” Pepper said, as she brought the cab to a rolling halt. “The Miskatonic Museum.”
Alessandra looked up. The museum was an opulent, stately building on the edge of campus, with wide steps leading to the main doors. People milled about in front, and on the lawn, as if waiting to go in. “Drive around the block.”
“Why?” Pepper asked.
“If you insist on asking me to explain every little thing, we will never get anywhere.”
“I’m the one driving, remember?”
Alessandra sighed. “Someone might be watching. I do not wish them to associate us.”
“You ashamed of being in a cab, is that it?”
“No. Do as I ask, please.”
Pepper sighed noisily and took the cab away from the campus. She circled the block and parked one street over, underneath a tree. “I’ll be here when you’re ready, countess,” she said, somewhat petulantly.
Alessandra got out without replying. She looked around as she closed the door, her eyes coming to rest on a car across the street. Four men sat inside, smoking like chimneys. They did not look like students. Something about them made her uneasy, and she considered getting back in the cab and having Pepper return her to the hotel. But only for a moment.
Waiters navigated the small crowd in front of the museum, bearing trays of drinks and canapes. Alessandra pilfered a flute of what the waiter insisted was grape juice but looked and tasted very much like champagne as she made her way up the walk. Prohibition was less an obstacle to the rich than the poor. The doors were propped open by a pair of decorative grotesques, and she wondered how much they were worth as she stepped inside.
A large entry hall stretched before her, with a wide doorway at the other end and exhibits lining the walls. There was a set of stairs to either side of the hall, curving up and away, as well as several open doors, leading to smaller rooms, full of glass cabinets, exotic statuary and other bric-a-brac. Soft music emerged from one of the rooms, riding the tide of conversation.
There was already a crowd gathered in the central hall. Well-wishers, society boors and envious academics. One or two familiar faces nodded in wary greeting, others frowned or looked away. Alessandra smiled and wondered how many of them were staying at her hotel. It might be worth finding out. She filed the thought away.
“Alessandra?”
She turned. The voice was familiar – the flat, sharp face even more so. “Tad,” she said, warmly. She looked him up and down. He was taller than her, and older if only by a few years, with a lean frame and slicked back blond hair, parted in the center. “How are you?”
“Better for having seen you,” he said, grinning. Thaddeus Visser was from a fine old Knickerbocker family. To hear him tell it, they’d lived in Marble Hill since 1646. He was a client, as well. One of the better ones. He paid on time, and his requests weren’t too onerous. “How long has it been? Feels like years.”
“Two years. Rome, I believe.”
“Oh yes. You got me that saint’s bone I was after.”
“Keep it down to a dull roar if you would, Tad.” She made a show of looking around. “Never know who might be listening.”
Visser’s grin turned sly. “Are you here with glorious purpose, then?” he whispered. “Come to snatch an ancient Wampanoag treasure from the museum? Or maybe some of that Innsmouth gold I’ve heard tell of…”
“No, and no. I’m here to see the mummy, actually.”
“Really? Where are you staying? Not the Hotel Miskatonic, I hope.”
“No, the Independence.”
“How fortuitous! That’s where I’m staying. Not the penthouse, mind. Got to watch the pennies these days. The markets are a trifle skittish.”
“A shame. The penthouse suite is quite nice.”
Visser laughed. “I should have known. Only the best for royalty, eh?”
“More like the only room left. The hotel was rammed and I suspect the exhibition is to blame.” Alessandra looked at him. “A bit unexpected, seeing you here.”
“Sort of mandatory, in my case. I was actually one of the backers for the expedition. It was privately funded, no matter what the university claims.” He leaned close. “Between you, me and the bees’ knees, we were looking for Spanish gold.”
“Find any?”
“Not a dime.”
“Some might say a mummy is worth more than gold.”
“Not me.” Visser produced a battered cigarette case and opened it. “Coffin nail?”
“Thank you.” Alessandra bent so that Visser could light her cigarette. “Not worth anything then? What about publicity?”
“Not so as you’d notice.” Visser lit his own cigarette. “A few lines in the local rag, maybe a write up in a journal or three. Nothing serious.”
Behind them, someone cleared their throat. “There are other forms of value than monetary, Mr Visser.” Alessandra turned to see a stooped, older man, with thick gray hair and muttonchop whiskers studying them. He was dressed well, but in somewhat haphazard fashion. She pegged him for an academic, and was proven right when Visser introduced him.
“Alessandra, allow me to introduce Professor Harvey Walters,” Visser said, brightly. “Professor Walters, this is Countess Alessandra Zorzi.”
She extended her hand and Walters took it with old world courtesy. “Countess,” he said, in greeting. He studied her face. “Zorzi – Venetian?”
“Yes,” she said, somewhat surprised.
“I thought so.” He smiled warmly. “I fear Arkham must seem bucolic, in contrast. We are hardly a cosmopolitan metropolis.”
“Neither is Venice, these days.”
“Have you come to see the… mummy then?” There was something in his voice as he said it. A hesitation before the word. Curious.
“Indeed I have. I assume you have as well.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. When young Visser here invited me here, I immediately canceled my classes.” Walters glanced at Visser. “Though why he invited me, I have yet to understand. Especially given that I turned down his offer to accompany the exhibition on tour.”
“No reason but spite, I assure you, professor,” Visser said, grinning. “I wanted you to get a good look at what you missed.” He looked at Alessandra. “The professor here is one of the country’s leading lights when it comes to archaeology. At least to hear the stuffed shirts at Miskatonic University tell it.”
Walters looked uncomfortable with such backhanded praise. He coughed discreetly. “Yes, well, a pleasure to meet you, countess. Perhaps we will have time to speak again, after the exhibition.” With that, he turned away and shuffled into the crowd. Alessandra slapped Visser’s arm.
“That was uncalled for.”
“What? The old goat had it coming.” Visser blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I offered him a great opportunity, and what did he do? Threw me out of his office.”
“To be fair, you just got done saying you didn’t find anything of value.”
“Not to me, obviously. But to science?” Visser scratched his cheek. “I mean, look at this crowd. Bigwigs from Miskatonic, Harvard, Yale… even my alma mater Empire State sent a few representatives. I recognize faces from half a dozen amateur archaeologi
cal societies.” He turned, using his cigarette as a pointer. “The state folklorist, a congressman, and – yes – that’s one of JD Rockefeller’s representatives. And look there, the fellow in the monocle, that’s Walsted, the curator.”
“Quite the crowd,” Alessandra said.
“Truth to tell, I’m a bit out to sea with all of this. Not my sort of thing.”
“Then why come?”
“Same reason as you, I imagine – curiosity.” He gestured towards the far doors. “Looks like we’re about to begin. Finally. I was getting tired of necking cheap champagne.”
A tall man, with iron-gray hair, and a tailored suit, stepped out of the room and tapped a champagne glass with a spoon, signaling for silence. The crowd quieted down in stages. The man smiled and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Matthew Orne and it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to the Miskatonic Museum.”
Chapter Seven
Exhibition
“Thank you all for coming.” Orne had a strong voice, clarion clear in the great hall. “I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces, and new ones as well. Professors Ashley and Freeborn, the men responsible for this momentous discovery, are just making some final adjustments to the exhibit. As you all know, our… friend will only be here for a short time, before beginning a tour of the States, and possibly Europe.”
Alessandra raised an eyebrow. Mummies, it seemed, were as popular now as they had been during the previous century. Then again, it had only been a few years since Howard Carter had pulled poor Tutankhamen from his centuried sleep. She was surprised there weren’t more reporters here. Photographers clustered at the doors like crows, flashbulbs popping.
Orne raised his glass. “And I’d like to take a moment to thank Harold Walsted, the curator for this fine museum. Take a bow, Harry!” Walsted, beaming in delight, waved a hand, and the crowd applauded.
Orne, Alessandra thought. “Why does that name sound familiar?” She watched him continue to speak, thanking various people. He really was very good. A nice smile went a long way here.
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