Visser snapped his fingers. “I knew it! I knew you were involved in that.”
Alessandra waved the exclamation aside. “The esteemed comte, as well as his ancestors, used thievery to build that collection. And one of the victims of his rapacious nature hired me to steal certain elements back – elements he had previously pilfered from an entirely different rival. You see my point?”
“I think so. It all sounds rather like a game, doesn’t it?”
“My father said the same. And because it is, most of you won’t involve the police because you understand the rules. You hire someone like me to steal a thing, and then someone else hires their own acquisitionist to reacquire what was taken.”
“Acquisitionist, hmm?”
Alessandra shrugged. “I am not ashamed to call myself a thief, but some clients prefer a less… blunt term. So, acquisitionist.”
“Good word.” Visser paused. He set his cup down. “And you’re sure you had nothing to do with the robbery?”
“Tad…”
He gestured placatingly. “I know, I know. It’s just awful convenient, is all.”
“Not for me, I assure you.”
“Have you spoken to the police yet?”
“What a silly question. Have you?”
“Of course. Told them all I knew.”
“All?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“Not quite,” he amended. “They wanted to know why someone might steal such a thing, and I, of course, provided some illumination.”
“Really? And why might someone steal a mummy?”
“Any number of reasons.” Visser sat back. “Well, painters ground up mummies in order to obtain a particular ocher color. And medieval doctors thought mummies were a necessary ingredient to certain philters and curatives.”
Alessandra stared at him. Visser shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I do know some things, Alessandra. I’m not a complete twit.”
“I never said you were. Go on. Illuminate me. What else?”
“Well, there are my fellow collectors, obviously. The Victorians were loony for mummies, mostly of the Egyptian variety, and that tradition has continued. I know a few antiquarians who might be monomaniacal enough to hire someone to steal a mummy, if they had an open spot in their collection.”
“There were several familiar faces at the exhibition,” Alessandra said.
Visser shook his head. “None of them. The real obsessives rarely dare to leave their collections unguarded.”
Alessandra nodded. She knew that well enough. Many of her clients were veritable hermits – shut-ins, hunkered in expensive penthouses or isolated manses. Surrounded by the best security money could buy. She often amused herself by planning for how best to break into their retreats, even as they hired her. “And only a real obsessive would plan so sloppy an operation.”
“Or someone desperate. Maybe it’s some withered traditionalist who thinks mummy dust will cure his liver spots or something similarly ridiculous. Though why anyone would think that horrid thing was a cure for any ailment beats me.”
“It was singularly unlovely,” she admitted. She shuddered slightly, suddenly cold. She looked at her plate and pushed it aside. “Though I know of at least one person willing to pay good money for it.”
Visser frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t be helping you. Wouldn’t want to get into trouble with the local flatfeet.”
“It is not illegal to talk to someone, surely?”
“Depends on who you want to talk to.” He gave her a steady look. “Not me, I think. Not really. So who?”
“Professor Ashley.”
Visser paused. “Why?”
“He might know something about the robbery.”
Visser sat back. “You really are intent on playing detective, aren’t you?”
“I have a vested interest in this matter.”
“I bet you do,” Visser said. “Well, frankly I’d like to talk to Ashley as well. Only no one has seen the fat little devil since the robbery.”
“He is quite difficult to run to ground. That is why I need to speak to his employer.”
Visser frowned. “Matthew, you mean?”
“The very same.”
“And that’s all you want to do? Speak to him?”
“I am not going to pilfer his silver, Tad.” She paused. “What do you think Orne would pay to get his mummy back?”
Visser almost choked on his coffee. “I thought you had nothing to do with it,” he sputtered. He looked around, as if checking to see if anyone had noticed.
“I did not. But I am considering the merits of – what is the phrase – dealing myself in. What would he pay?”
Visser dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief. “Probably a great deal, if you could get it back in one piece.”
She nodded. “That is good to know. Thank you, Tad.”
“You have a line on it, then?” he asked eagerly. “You know where it is?”
“No. But I will soon enough. I simply wish to make it worth the effort.”
“What about whoever hired you in the first place?”
“That is my problem, is it not?” She let her eyes roam, taking in their surroundings. Arkham was strange, even in daylight. Something about it put her in mind of Carnival, as if the whole town were wearing a mask.
Visser frowned. “I suppose. Still, you might want to take care.”
“When have you known me to do otherwise?”
“Rome. Milan. Florence.” He ticked off place names on his fingers. “Half a dozen other places I could mention. Frankly, we’re all a little shocked you’re still alive.”
Alessandra stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. “You all… talk about me?” The thought of Visser and her other clients talking to one another was disturbing, to say the least.
“Not just you.” Visser puffed on his cigarette. “Sometimes we discuss the weather.”
Alessandra laughed. Visser shook his head. “I knew it,” he said, after a moment. “I knew as soon as you came to see me that you had a scheme. Someone hired you to steal the damn thing, didn’t they?”
“Does it matter?”
“A bit, given that I helped fund the expedition.” Visser sat back. “You put me in an awkward position, you know. Dashed awkward. I’d like to help, but…”
Alessandra leaned forward. “What do you want?”
“What?”
“What do you want, Tad?”
Visser turned, a look of hurt innocence on his face. “Alessandra, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She laughed. “Tad, you have employed me on no less than three occasions to acquire items of dubious provenance for that cabinet of curiosities you keep hidden in your library. You are a magpie of the outre. What do you want?”
“A finger.”
“A finger,” Alessandra repeated.
“From the mummy,” he clarified.
“I gathered. I will not ask why.”
“Bit of a ritual I read about. I think it’ll be great fun.”
Alessandra forestalled him with a gesture. “I am not interested. If you want a finger, I will provide you one.”
“You mean it?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Visser grinned. “That’s why I like you, Alessandra. You always have the right answer.” His grin faded. “I can ask him. Matthew has been somewhat reticent since the robbery. He was looking to make a big splash – but not that sort.”
Alessandra nodded and let her gaze wander across the street. Something had caught her attention – a glimpse of black, like a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly uncomfortable, she shifted in her seat and turned back to Visser. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Visser scratched his chin. “Matthew’s reputation in Arkham is… not what it once was, if you believe the gossip. He’s run afoul of an iceberg named Sanford.”
The name rang a bell. “Carl Sanford,” she said. “He was at the exhibition.”
“Yes. Tryin
g to stir up trouble, no doubt.”
“You mentioned that Orne had snubbed him, but not why.” She fixed him with a coy look. “Do you know more than you are saying, Tad?”
“A bit, perhaps. Sanford has most of the town council in his pocket – and the bank, and not a few businesses. An invitation to join the Silver Twilight Lodge is key to doing any real sort of business in Arkham – that’s not bootlegging, I mean. Turning Sanford down is tantamount to… to self-excommunication.”
“But Orne did?”
Visser shrugged. “Matthew has always had a rather inflated sense of self, it must be said. Sanford’s been poking holes in it for some time now. Not inviting him to the exhibition was as good as a declaration of war.”
Alessandra considered this. “Could Sanford be responsible for the theft?”
Visser shrugged again. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He peered past her, and frowned. “Do you know him?”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw a familiar hunched, black-clad shape sitting on a bus bench across the street. The man in black stared at her with milky eyes, but made no move to approach. A moment later a truck passed between them, and when it was gone – so was he. Alessandra felt a chill. Zamacona was keeping an eye on her. “No,” she said.
“Curious,” Visser said. “I could swear I’ve seen that fellow before. But not here – in New York. Must be a coincidence.”
“Yes. It must be,” Alessandra said, hollowly.
Chapter Eighteen
Cemetery
“I hate this place,” Gomes muttered as they carried the box into the mausoleum. The cemetery didn’t look any less foreboding in the daylight. Bones rolled beneath his feet and undergrowth tugged at his trousers as they set the box down on the broken, filthy floor. “Why we got to do it here?”
Phipps closed the mausoleum door behind them. The hinges creaked shrilly, causing both men to wince. “Because here is where he said, and since he’s the one paying us, here’s where we do it. Get that sarcophagus open.” He pointed at one of the three stone sarcophagi, done up in the Georgian style, that occupied the center of the mausoleum.
“You do it. My arm hurts.”
Phipps pushed roughly past him and heaved the stone box open, revealing a set of worn stone steps, stretching down into the dark. “Smugglers used to carve out these tunnels,” Phipps said. “French Hill – hell, most of this side of the river – is a big honeycomb.”
“Fascinating. How we getting the box down there?”
“You go first, I’ll follow.”
“Why me?”
“Because you only got one good arm, or so you keep saying. So I’ll support the weight, you guide me down. Good enough reason, ya mook?”
Gomes made a sound of annoyance. “Yeah, fine.” He paused, looking at the box. “Should we have left him there? Jodorowsky, I mean.”
“Did you want to bring him?”
“We could have put him in the river or something, at least. Respectful, you know?”
Phipps grunted. “We didn’t have time, and you know it. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining about leaving Pulanski behind.”
“Pulanski was an asshole.”
“So are you. So am I.” Phipps crouched. “Stop jawing and let’s get down there. I feel exposed up here. Sooner we got this thing hidden, the better.”
“We sure the cops don’t know about this place?” Gomes asked, as they made their way down, awkwardly and slowly. At the bottom of the steps was a tunnel of brick and hardpacked soil that reminded Gomes of a sewer. The air smelled of damp and dirt and worse things. It wasn’t a good smell.
“He said it was safe.”
“He said a lot of things.” Gomes stopped. “Someone’s up ahead.” He set the box down and reached for his weapon.
“It’s the professor,” Phipps said. “He’s waiting for us.” He cleared his throat and called out. A light danced across the walls and floor a moment later. Someone had turned on a lantern or flashlight.
“This way,” a voice called, echoing eerily in the dark.
“You sure that’s him?” Gomes asked.
“Just pick up your end and start moving,” Phipps said, harshly. Gomes did as he said, and they started down the tunnel. He could make out a sort of soft, scurrying sound in the background, like rats. Gomes didn’t much like rats, or cemeteries. Or dead things in boxes.
He tried not to think about Jodorowsky, or what had happened to him. Phipps insisted it was an accident, and Gomes wanted to believe him, but sometimes the box shifted in his grip in an unsettling way. As if the thing inside were stirring. The sooner they were shed of it, the sooner he was out of Arkham, the better.
“Where are you, fat boy?” he called out.
“I… I’m here,” Professor Ashley said, swinging a light so they could see it. “Through here. I’ve got a lantern set up. Watch your step.”
“Why?” Gomes asked, just before he stumbled on a loose femur. There were bones scattered all over this part of the tunnel. In the dim light of Ashley’s lantern, he saw oblong shapes that might have been coffins protruding from the curtain of roots that obscured this part of the tunnel wall. He shuddered and averted his eyes.
At the end of the tunnel was a reinforced archway. Beyond it was a larger space – a chamber. Stacks of broken coffins were pressed against the walls, and loose bones lay scattered across the floor. “What the hell is this place?” Gomes breathed.
“A… a bier of sorts. A waiting room for the dead.” Ashley stepped into view, lifting a lantern. He set it atop a small stack of coffins and turned it up, washing back the shadows. “I – we – thought it was appropriate.”
“Uh huh,” Phipps said, noncommittally.
“Were you followed?” Ashley asked tremulously. He was perspiring freely, despite the chill of the tunnel. Gomes thought he resembled an overfed weasel. A nervous weasel. “Only I thought I saw someone lurking. I keep hearing noises.”
“No,” Phipps said, flatly. “We know our business. Where is he?”
Ashley looked away. “Not here.”
“When?” Gomes demanded.
“Tomorrow, I assure you. Have no fear, he wants this affair completed as much as you fellows. I… ah – weren’t there three of you?”
It was Phipps’ turn to look away. “There was an… incident.”
Ashley tensed. “It’s not damaged, is it?”
“See for yourself.” Phipps opened the box. Gomes took an instinctive step back. Part of him was expecting the thing to jump out. But it stayed where it was. Ashley peered inside warily. Maybe he was expecting it to move as well.
“There’s blood on it,” he said, horrified. “And its bindings are loose!”
“I told you… there was an incident.” Phipps looked at Gomes, who shrugged. “Jodorowsky tripped.”
Ashley was silent for a time, digesting this. Finally, he said, “There were accidents in Oklahoma as well. The body?”
“Not an issue.”
Ashley frowned, but nodded. “I’ll need to look it over. To make sure you haven’t damaged it. It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“And then we get our money?”
“Tomorrow, as I said. You can sleep here tonight. There’s food and alcohol. I took the liberty of bringing some newspapers.” He smiled nervously.
“Sleep here?” Gomes repeated. “You must be joking. I ain’t sleeping here.”
“Shut up,” Phipps snapped.
“You’re free to leave,” Ashley said quickly. “The thing will be perfectly safe here. No one knows about this place. That’s why I – we – assumed you might like to… ah… lay low. But if not…”
“We’ll be fine here,” Phipps said. “We’ve slept in worse places.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gomes muttered. “I got to get out of here.”
Phipps rounded on him. “And leave me with the damn mummy? No, I don’t think so.”
“Listen, you come with me. It’s safe here, you heard the prof
essor. Nobody will bother it. I got to see Wilma. Tell her to start packing. I want us out of Arkham tomorrow.”
Phipps shook his head. “Are you nuts? You’d risk everything just to see some goddamn dame?”
“You ain’t seen Wilma.”
Phipps leaned close, teeth bared. “By now McTyre knows who pulled that job. He’s going to have guys looking for us all over. You think he doesn’t know about her?”
“I don’t care what he knows.” Gomes patted the holstered shape of his pistol. “I’m a better shot than any of the other guys, even with a bum wing. And I’ll keep an eye open – I’m not stupid.”
“Evidence to the contrary,” Phipps said.
Gomes frowned. “Won’t be none of McTyre’s guys at the Tick-Tock Club. That’s Donohue’s place and you know how he feels about the O’Bannions.”
“Yeah, and as far as he knows, you’re still working for them. So maybe think about it a bit, huh?”
“Donohue knows me,” Gomes said. “I’m going to see Wilma, and you ain’t stopping me, Phipps. Not unless you want to get rough about it. But I’m not in the mood for rough right now.” He folded back the edge of his jacket, letting the butt of his pistol poke forward in a belligerent fashion. “What about you?”
Phipps stared at him. “How long?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll bring you a doughnut.” Gomes looked past him, to Ashley, who was watching their confrontation with wide, staring eyes. Fishy eyes. “What about you, fat boy? Want a doughnut?”
“Go if you’re going,” Phipps spat. “But if you want your goddamn money you’ll be back here tomorrow when we make the exchange. And I swear to God, if you bring the cops down on us – I’ll kill you myself.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gomes started to turn away, but paused. “Try not to have an accident like Jodorowsky did, huh? I’d hate to come back to that.” He didn’t wait for Phipps’ reply. Whistling, he strode back along the tunnel, already imagining the look on Wilma’s face when he told her about the money.
And though the shadows seemed to deepen around him, he pretended not to notice.
Wrath of N'kai Page 14