I slept soundly, but it was not nearly enough. I was awakened by Albert at dawn. Sill drowsy, I dressed myself, and ate a small breakfast. Vincent must have been just as tired, as I heard hardly a word from him the entire morning. Albert delivered us to the station in downtown Boston, and our train departed promptly at quarter to eight. We both napped sporadically on the journey. The rest seemed to refresh my partner, but not me. As we walked the half-mile or so from the Arkham train depot to the university, my mood grew steadily sour, and I prayed I would not meet anyone from my prior life, most especially Professor Josephson. It was the middle of summer, and with hardly any students and few classes in session, it seemed possible to complete our trip without any unexpected encounters. Head down, I avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. Each passerby was a possible threat.
We arrived at the Miskatonic University Library just before noon, and without incident. Vincent had noticed a pattern in Doctor Trautmann’s daily lunch, which he had hoped to exploit. It could not have been better timed. We climbed the stairs and emerged onto the third floor just as Doctor Trautmann was leaving. He was still speaking with his secretary as we crossed the floor to her desk.
“…need to speak with him tomorrow morning. If anyone inquires after me, I will be at lunch.”
“Yes, Doctor,” replied the woman, glancing up at us.
The doctor, seemingly irritated by our presence, attempted to walk past us. But Vincent would not allow our quarry to escape that easily. He moved over to stand directly in front of him.
“Doctor Trautmann. Please forgive me for intruding, but it is vital that we speak with you.”
“Now?” With a disdainful expression on his face he shook his head. “Gentlemen, you do not have an appointment. It is time for my lunch. Please, step aside.”
“Doctor, please,” said Vincent calmly. “It will only take a few minutes of your time.”
“No.” He puffed out his chest as if to dare us to argue. “You must make an appointment with my secretary. I’m afraid that I cannot help you now.”
That was apparently the cue Vincent had been hoping for.
“You say you’re afraid?” He inched closer and lowered his voice. “Doctor Trautmann, there is more to fear than you could possibly know.”
The doctor’s reaction to those words was astonishing. He seemed to have nearly stopped breathing. His eyes grew large as saucers as he stared at Vincent. No, not at. The doctor looked through him. As if he was not even there.
“Doctor Trautmann,” said Vincent softly. The sound of his voice startled the man to attention.
“Yes,” he said sharply, gasping for breath and focusing on Vincent. “Yes. I’m sorry. I…” He jerked his head around, as if trying to orient himself. “We can talk in my office. Now. This way. Please follow me.”
He walked off quickly toward the immense doors to his office.
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Vincent graciously. As we followed our host, Vincent winked in my direction.
Doctor Trautmann held the doors open as we entered, then closed them and followed us over to his massive desk. As we all took a seat—we in front and he behind—I wondered briefly if he would remember me from our meeting weeks before.
“Gentlemen, I believe that you have me at a disadvantage,” the doctor began. “Why don’t you please tell me your names?”
Before I could say a word, Vincent spoke up.
“My name is Vincent Marsh, and this is my cousin, William Wentworth.”
The doctor nodded to both of us in turn. No attempt was made to shake hands. Indeed, the distance between our seats made such an exercise impossible. He acted as if he did not recognize me.
“We’re researchers,” said Vincent. “We study certain fields of knowledge that have been largely forgotten or ignored by the human race. Unlike most people, you, as Director of the Library, must understand that a great deal can be learned from the past, and that every detail must be recorded and retained in the hope that someday, some use may come of it.”
He paused, giving the man an opportunity to comment, but he was met with silence.
“Indeed,” continued Vincent, “it’s always possible that a seemingly trivial scrap can prove to be vital. It is one of those scraps that has come into our possession. We suspect that the secrets contained in our fragment will shed light on a question that has plagued the human race for millennia. But in order to corroborate our knowledge, we need to examine the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred and the Pnakotic Manuscripts. We are under the impression that both volumes are currently in your possession. It is extremely important we be allowed a chance to study them.”
The doctor looked first at one of us, then the other, perhaps expecting more. His manner, originally nervous and unsettled when we had entered his office, had changed over the course of Vincent’s speech.
“And what should I fear, gentlemen?” he asked. Enthroned upon his large, leather chair, he displayed no anxiety of any sort. “You stated that there is more for me to fear than I could possibly know.”
“Well, you see, there’s a horror that has existed for—”
“This horror,” he asked, interrupting Vincent. “Does it have a name?”
“Yes, but—”
“Gentlemen,” he interrupted Vincent again. “First, the Library does not possess a copy of the mythical Pnakotic Manuscripts, as any reputable historian or archaeologist will tell you that such a document does not actually exist. Second, your request to view the Necronomicon does not merit special consideration. All such requests are currently given the same response: No. We are currently not allowing access to any of those volumes. Only requests with some bearing on a concrete or immediate threat will be honored. If this horror has truly been threatening humanity for millennia, then it can certainly wait a bit longer.”
The doctor’s attitude was smug and fearless. Allowing him to enter his office had been a mistake. In this place, his authority was supreme. He wielded the power of bureaucracy from behind his desk. I saw that there was no longer any possibility of asking or persuading him.
“Do you, personally, consider Jebediah Higgins to be a concrete or immediate threat?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
The doctor’s transformation was a spectacular thing to see. His face turned ashen, as if he had just seen a ghost.
“What?” The word was barely audible.
I stood up, placed both of my hands upon his desk and leaned toward him.
“Jebediah Higgins,” I repeated, clearly enunciating each syllable. “He does not yet know that you are working behind his back. He does not yet know of the package you received from London yesterday.”
“Package? What package?” he asked nervously.
“Doctor, we know of the package.” An overwhelming confidence surged through me as I played the bluff. “We know of the Elder Sign you now possess.”
For a moment, his gaze went past us toward the door. As if he were measuring the distance between himself and his only exit.
“If you do not grant our simple request,” I said, my voice still calm, “we will go straight to Higgins and tell him what you have been doing. Everything.”
“You can’t!”
“We can. And we will.”
I stared at him, but he did not move. Vincent had only observed the exchange, saying nothing. I motioned for him to rise. Together, we turned and headed for the doors. My heart hammered in my chest as we walked away. The bluff was failing, it seemed, but any hesitation would have undermined the gambit. We were committed. As I reached for the handles, the doctor finally succumbed.
“Wait.”
We stopped, and turned to face him. I struggled to disguise my relief.
“I’ll do as you ask,” he said bitterly.
“We truly appreciate your cooperation,” said Vincent, taking control of the situation once again. “We shouldn’t need more than a few hours.”
Doctor Trautmann scowled at us. I could empathize with him. Vincent’s faux
politeness would have enraged me as well.
“Follow me,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Speak to no one.”
We followed him out of the office, across the floor, and down the stairs. On the first floor, he told us to wait on the landing, and he approached the main desk. We watched him confer briefly with a very young-looking man, who then accompanied the doctor back to the stairs. The four of us descended the flight to the basement.
Doctor Trautmann unlocked the door at the bottom of the steps and swung it open, revealing a long, straight corridor. He led the way, our collective footsteps echoing off the marble floor with a weirdly disturbing resonance. We walked for what felt like an impossible distance—much further than the length of the Library—before coming to a stop outside of an unmarked room. Trautmann removed a key from his vest and unlocked the stout, metal door.
When the doctor opened the door and turned on the overhead light, I was surprised by the stark simplicity of the tiny room. Against the wall to our left stood a single bookcase, partially filled with ancient texts; and to our right, a small desk with a blotter, pen and ink, and a single wooden chair. Doctor Trautmann went over to the bookcase, removed a massive volume, and carried it over to the desk. He set it down, then rubbed his hands together as if to remove some dust or grit. The book’s cover was a nearly featureless dark brown, almost black. There seemed to be some red and black markings visible—a title, perhaps, or some sort of symbol—but they were faded to the point of illegibility.
“The Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred,” said Doctor Trautmann. “I trust that your Latin is up to the task, gentlemen.”
“You need not worry, Doctor,” replied Vincent. He eyed the tome hungrily.
“This young man”—he indicated the final member of our party—“shall attend you in my absence. He will not interfere with your studies. You, in turn, will remain in sight at all times. And will not close this door.”
“Agreed,” said Vincent eagerly.
Without another word, Trautmann turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Vincent swiftly took a seat at the desk. He studied the cover for a few seconds.
“Human flesh,” he said with a faint smile. “The covering is made of human flesh. But in remarkably good condition for its age.”
This did not go over well with our attendant. He gulped and moved out into the hall.
Vincent paused to whisper a few words—I could not hear what they were—and carefully opened the ancient tome. I watched over his shoulder, as he turned to a section about halfway through the book, and started reading the Latin script. At the pace at which he turned the pages, he seemed to be reading at least twice as fast as I could. It was obvious he knew what he was doing.
Our original plan had called for me to study the Pnakotic Manuscripts as best I could while Vincent examined the Necronomicon. But with the good doctor’s revelation that such a document did not exist, I had nothing to do but wait. I looked over the other volumes in the bookcase, but did not take any down. Our request had been specifically for access to the Necronomicon, and Trautmann had someone accompany us probably for the very reason of preventing such browsing. In fact, it seemed very likely that the doctor would return shortly, perhaps with a security guard, or the police, or—possibly worst of all—Jebediah Higgins himself.
An hour went by. Then two. All the while, Vincent moved through the pages at an amazing rate. Most he seemed to read, but some he skipped over completely, as if already familiar with them, aware that they did not contain the information he desired. Both the nameless young man and myself alternately sat on the floor, stood still, or paced. No words were exchanged at all.
It was getting close to three hours when Vincent’s voice broke the silence.
“Found it.”
I leapt to my feet, and rushed over to examine the contents of the page.
“Robert, please!” said Vincent. “You’re blocking the light.”
Without looking up from the text, Vincent removed a small notebook from his coat pocket, and began to copy the information that we would need.
He had been busy writing for about twenty minutes when the doctor returned—alone, to my relief. He dismissed the young man, then joined Vincent and myself in the small room.
“Doctor Trautmann,” I greeted him. “We are nearly finished.”
“No, Mr. Adderly,” he said. The smug tone had returned to his voice. “You are finished right now.”
Upon hearing my name, I froze. Vincent stopped his writing, stood up, and moved to the side of the desk.
“I thought I knew you,” Doctor Trautmann said, studying me, “but I was not certain until now. Why were you trying to hide your identity? No, please don’t bother to answer. I’m sure that it would just be a lie.”
He reached into his right coat pocket and withdrew a small handgun. I took a step backwards. Vincent did not move an inch.
Still holding the gun in his right, Doctor Trautmann used his left to retrieve a crumpled white handkerchief from his coat pocket. Gripping a small bit of the material by only thumb and forefinger, he shook it lightly. As it unfurled, a greenish dust fell out and rained onto the floor.
“This is all that remains of that so-called package,” he said, kicking at the dust. “You now have no proof of anything. As I said, you are finished. Get out! Now!”
He held the gun loosely, but it was pointed directly at me. I felt myself paralyzed by the unanticipated turn of events. When that young woman had arrived at the bookstore, brandishing her knife and threatening Andrew’s life, I had been filled with dread. But this…this was something else entirely. Staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon was a novel experience. It occurred to me how much I had thrown away by stepping onto this path of vengeance—and now with death potentially a nervous finger twitch away, my very life was at risk. With the bizarre deaths of Elizabeth and Andrew, I had accepted the possibility of an equally horrific end, but never had I considered something so mundane as a bullet being the cause.
I likely only hesitated for a second, but it felt longer. As I made up my mind to move toward the door, I heard Vincent start to laugh. It began as a mild chuckle, but transformed into a hysterical roar. Doctor Trautmann was not amused.
“Stop it! Shut up!”
He pointed the gun directly at Vincent, who stepped forward slowly, still chuckling. The doctor did not yield any ground as his target advanced, but he pulled the gun back toward his body an inch at a time, until it had been drawn in as close as it could go. Vincent only stopped when the barrel of the gun was pressed directly against his ribs. His laughter also ceased then, the smile replaced with a scowl.
“You poor fool,” said Vincent, shaking his head. “Destroying that artifact was probably the most ill-advised act you have ever committed in your entire worthless life.”
The gun trembled visibly.
“Get out or I’ll shoot.”
The doctor’s voice wavered unconvincingly, even to me. But the reality of the gun, and who controlled it, and in which direction it was pointed…it all added up to sway me. Again, I almost moved, but stopped as I observed Vincent. What really happened next is impossible to say. I can only say that the impression it left on my mind haunts me even now.
Vincent ignored the words completely, seemingly caught up in some sort of suicidal madness. He raised his left arm, exposing the stump, and pointed it toward the doctor, nearly touching him on the breastbone. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I thought I saw an odd shadow fall upon the doctor’s chest. The older man twitched slightly, as if shocked. He clenched his teeth, and it appeared to me as if he had decided to pull the trigger. Both men were just out of my reach, too far away for me to grab either. I could do nothing but hold my breath, and wait tensely for the weapon’s loud report.
But the sound never came. Instead, Doctor Trautmann’s eyes suddenly went wide with pain. He let out an agonizing wail, and dropped the gun, clutching at his chest with both hands. He colla
psed to his knees, then tilted over onto the floor. Vincent simply stood above his fallen form as I rushed to the man’s side, but it was already too late. I could not feel a pulse. The end had come incredibly quickly.
“Poor fellow,” said Vincent, looking down. “The stress of the circumstances must have gotten to him.”
“The…the stress?” I asked uncertainly.
“What else? Just look at him. Not a mark upon him. He was old. It was plainly heart failure.”
He walked out into the hall and looked down the length of it. Apparently satisfied that no one had heard the scream, he returned to the room.
“But why did you advance on him?” I asked. “How did you know he wouldn’t shoot?”
Vincent looked at me blankly for a moment, then indicated the gun on the floor.
“He still had the safety engaged.”
Kneeling down, he slid the pen that he yet held in his right hand through the trigger guard, and picked up the weapon with it. He walked over to the desk, and carefully placed the gun at the back edge.
“I was hoping to force his hand, force him to try and shoot us. Too late he would have realized his mistake. Between the two of us, we could have wrested the gun from him. Unfortunately”—he pointed at the dead man—“his heart gave out first.”
After a final, dispassionate glance at the dead man, he returned to his seat at the desk, and resumed his writing.
“I only need fifteen more minutes, then we can go.”
“Fifteen—but what about him?”
“What about him? He’s dead. We can do nothing. And we certainly don’t want to be questioned by the police, do we Mr. Adderly?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, but still it shut me up. I paced, waiting anxiously for Vincent to finish. Every minute, I checked the hallway, expecting to be discovered.
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