Herald of Ruin, page 3
part #2 of The Sanford Files Series
“I’ll break up the crate and toss it in the river, make like this box never made it from the last stop,” Tick said.
“I have total faith in your methods. See you next time, Ticky. Enjoy your magazine.”
“Oh, I will.”
Ruby kept to the shadows on her way out and managed to avoid getting cracked on the back of the head and having her bag stolen. She got into her car and drove through the deserted streets toward French Hill, parking right outside the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded the fading grandeur of the Silver Twilight Lodge.
It was hard to believe that she’d broken into this place to pillage its vaults, not once, but twice, most recently in the company of her friends Abel and Diana. Both of them had demonstrated their good sense by leaving Arkham, heading west to live someplace that didn’t touch the sea, but Ruby had stuck around, tempted by the opportunities provided by working with Carl Sanford, instead of against him. She still didn’t like going into the Lodge, but Sanford had insisted she bring the treasure straight to him, and it wasn’t like she had to go into the strangely vast basements. Those, she’d avoid forever if she could.
She wanted to stay on Sanford’s good side, and not just because of the money. Now that she had a true understanding of the terrible things that lurked beneath the surface of the world, sticking close to someone powerful enough to stop those monsters seemed like a good idea. Sanford had his issues, but he was formidable, and he took care of his allies… as long as they stayed useful to him, anyway.
Ruby got out of the car and went to the iron gates. They opened when she shoved, hinges squealing, and she stepped onto the path of paving stones crowded by the long grasses growing wild on either side. The Lodge looked like a great house that was beginning to crumble, its grounds extensive but unkempt. Sanford called it “protective coloration.” There was no reason to let outsiders know the Lodge was one of the most luxurious and well-appointed houses on the hill, after all.
Ruby carefully stayed on the center of the path. There were dogs hidden in those grasses – or, anyway, things that looked like dogs. Ruby had never satisfied herself fully regarding the true nature of the hounds, but had decided that, on balance, she preferred ignorance anyway.
The Lodge Warden, Sarah Van Shaw, was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair on the porch by the front door. She wasn’t knitting, or reading by lamplight, or sipping a cup of tea; she was just sitting, hands folded on her lap, eyes fixed ahead and unmoving, like a life-sized doll of herself.
“Good evening, Ms Van Shaw,” Ruby said.
“Cheeky,” Van Shaw murmured, looking Ruby up and down. The warden had long red hair and green eyes, and wore a well-made but old and unfashionable dress. “I suppose you’re here to see the master.”
“He’s expecting me. But I’m in no hurry. We could pass a pleasant half hour in conversation, maybe play a few hands of cards, swap stories. Did you do something to your hair? Say, are you seeing anyone? Got a new beau I don’t know about?”
Van Shaw didn’t smile, exactly, but she showed her teeth. “You are welcome here, Ruby Standish, though you are not a member of the Order. It would be in your best interests if you made some efforts to remain welcome.”
Ruby should have left it at that, but this woman was an enigma, and Ruby couldn’t resist trying to unravel those. It was a character trait that had gotten her into trouble more than once. But what was life if not a series of troubles, and the effort to get out of them?
“Why did you join the Lodge, Sarah?” She leaned against a pillar on the porch. “I know you’re sort of the guardian of this place, and that you run that pack of dogs, but what do you get out of the deal?”
Van Shaw didn’t speak for a long moment, and then said, “I made my bargains, Ruby Standish. I made them with clear eyes and complete understanding… or as complete as I was capable of, at the time. I keep the Lodge safe. The Lodge keeps me safe in return. There are worse arrangements.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Go on in. The master awaits.”
“I just love our girl talks.” Ruby opened the imposing front door of the Lodge and stepped into the anteroom, where the splendor of the house began to reveal itself. A fire burned eternally in the great hearth, across from a wall of shelves that held priceless volumes, including a Gutenberg Bible and a few Shakespeare folios, though the truly valuable books were kept elsewhere, locked away from the eyes of non-members. There was a Chesterfield sofa beside a lamp, perfect for curling up and reading, though Ruby had never seen anyone actually doing that. There were little niches in the walls holding ancient statuary, valuable not because of their beauty but because of their age – mostly they were hideous things to look at, all bulges and spines. She wondered if the cup she’d stolen would be displayed in the Lodge, but she thought not. Sanford wouldn’t have sent her after the cup if it hadn’t been unusual in some way, and he kept his magical relics in more secure quarters. Still in the vault in the basement, she assumed, probably with increased security these days, but who could say for sure? Sanford had never been trusting, but since the Cult of Cain had pillaged his Lodge, he’d become even more paranoid and secretive.
She pushed on deeper into the house, traversing its well-appointed corridors. Despite the late hours, there were a few Initiates within, one reading in a corner by himself, and others murmuring together over brandies. The Initiates varied in age from wet-eared youths to grizzled great-grandfathers, but that didn’t matter here; only their rank did. They were the rank-and-file, members who’d never seen the basements. Not yet inducted into the Lodge’s vile mysteries, they were welcome to enjoy the dining rooms and social gatherings and believe themselves part of something exclusive, when they had no idea what was hidden beneath their feet. Most of them never would. Sanford inducted citizens he considered useful to his cause, but only a few knew the Silver Twilight Lodge was anything other than a run-of-the-mill secret society like the Masons.
The Initiates glanced at Ruby when she passed by, and as quickly glanced away. No one knew quite what to make of her – she wasn’t a member of the Order (she’d steadfastly refused induction), but she was known to have the master’s ear, so most of the Initiates thought it best to pretend they didn’t see her at all. Though the fact that she was dressed like a ragamuffin probably helped with avoiding conversation, too.
Sanford was waiting for her in his office. This was the room where he met with the Initiates and other honored guests, and it was the picture of a great man’s study, all dark wood and leather, but the real work took place in other rooms, deep below.
Ruby stepped into the office, shut the door behind her, and smiled at the man behind the huge carved desk. He was tidy and well put-together as usual, hair and beard neatly trimmed and touched with gray, dark gray suit immaculate, hands laced together on top of the desk. Ruby had seen him fight monsters in a cavern beneath the sea, and even then, he’d scarcely had a hair out of place. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured magnanimously, king of all he surveyed or might wish to.
Ruby dropped into one of the leather chairs positioned across from the desk and looked around at the tasteful paintings, shelves full of gilt-lettered books and assorted civic trophies and awards. There was even a framed honorary doctorate from Miskatonic University on the wall. “I always feel like I’ve been called into the headmistress’s office when I sit in here. Like I was caught smoking in the restroom or something.”
“I do nothing to discourage such associations with authority,” Sanford said. “Do you require a drink? Something to eat? A cigar?”
“Look at you, being the perfect host. You must really want what I’ve got in my bag here.” She patted the leather satchel.
He chuckled. “I am… more than mildly interested. I read about this cup many years ago, and when I heard this expedition had actually found it, and several thousand miles from its last rumored location, on an entirely different continent… My curiosity was thoroughly piqued.”
“What’s the goblet good for?”
“Accounts vary,” Sanford said. “But I’m looking forward to settling the question definitively.” He reached out with both hands and made a “give it to me” gesture. “Enough suspense. Let’s move on to the gratification portion of the evening.”
Ruby opened the straps on the satchel, lifted out the cup, and set it on the desk in front of Sanford.
He leaned forward, gazing at the cup, then reached out and rotated it slowly through a full revolution, considering every side. Then he picked it up, peered at the underside of the base, made a small hmm sound, and set it carefully back down. “This, Ruby, is not the goblet I sent you to steal. It is, in fact, a very good replica.”
Something clicked in her mind. Ruby closed her eyes and swore. “I should have realized. The nails, Sanford! The nails in that crate – they were all shiny and new, but the nails in the other crates were rusty. I can’t believe I missed that. Someone must have gotten to the crate first, pried it open, made off with the real goblet, and swapped in this fake. The original nails probably got bent or broken in the process and they had to use new ones to seal it up.” She groaned. “I’m sorry, Sanford. Really.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes or Poe’s C August Dupin might have noticed a detail like those nails, but no one else could have been expected to, especially in the dark. Did you meet with your contact at the docks during this acquisition?”
Ruby nodded. Sanford had plenty of connections all over town – all over the Eastern Seaboard, and beyond, probably – but his contacts tended to stay above the poverty line; he counted on associates like Ruby and his driver-slash-bodyguard, Altman, to handle things on the seedier end of the social scale. “Tick, the night harbormaster. He must have known somebody else got to that crate first! Nothing happens down there that he doesn’t get a taste of. The cheating bastard. I’ll go shake the truth out of him.”
Sanford shook his head. “No, no. I have great faith in your abilities, but I believe a different set of skills will prove more useful in the current situation.”
She whistled. “You’re sending Altman after Tick?” She shook her head. “Then I take back ‘cheating bastard.’ Make it that poor bastard, instead.”
Chapter Three
An Avid Reader
The next morning Altman walked through the narrow lanes of the River District until he reached the house he was looking for. He didn’t find the damp walls and uneven stones and trash-strewn alleyways especially off-putting – he was no stranger to slums and shantytowns, and even the poorest denizen of Arkham had it better than people in some parts of the world he’d visited. These people didn’t know how lucky they were.
Or, in one case, how unlucky they were about to be.
Tick Scanlon lived in one of the nicer dwellings, as befit his station – a little bungalow set apart from its neighbors on a fenced square of weedy lawn. The front door hung straight, and the roof still had most of its shingles: the height of luxury by local standards.
Altman opened the waist-high front gate and stepped inside, glancing around automatically to see if there were witnesses, though it hardly mattered here. The people who lived in this damp and squalid sector of Arkham had never willingly spoken to a copper in their lives, and even if the law did make trouble, Altman had a powerful patron these days. Still, there was no reason to let his professional skills get rusty. He moved swiftly along the path, ignored the front door, and went around the side of the house instead. Back doors were left unlocked more often, and if he had to break in, a splintered doorframe or broken window was a lot less noticeable in the rear.
The backyard held a wooden Adirondack chair painted in flaking gray, with a more-or-less flat stump for a table beside it. The latter held a lumpy clay ashtray overflowing with butts. The chair had a view of nothing but the tall boards of the back fence with moss growing up them. Did Scanlon sit back here and watch the grass grow? No, wait, he was a reader, Ruby said. Probably posted himself back here and smoked and perused. Altman himself hadn’t voluntarily read anything since he left school at age twelve. Life was his library.
The windows at the back of the house were shaded, but the back door was indeed unlocked. Altman eased it open and peeked into a dirty bachelor’s kitchen. No sign of Scanlon, but he was probably sleeping, since he worked the night shift. Altman closed the door quietly behind him and stole into the dim house. It wasn’t a big place, and he sussed out the layout immediately – kitchen in the back, then a small corridor with a bathroom on one side and a bedroom on the other, and the living room up front. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and light flickered inside, casting colored blobs on the hallway’s walls. Altman frowned. That wasn’t candlelight or lamplight. Did Scanlon have a toy magic lantern in there or something?
Altman crept silently down the hall, one hand drawing a sap from his coat pocket. Just a pouch full of lead birdshot, with a leather handle attached, good for putting out lights or breaking the odd wrist. He ducked low and peeked through the crack in the door, into the bedroom inside.
Scanlon was sitting on his bed – a mattress on the floor, really – with his back against the wall, gazing at something glowing in his lap, colorful lights flickering across his slack face. The bedroom floor was filled with haphazard stacks of pulp magazines, some nearly waist high, and more magazines covered the top of a dresser, and stuffed a makeshift shelf constructed from bricks and boards. Scanlon seemed to be holding a magazine open on his lap, but magazines didn’t glow.
Altman stood up. The man looked practically hypnotized, mouth gaping open, and even if he’d been watchful and alert, he wasn’t much of a threat – out of shape, in an undershirt and gray boxer shorts, big toe poking out of a hole in one of his socks. Altman gave the door a kick and strode inside, slapping the blackjack against his open palm… but Scanlon didn’t even look up.
“Scanlon. Tick. Hey.” Altman kicked the end of the mattress, and Scanlon finally lifted his eyes from the thing in his lap. Altman tried not to look at the glowing object too closely himself. For all he knew, it might turn him into a drooling fool like Scanlon. He’d seen stranger things.
Tick slapped the thing shut and shoved it under a pillow. It was a magazine, or at least, it looked like one. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” The questions were spoken mildly, without heat, and Scanlon still seemed vague around the eyes, though it was harder to see his expression in the dim light creeping in from around the window shade.
“You made a deal with my associate last night,” Altman said. “You helped her acquire a certain cup. Except you didn’t, did you? The cup was a fake. Somebody stole the real one before she even got there.” Which was pretty impressive, Altman thought. Sanford usually had the best information, and Ruby was no laggard herself, as far as he could tell. There was a new player in town. Was it this guy Tillinghast they’d been casting around for? Seemed likely.
Scanlon gazed up at Altman, making no effort to rise from his vulnerable position. “Oh. Yes. Ruby. Right. Sorry.”
“Sorry? You cheated us, Tick.”
He shook his head. “She paid me to… let her open a crate… and take what she found. That’s what I did. No cheating.”
“People in my line of work don’t care too much for, what do you call it, semantics. You knew someone else stole the real cup first, didn’t you?”
Scanlon became slightly more animated, shaking off some of his strange torpor. “Look, buyer beware, and all that. I don’t have some exclusive arrangement with Ruby. Somebody else made me an offer, and… and I took it…” He looked away from Altman, incredibly, and at the pillow where he’d stashed his magazine.
“You’re going to make this right, Tick. Why do they call you that, anyway? Is it because you’re all bloated up and full of blood? Maybe we’ll see how much blood, eh?”
Scanlon wrenched his gaze away from the pillow. “What? No. Just go away. I was reading.”
Enough. Altman reached down, grabbed Scanlon under his armpits, and hauled him out of bed, throwing him onto the floor and knocking over a pile of Black Mask and Adventure. Scanlon tried to get up, and Altman booted him in the ribs. “Who took the cup? Who paid you off?”
The harbormaster cowered, holding up his hands to shield his head. “I never saw her before! She had long black hair in braids, and she was wearing a black dress, she had silver bracelets, I remember her fingernails were painted purple, but I don’t know her, I never saw her before!”
That didn’t sound like Tillinghast. Huh. “Not good enough, Tick. You did business with a stranger you’d never met before, with nobody to vouch for her? You’re smarter than that, or at least, that’s what people say.”
“She…” He licked his lips and looked toward his bed. “She gave me the magazine. It’s the most wonderful… the stories… I’d do anything…”
Altman spat on the floor, disgusted, then stepped onto the mattress and kicked the pillow aside. The magazine looked ordinary enough when it was shut, some junk called Amazing Stories, but he was glad he was wearing gloves when he picked it up. You could never be too careful with these occult things. Sanford knew about enchantments. Maybe he could figure out where the magazine came from, or what had been done to it. Ha, maybe this Amazing Stories was what the detective magazines probably called a clue–
Altman was entirely unprepared for the ferocity of Scanlon’s attack. “No! No! It’s mine!” He slammed into Altman’s legs and knocked him to the floor, then began to climb up Altman’s body, reaching with desperate hands for the magazine Altman still clutched in his own.
Fighting was Altman’s area of expertise, though. He rolled onto his side, tossing Scanlon off him, and a moment later, he was on top of the harbormaster, his knees pressed into the man’s meaty chest. He tapped Scanlon on the side of the head with the sap, which was usually enough to get the job done, but the man’s eyes were wild, and his teeth still gnashed, so Altman gave him a harder wallop.
