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"The House of Leather Masks"
"The House of Leather Masks"
10/21/1923-10/27/1923
I.
The ragged ten year old in knickers held up a single paper from the bundle at his feet. "Extra! Another faceless corpse found in the Bowery! Police furious. Read about it while the ink's still wet!"
Moving around from behind him was a tall man in a lightweight tan suit which hung loosely over a gaunt frame. He handed the newsboy a nickel and took a fresh paper from the stack without saying anything. Seeing that expressionless face with the intense blue eyes burning beneath heavy brows, the boy snatched up the papers and scampered quickly up the block. A bolt of fear had run up his spine and he had no idea why, but he wanted to get away.
The man studied the NEW YORK HERALD, from its headline in enormous type to the single smudged photo on the second page of a face the city's financial wizards would recognize. His face remained emotionless as his eyes moved. Enoch Whelan was not bad-looking with his straight nose and prominent chin, the slicked-back black hair and sharp eyes behind round-lensed glasses. But something about him had frightened that urchin who lived on the streets and who was not easily alarmed.
"Whelan, old chum! There you are. I'm glad I found you in time for lunch." Approaching him was an older man with a substantial belly that stretched the front of his shirt into a circle. He also had black hair and blue eyes, but a jovial grin removed any resemblance between the two.
"Hello, Prewitt." Like the face, Whelan's voice displayed no emotion beyond a polite attempt at interest. "I take it you have heard of this latest outrage?"
"What, before lunch? I should think not. Come on, dear boy. The Crescent is around the corner and a table awaits us. Their chef is beyond reproach."
"Let's go then." Whelan placed the newspaper on the lower steps of a stoop as they passed. They strolled up to a doorway beneath an awning which read CRESCENT CLUB in ornate script and the stylized logo of a mere sliver of a moon. A uniformed black man with immense reserve held the door for them.
"Thank you, Claudius," Prewitt murmured. "You know Mr Whelan, I believe?"
"Yes suh, the gentleman has been here before."
"Good, good." The two of them passed through a foyer decorated with an original oil by Jervas and entered a dining room elegant with understated simplicity. The linen was spotless and the cutlery gleamed, the carpet was thick and the chandelier blazed overhead but it was all subdued and not garish. Prewitt and Whelan were ushered to a table under a window which looked out at a busy Park Avenue.
A carafe of ice water was placed between them and the waiter filled their tumblers before moving on. "We can have some wine if you like," Prewitt said. "That Volstead nonsense doesn't apply here, the Crescent is from a more sensible time."
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary." Whelan studied the patrons of that dining room like a tiger selecting prospects from a herd of overfed lazy sheep. "You've already ordered for us both, I take it?"
"Yes, yes, I arranged everything yesterday. Enoch, what is eating at you? I never could read your damned poker face but even so, you're taut as a piano cord. Just once, lay your cards on the table, old man."
"Barely five years since the Armistice," Whelan said. "People thought the world could come back to life again, like Spring making flowers bloom once the snow has melted. It was not that simple."
"I do not pretend I know what you endured in the War," Prewitt mumbled. "I sat safely here, attending board meetings and counting my dollars while you.. you..."
"While I flew over Hell and Perdition for four years. Yes. The Czar's police the Ogpu were fiends from the pits themselves but I met them on their own terms. The horrors I saw, the horrors I committed, are nothing your life could prepare you to see, Prewitt."
"I'm grateful for that. I was spared what you went through."
Enoch Whelan's lips barely moved when he spoke. The tanned face remained passive even as that voice resonated with passion. "There is a storm coming that will scatter your house of cards, Prewitt. Your stock market and your mansions and your estates are sand csstles before a thunderstorm. You will lose everything. Dance faster, the stage is burning."
"...What?" came a baffled squeak. "Your poetry has always gone over my head.'
They both went silent as the waiter returned, wheeling a cart with plates too hot to comfortably touch. Roasted patridge, served with a light gravy from the cooking juices, filled their nostrils with its tempting aroma. The side dishes were autumn vegetables and traditional game chips, very thinly sliced potato crisps.
"We can talk in a few minutes," Whelan said, picking up his utensils.
"Yes, it'd be shame to not give this splendid grouse the appreciation it deserves," Prewitt replied.
Ten minutes went by before the older man finally ventured, "I say, Whelan. Did you know I've been to our old hometown of Brimstone? I was in El Paso on business and stopped where we grew up."
"You've been there more recently than I have, then."
"I dare say. That small West Texas town looks more like 1883 than 1923. Horses and wagons, barely a single auto. Only one telephone in the entire town, in the sheriff's office. And I saw three men with revolvers in gunbelts. Extraordinary."
Whelan had nearly finished his meal. "There are still shootists out on the dusty dry plains," he said. "We both know. I was one of them. Listen, Prewitt, you don't follow crime news but you must have heard of these Faceless Murders."
"Senational enough. The tabloids are enjoying those lurid deaths."
"I know who is behind them," Whelan said. "Only I can stop these killings." He lifted the water glass again. "But I need your help and you should know that it will place your own life in extreme peril."
II.
Dorothy Clarke had finally cut off her long curls and gotten a bob. Now her straight brown hair reached to the nape of her neck and swept back up from there to touch each cheek. She had expected to feel regrets and even tears over this instead a wave of relief and freedom elevated her spirits. The calf length dresses she had worn a month ago hung untouched in the closet of her room at Madame Sophie's Boarding House. Her new skirts barely reached her knees, their straight low-waisted outline flattered her.
Was she a Modern? She didn't think so. Dorothy still felt the same inside. The money she had brought from selling the family house would not last forever and so she found herself sitting on a bench next to three other young women, waiting to be interviewed. Glancing over the competition, she concluded that her chances were very good of securing this job. Her long slim legs showed to good advantage in these fashions, her pert face had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and she had slept well the night before.
Of course, noticing the appraisals the others were fixing on her, they probably felt the same. Dorothy smiled politely at them while fervently wishing they would all get up and run out of the anteroom.
Finally, her turn came. As the previous applicant, a busty blonde with an unfortunately coarse complexion exited the inner door, Dorothy was beckoned by the grim old harridan at the desk.
"Clarke, is it? Dorothy Clarke?"
"Yes, that's right."
Depressing a toggle on the intercom, the matron said, "Next is Miss Dorothy Clarke, sir."
"Very well," replied a deep masculine voice.
After being waved on, Dorothy gathered her nerve and went through the door which had a frosted glass panel reading PRIVATE. She entered a high-ceilinged room with two wide picture windows revealing the impressive skyline of Manhattan. A massive oak desk stood against one wall of bookshelves, its top covered with loose unsorted papers, coffee cups and a tray holding crusts from a sandwich and one final half-eaten soda cracker. A pewter ashtray was filled past capacity.
Holding a pipe which gave off a pungent but not unpleasant aroma, looming up four inches over six feet in height, stood a powerfully-built man. He looked to be about fifty, with short-cropped black hair and a pencil-thin mustache under a prominent nose. But it was his eyes she could not look away from. Under shaggy dark brows, they were so bright and intense that Dorothy immediately thought he must have a fever.
She noticed his conservatively-cut suit was of heavy wool with a subtle pinstripe, his vest matched and his trousers had the single pleat that was becoming more popular. Everything was crisp and immaculate. He looked as if his clothing had been made expressly for him a moment earlier.
"Be seated," he rumbled, pointing the pipe stem at a chair in front of his desk. He himself swung around from the window and dropped gracelessly down into a wheeled swivel chair facing her from across the desk. "Dorothy Clark, is it? Very well. You already know I'm Mitchell Incarnadine of Incarnadine Enterprises. What makes you think you would make a good assistant to me?"
What a strange accent, she thought. Not German but European. Folks back in Omaha didn't show so strong an accent. Immediately, she answered, "I am twenty-four and in excellent health, sir. I can drive and type forty words a minute. I am energetic and eager to get a good start in the world."
Those burning eyes fixed on her eyes. How odd, she thought, she didn't find him even remotely attractive but the man had enormous charisma. Seeing he was waiting for her to continue, she added, "My parents passed away one year ago and I have no blood kin that I know of. Our property has been sold. So as you may see, sir, it is up to me to make my way in the world."
"Yes, yes. I see fire in your face. Spirit. Pride. You would work irregular hours, young lady. My affairs take me into unsavory haunts at times. It would be best if you keep silent about my business. Keep your tongue behind your teeth, as my people say."
Russian, she concluded. He sounds like Mr Abromavitch at the butcher's. "You will find I am most discreet, sir."
The huge man leaned forward, folding his massive hands together on the desk. Those deepset eyes finally released her as he looked down at a typewritten page. "We have the telephone number where you may reached, I see. Miss Clarke, my instincts say to give you a trial. Tomorrow is Friday, you will be here at eight o'clock sharp. You need not bring a notebook or other supplies, Mrs Ulhmer will supply with everything you will require."
As he rose to his full height, Dorothy leaped to her own feet. "Thank you so much, sir. You will not regret this, I promise."
The strangest smile played over that beartrap of a mouth. "I do not think I will. Until tomorrow, then." He bowed rather than offering to shake hands and sat down again. Taking up a fountain pen and some papers indicated she was dismissed.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said. As she left the office and closed its door, the world seemed to rush around her. She had not been aware of the strange oppressive, almost airless, mood in that room. Nor had her salary been brought up. Well, she thought, the details of her employment would be worked out. And as for that ominous atmosphere, fiddlesticks! She merely had to get used to her new boss.
In the anteroom, the middle-aged secretary Mrs Ulhmer looked up. Could that be sorrow on her face? Why? Dorothy raised a hand in farewell as she left and knew she was not mistaken. The older woman was giving her a look of sad sympathy. But why?
III.
At midnight, Peter Belenov clicked on the overhead lights in his study and walked over to his desk. The walls were stocked with sets of the great authors, all in matching bindings. Quite dignified and impressive but a waste as he had never had time to read any of them. Chasing money had eaten up all his time.
Now sixty, still an imposing figure of a man with dark hair going grey at the sides, he dropped down in the comfortable padded chair behind his desk. He had already removed his white tie and undone the top button of his shirt. With a sigh of relief, he pulled off the stiff detachable collar. Before he could sleep, he still had paperwork that his office was expecting to be ready when they opened.
Belenov flipped open a leather-bound ledger and then froze, holding his breath. From behind the heavy curtains, a dark figure had stepped into view. It was a man in some tightly-wrapped robes of coarse material. From within the depths of a cowl, a strange white oval of a face could barely be seen and his right hand held a black-lacquered Colt .45 revolver. The Monk.
"Steady," Belenov said, not moving. "Whatever you want, we can work it out. No need to be hasty."
Hollow and sepulchral, the voice answered him, "You have done well for yourself, Colonel. That bloody courtyard behind the palace seems far away, does it not?"
"Another time, another place. That world is long gone."
"But not forgotten," continued the Monk. He stayed where he had emerged from the drapery, not closing in. "Families still hunt you. Widows and orphans try to trace your steps here."
Belenov tilted his leonine head. "You are not a countryman. Your voice is American. Sit if you will, tell me how you even know of that night."
"I was there! You thought me dead. But it is not revenge I seek, Colonel, nor is it reparations. I come to you seeking a mutual friend." The hand holding the gun was as steady as if braced on a wall. The muzzle did not waver a hair's-breadth. "Where is the debauched one?"
"What? Are you jesting? He has been dead for ten years now. The world knows that."
The Monk rasped, "What the world knows is false reassurances to cover facts too frightening to be faced. Some of his loot has been sold in this city. Your servants pawned an emerald from the Romanoff hoard, and I recognized its gold setting."
"No, no, there has been some mistake. I assure you..."
"Your valet sleeps deeply tonight. So does your maid. They did not taste the yellow powder I stirred into their meal. We can talk freely, Colonel. No one will answer your cries for help." In his free hand, the Monk held up a surgeon's scalpel, its edge gleaming as it caught the light.
A gasp escaped Belenov at the sight. He pushed his chair back away from the desk but did not rise. "I can not tell you what I do not know. Violence won't get you any information which I don't have!"
The robed figure took a single step forward. Within that cowl, the white-masked face showed no features other than a pair of cold blue eyes. "It is not strength of will nor courage which can resist pain," he said. "Nothing can. You WILL talk, Colonel. I ask a second time, where can I find the defrocked priest? Where is Morgan Lundborg?"
IV.
Prewitt was not sure what had awakened him. He sat up in his four poster bed and listened. What was that? Nothing more than a faint thump from the room next to his bedchamber, faint as if a pillow had been dropped, but there must have been something before that to have rousted him.
For a man of his standing, Prewitt only employed three servants. Shimatta, his chaffeur and valet, slept on the floor above him. Mrs Chapelle, the woman who served as cook and maid, went home to her family after seven and would not return until six thirty to prepare breakfast. And old Hendricks, the groundskeeper and handyman, was enjoying a three day vacation. Prewitt was not a demanding employer, he found this modest staff kept the forty-eight room mansion running well enough to suit him. He didn't feel he needed any more staff.
Especially now that he was going to be hiding so many secrets.
Sliding his feet into slippers and struggling with his crushed velour dressing robe, Prewitt shook his head at his own folly over agreeing to this Monk business. True, Enoch Whelan had always been able to talk him into ventures too risky for his own good, but this was unprecented. He stepped around the bed and unlocked the connecting door to his private bathroom, where he gave a start at what he saw. It was worse than he had feared.
Kneeling before the sink, turning on the faucet to blast steaming hot water down, Whelan had shrugged out of the coarse dark brown robes to be revealed in black shirt and trousers which were soaked in fresh blood. Strapped high up by his waist was a leather gunbelt with a holster on each side, the butts of the matched Colt 45 revolvers turned inward so they could be drawn easily with the robe open. He turned that expressionless face toward his oldest friend and the blue eyes were sharp and alert even through pain. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you, old boy."
Prewitt immediately sank to one knee, trying to examine Whelan's body to see where he had been hurt. "How bad is it?"
"Not half as severe as it looks," Whelan said. "A slash across the lower ribs, there on the left side. See? A sticking plaster will stop the bleeding well enough."
Getting back up with a grunt of effort, the older man opened a cabinet and came back with some washclothes and a box of bandages. He set to work. "Long but not deep," he decided. "Yes. By Gad, I haven't patched you up like this since our treasure hunting days. Remember that arrow you took by the Mexican border?"
"I was careless tonight! I won't be again." Whelan grabbed the sodden cloths and bundled them in his robe. "Your servants must not see a speck of this blood. I will scrub everything before dawn."
"Let me bring you some brandy, Enoch. Do you feel weak? Dizzy?"
"No. The flesh is damaged but not the mind. The Colonel talked before he lunged at me with the knife he kept taped under his desk. I should not have been so close to him." Whelan gripped the sink and levered himself upright, steady enough to seem uninjured to any observer. "I will know better henceforth."
"It's a dangerous game you play, chum. I feel you can do as much good through more legal methods. Here, seat yourself on the edge of the tub."
"This nation's prosperity is a soap bubble about to burst. A house of cards with a breeze blowing to scatter it. Others may think it will go on blithely untroubled forever, they can not see the disasters ahead. But the Monk sees!"
"Rest for a few minutes, Enoch. Where's my Duesenberg?"
"Parked in its stall again. I will sleep today in the crawlspace of your garage, Prewitt, and not emerge again until dark. There is a flask of water and some cold chicken there. I won't need anything else."
Prewitt sank down to kneel before the wounded man. "I have guest rooms which haven't been used in months, Whelan. Why not stay here openly? My servants would not think it noteworthy, you could take regular meals and we could confer at leisure."
"The Monk must remain a mere rumor in the badlands, a whisper between uneasy criminals, a shadow glimpsed from the corner of the eye. No one must suspect I am here. Whelan, more than your life and mine is at stake. You remember what I told you of that secret coven I encountered during the War? The warlock brothers Morgan and Clinton Lundborg have brought their black magic to infect America."
"I don't question the scale of their threat..." Prewitt began but he was interrupted.
Somehow, Enoch Whelan's voice had become hollow and ghoulish, terrifying to hear even in the mundane brightly lit bathroom. "I tell you Culte Rouge is corrupting souls and ruining lives not twenty miles from this house. The menace has arrived. Red Sect is here."
IV.
Why was it taking so long to wake up? Dorothy Clarke was certain she had tried several times to get out of bed but instead had slumped back down for a few more minutes. Her whole body hurt. Her head throbbed. Was she hungover? Over a year ago, she and her cousins had gotten soused on bathtub gin and the following day had been pure misery. Had she gone on a tear last night?
The bed felt awfully hard. Dorothy pressed down with one hand and touched bare stone next to her face. She wasn't in bed. Instantly her heartbeat raced and she was fully awake, blinking her burning eyes. What the hell? She was naked as the moment she had been born, lying in the middle of an enormous circular chamber lit only by two torches in wall scones. The floor and walls were of polished black marble, inlaid with strips of copper which formed symbols she didn't recognize. Dorothy swung around wildly, seeing no one else.
Articles of clothing were scattered about, both male and female. A single black sock, an undone bow tie, several straw boaters, even a long shimmering flapper dress with fringes.
Empty wine bottles lay where they had been forgotten. Her own modest garments were nowhere to be seen.
This was insane. It was impossible. Even at her most adventurous, Dorothy knew she would never have been so abandoned. She glanced down and saw purple bruises on her body and bite marks on her thighs. And still, not a shred of memory of what had happened. Gasping for breath, hyperventilating, Dorothy crawled over to snatch up the sequined flapper dress and pull it down over her head. Although it was too large for her, any covering was welcome. She finally lurched up to her feet and took in more of the room.
Around the encircling wall were thirteen high-backed wooden chairs inscribed with esoteric symbols. A wheeled cart held tumblers and shot glasses and unmarked amber bottles. Strangest of all, near the tallest and most elaborate chair, a chest-high ebony pillar held a bronze statuette of an armored man with a horned helmet, his right arm brandishing a mace. A fragment of memory flashed across her mind, she had knelt before that idol and bowed her head in submission. What blasphemy was that? Dorothy had been brought up a good little Catholic girl and that fleeting image shocked her as much as anything else.
Finally, her thoughts coalesced enough that she realized she had to get out of there. Were there any women's shoes about? Even if all she had on was this gaudy dress, Dorothy knew it was urgent that she put as much distance between herself and this hellhole of sin as possible. If she could get back to her boarding house and scrub her defiled body with hot soapy water...
A section of the wall swung silently open. She had not had a clue that a door was concealed there. Stepping through the opening was a big man wrapped in bright crimson robes that reached the floor, his head concealed within a deep cowl. With a booming roar of laughter, the man she knew as Mitchell Incarnadine threw back that cowl and clapped his hands as if applauding a song.
"Congratulations, dear one!" he told her. "Your petition has been accepted by the assembly. You are the thirteenth we needed to complete this coven. Your body, your mind and your soul are no longer yours to command. You belong to Red Sect."
The man held up a grotesque mask made of white leather and, the moment she saw that mask, all the nightmarish abuses of the night before roared through Dorothy's mind.
IV.
The elevator operator swung the handle on his wheel to click it shut and pressed the button on the panel next to him. "Twenty-second floor, sir."
"Thank you," Whelan murmured as he stepped out into a foyer with a service desk to his right and a row of glass-fronted doors facing him. He immediately spotted the door which read INCARNADINE ENTERPRISES and sardonic amusement gleamed in his eyes. The Monk felt the familiar weight of one Colt in the small of his back where his suit jacket had been skillfully tailored to hide any bulge. The same was true for how his sleeves concealed the extra thickness above his wrists where stiff leather cuffs each held four narrow scalpel-like throwing blades. Not many business deals were negotiated with such resourcs on hand, he thought.
In the anteroom of Incarnadine, two middle-aged sat on a bench and fixed unhappy glares at him on his entrance. Each held a briefcase. From behind her desk, a stern old harpy half rose and gestured at the unmarked door behind her. "Mr Incarnadine is expecting you."
Disappointment rose in Whelan, forced back down again. Too many witnesses. He would not be able to send Lundborg to Hell today. None of these emotions showed on his passive face. The Monk opened the inner door, seemingly detached and uninterested in everything around him, his killing rage throttled down for the moment.
A good-looking young woman in a rose-pink cotton dress was standing next to the massive desk behind which the imposing bulk of Morgan Lundborg bent over stacks of papers awaiting his signature. Both of them looked up at his entrance and Whelan caught both fear and grief in the woman's eyes. There might be some grievance there he could use.
"How do you do, sir," the Monk said as lightly as a real realtor might. He extended his hand and it was grasped by a hard dry grip that hinted at great strength. "I'm Lane Carmody."
"Of course. I'm Mitchell Incarnadine, director of this organization," said Morgan Lundborg. "Dorothy, please stand by if we need any notes taken. Won't you have a seat, Mr Carmody?"
"Thank you," the Monk replied. Without seeming to pay any particular attention to her, he scrutinized the posture and expressions of the young woman. Her hands visibly trembled. She leaned up against objects for support. Her eyes would not stay on Lundborg but fixed on a point to either side of him. Her shoulders were raised. Was Lundborg beating her or abusing her sexually or both? He couldn't say yet.
When he smiled at Morgan Lundborg, the Monk struggled not to yell curses and pull his gun on the man. His instincts were reacting the same way they would if a coiled rattlesnake was by his feet. Yet he began smoothly enough, "I came into a considerable sum recently and was looking for safe investment. Everything I've heard about your company tells me you're level-headed and secure."
"That's our policy," Lundborg responded. The sorcerer's heavy features showed alertness and interest, but he wasn't trying to appear warm. "Tempting as it is to take risks and to gamble with our money, I've always felt it wiser to keep on a smooth path. Slow but steady wins the race."
The two men discussed terms and interest rates and stock market shares for a while. Behind those bland faces, two sharp predatory minds took stock of each other. The Monk knew that Lundborg was aware he was facing an enemy across that desk. Even as the warlock dictated a form to his assistant, he watched the emotionless face of his visitor and a wicked gleam in his eyes could not be entirely concealed.
Dorothy read back what Lundborg had dictated, got nods of approval from both men and sat down at a chair next to a folding table which held a typewriter. She clacked away for a few minutes. Enoch Whelan remained silent while the form was being typed out. On the other side of the desk, Lundborg held up a briar pipe and asked if he wished to smoke as well. Whelan declined. Like drinking or gambling, smoking was a vice his disciple forbade him to indulge in. He was always in training.
Quickly enough, Dorothy brought the contract over with its top sheet and two carbons beneath. She handed it first to Morgan Lundborg. Then, deftly and unobtrusively, she slid a folded bit of paper into the breast pocket of Whelan's suit while her boss was checking the contract. The Monk did not react at all. He didn't seem to notice her action and Dorothy herself remained standing next to him.
"It all seems in order," the sorcerer grumbled eventually. "You do outstanding work, Dorothy, not a single correction needs to be made."
"Thank you, sir," she said, the first words she had spoken. She passed the form over to the Monk, who skimmed it less thoroughly than his enemy had.
After Lundborg had signed and initialed the form, Whelan did the same. He was given the yellow carbon copy while Dorothy took the original and the second carbon over to the first of two green metal filing cabinets in one corner of the room. The two men rose and shook hands.
"Please call here again in two weeks, Mr Carmody," said Lundborg. "I'll have a full statement by then. The next apartments in Flatbush should ready to open at that point."
"I look forward to good news. Good to have met you, sir."
As Morgan Lundborg sat down again, a smirk escaped his self-control. "You won't regret coming to us."
When Dorothy ushered him out into the anteroom again, Enoch Whelan felt that oppressive menace in the air drop away. The entire time he had been in Lundborg's presence, the feeling of imminent violence had weighed down on him. At the door to the hallway, Whelan lifted his soft fedora and nodded to Dorothy. "Nice meeting you, miss."
The face lifted toward him was young, unmarked by time or cares, but there were dark circles under the clear eyes. Her voice was barely audible, "Good day, sir."
Out in the hall, Whelan pressed the button by the elevator. It took an effort not to immediately examine the note that the girl had passed to him. The desperation in her bod language had rousted all his protective instincts. For the Monk's crusade meant helping innocents as well as crushing the wicked.
V.
Dorothy was awakened by a gloved hand clamping her mouth shut. Her sleep had been so troubled that she thought for a moment she was still in the vivid nightmares but the pressure holding her head down was too uncomfortable for that.
Against the dim grey rectangle of her window, she could make out the black silhouette of a man's head and shoulders. Unable to resist the strength in the hand silencing her, she sank back down onto her bed.
"You are not going to be harmed," rasped a hollow voice that sounded as if it came from a distance. "I am here to help you. Have you heard of the Monk? I will release you now."
Keeping her face low, strangely excited rather than afraid, Dorothy said, "I certainly h have heard about you. I thought the Monk was only a legend, a tall tale of the city. But you're real?"
"Real as justice," the ghoulish voice answered. "You know my cause. Where the police and the community can not bring down human monsters, I step in. I have been watching you, Dorothy Clarke. An evil society has crushed you under its thumb and you think no one is aware of your plight, but the Monk sees."
Sitting up as the hooded figure released her, Dorothy pulled the blanket up to her chin. "You can't help me. I'm a fallen woman, no decent man would want me now. Oh Lord, the things I've done."
"Do you want to keep other women from being ruined as you were by this society?"
"Yes! Yes, more than anything. Maybe I can redeem myself by helping others, you know. But.. you can't fight them. They're witches or magicians or something. They have abilities that seem impossible."
The Monk's voice had no warmth or reassurance in it, but its harshness made his words compelling. "I will put them in their graves, Dorothy. I swear it! Not one shall escape my retribution. Listen. You will obtain information for me and I will act on it. Your employer uses the name Mitchell Incarnadine but he is really the unholy brute Morgan Lundborg. A defrocked Russian Orthodox priest who now serves ancient, terrible gods known as Draldros and the Sulla Chun. Together we will end his reign of degradation. Do you agree?"
"Yes, of course. I'm not afraid. Once your soul is utterly damned, what do you have to lose?"
In the murk of that darkened bedroom, the robed figure drew itself upright. "These are my words, Dorothy. You will not see me around, I will be in the shadows and at a distance or behind you no matter how you turn. But I will be guarding you. For the next two days, you will look in Lundborg's office for certain small talismans. You will read his private papers. And on the night of the third day, you will tell me everything so I may strike Red Sect down."
"I must be careful," she said. "If the boss finds me snooping..."
"Have no illusions," the Monk intoned. "This is a perilous game to play. Your death would be neither quick nor painless."
VI.
Five days after her ordeal at the Red Sect initiation, Dorothy's emotions had regained some stability. The crying jabs and the violent shuddering had become less frequent and less intense. What helped was the thought she was now working to strike back at the warlocks who had put her through that ordeal. Carefully, stealthily, she made mental notes on everything suspicious that Morgan Lundborg said or did. When he stepped out, she serched the office a little a time, moving nothing, leaving no signs of her snooping.
Lundborg seemed pleased with her. The only allusion he made to that hellish night was a tentative suggestion she might go with him to a party held for investors at his estate. She had smiled politely and said she would be agreeable with that.
Mrs Ulhmer in the anteroom was stiff and remote to her the first day. Dorothy took her lunch breaks there instead of going outside. As she nibbled her meager PBJ and sometimes an apple, sipping a wax paper container of milk, Dorothy found that the older woman was greatly amused by slang. When Dorothy remarked that her landlord's new Stutz Bearcat was the cat's whiskers, Mrs Ulhman had snorted in delight. That broke the ice. When the secretary said she was too hoity-toity to dance, Dorothy had feigned shock, "Why ma'am how you talk. I had no idea you were a jazz baby."
At five of the the third day after the Monk had visited her, Dorothy signed out in the record book kept by Mrs Ulhman and said a cheery goodbye. Mr Incarnadine..or Morgan Lundborg.. had left earlier because he claimed he had to meet with a health inspector on the new apartments. Just as well, Dorothy thought. Every day when closing the office, she was apprehensive he might invite her to go with him. And that could mean another brutal frenzied orgy that made the ancient Saturnalias look like a tea party.
Every day, when something triggered a flash of memory, Dorothy either blushed so her face felt hot or felt so nauseated she bent over to keep from vomiting. It's wasn't merely the carnal acts she had been put through, shameful as they were, it was the blasphemy. Chanting oaths to forsake her Lord the Redeemer and the Holy Church, Dorothy had joined in the ceremonies of kneeling before a bronze statuette. Whoever Draldros was, wherever his kingdom of Faneral might be, Dorothy had pledged her immortal soul to him when she died.
Maybe a priest could absolve? Were deeds done under duress considered binding? She fervently hoped there was a way she could be saved. But she thought, as she clipped her way toward Grand Central Station, at least she was doing what she could to destroy this hideous Red Sect.
Back at her boarding house, she was in time to join the other three roomers in the dining room for leg of lamb with broiled potatoes and asparagus. Coffee and disappointingly small dishes of chocolate ice cream followed. Dorothy joined in the usual complaints and wisecracks, but without enthusiasm. As the landlady cleared away the dishes, the roomers started to regather in the main parlor to enjoy the comedian Rubert Reilly on the radio and to mull over the day's newspapers. The headlines screamed of nothing but the latest faceless corpse discovered that morning, washed up against a pier in the East River. That made eight such grisly finds.
Dorothy excused herself, saying she was tired, and went directly to her room on the second floor. A bathroom was across the hall, she had no running water herself, only a basin and a pitcher of clean water every day as well as a commode she was expected to empty and clean after use.
Strangely, breaking her usual habits, Dorothy Clarke did not change into comfortable flannel pajams and her gold-colored bathobe to prepare for bed. Instead, she drew from the closet the wardrobe she had planned for the next day at work. When clad in a denure dark pink cotton dress, sensible pumps and a simple beret, she frowned at herself in the mirror. What if the mystery man did not return? What if he NEVER returned?
Surprising herself, Dorothy made a cold hard promise to herself that she would break up this awful Red Sect herself. Even if it mean long years in prison, she would buy a gun and kill Morgan Lundborg as he sorely deserved. Dorothy made sure the single window in her room was unlocked and raised slightly before she turned off the lamp and stretched out fully clothed on her bed. Despite her expectations of tossing and turning for hours, she slipped immediately into a dreamless, restful sleep.
At only ten that night, a voice hissing by her ear woke her instantly. She bolted upright and slumber fell away from her completely. "You did come."
"Yes. I believe you have much to report," came those ghostly tones.
The dam burst when Dorothy began to talk. All of her fears and anger and anxiety poured out in a torrent as she related every suspicious details of Morgan Lundborg's life. Twice a foreign-sounding man with a bushy black beard and smoked eyeglasses had arrived andboth times Dorothy had been sent away from the office on some spurious errand. High up on a shelf behind law reference books was a cedar box contained a dozen polished bones which looked uncomfortably like human fingers bones to her, although she had not dare confiscate any. Some of the dull books on colonial history turned to have been hollowed out and contained smaller, delapidated tomes with titles like REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE, THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN and LOST SCIENCE OF THE ANCIENTS. She had never gotten the needed time to open those books.
But the worst she saved for last. One Monday, Lundborg had a visit from an iron works magnate that had turned into a shouting match. Dorothy had stayed inconspicuous, shrinking back into a corner. Finally the client, Hans Vandersanden, had stormed out of the office with a blaze of foul language and threats of future court dates. Lundborg had remained cool and in control of himself.
The next evening, a newspaper told that millionaire Hans Vandersanden, had died of apoplexy with no previous history of poor health. When she saw that item, Dorothy had gone into hyperventilation and could not calm down for an hour. It was true. Witches, sorcerers, warlocks, whatever you chose to call them, had genuine powers to kill their enemies from a distance. And she was working with one!
Through all this, the Monk listened without comment. When Dorothy finally broke, breathing heavily from expressing so much emotion, her visitor said, "You have exceeded my expections, miss. Well done. There is one more thing needed, part of Lundborg himself."
"Oh, I have that, too. I couldn't figure how I could snip off a hair from his head without his noticing but there was something else. This afternoon, I came back from lunch and found he was in his private bathroom. The sound was unmistakeable, he was clipping his fingernails. Then he received a phone call, told me he would not be back until tomorrow morning and left like the well-known bat."
"And the clippings?"
"I scooped them into a fold of paper. I still have them. I can't imagine him asking about them, it would seem so foolish, but I decided I would say that I merely threw them out with the waste paper when tidying up. But as God is my witness, I can't imagine what you would want with them."
"You do not see their value," responded the hollow voice, "But the Monk sees. I will take them. Thank you. You need to decide your actions tonight. I am going to confront Lundborg and his vile coven and send them all the land of ghosts. Will you come with me?"
"ME? To that place where they... where I.. Oh, I guess I want to go. I'm shaking with raw unthinking terror, believe me I'm not tough at all. But I have to be there when you finish them off."
Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could make out that he was wearing a plain white full-face mask of thin material. Two narrow holes revealed bright eyes that watched her closely. With the cowl pulled up and his white gloved hands concealed within the sleeves of his robe, the Monk seemed to be only a ghostly oval face floating in the gloom.
"You will be part of the attack," that eerie voice whispered.
VI.
Blazing pitch-soaked torches in wall sconces lit that ritual chamber with a fitful, unsteady glare. Around the circular wall, eleven robed men and women sat upright in the high-backed chairs and watched silently as the leader of their coven entered through a sliding panel and took his place. The chair to his left remained empty.
The members of Red Sect were bundled in silk robes of a brilliant scarlet, floor-length and bell-sleeved. Arcane symbols few in the modern world would recognize swirled over the robes in gold lines. Against the unbroken black of the walls, floor and ceiling, those robes stood out vividly.
Standing in the middle of that hellish room, barefoot on the black marble floor, Dorothy Clarke clasped her hands behind her to stop their violent shaking. She was robed as the Red Sect satanists were, but her garment as yet did not have the occult symbols woven in golden thread. It took all her will power not to stare at the unmoving shape at her feet, a man stretched out under a red sheet.
When their master was seated, the eleven threw back the hoods of their robes to reveal each was wearing a white leather mask tied snugly over their faces. The eyeholes were angled upward at the outer edges, the mouth slits curved to imply cruel smiles. Seeing those mocking masks staring at her made Dorothy shrink inwardly but she tried not to show her terror.
Even Morgan Lundborg wore such a mask but his voice was unmistakable. "Draldros, hear us!" he intoned. "Dread One, hear us! Lord of Fanedral, hear us! We humble servants will this night bring you a new supplicant to your worship, that we may see the day you return to this wretched world and sweep it clean. Brothers, sisters, what will come down?"
"The Walls Between the Worlds!" all eleven said in unison.
"We will see that day," Lundborg assured them. "Dorothy Clarke, stand at the ready. You have chosen to join our assembly and tonight the sacred knife will be placed in your hand so you may yourself provide the skin for your own mask. Are you ready?"
Surprising herself with how steady her voice was, Dorothy promptly replied, "I am."
"So shall I be done. Luther, the knife." When no response came, Lundborg called out more sharply, "Luther!"
Five seconds passed and one of the Red Sect cultists grumbled, "Confound that fool. He has one task to perform and he can't be entrusted to it."
Morgan Lundborg jumped to his full height, one massive fist raised. "I shall fetch the ceremonial blade. Supplicant, remove the covering from the departed."
Bending over, Dorothy yanked the sheet off the supine form and then instantly retreated back to the far side of the arena. Vaulting nimbly up to his feet, a thin dark form whipped up a black-lacquered Colt 45 in each hand and loosed a furious barrage of gunshots that swept the chamber. The Monk fired equally well with either hand. Every bullet crashed home in a head or chest of a separate Red Sect cultist as the Monk spun in a circle. Eleven bodies slumped back in their thrones or slid slowly to the floor.
Only one remained unharmed. Towering up in his fury, Morgan Lunborg clenched his hands and a lurid nimbus of gralic force crackled around each fist. "You! Cast out from Tel Shai, cursed by the Brumals. Disgraced the Army Air Force. You are hated by every man who ever trained you."
In that selpuchral voice, the Monk taunted, "I can live with that!" and loosed his final slug to punch a tunnel through Lundborg's face just above where those shaggy eyebrows met. Gory splinters flew away from the back of the warlock's skull as he spun around and fell headlong to the marble floor.
"Saints alive..." gasped Dorothy, her ears ringing from the gunfire and her nose stinging from the cordine stink. "Just like that. They are all gone, just like that."
Taking shells from an inside pocket of his robe, the Monk quickly reloaded both revolvers and returned one to its holster. "It had to be done quickly," he hissed. "Another few seconds and they would have reduced me with to charcoal with their magick. Quickly, Dorothy, fetch your clothing from beneath that bench. We must be far away when the police arrive."
Struggling out of the foul robe and back into her dress, she said, "I wasn't sure what had happened. You..you killed that servant Luther who was going to place the victim under that sheet? And you took its place?"
"I did," said the Monk. "Hurry. My car waits behind this mansion. We will be back in Manhattan within minutes. Of course you will not return to the office tomorrow."
Tugging the simple hat down over her bob, Dorothy hesitated. "I haven't even thought of that. I have no job, no references. Perhaps the police will suspect me of this Red Sect's wrongdoinf. What shall become of me?"
The white oval of the Monk's mask regarded her and his voice lost just a little of its macabre overtone. "I know a man who will take you on as his personal secretary. He is kind and true, you will be happy working for Thomas Prewitt."
"You've thought of that, too? Amazing. Monk, I owe you so much. I don't even know your real name."
The harsh voice snapped, "You never shall."
4/25/2022
10/21/1923-10/27/1923
I.
The ragged ten year old in knickers held up a single paper from the bundle at his feet. "Extra! Another faceless corpse found in the Bowery! Police furious. Read about it while the ink's still wet!"
Moving around from behind him was a tall man in a lightweight tan suit which hung loosely over a gaunt frame. He handed the newsboy a nickel and took a fresh paper from the stack without saying anything. Seeing that expressionless face with the intense blue eyes burning beneath heavy brows, the boy snatched up the papers and scampered quickly up the block. A bolt of fear had run up his spine and he had no idea why, but he wanted to get away.
The man studied the NEW YORK HERALD, from its headline in enormous type to the single smudged photo on the second page of a face the city's financial wizards would recognize. His face remained emotionless as his eyes moved. Enoch Whelan was not bad-looking with his straight nose and prominent chin, the slicked-back black hair and sharp eyes behind round-lensed glasses. But something about him had frightened that urchin who lived on the streets and who was not easily alarmed.
"Whelan, old chum! There you are. I'm glad I found you in time for lunch." Approaching him was an older man with a substantial belly that stretched the front of his shirt into a circle. He also had black hair and blue eyes, but a jovial grin removed any resemblance between the two.
"Hello, Prewitt." Like the face, Whelan's voice displayed no emotion beyond a polite attempt at interest. "I take it you have heard of this latest outrage?"
"What, before lunch? I should think not. Come on, dear boy. The Crescent is around the corner and a table awaits us. Their chef is beyond reproach."
"Let's go then." Whelan placed the newspaper on the lower steps of a stoop as they passed. They strolled up to a doorway beneath an awning which read CRESCENT CLUB in ornate script and the stylized logo of a mere sliver of a moon. A uniformed black man with immense reserve held the door for them.
"Thank you, Claudius," Prewitt murmured. "You know Mr Whelan, I believe?"
"Yes suh, the gentleman has been here before."
"Good, good." The two of them passed through a foyer decorated with an original oil by Jervas and entered a dining room elegant with understated simplicity. The linen was spotless and the cutlery gleamed, the carpet was thick and the chandelier blazed overhead but it was all subdued and not garish. Prewitt and Whelan were ushered to a table under a window which looked out at a busy Park Avenue.
A carafe of ice water was placed between them and the waiter filled their tumblers before moving on. "We can have some wine if you like," Prewitt said. "That Volstead nonsense doesn't apply here, the Crescent is from a more sensible time."
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary." Whelan studied the patrons of that dining room like a tiger selecting prospects from a herd of overfed lazy sheep. "You've already ordered for us both, I take it?"
"Yes, yes, I arranged everything yesterday. Enoch, what is eating at you? I never could read your damned poker face but even so, you're taut as a piano cord. Just once, lay your cards on the table, old man."
"Barely five years since the Armistice," Whelan said. "People thought the world could come back to life again, like Spring making flowers bloom once the snow has melted. It was not that simple."
"I do not pretend I know what you endured in the War," Prewitt mumbled. "I sat safely here, attending board meetings and counting my dollars while you.. you..."
"While I flew over Hell and Perdition for four years. Yes. The Czar's police the Ogpu were fiends from the pits themselves but I met them on their own terms. The horrors I saw, the horrors I committed, are nothing your life could prepare you to see, Prewitt."
"I'm grateful for that. I was spared what you went through."
Enoch Whelan's lips barely moved when he spoke. The tanned face remained passive even as that voice resonated with passion. "There is a storm coming that will scatter your house of cards, Prewitt. Your stock market and your mansions and your estates are sand csstles before a thunderstorm. You will lose everything. Dance faster, the stage is burning."
"...What?" came a baffled squeak. "Your poetry has always gone over my head.'
They both went silent as the waiter returned, wheeling a cart with plates too hot to comfortably touch. Roasted patridge, served with a light gravy from the cooking juices, filled their nostrils with its tempting aroma. The side dishes were autumn vegetables and traditional game chips, very thinly sliced potato crisps.
"We can talk in a few minutes," Whelan said, picking up his utensils.
"Yes, it'd be shame to not give this splendid grouse the appreciation it deserves," Prewitt replied.
Ten minutes went by before the older man finally ventured, "I say, Whelan. Did you know I've been to our old hometown of Brimstone? I was in El Paso on business and stopped where we grew up."
"You've been there more recently than I have, then."
"I dare say. That small West Texas town looks more like 1883 than 1923. Horses and wagons, barely a single auto. Only one telephone in the entire town, in the sheriff's office. And I saw three men with revolvers in gunbelts. Extraordinary."
Whelan had nearly finished his meal. "There are still shootists out on the dusty dry plains," he said. "We both know. I was one of them. Listen, Prewitt, you don't follow crime news but you must have heard of these Faceless Murders."
"Senational enough. The tabloids are enjoying those lurid deaths."
"I know who is behind them," Whelan said. "Only I can stop these killings." He lifted the water glass again. "But I need your help and you should know that it will place your own life in extreme peril."
II.
Dorothy Clarke had finally cut off her long curls and gotten a bob. Now her straight brown hair reached to the nape of her neck and swept back up from there to touch each cheek. She had expected to feel regrets and even tears over this instead a wave of relief and freedom elevated her spirits. The calf length dresses she had worn a month ago hung untouched in the closet of her room at Madame Sophie's Boarding House. Her new skirts barely reached her knees, their straight low-waisted outline flattered her.
Was she a Modern? She didn't think so. Dorothy still felt the same inside. The money she had brought from selling the family house would not last forever and so she found herself sitting on a bench next to three other young women, waiting to be interviewed. Glancing over the competition, she concluded that her chances were very good of securing this job. Her long slim legs showed to good advantage in these fashions, her pert face had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and she had slept well the night before.
Of course, noticing the appraisals the others were fixing on her, they probably felt the same. Dorothy smiled politely at them while fervently wishing they would all get up and run out of the anteroom.
Finally, her turn came. As the previous applicant, a busty blonde with an unfortunately coarse complexion exited the inner door, Dorothy was beckoned by the grim old harridan at the desk.
"Clarke, is it? Dorothy Clarke?"
"Yes, that's right."
Depressing a toggle on the intercom, the matron said, "Next is Miss Dorothy Clarke, sir."
"Very well," replied a deep masculine voice.
After being waved on, Dorothy gathered her nerve and went through the door which had a frosted glass panel reading PRIVATE. She entered a high-ceilinged room with two wide picture windows revealing the impressive skyline of Manhattan. A massive oak desk stood against one wall of bookshelves, its top covered with loose unsorted papers, coffee cups and a tray holding crusts from a sandwich and one final half-eaten soda cracker. A pewter ashtray was filled past capacity.
Holding a pipe which gave off a pungent but not unpleasant aroma, looming up four inches over six feet in height, stood a powerfully-built man. He looked to be about fifty, with short-cropped black hair and a pencil-thin mustache under a prominent nose. But it was his eyes she could not look away from. Under shaggy dark brows, they were so bright and intense that Dorothy immediately thought he must have a fever.
She noticed his conservatively-cut suit was of heavy wool with a subtle pinstripe, his vest matched and his trousers had the single pleat that was becoming more popular. Everything was crisp and immaculate. He looked as if his clothing had been made expressly for him a moment earlier.
"Be seated," he rumbled, pointing the pipe stem at a chair in front of his desk. He himself swung around from the window and dropped gracelessly down into a wheeled swivel chair facing her from across the desk. "Dorothy Clark, is it? Very well. You already know I'm Mitchell Incarnadine of Incarnadine Enterprises. What makes you think you would make a good assistant to me?"
What a strange accent, she thought. Not German but European. Folks back in Omaha didn't show so strong an accent. Immediately, she answered, "I am twenty-four and in excellent health, sir. I can drive and type forty words a minute. I am energetic and eager to get a good start in the world."
Those burning eyes fixed on her eyes. How odd, she thought, she didn't find him even remotely attractive but the man had enormous charisma. Seeing he was waiting for her to continue, she added, "My parents passed away one year ago and I have no blood kin that I know of. Our property has been sold. So as you may see, sir, it is up to me to make my way in the world."
"Yes, yes. I see fire in your face. Spirit. Pride. You would work irregular hours, young lady. My affairs take me into unsavory haunts at times. It would be best if you keep silent about my business. Keep your tongue behind your teeth, as my people say."
Russian, she concluded. He sounds like Mr Abromavitch at the butcher's. "You will find I am most discreet, sir."
The huge man leaned forward, folding his massive hands together on the desk. Those deepset eyes finally released her as he looked down at a typewritten page. "We have the telephone number where you may reached, I see. Miss Clarke, my instincts say to give you a trial. Tomorrow is Friday, you will be here at eight o'clock sharp. You need not bring a notebook or other supplies, Mrs Ulhmer will supply with everything you will require."
As he rose to his full height, Dorothy leaped to her own feet. "Thank you so much, sir. You will not regret this, I promise."
The strangest smile played over that beartrap of a mouth. "I do not think I will. Until tomorrow, then." He bowed rather than offering to shake hands and sat down again. Taking up a fountain pen and some papers indicated she was dismissed.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said. As she left the office and closed its door, the world seemed to rush around her. She had not been aware of the strange oppressive, almost airless, mood in that room. Nor had her salary been brought up. Well, she thought, the details of her employment would be worked out. And as for that ominous atmosphere, fiddlesticks! She merely had to get used to her new boss.
In the anteroom, the middle-aged secretary Mrs Ulhmer looked up. Could that be sorrow on her face? Why? Dorothy raised a hand in farewell as she left and knew she was not mistaken. The older woman was giving her a look of sad sympathy. But why?
III.
At midnight, Peter Belenov clicked on the overhead lights in his study and walked over to his desk. The walls were stocked with sets of the great authors, all in matching bindings. Quite dignified and impressive but a waste as he had never had time to read any of them. Chasing money had eaten up all his time.
Now sixty, still an imposing figure of a man with dark hair going grey at the sides, he dropped down in the comfortable padded chair behind his desk. He had already removed his white tie and undone the top button of his shirt. With a sigh of relief, he pulled off the stiff detachable collar. Before he could sleep, he still had paperwork that his office was expecting to be ready when they opened.
Belenov flipped open a leather-bound ledger and then froze, holding his breath. From behind the heavy curtains, a dark figure had stepped into view. It was a man in some tightly-wrapped robes of coarse material. From within the depths of a cowl, a strange white oval of a face could barely be seen and his right hand held a black-lacquered Colt .45 revolver. The Monk.
"Steady," Belenov said, not moving. "Whatever you want, we can work it out. No need to be hasty."
Hollow and sepulchral, the voice answered him, "You have done well for yourself, Colonel. That bloody courtyard behind the palace seems far away, does it not?"
"Another time, another place. That world is long gone."
"But not forgotten," continued the Monk. He stayed where he had emerged from the drapery, not closing in. "Families still hunt you. Widows and orphans try to trace your steps here."
Belenov tilted his leonine head. "You are not a countryman. Your voice is American. Sit if you will, tell me how you even know of that night."
"I was there! You thought me dead. But it is not revenge I seek, Colonel, nor is it reparations. I come to you seeking a mutual friend." The hand holding the gun was as steady as if braced on a wall. The muzzle did not waver a hair's-breadth. "Where is the debauched one?"
"What? Are you jesting? He has been dead for ten years now. The world knows that."
The Monk rasped, "What the world knows is false reassurances to cover facts too frightening to be faced. Some of his loot has been sold in this city. Your servants pawned an emerald from the Romanoff hoard, and I recognized its gold setting."
"No, no, there has been some mistake. I assure you..."
"Your valet sleeps deeply tonight. So does your maid. They did not taste the yellow powder I stirred into their meal. We can talk freely, Colonel. No one will answer your cries for help." In his free hand, the Monk held up a surgeon's scalpel, its edge gleaming as it caught the light.
A gasp escaped Belenov at the sight. He pushed his chair back away from the desk but did not rise. "I can not tell you what I do not know. Violence won't get you any information which I don't have!"
The robed figure took a single step forward. Within that cowl, the white-masked face showed no features other than a pair of cold blue eyes. "It is not strength of will nor courage which can resist pain," he said. "Nothing can. You WILL talk, Colonel. I ask a second time, where can I find the defrocked priest? Where is Morgan Lundborg?"
IV.
Prewitt was not sure what had awakened him. He sat up in his four poster bed and listened. What was that? Nothing more than a faint thump from the room next to his bedchamber, faint as if a pillow had been dropped, but there must have been something before that to have rousted him.
For a man of his standing, Prewitt only employed three servants. Shimatta, his chaffeur and valet, slept on the floor above him. Mrs Chapelle, the woman who served as cook and maid, went home to her family after seven and would not return until six thirty to prepare breakfast. And old Hendricks, the groundskeeper and handyman, was enjoying a three day vacation. Prewitt was not a demanding employer, he found this modest staff kept the forty-eight room mansion running well enough to suit him. He didn't feel he needed any more staff.
Especially now that he was going to be hiding so many secrets.
Sliding his feet into slippers and struggling with his crushed velour dressing robe, Prewitt shook his head at his own folly over agreeing to this Monk business. True, Enoch Whelan had always been able to talk him into ventures too risky for his own good, but this was unprecented. He stepped around the bed and unlocked the connecting door to his private bathroom, where he gave a start at what he saw. It was worse than he had feared.
Kneeling before the sink, turning on the faucet to blast steaming hot water down, Whelan had shrugged out of the coarse dark brown robes to be revealed in black shirt and trousers which were soaked in fresh blood. Strapped high up by his waist was a leather gunbelt with a holster on each side, the butts of the matched Colt 45 revolvers turned inward so they could be drawn easily with the robe open. He turned that expressionless face toward his oldest friend and the blue eyes were sharp and alert even through pain. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you, old boy."
Prewitt immediately sank to one knee, trying to examine Whelan's body to see where he had been hurt. "How bad is it?"
"Not half as severe as it looks," Whelan said. "A slash across the lower ribs, there on the left side. See? A sticking plaster will stop the bleeding well enough."
Getting back up with a grunt of effort, the older man opened a cabinet and came back with some washclothes and a box of bandages. He set to work. "Long but not deep," he decided. "Yes. By Gad, I haven't patched you up like this since our treasure hunting days. Remember that arrow you took by the Mexican border?"
"I was careless tonight! I won't be again." Whelan grabbed the sodden cloths and bundled them in his robe. "Your servants must not see a speck of this blood. I will scrub everything before dawn."
"Let me bring you some brandy, Enoch. Do you feel weak? Dizzy?"
"No. The flesh is damaged but not the mind. The Colonel talked before he lunged at me with the knife he kept taped under his desk. I should not have been so close to him." Whelan gripped the sink and levered himself upright, steady enough to seem uninjured to any observer. "I will know better henceforth."
"It's a dangerous game you play, chum. I feel you can do as much good through more legal methods. Here, seat yourself on the edge of the tub."
"This nation's prosperity is a soap bubble about to burst. A house of cards with a breeze blowing to scatter it. Others may think it will go on blithely untroubled forever, they can not see the disasters ahead. But the Monk sees!"
"Rest for a few minutes, Enoch. Where's my Duesenberg?"
"Parked in its stall again. I will sleep today in the crawlspace of your garage, Prewitt, and not emerge again until dark. There is a flask of water and some cold chicken there. I won't need anything else."
Prewitt sank down to kneel before the wounded man. "I have guest rooms which haven't been used in months, Whelan. Why not stay here openly? My servants would not think it noteworthy, you could take regular meals and we could confer at leisure."
"The Monk must remain a mere rumor in the badlands, a whisper between uneasy criminals, a shadow glimpsed from the corner of the eye. No one must suspect I am here. Whelan, more than your life and mine is at stake. You remember what I told you of that secret coven I encountered during the War? The warlock brothers Morgan and Clinton Lundborg have brought their black magic to infect America."
"I don't question the scale of their threat..." Prewitt began but he was interrupted.
Somehow, Enoch Whelan's voice had become hollow and ghoulish, terrifying to hear even in the mundane brightly lit bathroom. "I tell you Culte Rouge is corrupting souls and ruining lives not twenty miles from this house. The menace has arrived. Red Sect is here."
IV.
Why was it taking so long to wake up? Dorothy Clarke was certain she had tried several times to get out of bed but instead had slumped back down for a few more minutes. Her whole body hurt. Her head throbbed. Was she hungover? Over a year ago, she and her cousins had gotten soused on bathtub gin and the following day had been pure misery. Had she gone on a tear last night?
The bed felt awfully hard. Dorothy pressed down with one hand and touched bare stone next to her face. She wasn't in bed. Instantly her heartbeat raced and she was fully awake, blinking her burning eyes. What the hell? She was naked as the moment she had been born, lying in the middle of an enormous circular chamber lit only by two torches in wall scones. The floor and walls were of polished black marble, inlaid with strips of copper which formed symbols she didn't recognize. Dorothy swung around wildly, seeing no one else.
Articles of clothing were scattered about, both male and female. A single black sock, an undone bow tie, several straw boaters, even a long shimmering flapper dress with fringes.
Empty wine bottles lay where they had been forgotten. Her own modest garments were nowhere to be seen.
This was insane. It was impossible. Even at her most adventurous, Dorothy knew she would never have been so abandoned. She glanced down and saw purple bruises on her body and bite marks on her thighs. And still, not a shred of memory of what had happened. Gasping for breath, hyperventilating, Dorothy crawled over to snatch up the sequined flapper dress and pull it down over her head. Although it was too large for her, any covering was welcome. She finally lurched up to her feet and took in more of the room.
Around the encircling wall were thirteen high-backed wooden chairs inscribed with esoteric symbols. A wheeled cart held tumblers and shot glasses and unmarked amber bottles. Strangest of all, near the tallest and most elaborate chair, a chest-high ebony pillar held a bronze statuette of an armored man with a horned helmet, his right arm brandishing a mace. A fragment of memory flashed across her mind, she had knelt before that idol and bowed her head in submission. What blasphemy was that? Dorothy had been brought up a good little Catholic girl and that fleeting image shocked her as much as anything else.
Finally, her thoughts coalesced enough that she realized she had to get out of there. Were there any women's shoes about? Even if all she had on was this gaudy dress, Dorothy knew it was urgent that she put as much distance between herself and this hellhole of sin as possible. If she could get back to her boarding house and scrub her defiled body with hot soapy water...
A section of the wall swung silently open. She had not had a clue that a door was concealed there. Stepping through the opening was a big man wrapped in bright crimson robes that reached the floor, his head concealed within a deep cowl. With a booming roar of laughter, the man she knew as Mitchell Incarnadine threw back that cowl and clapped his hands as if applauding a song.
"Congratulations, dear one!" he told her. "Your petition has been accepted by the assembly. You are the thirteenth we needed to complete this coven. Your body, your mind and your soul are no longer yours to command. You belong to Red Sect."
The man held up a grotesque mask made of white leather and, the moment she saw that mask, all the nightmarish abuses of the night before roared through Dorothy's mind.
IV.
The elevator operator swung the handle on his wheel to click it shut and pressed the button on the panel next to him. "Twenty-second floor, sir."
"Thank you," Whelan murmured as he stepped out into a foyer with a service desk to his right and a row of glass-fronted doors facing him. He immediately spotted the door which read INCARNADINE ENTERPRISES and sardonic amusement gleamed in his eyes. The Monk felt the familiar weight of one Colt in the small of his back where his suit jacket had been skillfully tailored to hide any bulge. The same was true for how his sleeves concealed the extra thickness above his wrists where stiff leather cuffs each held four narrow scalpel-like throwing blades. Not many business deals were negotiated with such resourcs on hand, he thought.
In the anteroom of Incarnadine, two middle-aged sat on a bench and fixed unhappy glares at him on his entrance. Each held a briefcase. From behind her desk, a stern old harpy half rose and gestured at the unmarked door behind her. "Mr Incarnadine is expecting you."
Disappointment rose in Whelan, forced back down again. Too many witnesses. He would not be able to send Lundborg to Hell today. None of these emotions showed on his passive face. The Monk opened the inner door, seemingly detached and uninterested in everything around him, his killing rage throttled down for the moment.
A good-looking young woman in a rose-pink cotton dress was standing next to the massive desk behind which the imposing bulk of Morgan Lundborg bent over stacks of papers awaiting his signature. Both of them looked up at his entrance and Whelan caught both fear and grief in the woman's eyes. There might be some grievance there he could use.
"How do you do, sir," the Monk said as lightly as a real realtor might. He extended his hand and it was grasped by a hard dry grip that hinted at great strength. "I'm Lane Carmody."
"Of course. I'm Mitchell Incarnadine, director of this organization," said Morgan Lundborg. "Dorothy, please stand by if we need any notes taken. Won't you have a seat, Mr Carmody?"
"Thank you," the Monk replied. Without seeming to pay any particular attention to her, he scrutinized the posture and expressions of the young woman. Her hands visibly trembled. She leaned up against objects for support. Her eyes would not stay on Lundborg but fixed on a point to either side of him. Her shoulders were raised. Was Lundborg beating her or abusing her sexually or both? He couldn't say yet.
When he smiled at Morgan Lundborg, the Monk struggled not to yell curses and pull his gun on the man. His instincts were reacting the same way they would if a coiled rattlesnake was by his feet. Yet he began smoothly enough, "I came into a considerable sum recently and was looking for safe investment. Everything I've heard about your company tells me you're level-headed and secure."
"That's our policy," Lundborg responded. The sorcerer's heavy features showed alertness and interest, but he wasn't trying to appear warm. "Tempting as it is to take risks and to gamble with our money, I've always felt it wiser to keep on a smooth path. Slow but steady wins the race."
The two men discussed terms and interest rates and stock market shares for a while. Behind those bland faces, two sharp predatory minds took stock of each other. The Monk knew that Lundborg was aware he was facing an enemy across that desk. Even as the warlock dictated a form to his assistant, he watched the emotionless face of his visitor and a wicked gleam in his eyes could not be entirely concealed.
Dorothy read back what Lundborg had dictated, got nods of approval from both men and sat down at a chair next to a folding table which held a typewriter. She clacked away for a few minutes. Enoch Whelan remained silent while the form was being typed out. On the other side of the desk, Lundborg held up a briar pipe and asked if he wished to smoke as well. Whelan declined. Like drinking or gambling, smoking was a vice his disciple forbade him to indulge in. He was always in training.
Quickly enough, Dorothy brought the contract over with its top sheet and two carbons beneath. She handed it first to Morgan Lundborg. Then, deftly and unobtrusively, she slid a folded bit of paper into the breast pocket of Whelan's suit while her boss was checking the contract. The Monk did not react at all. He didn't seem to notice her action and Dorothy herself remained standing next to him.
"It all seems in order," the sorcerer grumbled eventually. "You do outstanding work, Dorothy, not a single correction needs to be made."
"Thank you, sir," she said, the first words she had spoken. She passed the form over to the Monk, who skimmed it less thoroughly than his enemy had.
After Lundborg had signed and initialed the form, Whelan did the same. He was given the yellow carbon copy while Dorothy took the original and the second carbon over to the first of two green metal filing cabinets in one corner of the room. The two men rose and shook hands.
"Please call here again in two weeks, Mr Carmody," said Lundborg. "I'll have a full statement by then. The next apartments in Flatbush should ready to open at that point."
"I look forward to good news. Good to have met you, sir."
As Morgan Lundborg sat down again, a smirk escaped his self-control. "You won't regret coming to us."
When Dorothy ushered him out into the anteroom again, Enoch Whelan felt that oppressive menace in the air drop away. The entire time he had been in Lundborg's presence, the feeling of imminent violence had weighed down on him. At the door to the hallway, Whelan lifted his soft fedora and nodded to Dorothy. "Nice meeting you, miss."
The face lifted toward him was young, unmarked by time or cares, but there were dark circles under the clear eyes. Her voice was barely audible, "Good day, sir."
Out in the hall, Whelan pressed the button by the elevator. It took an effort not to immediately examine the note that the girl had passed to him. The desperation in her bod language had rousted all his protective instincts. For the Monk's crusade meant helping innocents as well as crushing the wicked.
V.
Dorothy was awakened by a gloved hand clamping her mouth shut. Her sleep had been so troubled that she thought for a moment she was still in the vivid nightmares but the pressure holding her head down was too uncomfortable for that.
Against the dim grey rectangle of her window, she could make out the black silhouette of a man's head and shoulders. Unable to resist the strength in the hand silencing her, she sank back down onto her bed.
"You are not going to be harmed," rasped a hollow voice that sounded as if it came from a distance. "I am here to help you. Have you heard of the Monk? I will release you now."
Keeping her face low, strangely excited rather than afraid, Dorothy said, "I certainly h have heard about you. I thought the Monk was only a legend, a tall tale of the city. But you're real?"
"Real as justice," the ghoulish voice answered. "You know my cause. Where the police and the community can not bring down human monsters, I step in. I have been watching you, Dorothy Clarke. An evil society has crushed you under its thumb and you think no one is aware of your plight, but the Monk sees."
Sitting up as the hooded figure released her, Dorothy pulled the blanket up to her chin. "You can't help me. I'm a fallen woman, no decent man would want me now. Oh Lord, the things I've done."
"Do you want to keep other women from being ruined as you were by this society?"
"Yes! Yes, more than anything. Maybe I can redeem myself by helping others, you know. But.. you can't fight them. They're witches or magicians or something. They have abilities that seem impossible."
The Monk's voice had no warmth or reassurance in it, but its harshness made his words compelling. "I will put them in their graves, Dorothy. I swear it! Not one shall escape my retribution. Listen. You will obtain information for me and I will act on it. Your employer uses the name Mitchell Incarnadine but he is really the unholy brute Morgan Lundborg. A defrocked Russian Orthodox priest who now serves ancient, terrible gods known as Draldros and the Sulla Chun. Together we will end his reign of degradation. Do you agree?"
"Yes, of course. I'm not afraid. Once your soul is utterly damned, what do you have to lose?"
In the murk of that darkened bedroom, the robed figure drew itself upright. "These are my words, Dorothy. You will not see me around, I will be in the shadows and at a distance or behind you no matter how you turn. But I will be guarding you. For the next two days, you will look in Lundborg's office for certain small talismans. You will read his private papers. And on the night of the third day, you will tell me everything so I may strike Red Sect down."
"I must be careful," she said. "If the boss finds me snooping..."
"Have no illusions," the Monk intoned. "This is a perilous game to play. Your death would be neither quick nor painless."
VI.
Five days after her ordeal at the Red Sect initiation, Dorothy's emotions had regained some stability. The crying jabs and the violent shuddering had become less frequent and less intense. What helped was the thought she was now working to strike back at the warlocks who had put her through that ordeal. Carefully, stealthily, she made mental notes on everything suspicious that Morgan Lundborg said or did. When he stepped out, she serched the office a little a time, moving nothing, leaving no signs of her snooping.
Lundborg seemed pleased with her. The only allusion he made to that hellish night was a tentative suggestion she might go with him to a party held for investors at his estate. She had smiled politely and said she would be agreeable with that.
Mrs Ulhmer in the anteroom was stiff and remote to her the first day. Dorothy took her lunch breaks there instead of going outside. As she nibbled her meager PBJ and sometimes an apple, sipping a wax paper container of milk, Dorothy found that the older woman was greatly amused by slang. When Dorothy remarked that her landlord's new Stutz Bearcat was the cat's whiskers, Mrs Ulhman had snorted in delight. That broke the ice. When the secretary said she was too hoity-toity to dance, Dorothy had feigned shock, "Why ma'am how you talk. I had no idea you were a jazz baby."
At five of the the third day after the Monk had visited her, Dorothy signed out in the record book kept by Mrs Ulhman and said a cheery goodbye. Mr Incarnadine..or Morgan Lundborg.. had left earlier because he claimed he had to meet with a health inspector on the new apartments. Just as well, Dorothy thought. Every day when closing the office, she was apprehensive he might invite her to go with him. And that could mean another brutal frenzied orgy that made the ancient Saturnalias look like a tea party.
Every day, when something triggered a flash of memory, Dorothy either blushed so her face felt hot or felt so nauseated she bent over to keep from vomiting. It's wasn't merely the carnal acts she had been put through, shameful as they were, it was the blasphemy. Chanting oaths to forsake her Lord the Redeemer and the Holy Church, Dorothy had joined in the ceremonies of kneeling before a bronze statuette. Whoever Draldros was, wherever his kingdom of Faneral might be, Dorothy had pledged her immortal soul to him when she died.
Maybe a priest could absolve? Were deeds done under duress considered binding? She fervently hoped there was a way she could be saved. But she thought, as she clipped her way toward Grand Central Station, at least she was doing what she could to destroy this hideous Red Sect.
Back at her boarding house, she was in time to join the other three roomers in the dining room for leg of lamb with broiled potatoes and asparagus. Coffee and disappointingly small dishes of chocolate ice cream followed. Dorothy joined in the usual complaints and wisecracks, but without enthusiasm. As the landlady cleared away the dishes, the roomers started to regather in the main parlor to enjoy the comedian Rubert Reilly on the radio and to mull over the day's newspapers. The headlines screamed of nothing but the latest faceless corpse discovered that morning, washed up against a pier in the East River. That made eight such grisly finds.
Dorothy excused herself, saying she was tired, and went directly to her room on the second floor. A bathroom was across the hall, she had no running water herself, only a basin and a pitcher of clean water every day as well as a commode she was expected to empty and clean after use.
Strangely, breaking her usual habits, Dorothy Clarke did not change into comfortable flannel pajams and her gold-colored bathobe to prepare for bed. Instead, she drew from the closet the wardrobe she had planned for the next day at work. When clad in a denure dark pink cotton dress, sensible pumps and a simple beret, she frowned at herself in the mirror. What if the mystery man did not return? What if he NEVER returned?
Surprising herself, Dorothy made a cold hard promise to herself that she would break up this awful Red Sect herself. Even if it mean long years in prison, she would buy a gun and kill Morgan Lundborg as he sorely deserved. Dorothy made sure the single window in her room was unlocked and raised slightly before she turned off the lamp and stretched out fully clothed on her bed. Despite her expectations of tossing and turning for hours, she slipped immediately into a dreamless, restful sleep.
At only ten that night, a voice hissing by her ear woke her instantly. She bolted upright and slumber fell away from her completely. "You did come."
"Yes. I believe you have much to report," came those ghostly tones.
The dam burst when Dorothy began to talk. All of her fears and anger and anxiety poured out in a torrent as she related every suspicious details of Morgan Lundborg's life. Twice a foreign-sounding man with a bushy black beard and smoked eyeglasses had arrived andboth times Dorothy had been sent away from the office on some spurious errand. High up on a shelf behind law reference books was a cedar box contained a dozen polished bones which looked uncomfortably like human fingers bones to her, although she had not dare confiscate any. Some of the dull books on colonial history turned to have been hollowed out and contained smaller, delapidated tomes with titles like REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE, THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN and LOST SCIENCE OF THE ANCIENTS. She had never gotten the needed time to open those books.
But the worst she saved for last. One Monday, Lundborg had a visit from an iron works magnate that had turned into a shouting match. Dorothy had stayed inconspicuous, shrinking back into a corner. Finally the client, Hans Vandersanden, had stormed out of the office with a blaze of foul language and threats of future court dates. Lundborg had remained cool and in control of himself.
The next evening, a newspaper told that millionaire Hans Vandersanden, had died of apoplexy with no previous history of poor health. When she saw that item, Dorothy had gone into hyperventilation and could not calm down for an hour. It was true. Witches, sorcerers, warlocks, whatever you chose to call them, had genuine powers to kill their enemies from a distance. And she was working with one!
Through all this, the Monk listened without comment. When Dorothy finally broke, breathing heavily from expressing so much emotion, her visitor said, "You have exceeded my expections, miss. Well done. There is one more thing needed, part of Lundborg himself."
"Oh, I have that, too. I couldn't figure how I could snip off a hair from his head without his noticing but there was something else. This afternoon, I came back from lunch and found he was in his private bathroom. The sound was unmistakeable, he was clipping his fingernails. Then he received a phone call, told me he would not be back until tomorrow morning and left like the well-known bat."
"And the clippings?"
"I scooped them into a fold of paper. I still have them. I can't imagine him asking about them, it would seem so foolish, but I decided I would say that I merely threw them out with the waste paper when tidying up. But as God is my witness, I can't imagine what you would want with them."
"You do not see their value," responded the hollow voice, "But the Monk sees. I will take them. Thank you. You need to decide your actions tonight. I am going to confront Lundborg and his vile coven and send them all the land of ghosts. Will you come with me?"
"ME? To that place where they... where I.. Oh, I guess I want to go. I'm shaking with raw unthinking terror, believe me I'm not tough at all. But I have to be there when you finish them off."
Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could make out that he was wearing a plain white full-face mask of thin material. Two narrow holes revealed bright eyes that watched her closely. With the cowl pulled up and his white gloved hands concealed within the sleeves of his robe, the Monk seemed to be only a ghostly oval face floating in the gloom.
"You will be part of the attack," that eerie voice whispered.
VI.
Blazing pitch-soaked torches in wall sconces lit that ritual chamber with a fitful, unsteady glare. Around the circular wall, eleven robed men and women sat upright in the high-backed chairs and watched silently as the leader of their coven entered through a sliding panel and took his place. The chair to his left remained empty.
The members of Red Sect were bundled in silk robes of a brilliant scarlet, floor-length and bell-sleeved. Arcane symbols few in the modern world would recognize swirled over the robes in gold lines. Against the unbroken black of the walls, floor and ceiling, those robes stood out vividly.
Standing in the middle of that hellish room, barefoot on the black marble floor, Dorothy Clarke clasped her hands behind her to stop their violent shaking. She was robed as the Red Sect satanists were, but her garment as yet did not have the occult symbols woven in golden thread. It took all her will power not to stare at the unmoving shape at her feet, a man stretched out under a red sheet.
When their master was seated, the eleven threw back the hoods of their robes to reveal each was wearing a white leather mask tied snugly over their faces. The eyeholes were angled upward at the outer edges, the mouth slits curved to imply cruel smiles. Seeing those mocking masks staring at her made Dorothy shrink inwardly but she tried not to show her terror.
Even Morgan Lundborg wore such a mask but his voice was unmistakable. "Draldros, hear us!" he intoned. "Dread One, hear us! Lord of Fanedral, hear us! We humble servants will this night bring you a new supplicant to your worship, that we may see the day you return to this wretched world and sweep it clean. Brothers, sisters, what will come down?"
"The Walls Between the Worlds!" all eleven said in unison.
"We will see that day," Lundborg assured them. "Dorothy Clarke, stand at the ready. You have chosen to join our assembly and tonight the sacred knife will be placed in your hand so you may yourself provide the skin for your own mask. Are you ready?"
Surprising herself with how steady her voice was, Dorothy promptly replied, "I am."
"So shall I be done. Luther, the knife." When no response came, Lundborg called out more sharply, "Luther!"
Five seconds passed and one of the Red Sect cultists grumbled, "Confound that fool. He has one task to perform and he can't be entrusted to it."
Morgan Lundborg jumped to his full height, one massive fist raised. "I shall fetch the ceremonial blade. Supplicant, remove the covering from the departed."
Bending over, Dorothy yanked the sheet off the supine form and then instantly retreated back to the far side of the arena. Vaulting nimbly up to his feet, a thin dark form whipped up a black-lacquered Colt 45 in each hand and loosed a furious barrage of gunshots that swept the chamber. The Monk fired equally well with either hand. Every bullet crashed home in a head or chest of a separate Red Sect cultist as the Monk spun in a circle. Eleven bodies slumped back in their thrones or slid slowly to the floor.
Only one remained unharmed. Towering up in his fury, Morgan Lunborg clenched his hands and a lurid nimbus of gralic force crackled around each fist. "You! Cast out from Tel Shai, cursed by the Brumals. Disgraced the Army Air Force. You are hated by every man who ever trained you."
In that selpuchral voice, the Monk taunted, "I can live with that!" and loosed his final slug to punch a tunnel through Lundborg's face just above where those shaggy eyebrows met. Gory splinters flew away from the back of the warlock's skull as he spun around and fell headlong to the marble floor.
"Saints alive..." gasped Dorothy, her ears ringing from the gunfire and her nose stinging from the cordine stink. "Just like that. They are all gone, just like that."
Taking shells from an inside pocket of his robe, the Monk quickly reloaded both revolvers and returned one to its holster. "It had to be done quickly," he hissed. "Another few seconds and they would have reduced me with to charcoal with their magick. Quickly, Dorothy, fetch your clothing from beneath that bench. We must be far away when the police arrive."
Struggling out of the foul robe and back into her dress, she said, "I wasn't sure what had happened. You..you killed that servant Luther who was going to place the victim under that sheet? And you took its place?"
"I did," said the Monk. "Hurry. My car waits behind this mansion. We will be back in Manhattan within minutes. Of course you will not return to the office tomorrow."
Tugging the simple hat down over her bob, Dorothy hesitated. "I haven't even thought of that. I have no job, no references. Perhaps the police will suspect me of this Red Sect's wrongdoinf. What shall become of me?"
The white oval of the Monk's mask regarded her and his voice lost just a little of its macabre overtone. "I know a man who will take you on as his personal secretary. He is kind and true, you will be happy working for Thomas Prewitt."
"You've thought of that, too? Amazing. Monk, I owe you so much. I don't even know your real name."
The harsh voice snapped, "You never shall."
4/25/2022