![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"The House of Leather Masks"
May. 15th, 2022 09:00 pm"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."
( the rest of the story )
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."
( the rest of the story )
