Chapter 38
There was a concentrated silence as Charlie and I sat digesting this remarkable story. I approached the dining table and dragged a finger across its surface. There was a dusting of soil resting upon it; when I showed my trembling hand to Charlie he tossed the journal aside and said, ‘I believe it. I believe it all. The Commodore’s instruction was explicit on one point: Prior to killing Warm I was to obtain by whatever manner of violence necessary what was described to me only as “the formula.” When I asked him what the formula was, he said it was none of my affair, but that Warm would know what I meant, and that once I had it I was to guard it with my life.’
‘Why didn’t you speak to me about this before?’
‘I was told not to. And anyway, what could it have meant to you? It was so vague, I myself hardly gave it a thought. There is always some cryptic obscurity present in the Commodore’s orders. Do you remember the job before last, where I first blinded the man before killing him?’
‘The Commodore said to do that?’
Charlie nodded. ‘He said the man would understand it, and that I should let him “sit awhile in the dark” before putting my bullets in him. This formula business seemed to be more of the same, so far as I could see.’ He stood away from the bed and moved to the window, clasping his hands at the small of his back and peering up the hill. He was silent a minute or more, and when he finally spoke his voice was solemn and soft: ‘I have never minded cutting down the Commodore’s enemies much, brother. It always happens that they are repellent in one way or the other. Lesser villains, men without mercy or grace. But I do not like the idea of killing a man because of his own ingenuity.’
‘I don’t, either. And I’m very glad to hear you say it.’
He exhaled through his nostrils. ‘What do you think we should do?’
‘What do you think we should do?’
But neither of us knew what to do.
Chapter 39
The Black Skull was just as Morris had described it, a lean-to fabricated of scrap wood and tin, situated in a slim alley between two much larger brick buildings, giving it the appearance of being slowly crushed. The interior was similarly unimpressive or negatively impressive: Mismatched chairs and tables were scattered about the room, and a stovepipe leaked acrid smoke from what looked to be a most disorganized and ill-fated kitchen. We entered unhungry and remained so, the smell of horse meat being thick on the air. The checkered eye patch man from the diary was standing in the corner with a tall and picturesque woman, incongruously well dressed in a bright green sleeveless silken gown. These two were engaged in some manner of entertainment and did not notice us as we took up our position at their side.
The woman was a stunning picture, and the gown was the least of it. Her arms were so very beautiful and fine I found myself wanting instantly to put my hands on them; her face, too, was uncommonly lovely, with a handsome Indian profile and a pair of green eyes that when she set them upon me made me jerk my head away, for it was as though she were looking through my body to a point across the room, and when she did this I felt my core doused in ice-cold water. The proprietor glanced at us automatically and nodded before returning to their sport, which I will now describe:
The woman held her palms out. In her right hand was a small piece of fabric, the same that her dress was made of, its edges sewn with a length of heavy golden thread. I do not know why but there was something magnetic about that bit of cloth; I found it pleasing to gaze upon, and a smile appeared on my face. I noticed the proprietor was also staring and smiling. Charlie was staring but his face remained in its typical unfriendly countenance.
‘Are you ready?’ the woman asked the proprietor.
He focused his eyes steadfastly on the fabric and his entire being became stiff. He nodded and said, ‘Ready.’
Just as soon as he uttered the word, the woman began passing the cloth back and forth, snaking it through her fingers and across the knuckles, working with such speed and cunning that the fabric was lost to the naked eye. Now she balled her hands to fists and held them before the proprietor, addressing him in a low and monotone voice: ‘Pick.’
‘Left,’ he said.
The woman opened her left hand: No cloth. She opened the right to reveal the green and gold square; it had been bunched in her grip but was unfolding itself to lay flat. ‘Right,’ she said.
The proprietor handed the woman a dollar and said, ‘Again.’
The woman held out her hands, palms facing up. ‘Are you ready?’
He said that he was. They played another round and this time I focused more intently. The proprietor must have noticed this, for when the woman brought up her fists, he invited me to choose. I believed I knew where the cloth was and gladly joined in. ‘It is there,’ I said. ‘The right hand.’ The woman opened her fist and it was empty. ‘Left,’ she said. I dug into my pocket for a dollar, that I might take a turn.
‘I have not finished my engagement with her,’ said the proprietor.
‘Let me have a single play.’
‘You just have had one.’
‘Let us go one and then the other.’
He grunted. ‘I have engaged her for the time. You may take your turn after I’m through, but for now I need to concentrate completely.’ He turned back to the woman, passing her another dollar. ‘All right,’ he said, and her hands began their slippery movements. Accepting my role of nonparticipant, I paid attention to the woman’s hands just as closely as I was able. I do not think I ever paid such close attention to one particular thing in my life. When her hands came to rest I would have bet every penny I had that the cloth was in her left hand. ‘The left hand,’ said the proprietor, and I twitched in anticipation. Alas, the woman unballed her fist and it was empty, and the proprietor jumped up in anguish. He actually performed a small jump. I hid my feelings as best I could, but inwardly I too was crestfallen. Charlie had been following along with the game; he was partially amused and partially annoyed.
‘What is the purpose of this?’ he asked.
‘To find the bit of cloth,’ said the proprietor innocently.
‘But what is its appeal? How often do you win?’
‘I have never won.’
‘And how many times have you played?’
‘Many, many times.’
‘You are throwing your money away.’
‘So is everyone throwing their money away.’ He regarded us more closely, now. ‘What do you two want, can I ask? Are you here to eat?’
‘We are looking for Warm.’
At the name, the proprietor’s face dropped, and his eyes filled with hurt. ‘Is that a fact? Well, if you find him, you send him my regards!’ This was spoken so bitterly that Charlie was moved to inquire, ‘You have some dispute with him?’