“‘The Tomb of the Great Old Ones,’ indeed! Sir, you’re a charlatan!” he said. “I could find more fearsome things in Grimm’s Fairy Tales, more items of genuine antiquarian interest in my aunt’s attic. I had hoped your—show—might prove interesting. It seems I was mistaken.” His eyes glinted sarcastically behind his tiny spectacles.
For a moment Tharpes’ heart beat a little faster, then he steadied himself. Perhaps this time…? Certainly the little man was worth a try. “You do me an injustice, sir—you wound me!” He waxed theatrical, an ability with which he was fluent through his years of showmanship. “Do you really believe that I would openly display the archaeological treasures for which this establishment was named?—I should put them out for the common herd to ogle, when not one in ten thousand could even recognize them, let alone appreciate them? Wait!”
He ducked through the canvas door-flap into the enclosed area containing Hamilton’s relics, returning a few seconds later with a bronze miniature the size of his hand and wrist. The thing looked vaguely like an elongated, eyeless squid. It also looked—despite the absence of anything even remotely mundane in its appearance—utterly evil! Anderson handed the object reverently to the ex-professor, saying: “What do you make of that?” Having chosen the thing at random from the anomalies in his dead brother’s collection, he hoped it really was of “genuine antiquarian interest”.
His choice had been a wise one. Henley peered at the miniature, and slowly his expression changed. He examined the thing minutely, then said: “It is the burrower beneath, Shudde-M’ell, or one of his brood. A very good likeness, and ancient beyond words. Made of bronze, yet quite obviously it predates the Bronze Age!” His voice was suddenly soft. “Where did you get it?”
“You are interested, then?” Tharpe smiled, incapable of either admitting or denying the statements of the other.
“Of course I’m interested.” Henley eagerly nodded, a bit too eagerly, Tharpe thought. “I…I did indeed do you a great injustice. This thing is very interesting! Do you have…more?”
“All in good time.” Tharpe held up his hands, holding himself in check, waiting until the time was ripe to frame his own all-important question. “First, who are you? You understand that my—possessions—are not for idle scrutiny, that—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” the little man cut him off. “My name is Hiram Henley. I am—at least I was—Professor of Archaeology and Ethnology at Meldham University. I have recently given up my position there in order to carry out private research. I came here out of curiosity, I admit; a friend gave me one of your tickets with its peculiar invitation…I wasn’t really expecting much, but—”
“But now you’ve seen something that you would never have believed possible in a place like this. Is that it?”
“Indeed it is. And you? Who are you?”
“Tharpe is my name, Anderson Tharpe, proprietor of this”—he waved his hand deprecatingly—“establishment.”
“Very well, Mr. Tharpe,” Henley said. “It’s my good fortune to meet a man whose intelligence in my own chosen field patently must match my own—whose possessions include items such as this.” He held up the heavy bronze piece and peered at it again for a moment. “Now, will you show me—the rest?”
“A glimpse, only a glimpse,” Tharpe told him, aware now that Henley was hooked. “Then perhaps we can trade?”
“I have nothing. with which to trade. In what way do you mean?”
“Nothing to trade? Perhaps not,” Tharpe answered, holding the canvas door open so that his visitor might step into the enclosed space beyond, “but then again…How are you on ancient tongues and languages?”
“Languages were always my—” The ex-professor started to answer, stepping into the private place. Then he paused, his eyes widening as he gazed about at the contents of the place. “Were always my—” Again he paused, reaching out his hands before him and moving forward, touching the ugly idol unbelievingly, moving quickly to the carved tablets, staring as if hypnotized at the smaller figurines and totems. Finally he turned a flushed face to Tharpe. His look was hard to define; partly awed, partly—accusing?
“I didn’t steal them, I assure you,” Tharpe quickly said.
“No, of course not,” Henley answered, “but…you have the treasures of the aeons here!”
Now the tall showman could hold himself no longer. “Languages,” he pressed. “You say you have an understanding of tongues? Can you translate from the ancient to the modern?”
“Yes, most things, providing—”
“How would you like to own all you see here?”Tharpe cut him off again.
Henley reached out suddenly palsied hands to take Tharpe by the forearms. “You’re…joking?”
“No.” Tharpe shook his head, lying convincingly. “I’m not joking. There is something of the utmost importance to my own line of—research. I need a translation of a fragment of ancient writing. Rather, I need the original pronunciation. If you can solve this one problem for me, all this can be yours. You can be…part of it.”
“What is this fragment?” the little man cried. “Where is it?”
“Come with me.”
“But—” Henley turned away from Tharpe, his gloved hands again reaching for those morbid items out of the aeons.
“No, no.” Tharpe took his arm. “Later—you’ll have all the time you need. Now there is this problem of mine. But later, tonight, we’ll come back in here, and all this can be yours…”
The ex-professor voluntarily followed Tharpe out of the tent to his caravan, and there he was shown the handwritten Necronomicon with its cryptic “key”.
“Well,” Tharpe demanded, barely concealing his agitation. “Can you read it as it was written? Can you pronounce it in its original form?”
“I’ll need a little time,” the balding man mused, “and privacy; But I think…I’ll take a copy of this with me, and as soon as I have the answer—”
“When? How long?”
“Tonight?”
“Good. I’ll wait for you. It should be quiet here by then. It’s Halloween and the fairground is open until late, but they’ll all be that much more tired…” Tharpe suddenly realized that he was thinking out loud and quickly glanced at his visitor. The little man peered at him strangely through his tiny specs; very strangely, Tharpe thought.
“The people here are—superstitious,” he explained. “It wouldn’t be wise to advertise our interest in these ancient matters. They’re ignorant and I’ve had trouble with them before. They don’t like some of the things I’ve got.”
“I understand,” Henley answered. “I’ll go now and work through the evening. With luck it won’t take too long. Tonight—shall we say after midnight?—I’ll be back.” He quickly made a copy of the characters in the old book, then stood up. Tharpe saw him out of the caravan with an assumed, gravely thoughtful air, thanking him before watching him walk off in the direction of the exit; but then he laughed out loud and slapped his thigh, quickly seeking out one of the odd job boys from the stratojet thrill ride.
An hour later—to the amazement of his fellow showmen, for the crowd was thickening rapidly as the afternoon went by—Anderson Tharpe closed the Tomb of the Great Old Ones and retired to his caravan. He wanted to practice himself in the operation of the tape recorder which he had paid the odd jobber to buy for him in Bathley.
This final phase of his plan was simple; necessarily so, for of course he in no way intended to honour his bargain with Henley. He did intend to have the little man read out his pronunciation of the “key”, and to record that pronunciation in perfect fidelity—but from then on…