Strange Eons (2 page)

“I’ll be damned!” Waverly sighed. “I keep forgetting, you’re not much of a reader of fantasy. Always puzzled me, in view of your morbid tastes.”

“I’m a collector, not a bibliophile.” Keith said.

“Meaning you have the money to buy things we poor bastards can only afford to read about.” Waverly chuckled. “Still, with your interest in magic and the supernatural, you really should get acquainted with Howard Phillips Lovecraft. He happens to be one of the greatest modern writers in the horror field, and
Pickman’s Model
is one of his best stories. At least I always thought it was.” Waverly’s voice was soft. “But now that I see this, I’m not so sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That his story was fiction.” Again Waverly stared at the canvas. “I swear to God this is the painting, exactly as he described it. Somebody really worked to reproduce what Lovecraft was writing about—a real labor of love, though that’s hardly the
mot juste,
is it?” He chuckled once more. “Artists get their inspiration from the damndest places, but this tops anything I’ve ever run across. Who did it?”

“I don’t know,” Keith said. “There isn’t any signature.”

“Magnificent work.” Waverly gestured. “The way those flesh tones stand out—”

Keith picked up the flannel and began to rub the base of the canvas with a circular motion. “It’ll look even better when I finish getting the dirt off,” he said. “See how those hooves lighten? I never noticed the talons before. And the foreground comes up, too. It isn’t all in shadow now, you can see the—”

“See the what?”

“Waverly, look at this! There
is
a signature, here in the corner, at the left.”

Waverly squinted, shaking his head. “Can’t make it out. Damn these glasses—ever since the cataract surgery I can’t take bright light. What’s it say?”

“Upton. And an initial. I think it’s R.” Keith nodded. “Yes, that’s it. R. Upton.”

Waverly made the whistling sound again, and Keith turned quickly. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“Pickman’s Model,”
Waverly whispered. “The full name of the artist in the story is Richard Upton Pickman.”

Later—much later—the two men sat over their coffee in Keith’s kitchen. A foehn Santana wind rattled the shutters, but neither Keith nor Waverly noticed the noise. The silence of thought can be more disturbing than any sound.

“Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,” Keith said. “Consider the possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Coincidence, for one. Upton isn’t all that uncommon a name. And we don’t know that the initial stands for ‘Richard’—it could be Roy, Roger, Raymond, Robert, Ralph, or any one of a dozen others. All we’ve got is ‘R. Upton’ and that in itself proves nothing.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Waverly murmured. “The name alone may be inconclusive evidence, but it happens to be inscribed on a painting—the very painting Lovecraft wrote about. And that combination can’t be coincidental.”

“Then it’s a hoax. Some artist read the story and decided to play a joke.”

Waverly shook his head. “In that case, why didn’t he follow the story and sign himself ‘Richard Upton Pickman’?”

Keith frowned. “You’ve got a point there. And come to think of it, the painting is too skillfully executed to have been dashed off on impulse as a gag. If it weren’t for the subject matter, one could say it was the product of tender loving care.”

“Subject matter be damned,” Waverly said. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“Then there’s only one answer. The work was an artist’s
homage,
a sincere tribute. The painting was inspired by Lovecraft’s story.”

“Suppose it was the other way around.” Waverly spoke slowly, softly. “Suppose Lovecraft’s story was inspired by the painting?”

Keith grimaced. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Not that it matters, because we’ll never know—”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Waverly. He tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “Didn’t you mention something about that dealer having other things in this blind lot he bought up?”

“Yes, but there were no more paintings. Just some boxes of books and letters he hadn’t examined yet.”

“Well I’d like to examine them myself.” Waverly’s eyes glinted behind the dark glasses. “Suppose those things were the property of the artist. Maybe we’d find a clue, something that would tell us the answer. Look, why don’t you call this fellow and ask if we can go through the material?”

“At this hour?” Keith set his coffee cup down on the table. “It’s past midnight.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Waverly rose. “I’ve got to run down to Acres of Books in Long Beach, but I’ll be back before dark. Let’s plan on having dinner together and seeing him afterwards. Set up an appointment for sometime in the evening.”

“I’ll give it a try,” Keith said. “But he may not want to stay open that long.”

“You paid him five hundred dollars for a painting, remember?” There was a hint of a smile beneath Waverly’s beard. “He’ll have the welcome mat ready and waiting when we arrive.”

The Santana was still strong, buffeting the windshield of the Volvo as Keith drove the freeway to the Alvarado off ramp on the following evening.

Beside him, Waverly stared out of the window. When the car turned and headed south, he noted that the wind had blown the street people away from their accustomed haunts. There were few figures on the sidewalks, and surprisingly little traffic for this time of night. The shops were shuttered and closed, leaving South Alvarado dark and deserted.

And when Keith’s car pulled up at the curb before Santiago’s place, it too was lightless. He frowned at his companion.

“I don’t see any welcome mat,” he murmured.

Waverly shrugged. “When you called he said he’d be here at nine. Probably just saving on electricity.”

But when the two men left the car and approached the door, they found it locked. Inside the store window a large cardboard sign rested against the glass, its lettering plainly visible: C
LOSED
—C
ALL
A
GAIN.

Keith’s frown indicated his irritation, but Waverly shook his head. “So he’s a little late. Let’s give him a few minutes.”

Litter swirled in the street, dancing to the wail of the wind. “I don’t like this,” Keith said. “Been blowing for three days now.”

“It’s that time of the year.” Waverly’s soft voice was as expressionless as his face. “Relax.”

“Gets on my nerves.” Keith paced restlessly along the walk before the shopfront. “Kept me awake most of last night. Living up there in the hills makes you edgy. Every time a shutter banged, I jumped. And I couldn’t put that painting out of my mind—the way the creature stares and crouches, as though it was ready to leap right out of the canvas and grab you by the throat.”

“Isn’t that why you bought it? I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“So did I. But this is different. There’s something about it that makes it seem—real.”

“But by God, Eliot,
it was a photograph from life.”

“What?”

Waverly chuckled. “I was just quoting the last line of
Pickman’s Model.
You’ll have to read the story yourself. Matter of fact, you ought to read all of Lovecraft’s stuff—and read
about
him, too. Remind me to bring you over some of the books.”

“I’m not so sure I want you to.”

“Come on, man—where’s your intellectual curiosity? This is right up your alley.”

“I don’t like alleys,” Keith said. “Not with a Santa Ana wind blowing up them, and a monster waiting for me at the far end.” He smiled self-consciously. “Don’t mind me, it’s just nerves.” Keith halted, glancing at his watch. “Where the devil is Santiago? It’s almost nine-thirty.”

As Keith turned to scan the deserted street, Waverly moved again to the front door of the shop.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

Keith looked up.

“Maybe he’s already here.” Waverly was peering through the glass. “That door at the end of the aisle—it must lead to a back room. See the light shining underneath?”

“Right. He could have come in by a rear entrance.”

Waverly rattled the doorknob, then pounded on the glass, but there was no response. “Doesn’t hear us,” he said. “Let’s go around the back.”

Keith gave him a wry glance. “I just told you I don’t care for alleys.”

Waverly’s chuckle sounded again. “Well there’s no monster waiting for you in this one, that I’ll guarantee. Come on.”

He indicated a narrow passage along the side wall of the building and started through it. Keith moved up behind, stumbling in the shadows, then reluctantly followed Waverly into the deeper darkness of the alleyway at the far end.

There was indeed a rear door here, and a stronger shimmer of light streaming from beneath it. And in the alley itself stood a battered, once-white pickup truck with the legend,
F. Santiago—Antiques,
plainly lettered on the door panel.

“What did I tell you?” Waverly said. “Here’s his car. And not a monster in sight.”

He walked over to the solid wooden shopdoor and the echo of his knock boomed along the alley, then faded into the moan of the wind.

Lifting his hand to knock again, Waverly paused suddenly, his fist uncurling as he reached down to grasp the doorknob.

“It’s unlocked.” The knob turned as he spoke and the door swung open.

Keith moved up to the doorway. “Mr. Santiago?”

He glanced forward into the light, then turned to Waverly with a frown. “Look!”

The back room of the shop was empty. But under the glare of the bare bulb overhead the two men stared at the evidence of recent occupancy. The overturned chair; the desk drawers dumped on the floor, their contents cascading into white waves of crumpled paper; the rifled file cabinet leaning against the wall; the jumble of empty boxes and cartons in the corner—all were mute but unmistakable signs of search and seizure.

“Rip-off,” Waverly muttered.

“But where’s Santiago?”

As he spoke, Keith started across the room in the direction of the closed door leading to the front of the shop. Just before reaching it he encountered another, smaller door to his right. It stood slightly ajar, and Keith halted as he placed his hand on the knob.

“Wait.” Waverly was at his side, gesturing caution. Keith noted that he’d picked up a heavy old-fashioned, metal letter spindle from the litter on the floor and was gripping it like a weapon.

“Let me go first,” Waverly said.

He pushed the door inward and started forward through the opening.

Then he gasped.

Halting behind him, Keith gazed into the tiny bathroom beyond. There was no light, but the window on the far side was open.

And leaning silently over the sill he recognized the silhouette of Santiago.

Brushing past Waverly, he crossed the room and tapped Santiago’s shoulder. The leaning figure turned, slumping sideways to the floor as Keith screamed.

For Felipe Santiago was dead. And, on what remained of his chewed and gouged head, there was no longer a face.

“The Lurking Fear,”
Waverly whispered.
“The Lurking Fear.”

“What are you talking about?” Keith blinked in the dawn light, stealing dimly across Waverly’s study.

“Lovecraft’s story. A man and his reporter friend investigate a deserted village where the inhabitants have been killed by something, which apparently came out of burrows beneath the hills. A storm rises and they take shelter in a cabin. In the darkness the reporter leans out of the window, watching the tempest in the night. Finally his companion notices he hasn’t moved. He touches him on the shoulder and—” Waverly broke off with a shrug. “You know the rest.”

“I don’t know anything,” Keith said. “I still think we should have called the police, instead of running off.”

Waverly sighed. “Let’s not go over
that
again! If we had, you and I wouldn’t be here now. We’d be sitting downtown in the slammer, booked on suspicion and waiting for questions from the D.A.’s staff. Questions neither of us can answer.”

“But surely the police could see that we had nothing to do with Santiago’s death!”

“The police tend to be very myopic in such matters. And even if they didn’t file charges, we’d be bound over as material witnesses. You tell me you don’t like alleys. Well, I’m allergic to jail cells.” Waverly shook his head. “When they find Santiago’s body, all hell is going to break loose. This sort of thing is bound to make a sensation, and neither of us need that kind of publicity. It’s better that we don’t get involved.”

Keith glanced away toward the bookshelves lining the study walls. “But we are already,” he said wearily. “The trouble is, I don’t understand
what
we’re involved in. You say this man Lovecraft wrote a story in which someone leaned out of a window and had his face chewed off. And now it happens in real life—”

Waverly interrupted him with an impatient gesture. “We needn’t assume that. My guess is the coroner’s report will show Santiago was beaten repeatedly about the head with some sharp instrument which gouged his features.”

“But why? From the looks of things, the motive was robbery. Whoever perpetrated the crime didn’t have to murder him. And even if he was killed accidentally, there was no reason to keep on slashing away at his face—or lean him across the window sill the same way as in the story.”

Waverly tugged at his beard. “Nature copies art,” he said. “Or does art copy nature? Now we have two examples—Santiago’s death and your painting. Both linked directly to the work of H.P. Lovecraft.”

“But Lovecraft isn’t linked to Santiago.”

“I think he is.” Waverly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a torn and crumpled scrap of yellowed paper. Smoothing its creases, he placed it on the tabletop before him.

“What’s that?” Keith said.

“Something I found on the floor of the back room when I picked up that letter spindle,” Waverly told him. “I didn’t get a chance to look at it closely until we were on our way here. You were too busy driving and too shook up to notice—and when I saw what it was, I decided not to say anything. But now I think you ought to see for yourself.”

He pushed the paper forward. Keith gazed down at the torn-away upper portion of a sheet of stationery covered with minute and distinctive lettering. The crabbed handwriting was difficult to read: Keith raised the paper to the light and deciphered the message slowly.