The Compleat Crow (21 page)

Crow paused again, frowning momentarily as he worked out the best way to relate the remainder of the story.

“Sorry to keep jumping about like this, Dawson, but I’m trying to tell the thing more or less chronologically. Let’s see now—yes, we’d best go back to Maurice Jamieson in England.

“The doctor lived with his wife, Muriel, in a cottage just outside Brentwood where he had his practice; but within four days of his return it became plain that his recently contracted affliction was affecting his efficient control of that practice. The pounding headache—remarkably reminiscent in its sustained and regular
throb, throb, throb
of the drums across Lake Ngami—had worsened until its pain was so great it seemed to Jamieson that his head was slowly being crushed in a great vise. The next day he took to his bed, so terrible had the agony in his head become, and on the following morning he called in a fellow doctor to examine him. And yet, that same day, as mysteriously as it had waxed, Jamieson’s headache waned and quickly disappeared. Altogether the thing had lasted two weeks.

“The next eight days passed uneventfully, and Maurice Jamieson had almost forgotten about the monstrous pains he had known in his head (which, I might add, he had been sure would be the death of him), when a heavily stamped parcel arrived airmail from Salisbury. The thing came with the morning mail, and Jamieson unwrapped it wonderingly to find a long, explanatory letter from his brother—and Darghud’s doll.”

“A doll?” I cried, breaking in on Crow’s narrative. “Did you say Darghud’s doll?”

“Yes, and I’ll get on to that in a minute,” Crow continued, ignoring my rude outburst, “but first a word about the parcel.

“Now that package was most odd; more like an entomologist’s specimen-box than a parcel proper, with little ventilation holes—you know what I mean? And within the inner container, wrapped most carefully in cotton-wool and with only its head free, was the baked clay and straw doll; with slivers of blue glass for its eyes and with the top of its head painted red. I should mention here that Maurice Jamieson had red hair, and that his eyes were blue…

“The letter accompanying this outré object was no less extraordinary, explaining in detail all that David Jamieson had done since learning of his brother’s confrontation with the witch-doctor. He had set out in his canoe three days after Maurice’s departure, and it had taken him another three days to find the nomadic M’bulus; in the end the drums had led him to them. There in the marshlands he had treated the sick chief, bringing him back ‘miraculously’ to renewed health in only a day or two. They’re incredibly tough people, those marsh-dwellers.

“It was only then that the outpost doctor dared bring up the question of Darghud and the devil-drums and what they meant. Shamefacedly, Notka told him that Darghud was ‘killing’ the other white Mganga for refusing his request for help—but the chief was also quick to agree that the ritual could now be satisfactorily ended with no harm done. Darghud, disappointed and angry, was made to produce the doll—into the clay body of which he had ground the beetle containing the white Mganga’s ‘aura’ or essence—and also to call a halt to the drumming. Just how he had managed to ‘magic’ the beetle out of the resin is something I don’t suppose anyone will ever know.

“A cord had been twined about the doll’s painted head, with two flat wooden discs the size of pennies attached at the temples. Every day Darghud had been turning the discs, tightening the cord, until eventually the head would have been quite squashed! Of course, Jamieson carefully removed the discs and cord immediately—and the point I make is this:
that at exactly the same time he freed the doll’s head, five thousand miles away in England his brother’s headache began to lift!
”

“Coincidence,” I said, feeling more than a little disappointed. It was, after all, a common enough tale.

“Coincidence? Perhaps—but there’s more to come…

“Of course, being a stoic sort of chap, Dr. Maurice Jamieson came to the same conclusion as yourself, Dawson—nothing personal intended, you understand. He gave the doll to his wife and thought no more about it. Muriel, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish. She was a superstitious soul, and even if she did fancy that all this was just a bit too much like mumbo-jumbo—well, what harm in taking precautions?

“She’d got this idea right from the start, you see—from the moment she saw Darghud’s doll and learned the story behind it—for she simply didn’t consider the little effigy of her husband to be
strong
enough! The doll was too frail; it wouldn’t last a lifetime. And what if the thing really was, well,
linked
to Maurice in some way? What, she morbidly wondered, would be happening to her husband while Darghud’s doll slowly disintegrated?

“Which was why, one night a short while later, she did what she did…And that was the end of that!” Crow snapped his fingers in sharp definition of finality.

I waited a moment and then said: “Well, go on, Titus, finish it off. What did Muriel Jamieson do?”

Crow gazed at me a few seconds longer, sighed, and then continued: “I thought you might have guessed it, Dawson…” He swirled the brandy round in the bottom of his glass.

“Well?” I prompted him.

He sighed again. “Well, one hour after Muriel Jamieson
attended
to the doll, when she went to her husband’s study with a cup of coffee, she found him dead at his desk. His face was blue, his eyes were bulging, and his tongue was lolling out.”

“Eh?” I jumped at his abrupt delivery, staring in unquiet fascination across the space between us. “Dead? Like…that? But I thought you said that she was going to take some sort of precautionary measure? I don’t follow you, Crow.”

Yet again my host sighed. “I was hoping to spare myself the telling of the more unpleasant details,” he said.

“Well, come on, come on,” I was beginning to get impatient. “How did he die? What was it all about?”

“You remember I told you how Jamieson’s hobby was entomology, and how he used a type of quick-setting, artificial resin to—”

“My God!” I burst out, the horrible answer standing out in my mind’s eye with sudden, startling clarity.

“That’s right,” Crow nodded his tawny head in grim affirmation. “When Jamieson’s doctor signed his death certificate, he said it was probably ‘a bug’ Jamieson picked up in Africa—causing first the prolonged headache, then the fatal, terribly swift respiratory trouble ending in asphyxia. Funny that he should blame it on ‘a bug,’ eh?”

Crow paused, leaning over to top up my glass again before getting on with it. “Quite naturally, Mrs. Jamieson was a bit crazy for a good eighteen months after her husband’s death—she more than half blamed herself, you see? And yet the final straw was not the doctor’s death in itself. No, the thing that really put the cap on it all was what happened a few days
after
Jamieson died.”

“Eh? Something happened soon after his death?” I needlessly repeated the occultist’s words.

“Yes,” he affirmed, quite matter-of-factly now that he had it almost all told. “For it was then, in an agony of doubt and horror, that Muriel Jamieson took the doll in its resin coffin and burned it to ashes in the open-hearth fire in her living-room. The resin burned like celluloid. She figured ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ you know?

“And that evening, when the will was read, it was discovered that Maurice Jamieson had elected, in the event of his demise,
that the disposal of his body be carried out by cremation
!”

Somehow or other, I intend to use Crow’s story!

Any intrusions, other than those condoned or invited, upon the privacy of Titus Crow at his bungalow retreat, Blowne House, on the outskirts of London, were almost always automatically classified by that gentleman as open acts of warfare. In the first place for anyone to make it merely to the doors of Crow’s abode without an invitation—often even
with
one—was a sure sign of the appearance on the scene of a forceful and dogmatic character; qualities which were almost guaranteed to clash with Crow’s own odd nature. For Blowne House seemed to exude an atmosphere all its own, an exhalation of impending
something
which usually kept the place and its grounds free even from birds and mice; and it was quite unusual for Crow himself to invite visitors. He kept strange hours and busied himself with stranger matters and, frankly, was almost antisocial even in his most “engaging” moments. Over the years the reasons for this apparent inhospitality had grown, or so it seemed to Crow, increasingly clear-cut. For one thing, his library contained quite a large number of rare and highly costly books, many of them long out of print and some of them never officially
in
print, and London apparently abounded with unscrupulous “collectors” of such items. For another his studies, usually in occult matters and obscure archaeological, antiquarian or anthropological research, were such as required the most concentrated attention and personal involvement, completely precluding any disturbances from outside sources.

Not that the present infringement came while Crow was engaged with any of his many and varied activities—it did not; it came in the middle of the night, rousing him from deep and dreamless slumbers engendered by a long day of frustrated and unrewarding work on de Marigny’s clock. And Titus Crow was not amused.

“What the hell’s going on here? Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” He had sat bolt upright in bed almost as soon as the light went on. His forehead had come straight into contact with a wicked-looking automatic held in the fist of a most unbeautiful thug. The man was about five feet eight inches in height, thick-set, steady on legs which were short in comparison with the rest of his frame. He had a small scar over his left eye and a mouth that slanted downward—cynically, Crow supposed—from left to right. Most unbeautiful.

“Just take it easy, guv’, and there’ll be no bother,” the thug said, his voice soft but ugly. Crow’s eyes flicked across the room to where a second hoodlum stood, just within the bedroom door, a nervous grin twisting his pallid features. “Find anything, Pasty?” the man with the pistol questioned, his eyes never leaving Crow’s face for a second.

“Nothing, Joe,” came the answer, “a few old books and bits of silver, nothing worth our while—yet. He’ll tell us where it is, though, won’t you, chum?”

“Pasty!” Crow exclaimed, “Powers of observation, indeed! I was just thinking, before hearing your name, what a thin, pasty creature you look—Pasty.” Crow grinned, got out of bed and put on his flame-red dressing-gown. Joe looked him up and down appraisingly. Crow was tall and broad-shouldered and it was plain to see that in his younger days he had been a handsome man. Even now there was a certain tawniness about him, and his eyes were still very bright and more than intelligent. Overall his aspect conveyed an impression of hidden power, which Joe did not particularly care much for. He decided it would be best to show his authority at the earliest opportunity. And Crow obligingly supplied him with that opportunity in the next few seconds.

The jibe the occultist had aimed at Pasty had meanwhile found its way home. Pasty’s retaliation was a threat: “Lovely colour, that dressing-gown,” he said, “it’ll match up nicely if you bleed when I rap you on your head.” He laughed harshly, slapping a metal cosh into his open palm. “But before that, you will tell us where it is, won’t you?”

“Surely,” Crow answered immediately, “it’s third on the left, down the passage…
ugh!
” Joe’s pistol smacked into Crow’s cheek, knocking him sprawling. He carefully got up, gingerly fingering the red welt on his face.

“Now that’s just to show you that we don’t want any more funnies, see?” Joe said.

“Yes, I see,” Crow’s voice trembled with suppressed rage, “just what do you want?”

“Now is that so difficult to figure out?” Pasty asked, crossing the room. “Money…we want your money! A fine fellow like you, with a place like this—” the lean man glanced appraisingly about the room, noting the silk curtains, the boukhara rugs, the original erotic illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley in their rosewood frames—“ought to have a good bit of ready cash lying about…we want it!”

“Then I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,” Crow told him happily, seating himself on his bed, “I keep my money in a bank—what little I’ve got.”

“Up!” ordered Joe briefly. “Off the bed.” He pulled Crow to one side, nodding to Pasty, indicating some sort of action involving the bed. Crow stepped forward as Pasty yanked back the covers from the mattress and took out a sharp knife.

“Now wait…” he began, thoroughly alarmed.

“Hold it, guv’, or I might just let Pasty use his blade on you!” Joe waved his gun in Crow’s face, ordering him back. “You see, you’d be far better off to tell us where the money is without all this trouble. This way you’re just going to see your little nest wrecked around you.” He waited, giving Crow the opportunity to speak up, then indicated to Pasty that he should go ahead.

Pasty went ahead!

He ripped open the mattress along both sides and one end, tearing back the soft outer covering to expose the stuffing and springs beneath, then pulling out the interior in great handfuls, flinging them down on the floor in total disregard of Crow’s utter astonishment and concern.

“See, guv’, you’re a recluse—in our books, anyway—and retiring sorts like you hide their pennies in the funniest places. Like in mattresses…or behind wall-pictures!” Joe gave Pasty a nod, waving his pistol at the Beardsleys.

“Well for God’s sake, just
look
behind them,” Crow snarled, again starting forward, “there’s no need to rip them off the walls.”

“Here!” Pasty exclaimed, turning an enquiring eye on the outraged householder, “these pictures worth anything then?”

“Only to a collector—you’d never find a fence for stuff like that,” Crow replied.

“Hah! Not so stupid, our recluse!” Joe grinned, “But being clever won’t get you anywhere, guv’, except hospital maybe…Okay, Pasty, leave the man’s dirty pictures alone. You—” He turned to Crow, “—your study; we’ve been in there, but only passing through. Let’s go, guv’; you can give us a hand to, er, shift things about.” He pushed Crow in the direction of the door.

Pasty was last to enter the study. He did so shivering, an odd look crossing his face. Pasty did not know it but he was a singularly rare person, one of the world’s few truly “psychic” men. Crow was another—one who had the
talent
to a high degree—and he sensed Pasty’s sudden feeling of apprehension.

“Snug little room, isn’t it?” he asked, grinning cheerfully at the uneasy thug.

“Never mind how pretty the place is—try the panelling, Pasty,” Joe directed.

“Eh?” Pasty’s mind obviously was not on the job. “The panelling?” His eyes shifted nervously round the room.

“Yes, the panelling!” Joe studied his partner curiously. “What’s wrong with you, then?” His look of puzzlement turned to one of anger. “Now come on, Pasty boy, get a grip! At this rate we’ll be here all bleeding night!”

Now it happened that Titus Crow’s study was the pride of his life, and the thought of the utter havoc his unwelcome visitors could wreak in there was a terrifying thing to him. He determined to help them in their abortive search as much as he could; they would not find anything—there was nothing to find!—but this way he could at least ensure as little damage as possible before they realized there was no money in the house and left. They were certainly unwilling to believe anything he said about the absence of substantive funds! But then again, to anyone not knowing him reasonably well—and few did—Crow’s home and certain of its appointments might certainly point to a man of considerable means. Yet he was merely comfortable, not wealthy, and, as he had said, what money he did have was safe in a bank. The more he helped them get through with their search the quicker they would leave! He had just made up his mind to this effect when Pasty found the hidden recess by the fireside.

“Here!” The nervous look left Pasty’s face as he turned to Joe. “Listen to this.” He rapped on a square panel. The sound was dull, hollow. Pasty swung his cosh back purposefully.

“No, wait—I’ll open it for you.” Crow held up his hands in protest.

“Go on then, get it open.” Joe ordered. Crow moved over to the wall and expertly slid back the panel to reveal a dim shelf behind. On the shelf was a single book. Pasty pushed Crow aside, lifted out the book and read off its title:

“The…what?…
Cthaat Aquadingen
! Huh!” Then his expression quickly turned to one of pure disgust and loathing.
“Ughhh!”
He flung the book away from him across the room, hastily wiping his hands down his jacket. Titus Crow received a momentary but quite vivid mental message from the mind of the startled thug. It was a picture of things rotting in vaults of crawling darkness, and he could well understand why Pasty was suddenly trembling.

“That…that damn book’s
wet
!” the shaken crook exclaimed nervously.

“No, just sweating!” Crow informed. “The binding is, er, human skin, you see. Somehow it still retains the ability to sweat—a sure sign that it’s going to rain.”

“Claptrap!” Joe snapped. “And you get a grip of yourself,” he snarled at Pasty. “There’s something about this place I don’t like either, but I’m not letting it get me down.” He turned to Crow, his mouth strained and twisting in anger: “And from now on you speak when you’re spoken to.” Then carefully, practicedly, he turned his head and slowly scanned the room, taking in the tall bookshelves with their many volumes, some ancient, others relatively modern, and he glanced at Pasty and grinned knowingly. “Pasty,” Joe ordered, “get them books off the shelves—I want to see what’s behind them. How about it, recluse, you got anything behind there?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Crow quickly answered, “for goodness sake don’t go pulling them down; some of them are coming to pieces as it is.
No!
”

His last cry was one of pure protestation; horror at the defilement of his collection. The two thugs ignored him. Pasty, seemingly over his nervousness, happily went to work, scattering the books left, right and centre. Down came the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe, the first rare editions of Machen’s and Lovecraft’s fiction; then the more ancient works, of Josephus, Magnus, Levi, Borellus, Erdschluss and Wittingby; closely followed by a connected set on oceanic evil: Gaston Le Fe’s
Dwellers in the Depths
, Oswald’s
Legends of Liqualia
, Gantley’s
Hydrophinnae
, the German
Unter-Zee Kulten
and Hartrack’s
In Pressured Places
…

Crow could merely stand and watch it all, a black rage growing in his heart, and Joe, not entirely insensitive to the occultist’s mood, gripped his pistol a little tighter and unsmilingly cautioned him: “Just take it easy, hermit. There’s still time to speak up—just tell us where you hide your money and it’s all over. No? Okay, what’s next?” His eyes swept the now littered room again, coming to rest in a dimly lighted corner where stood a great clock.

In front of the clock—an instrument apparently of the “grandfather” class; at least, from a distance of that appearance—stood a small occasional table bearing an adjustable reading-lamp, one or two books and a few scattered sheets of notepaper. Seeing the direction in which Joe’s actions were leading him, Crow smiled inwardly and wished his criminal visitor all the best. If Joe could make anything of that timepiece, then he was a cleverer man than Titus Crow; and if he could actually
open
it, as is possible and perfectly normal with more orthodox clocks, then Crow would be eternally grateful to him. For the sarcophagus-like thing in the dim corner was that same instrument with which Crow had busied himself all the previous day and on many, many other days since first he purchased it more than ten years earlier. And none of his studies had done him a bit of good! He was still as unenlightened with regard to the clock’s purpose as he had been a decade ago.

Allegedly the thing had belonged to one Etienne-Laurent de Marigny, once a distinguished student of occult and oriental mysteries and antiquities, but where de Marigny had come by the coffin-shaped clock was yet another mystery. Crow had purchased it on the assurance of its auctioneer that it was, indeed, that same timepiece mentioned in certain of de Marigny’s papers as being “a door on all space and time; one which only certain adepts—not all of this world—could use to its intended purpose!” There were, too, rumours that a certain Eastern mystic, the Swami Chandraputra, had vanished forever from the face of the Earth after squeezing himself into a cavity hidden beneath the panel of the lower part of the clock’s coffin shape. Also, de Marigny had supposedly had the ability to open at will that door into which the Swami vanished—but that was a secret he had taken with him to the grave. Titus Crow had never been able to find even a keyhole; and while the clock weighed what it should for its size, yet when one rapped on the lower panel the sound such rappings produced were not hollow as might be expected. A curious fact—a curious history altogether—but the clock itself was even more curious to gaze upon or listen to.

Even now Joe was doing just those things: looking at and listening to the clock. He had switched on and adjusted the reading-lamp so that its light fell upon the face of the peculiar mechanism. At first sight of that clock-face Pasty had gone an even paler shade of grey, with all his nervousness of a few minutes earlier instantly returned. Crow sensed his perturbation; he had had similar feelings while working on the great clock, but he had also had the advantage of understanding where such fears originated. Pasty was experiencing the same sensations he himself had known when first he saw the clock in the auction rooms. Again he gazed at it as he had then; his eyes following the flow of the weird hieroglyphs carved about the dial and the odd movements of the four hands, movements coinciding with no chronological system of earthly origin; and for a moment there reigned an awful silence in the study of Titus Crow. Only the strange clock’s enigmatic and oddly paced ticking disturbed a quiet which otherwise might have been that of the tomb.