Read Online The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Wheeler
Tags: Fiction
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hand, bruising the bone.
Mullin screamed and released his grip as the officer lunged. But Doyle spun to meet him, driving the end of his cane deep into the officer’s midsection. Then he spun a second time, hooking the officer behind the knees and dropping him like a sack of potatoes. The officer crashed down atop books and broken glass.
Mullin was still between Doyle and the door. The detective pulled out his pistol, but Doyle swung his cane again, swatting the .45 across the room then driving his shoulder deep into Mullin’s sternum. The two men hit the wall hard, and before Mullin could get a handhold, Doyle drove his knee into the detective’s belly. He wrestled himself free and flew out the door, down the stairs, and out into the streets.
MULLIN BURST THROUGH the doorway of the building moments later. His bowler was missing, and his bald head was beaded with sweat. He stumbled into the middle of the street, shaking with rage.
Wally trundled out behind him.
There was no sign of Doyle.
“Anonymous tip, eh, Wally?” Mullin growled.
“That old-timer sure can move,” Wally said, rubbing his belly.
“This case stinks.” Mullin stuffed his .45 back in its holster as Wally held up his bowler. Mullin snatched it out of his hands. “Bloody lot o’ help you were,” he snarled.
DOYLE JOGGED THE seven blocks to Broadway, where he grabbed the railing of one of the last trolleys headed uptown.
Seating himself in the back, he checked his pocket watch. The time was 12:33 A.M.
“Pardon me,” Doyle asked a tired woman clutching a brown bag of vegetables, “but will this trolley take me to the Penn Hotel?”
The woman stared blankly at him and nodded.
Doyle sat back and examined the evening’s events. The situation was deteriorating faster than he’d feared. Duvall’s death, the theft of the Book, and Lovecraft’s involvement in murders three thousand miles away—surely these were all connected. Yet Doyle felt he was seeing only a single thread of a vast and complex web of conspiracy.
Perhaps in the years since he had last seen Lovecraft, the man had undergone horrible changes. Knowing Lovecraft’s mind, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. But Doyle dismissed the thought. Lovecraft had been framed. The man was many things, but not a murderer.
And the coin? Mullin recognized the coin, and had seen it as some proof of guilt or complicity. So much for anonymity. Doyle cursed. He had managed to blunder his way right onto the New York City Police Department’s Most Wanted list. His younger self wouldn’t have made such a miscalculation, wouldn’t have carried I.D., wouldn’t have produced the coin so casually. Wouldn’t even have approached Lovecraft’s apartment so cavalierly. He was long out of practice, and in this sort of game there were no second chances. Today, he’d done more damage than good. Perhaps tomorrow he could set it right—if he wasn’t arrested in the meantime.
The Penn Hotel was a welcome sight by the time Doyle arrived. A doorman ushered him into the old-world charm of the lobby. Exhausted, Doyle retrieved his key from the desk and went up to his suite.
Once inside, he took off his jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, locked the door, and wedged a chair underneath the knob. Then, satisfied, he loaded his pipe and lit it, puffing sweet smoke while staring out of his fourth-story window.
After several minutes, he locked the window, too. He placed his trinkets, wallet, change, pocket watch, magnifying glass, pipe, and tobacco on the bureau. From his suitcase he retrieved a small framed photo of Kingsley in his Royal Air Force uniform. He placed it on the bed stand, and positioned it favorably in the light. He then removed the rest of his suit. In nightshirt and ankle straps, he sat on the bed and pulled the window table to him. Glasses balanced on his nose, Doyle dipped his pen and proceeded to write a letter to his wife, feeling her absence as strongly as the
Mullin screamed and released his grip as the officer lunged. But Doyle spun to meet him, driving the end of his cane deep into the officer’s midsection. Then he spun a second time, hooking the officer behind the knees and dropping him like a sack of potatoes. The officer crashed down atop books and broken glass.
Mullin was still between Doyle and the door. The detective pulled out his pistol, but Doyle swung his cane again, swatting the .45 across the room then driving his shoulder deep into Mullin’s sternum. The two men hit the wall hard, and before Mullin could get a handhold, Doyle drove his knee into the detective’s belly. He wrestled himself free and flew out the door, down the stairs, and out into the streets.
MULLIN BURST THROUGH the doorway of the building moments later. His bowler was missing, and his bald head was beaded with sweat. He stumbled into the middle of the street, shaking with rage.
Wally trundled out behind him.
There was no sign of Doyle.
“Anonymous tip, eh, Wally?” Mullin growled.
“That old-timer sure can move,” Wally said, rubbing his belly.
“This case stinks.” Mullin stuffed his .45 back in its holster as Wally held up his bowler. Mullin snatched it out of his hands. “Bloody lot o’ help you were,” he snarled.
DOYLE JOGGED THE seven blocks to Broadway, where he grabbed the railing of one of the last trolleys headed uptown.
Seating himself in the back, he checked his pocket watch. The time was 12:33 A.M.
“Pardon me,” Doyle asked a tired woman clutching a brown bag of vegetables, “but will this trolley take me to the Penn Hotel?”
The woman stared blankly at him and nodded.
Doyle sat back and examined the evening’s events. The situation was deteriorating faster than he’d feared. Duvall’s death, the theft of the Book, and Lovecraft’s involvement in murders three thousand miles away—surely these were all connected. Yet Doyle felt he was seeing only a single thread of a vast and complex web of conspiracy.
Perhaps in the years since he had last seen Lovecraft, the man had undergone horrible changes. Knowing Lovecraft’s mind, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. But Doyle dismissed the thought. Lovecraft had been framed. The man was many things, but not a murderer.
And the coin? Mullin recognized the coin, and had seen it as some proof of guilt or complicity. So much for anonymity. Doyle cursed. He had managed to blunder his way right onto the New York City Police Department’s Most Wanted list. His younger self wouldn’t have made such a miscalculation, wouldn’t have carried I.D., wouldn’t have produced the coin so casually. Wouldn’t even have approached Lovecraft’s apartment so cavalierly. He was long out of practice, and in this sort of game there were no second chances. Today, he’d done more damage than good. Perhaps tomorrow he could set it right—if he wasn’t arrested in the meantime.
The Penn Hotel was a welcome sight by the time Doyle arrived. A doorman ushered him into the old-world charm of the lobby. Exhausted, Doyle retrieved his key from the desk and went up to his suite.
Once inside, he took off his jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, locked the door, and wedged a chair underneath the knob. Then, satisfied, he loaded his pipe and lit it, puffing sweet smoke while staring out of his fourth-story window.
After several minutes, he locked the window, too. He placed his trinkets, wallet, change, pocket watch, magnifying glass, pipe, and tobacco on the bureau. From his suitcase he retrieved a small framed photo of Kingsley in his Royal Air Force uniform. He placed it on the bed stand, and positioned it favorably in the light. He then removed the rest of his suit. In nightshirt and ankle straps, he sat on the bed and pulled the window table to him. Glasses balanced on his nose, Doyle dipped his pen and proceeded to write a letter to his wife, feeling her absence as strongly as the
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