Read Online Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) by Michael Kurland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Kurland
Ads: Link
face was as white as though it had been dusted with the finest flour.
Both members and guests were expected—required—to have their faces masked before passing through the gate and arriving at the front door. A domino would suffice, but many of the masks were quite elaborate, and some showed more of their wearer’s soul than would his naked face.
Entrance to the Château was obtained by showing the doorman a talisman and whispering a word. The word was changed monthly, the talisman yearly. This year’s talisman was a gilded cock, about two inches across, pierced through the tail feathers for a small gold ring so that it could be hung around the neck on a slender gold chain and worn between shirt and chest. The word for the month was “Cybele,” the name of the mother of the gods of Olympus. It is said that the ancient cult of Cybele honored her by performing orgiastic dances and unspeakable acts.
The brougham that stopped before the gate to Le Château d’Espagne just after dusk this Friday, the nineteenth day of September, was a deep maroon color trimmed in the blackest of blacks. A thin gilt stripe outlined each of the maroon panels. The driver and footman wore powdered wigs and red and gold tailcoats with oversized gold buttons over puffy black breeches terminating in a pair of white stockings just below the knee. It was a style of livery aping the court dress of the eighteenth century that the servants of the nobility seemed loath to give up.
Two men wearing black half-capes over their evening clothes emerged from the brougham, one tall and slim and elegant, the other a bit shorter and stocky, with hunched shoulders and small eyes that shifted constantly about as though looking for hidden dangers behind every lamppost. They paused to don masks: the slim man a half-mask of pressed gold with black eyebrows and a pencil-thin black mustache champlevé that covered eyes and nose but left the mouth visible, and the stocky man a black puffy-faced half-mask that covered the nose but left off at the mouth and the brown beard below it.
A third man, enfolded in a great dark blue cape with a blue muffler wrapped around his face and a squat top hat pulled low over his eyes, dropped off the brougham and settled for a long wait outside the château walls. The brougham pulled away.
Passing through the wrought-iron gate, the two masked men crossed to the heavy oaken door of the château and knocked. A small square opening appeared in the door and an eye peered out, and the tall man dangled his talisman by its gold chain in front of the eye and giggled. “Cybele,” he whispered in a high, piercing whisper, and giggled again.
The door swung open, and a large man, dark hued and imposing of girth, dressed in breeches and tunic of red and gold brocade and wearing a gold turban, bowed and bade them welcome. Not quite suppressing a final giggle, the tall man tucked his talisman back under his shirt and advanced into the marble-tiled entrance way, followed closely by his companion. A cloakroom was just inside the door on the right, and behind its counter a comely young girl, unclothed except for a man’s bow tie and a cummerbund, stood ready to receive their capes. The tall man passed his over with an elegant sweeping gesture and then handed the girl a white pasteboard on which had been hand-printed the word PECCAVI. The card was promptly put through a slot in a locked cherrywood box. Each member picked his own private word, which identified him for mundane financial purposes, and only Master Paternoster possessed the book that coupled the member with his chosen word.
Beyond the entrance was an ebon, gold, and ivory hallway, the ebony polished to a gleaming shine, lighted by a row of small gold gas lamps set along the left-hand wall, inches from the ivory ceiling. A gaily colored fresco along the ceiling depicted scenes of the sort found on Greek vases of the classical period. The vases on which these sorts of scenes were found
Both members and guests were expected—required—to have their faces masked before passing through the gate and arriving at the front door. A domino would suffice, but many of the masks were quite elaborate, and some showed more of their wearer’s soul than would his naked face.
Entrance to the Château was obtained by showing the doorman a talisman and whispering a word. The word was changed monthly, the talisman yearly. This year’s talisman was a gilded cock, about two inches across, pierced through the tail feathers for a small gold ring so that it could be hung around the neck on a slender gold chain and worn between shirt and chest. The word for the month was “Cybele,” the name of the mother of the gods of Olympus. It is said that the ancient cult of Cybele honored her by performing orgiastic dances and unspeakable acts.
The brougham that stopped before the gate to Le Château d’Espagne just after dusk this Friday, the nineteenth day of September, was a deep maroon color trimmed in the blackest of blacks. A thin gilt stripe outlined each of the maroon panels. The driver and footman wore powdered wigs and red and gold tailcoats with oversized gold buttons over puffy black breeches terminating in a pair of white stockings just below the knee. It was a style of livery aping the court dress of the eighteenth century that the servants of the nobility seemed loath to give up.
Two men wearing black half-capes over their evening clothes emerged from the brougham, one tall and slim and elegant, the other a bit shorter and stocky, with hunched shoulders and small eyes that shifted constantly about as though looking for hidden dangers behind every lamppost. They paused to don masks: the slim man a half-mask of pressed gold with black eyebrows and a pencil-thin black mustache champlevé that covered eyes and nose but left the mouth visible, and the stocky man a black puffy-faced half-mask that covered the nose but left off at the mouth and the brown beard below it.
A third man, enfolded in a great dark blue cape with a blue muffler wrapped around his face and a squat top hat pulled low over his eyes, dropped off the brougham and settled for a long wait outside the château walls. The brougham pulled away.
Passing through the wrought-iron gate, the two masked men crossed to the heavy oaken door of the château and knocked. A small square opening appeared in the door and an eye peered out, and the tall man dangled his talisman by its gold chain in front of the eye and giggled. “Cybele,” he whispered in a high, piercing whisper, and giggled again.
The door swung open, and a large man, dark hued and imposing of girth, dressed in breeches and tunic of red and gold brocade and wearing a gold turban, bowed and bade them welcome. Not quite suppressing a final giggle, the tall man tucked his talisman back under his shirt and advanced into the marble-tiled entrance way, followed closely by his companion. A cloakroom was just inside the door on the right, and behind its counter a comely young girl, unclothed except for a man’s bow tie and a cummerbund, stood ready to receive their capes. The tall man passed his over with an elegant sweeping gesture and then handed the girl a white pasteboard on which had been hand-printed the word PECCAVI. The card was promptly put through a slot in a locked cherrywood box. Each member picked his own private word, which identified him for mundane financial purposes, and only Master Paternoster possessed the book that coupled the member with his chosen word.
Beyond the entrance was an ebon, gold, and ivory hallway, the ebony polished to a gleaming shine, lighted by a row of small gold gas lamps set along the left-hand wall, inches from the ivory ceiling. A gaily colored fresco along the ceiling depicted scenes of the sort found on Greek vases of the classical period. The vases on which these sorts of scenes were found
Similar Books
