The Devil Came to Arkham Read online

  THE DEVIL CAME TO ARKHAM

  Book 3 in The Arkham Detective Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2017, United States Library of Congress; The Devil Came to Arkham

  www.ByronCraftBooks.com

  Artwork by Eric Lofgren; www.ericlofgren.net

  ISBN-13: 978-1976246654

  ISBN-10: 1976246652

  DEDICATION

  To my sidekick, companion, and better-half, Marcia

  who has put up with me for over thirty years.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  The Devil

  Came to Arkham

  Can anything good come from Arkham? Most doubt it. Arkham Massachusetts, in character, is neither virtuous nor depraved; it aspires to be Providence, but it comes closer to Salem when Corvus Astaroth is added. It is the Arkham Cycle. It not only attracts the lowest of all things living or dead, it is also a magnet for the strangest. Some cities grew while Arkham just festered. Maybe Arkham's aberrant culture was the ultimate power source for him. You know the saying: “In the long run, we’re all dead." Well, when it comes to Corvus Astaroth, sometimes evil is hard to kill.

  I first met him while I was standing on the bottom step to Station House 13 smoking my fifteenth Lucky of the day. I was thinking about this and that; just looking at the asphalt between me and my problems, when he pulled up. There was this weird fella driving a beat-up Model T. The old Ford was bright red and looked like it was painted with a wet mop. The driver was clean shaven, with bushy white eyebrows wearing a sailor straw hat. Who the hell wears a hat like that nowadays? I asked myself. The back seat of the Model T was piled high with an array of heavily worn furniture and bulging canvas sacks. Long black candelabras hung halfway out the windows. Strapped to the top of the trunk were ominous looking wood crates. For a brief instant, I thought I detected movement in one of the sacks.

  The driver’s side door swung open and the shortest pair of legs I ever saw pivoted sideways and dangled over the running boards. He jumped down and stretched to his full height not quite making it to five-feet. He was also beyond plump. He had a girth on him that resembled the Hindenburg. The fat little fella strutted towards me with a swagger, extended his right hand and announced, “Hi, my name is Corvus Astaroth, friends call me Ash."

  I took the little guy’s hand, pumped it a couple of times and replied, “Hello Mr. Astaroth, what do you need with the Arkham Police Department?”

  “Police!” he said jumping at the sound of the word. “I thought this was the City Hall.”

  “Two blocks down, on the right.”

  “Oh my,” he answered. “I am truly sorry. I just arrived. I have decided to take up residence in your lovely town. I want to file for residency and enquire about any homes for sale in the area.”

  “I don’t do real estate. Two blocks down, on the right.” I ground the Lucky out on the pavement and turned to walk up the steps.

  He raised his voice to a high pitch and called after me, “I am so sorry again. I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Detective,” I answered back as the door to Station House 13 slowly closed behind me.

  ***

  That was three months ago. A lot has changed in Arkham. From my third storey apartment window, I could barely make out the clock tower at Miskatonic University. Closer was the Church Street Park. Three or four years ago it looked like acres of spinach when viewed from up high; a place of bridle paths, a lake and at one time a zoo. There used to be a quaint bridge spanning a narrow outlet over the water with happy children sailing model boats. After the stock market had crashed, the city turned off the water and stopped maintaining the place. The Great Depression left little money in the city coffers for up-keep. Now it is desolate with brown grass, a mud hole where the lake used to be, crumbling bushes and dead trees. It has also become a home for muggings and rapes. I always wondered what happened to the zoo animals.

  These days crime has escalated to the highest in the town’s history. There is the Devil's Playground, a foul slum and brothel district north of Arkham Commons, most of which was now owned by Corvus Astaroth, hence the name some say. By rough estimates, as many as a hundred prostitutes plied their trade there. If there was trouble after dark in Arkham, it was nearly always in the Devil's Playground.

  The disfigured body of a cop was found concealed in one of the bordellos. The victim was twisted all up resembling a gross parody of a contortionist; every bone in his body had been crushed. A violent retaliation by a number of uniformed officers occurred the next evening. They went on a rampage, tearing to pieces the saloon where the murder had taken place. Some days later, the remains of a past her prime floozy was discovered ditched in a privy, so long dead that she was disintegrating.

  Months after Astaroth rolled into Arkham the cool breezes of spring were gradually replaced with a searing heat wave. Maybe it wasn't him, but it had seemed to happen following his arrival. I didn’t want to think about the implications, but I couldn't help it. It wasn’t that it was just hotter than usual; it had killed the crops within the surrounding farms and almost depleted the town reservoir. Arkham had been through many a year with the heat, but not at this time of the year and for so damn long. Now it was considered an adversary that simply came to visit and overstayed its disagreeable sojourn.

  Murder runs rampant when it becomes hot. More people are snuffed-out at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. At lower temperatures, people are easy-going, but at ninety-two, they just get irritable. Currently, the thermometer looked as if it was stuck at one-hundred degrees, and that is in the shade, which only makes matters worse.

  Then there was that dark thing that Willie Mack and Enoch Wells shot one night, which they never wanted to talk about. They had been hunting in the woods south of the Christ Church Cemetery. All I could get out of them was that it took three rounds, in the torso, from a .30-30 Winchester and, "it walked off as if nothin' happened." After that, they clammed up. Either they thought that people in town would think them crazy or drunk or, then again, maybe they were afraid of retaliation by someone or something they didn't want to get chummy with.

  Mr. Astaroth had risen to prominence within Arkham in a very short time. He came here without a plug nickel to his name, and within a few months owned one of the biggest houses in town, was chauffeured in a fancy set of wheels and was now considering a run for mayor. Epiphanies don't come naturally to me, but when I do have one, I usually get a wrenching in the pit of my stomach. That could, of course, be caused by a combination of chili dogs and black coffee, nevertheless, not including an overdose of excessive consumption, I was sure that everything was going to happen for the worst and that spelled; “Corvus Astaroth, friends call me Ash.” Deep down inside, I believed that I was going to be tasked with being the Bromo-Seltzer.

  That was when the telephone jingled. It was Sunday, and I wanted to let it ring off the hook, but my cop-sense told me to answer. “Go ahead, it’s your nickel,” I said after picking up the receiver.

  It was Esther Vinebeam, the dame that operates the switchboard at the Arkham Station House. She didn’t wait for me to say anything else. “Chief needs to see you right away. Says it’s an emergency,” her piercing voice rang out across the horn and irritated my right eardrum.

  “Thanks, Duchess,” I replied. Vinebeam is a woman of few words.

  ***

  I had just gotten up and was staring at the cloudless sky and blazing sun when Esther Vinebeam had called. It had been tw
o in the afternoon. I was in my pajamas. I stopped sleeping in the nude when the kid came to live with me. Allison is my daughter now. The Chief and half the City Council put pressure on social services so I could adopt her, a remarkable accomplishment for a single guy. Six months ago I was able to snatch Allison from the claws of a fiend in the dark and decaying town of Innsmouth. I had to blow the creep’s brains out, and we both barely escaped that seaside hell hole before the U.S. Navy blew the place sky high. Both of Allison’s parents are deceased, and there are no known living relatives. She had clung to me through the entire ghastly event, and that attachment has bonded us together as close as any parent and child could have.

  Allison was playing over at my landlady’s, Mrs. Trumble’s, apartment. Old lady Trumble had become a surrogate grandmother to seven-year-old Allison. She had turned a spare room in her apartment into a playroom for her. Allison loved going over to her place, but I think Mrs. Trumble enjoyed her visits even more. Allison is a ray of sunshine.

  I keep long hours at my job and Sunday is the only day I get to sleep in. Letting me sleep in as long as I want to is my weekend gift from the associates Allison and Trumble. After my siesta, the pair would have an afternoon meal of flapjacks, sausages, and eggs waiting for me. Sundays have become the best of times for me. Except for this time, I had to forgo my Sunday brunch and leave for work in a hurry. In less than a half an hour I was shaved, dressed and on my way to Station House 13.

  ***

  I came in the back door. Esther Vinebeam was seated at her switchboard, hair tied back in a bun, fiercely pulling one wire after another from the cord-board as each call came through. Quickly and deftly she’d plug them into their corresponding receptacles forwarding calls to selected departments. “Where’s the Chief?” I asked.

  Removing a pencil from behind an ear, Vinebeam pointed it behind her toward the conference room.

  Walking past the half-dozen desks in the open area of Station House 13 I doffed my hat to several uniform officers filling out paperwork. The Chief sat alone, at the head of the long table, papers were strewn about with a steaming coffeepot and a half filled mug in front of him. He was not wearing a jacket or tie which, considering the elevated temperature both outside and in, it was not unusual these days. His sleeves were rolled up, and half-glasses perched on his forehead ready for him to slide them down whenever he needed to read something. That coffee sure smelled good.

  “Don’t you know any better to get a guy out of bed at two in the afternoon?” I challenged, hoping to get his goat.

  “Sit down,” he ordered pointing to an empty chair on his right.

  I pulled out the chair and sat down. “How about a cup of that coffee? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “No time. Some nut case just checked into the Arkham Arms carrying a big bird and ordered the desk clerk at gun-point to give him a room.”

  “What kind of bird?”

  “A vulture, I was told.”

  “A turkey buzzard?

  “A big bird by any other name is still a big bird. The hotel clerk is scared stiff, and he called us,” he shot back.

  “OK, but why me, Chief? Send a couple of the uniforms out there.”

  “I would have except this was delivered by messenger before we got the call.” He slid an envelope across the table towards me. It was addressed to the Mythos Division. That was my department. The envelope was opened, and paper clipped to the back was a note. It was written in a crabbed hand. Probably by an elderly person. It simply read:

  Mythos Division, Station House 13

  I am a cop. I have learned about your division through certain circles that I am associated. My time has run out. There is an imminent danger to your town that will occur soon. I have valuable evidence that you will need to stop this foul and malevolent force that is about to descend upon Arkham. I will be checking into the Arkham Arms Hotel today. I will be waiting.

  Harry Crowcroft

  “Cryptic,” I said. “But what makes you think he’s the nut with the buzzard?”

  “Crowcroft is the name the birdman used when checking into the hotel. I want you to take Matthew Bell with you. He needs the experience.”

  “That uniform rookie,” I protested. “He’s barely out of short pants. You know Chief, I’ve lost two partners in the last year and a half. The boys in the precinct think I’m jinxed. I don’t want to be responsible.”

  “Do it! That’s an order Detective. And one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t stop for breakfast,” he commanded. Then he shouted at me as I walked out of the room, “Not even coffee!”

  ***

  The Arkham Arms, although a little run down nowadays, is still the swankiest place in town to hang your hat. Bell and I approached the front desk. The mug behind the counter turned and looked surprised at first to see us standing there; then his expression changed to relief followed by anger. Matthew Bell was in full uniform; I felt sorry for him, his attire was too warm for the current weather. The rookie was sweating profusely. The big ceiling fans in the hotel lobby only recirculated the warm air. Due to the heat, I was not wearing my suit coat, and my shoulder holster and badge were visible. “Arkham Constabulary,” I announced.

  “It’s about damn time!” exclaimed front desk. “What took you so long?”

  “I missed my bus. You got a crazy guy with a big bird and a gun that you want outta here?”

  “Fourth floor, room 419,” he answered, slapping the room key on the counter.

  “You told our station house that he was armed. What kind of gun?” I asked ignoring his outrage.

  “A .45.”

  “Automatic?” I shot back.

  “Snub nose.”

  “You sure know your guns, pal,” hoping the statement would rattle him a little. It didn’t.

  “You have to know your firearms in Arkham these days, Detective.”

  I couldn’t deny him that. Bell and I sauntered over to the elevator. I pulled out my 1911 Colt .45 automatic, checked that the clip was full, chambered a round and reholstered the gun. It is a nervous habit of mine whenever anticipating danger. It made the elevator operator uneasy.

  ***

  Room 419 faced north and probably had a good view of the Miskatonic River. Bell reached up to knock on the door, and I pushed him aside. I made him stand to the right of the doorway, and I stood to its left. “Harry Crowcroft!” I hollered.

  “Don’t bother to knock!” came a voice from inside. It sounded tired and elderly.

  I drew my .45, and Matthew Bell followed suit with his revolver. The door was unlocked. I pushed it slowly open with my foot. I entered first with my uniformed companion as my shadow holding his weapon in a defensive posture. Like all the rooms at the Arkham Arms, it was well-appointed with Victorian furniture, dark mahoganies, plush floral carpeting and matching drapes. Sitting up in a four-poster bed was the alleged bird and gun-toting suspect. He was old and bald with papery skin over his skull.

  “That won’t be necessary Detective,” he said, a raspy tone wheezing out of an ailing cavity. “My gun is over there on the dresser.”

  It was in plain view; a Colt snub-nosed .45 next to an opened bottle of Cutty Sark. With a free hand, I flipped open the cylinder and emptied all six rounds onto the dresser top. I pocketed the piece.

  “I have a license for that you know?” he sluggishly mentioned realizing that I snatched his roscoe.

  “We’ll check on that.”

  “I suppose you’re here to evict me from this lovely place?” he asked.

  “We are not the Welcome Wagon.”

  “Doesn’t matter, I’ll be leaving here shortly,” he answered a bit too solemn for my tastes. On the bed, next to him was a crushed fedora. It was pretty beat up. I had just gotten mine cleaned and blocked. The edge of the brim was razor sharp. “Nice hat,” he observed.

  “Thanks, you know it is bad luck to put a hat on a bed.”

  “Bad luck and I are old companions,�
�� he laughed trailed by a harsh cough.

  That was when I jumped with a start. By then, I had walked all the way into the room getting a full view of his strong-armed digs. Held by a short length of narrow chain fastened to the bed’s footboard was the biggest and ugliest bird I had ever seen. Bell sucked wind when he laid eyes on the winged behemoth.

  “Don’t get riled gentlemen,” uttered Crowcroft. “Maggot is harmless.”

  “Maggot?” I exclaimed.

  “That’s his name. Maggot’s been with me for a long time. He loves to eat the little legless larva when he buries his entire head into his carrion dinners.”

  There was a rank smell in the room. A waste basket at the foot of the bed revealed the partial remains of a rotting animal. An opossum, I think. It was hard to tell. Flies buzzed around the interior of the metal waste bin.

  “We acquire most of his tasty tidbits along the highways we travel,” he coughed the words out again. “He can track the scent of an old kill a mile away. He also has a great nose for evil. Probably got it from the souls of all the dead things he gobbles up.”

  Bell looked like he was going to heave his breakfast. I stood my ground and covered my nose and mouth with a handkerchief. As if on cue Crowcroft reached for a lump under his sleeveless undershirt and removed a balled up hankie that must have been white at one time, but he probably had been using for months without laundering it. After blowing his nose, he shouted at us, “Let’s cut the crap boys and get down to business.”

  “Business?” inquired Officer Bell starting to regain control of his gut. “We are here to escort you from the hotel and to our station house, sir.”

  “Did you not get my letter?” contested the old geezer.

  “I did, but the uniform did not,” I answered. “So what’s the emergency?”