You, ah, English, then?” Mullin surveyed the travel visa. “Mr. Doyle?”
Doyle sensed this wasn’t a plus in Mullin’s eyes. “Scottish.” He tried his usual, “I’m a writer, actually. Perhaps you may have heard—”
“I don’t read.” Mullin holstered his .45. “ ’Ow d’ye know this Lovecraft feller, then, sir?”
Doyle watched as the uniformed officer picked up one of Lovecraft’s paperweights—a gnarled, petrified human hand. “I don’t know him well, Detective; hardly at all, really. We corresponded. Lovecraft’s a bit of a fiction writer, and some pieces I found to show talent. I like to counsel young artists on their work, knowing what a lonely business writing can be . . .” He could see his rambling might pay off; Mullin’s eyes were already glazing over. “After several letters back and forth, Mr. Lovecraft invited me, if I ever returned to the States, to stop in and have a tea, discuss writing and such. Turns out, I’ve some business here. I arrived only a day or two ago, and decided to take Mr. Lovecraft up on his offer. I do hope nothing’s happened to him?”
“ ’Appened to him? No, he’s safe at the sanitarium fer the criminally insane. ’Acked up two persons in this past week, though.”
Doyle flinched. “That’s impossible!”
“Well, as you say, Mr. Doyle, you didn’t know the man very well. In any of his letters, did Mr. Lovecraft express any sort of grudge against the Catholic Church?”
Doyle watched the uniformed officer wince as he paged through a seventeenth-century torture manual. The floor was littered with first-edition texts on demonology and necromancy. “Not that I’m aware of, no.” The real answer was different. Lovecraft despised organized religions of all kinds. And yet, Doyle knew, something else was at work here. “What’s the evidence against him?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir.” Mullin glanced at his officer, who was examining a broken jar containing what appeared to be a human organ. Mullin turned back to Doyle. “But it don’t take a genius to conclude Mr. Lovecraft weren’t no ordinary fellow.”
Doyle inched toward the door. “Well, this is terribly shocking; I would never have guessed. He seemed rather harmless on the page. In his letters, you know.”
Mullin did not seem averse to letting Doyle go. “Where might ye be stayin’, sir, case we’d like to ask a few more questions?”
“Outside the city, actually. With friends.”
“There an address, sir?”
“I’m sure there is, only I don’t know it. I’ve forgotten.” He turned to leave.
“Mr. Doyle, sir,” Mullin barked.
Doyle turned back. Mullin walked toward him, slowly. He stopped and examined him. Then, “Your wallet, sir,” Mullin said, handing him back his identification.
“Of course. Forgetful as always.” Doyle smiled, parroting Jean’s words. He dropped the wallet into his coat pocket, and the metal of his money clip clinked off something else.
Mullin heard this. His eyebrows arched.
“Oh.” Doyle chuckled. “It’s nothing.” He produced the Roman coin on its leather rope that he’d found in Duvall’s office.
Mullin’s expression didn’t shift, but suddenly Doyle sensed danger.
“Where’d ye get that, sir?” Mullin asked in a low, quiet voice.
Doyle kept his face equally passive. “A keepsake.” He watched Mullin examine the coin. “From my daughter.”
“Well, isn’t that a lovely present?” Mullin turned and showed his partner the coin.
The officer wore the same blank expression as Mullin as he stared at Doyle. “Sure is.”
Doyle could see Mullin’s right hand sliding up his hip, toward the holster of his .45, as the detective turned back to him. “Now, then—”
There must have been something in Doyle’s furtive glance that alerted Mullin, because his fist clenched fast over the author’s wrist.
“Wally!” Mullin shouted.
Just as quickly, Doyle swung his cane across the back of Mullin’s
Doyle sensed this wasn’t a plus in Mullin’s eyes. “Scottish.” He tried his usual, “I’m a writer, actually. Perhaps you may have heard—”
“I don’t read.” Mullin holstered his .45. “ ’Ow d’ye know this Lovecraft feller, then, sir?”
Doyle watched as the uniformed officer picked up one of Lovecraft’s paperweights—a gnarled, petrified human hand. “I don’t know him well, Detective; hardly at all, really. We corresponded. Lovecraft’s a bit of a fiction writer, and some pieces I found to show talent. I like to counsel young artists on their work, knowing what a lonely business writing can be . . .” He could see his rambling might pay off; Mullin’s eyes were already glazing over. “After several letters back and forth, Mr. Lovecraft invited me, if I ever returned to the States, to stop in and have a tea, discuss writing and such. Turns out, I’ve some business here. I arrived only a day or two ago, and decided to take Mr. Lovecraft up on his offer. I do hope nothing’s happened to him?”
“ ’Appened to him? No, he’s safe at the sanitarium fer the criminally insane. ’Acked up two persons in this past week, though.”
Doyle flinched. “That’s impossible!”
“Well, as you say, Mr. Doyle, you didn’t know the man very well. In any of his letters, did Mr. Lovecraft express any sort of grudge against the Catholic Church?”
Doyle watched the uniformed officer wince as he paged through a seventeenth-century torture manual. The floor was littered with first-edition texts on demonology and necromancy. “Not that I’m aware of, no.” The real answer was different. Lovecraft despised organized religions of all kinds. And yet, Doyle knew, something else was at work here. “What’s the evidence against him?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir.” Mullin glanced at his officer, who was examining a broken jar containing what appeared to be a human organ. Mullin turned back to Doyle. “But it don’t take a genius to conclude Mr. Lovecraft weren’t no ordinary fellow.”
Doyle inched toward the door. “Well, this is terribly shocking; I would never have guessed. He seemed rather harmless on the page. In his letters, you know.”
Mullin did not seem averse to letting Doyle go. “Where might ye be stayin’, sir, case we’d like to ask a few more questions?”
“Outside the city, actually. With friends.”
“There an address, sir?”
“I’m sure there is, only I don’t know it. I’ve forgotten.” He turned to leave.
“Mr. Doyle, sir,” Mullin barked.
Doyle turned back. Mullin walked toward him, slowly. He stopped and examined him. Then, “Your wallet, sir,” Mullin said, handing him back his identification.
“Of course. Forgetful as always.” Doyle smiled, parroting Jean’s words. He dropped the wallet into his coat pocket, and the metal of his money clip clinked off something else.
Mullin heard this. His eyebrows arched.
“Oh.” Doyle chuckled. “It’s nothing.” He produced the Roman coin on its leather rope that he’d found in Duvall’s office.
Mullin’s expression didn’t shift, but suddenly Doyle sensed danger.
“Where’d ye get that, sir?” Mullin asked in a low, quiet voice.
Doyle kept his face equally passive. “A keepsake.” He watched Mullin examine the coin. “From my daughter.”
“Well, isn’t that a lovely present?” Mullin turned and showed his partner the coin.
The officer wore the same blank expression as Mullin as he stared at Doyle. “Sure is.”
Doyle could see Mullin’s right hand sliding up his hip, toward the holster of his .45, as the detective turned back to him. “Now, then—”
There must have been something in Doyle’s furtive glance that alerted Mullin, because his fist clenched fast over the author’s wrist.
“Wally!” Mullin shouted.
Just as quickly, Doyle swung his cane across the back of Mullin’s
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