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  “Come on, Ellie, now’s our chance to get Billie. If we can reach that tunnel over there, that should take us to her.”

  “But we can’t get past all these guys beating the hell out of each other.”

  “We can if we use the Hand of Glory. They won’t see us. It’s worked so far. Do you want to save Billie or not? This way!” And with both of them still grasping the burning withered limb, they began to skirt the battlefield.

  Whether it was the magic or the intensity of the struggle between the two gangs, nobody took any notice of Brady and Miss Ellie Jackson as they edged round the strangely carved walls of cyclopean masonry toward the tunnel. Having reached it, they ran through it. As they did so, the Hand of Glory began to sputter and, with some relief, they both, with one mind, let go of the thing. Then they were hurrying through the door and mounting the staircase that led to Vinci’s office.

  At the top of the stairs, before they burst in, Brady took out his automatic. Ellie followed directly behind him. In the office they found Billie trussed and gagged in one of Vinci’s most elegant and uncomfortable chairs. Behind her stood Mr. Hang, holding a revolver, which he pointed directly at Brady.

  “Drop the rod and put up your dukes,” said Hang. Brady did as he was told, letting go of the automatic and raising his hands into the air. No sooner had he done so than he heard a bang by his right ear which temporarily deafened him. Then he saw a blood-red flower unfold in the center of Hang’s forehead as he dropped heavily to the floor like a sacrificial ox. Miss Ellie had fired her automatic from behind him over Brady’s shoulder.

  “Good shooting, kid!” said Brady, his right ear still singing.

  The next moments were spent untying and ungagging Miss Billie Bernard. The first thing she said when the gag was off was: “Hell! What kept you?” Then she gave vent to a torrent of colorful language aimed at no one in particular. It was strange to see it come from someone who, despite her long ordeal, was still coifed and pearled and gowned for a very classy first-night party in Sardi’s that was long over.

  At length she calmed down and began to study the huge bulk of Mr. Hang, lying face down on Mr. Vinci’s fine Bokhara rug.

  “Is the Chink a stiff?” Billie asked.

  Ellie prodded Hang’s bulk with an elegant foot. “The Chink’s a stiff,” she said.

  “Where’s the Artichoke?”

  “He’s a stiff too,” said Brady. “Micky Angel plugged him.”

  “Well, Hallelujah for that!” said Billie. “Listen, kids, I owe you for this. Anything I can do for you, say the word.”

  “Well, to begin with,” said Brady, “You could tell me why they call Leo Vinci ‘the Artichoke.’”

  “Don’t you know? Jeez, I thought everyone knew. So Leo Vinci is much enamoured of a doll called Nancy Spider who is a hoofer at the Garden of Allah. This is some time before I became Leo’s doll, so this is ancient history, right? And Vinci, as you know, is not a guy who takes kindly to any other guy taking a peek at a doll he regards as his, but Miss Nancy Spider in no way sees herself as any guy’s exclusive goods. So along comes this dude called Artie ‘the Ant’ Millstein. And do not ask me why he is called ‘the Ant’ because you do not want to know. And he is a handsome dude and has plenty of potatoes, whereas Leo, though he too has plenty of potatoes, is no oil painting, except that oil painting by Miss Smart-Ass Lempicka. Well, Artie and Miss Nancy start taking peeks at each other and the next thing you know, they are holding hands at a table in the Garden of Allah between floor shows. So Vinci, he gets mad at this, but rather than blasting Artie with a sawed-off like a normal guy, he gets all subtle. Perhaps he wants to keep the right side of Miss Nancy. Well, he invites this Artie to supper at Luigi’s to discuss, as he says, a matter of business, and Artie goes, all unsuspecting. Well, at Luigi’s, as you may know, the specialty is a codfish cooked in the South Italian style with a tomato sauce. So they order the fish, then Vinci and two of his loyal colleagues who happen to show up, force the spécialité de la maison down Artie’s throat, bones and all, with the result desired.”

  “He makes Artie choke to death?”

  “You got it. And one and all, excepting everyone who knows of course, thinks it is by natural causes that Artie the Ant puts on the wooden overcoat.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Billie.”

  “It is a pleasure, Mr. Brady, to enlighten such a well-educated and high-toned dude such as yourself. Needless to say, when Mr. Vinci’s new sobriquet gets around he is not best pleased, for Leo ‘the Artichoke’ Vinci is not by nature a guy with a big sense of humor. And now he is no more—God rest his soul—plugged by my ever-loving Micky Angel. Listen kids, I am busting to split from this lousy joint. If I don’t get out of this goddamn wet ballgown and into some very dry Martinis eftsoons, I will go apeshit.”

  III

  March 13th, 1937 (from the diary of H. P. Lovecraft)

  I write this from my comfortable bed in the Jane Brown Memorial Hospital in Providence, where I am currently undergoing tests and sundry examinations for my ailments. Aunt Annie seems content that I should be here, for of late I had been, as she put it in her demotic way, “looking rather peeky.” This is hardly surprising given the severe physical and spiritual ordeal I have lately undergone.

  Three days ago Mr. Brady called on me and asked me if I had considered the matter of purloining the Necronomicon from the Miskatonic Library. I told him I had, but that it was a venture both morally dubious and fraught with risk, whereupon he replied that no venture was morally dubious nor too risky when the very safety of the United States of America was at stake. As a patriot I saw the force of his argument; as a gentleman, I sighed but assented. After some prolonged discussion we settled upon that very night as the time for our adventure. I protested that I was not in a fit condition for an escapade of this nature but he insisted I accompany him, for only I could identify the volume in question and knew precisely where it was to be located in Miskatonic’s labyrinthine bibliotheke.

  A gibbous moon was riding high in a firmament laced with silver cloud as we drove in Mr. Brady’s Packard through Arkham County towards the Miskatonic University. When we reached Dunwich, Brady stopped the car and offered me a slug of bourbon from his flask. I declined, for I never touch intoxicating liquor, but asked if he had any of Dr. Bogusteen’s Preparation on him. He said he had not and that, besides, we needed to keep all our wits about us for the coming venture. As we went over once again our strategy I heard the whip-poor-wills making their eldritch cries in a nearby brake. Having concluded our deliberations we proceeded on our way, arriving at the outer limits of the Miskatonic campus at a quarter after midnight.

  The gates of the campus had been locked for nigh on two hours and there was a high wall surrounding the whole, but Mr. Brady had come well-accoutred with grappling hooks and a rope ladder, in addition to carrying on his back a haversack containing other tools to facilitate breaking and entering. Despite these useful adventitious aids, I found the climb over the high flint wall arduous, and needed encouragement, sometimes amounting to threat, to complete the task. We descended into a belt of trees on the other side of the wall whence we could see but not be seen. I myself had selected the spot where we might scale the walls undetected and Mr. Brady commended me on my excellent choice of location.

  Before us, glaucous under the pale moonlight, lay a great expanse of grass, sometimes used, I believe, by the alumni for football and other recreations. Beyond it reared the gaunt and Gothick edifice of the famed Miskatonic Library, looking ancient, monastic, and somewhat eerie in the lunar effulgence.

  I had warned Mr. Brady about the guard dogs which roamed the campus at night, ready to apprehend the intruder or the errant sophomore. He said he had anticipated their possible intervention, but, fortunately there seemed to be no evidence for their being in the vicinity. Nevertheless we proceeded with caution, crossing the football field on swift but silent feet. Arriving at the foot of the library, I directed him first to the alarm bel
l on the wall of the building. With an agility that astonished me, he climbed the rusticated masonry on the lower courses of the edifice, and, by clinging to the wall with one hand, with the other he succeeded in cutting the wires which attached the bell to the system within. Back on the ground he took from his haversack what he told me was a “jemmy” with which he forced open one of the library’s casement windows.

  We found ourselves, by an irony which did not escape me, in the “law” section of the library. There we crouched under one of the tables and, with the aid of a flashlight, consulted the rough sketch map I had made of the place. We thought it best to proceed, as far as possible, unlit by artificial light, and, though the moon was not full, its illumination via the great Gothick windows was enough to help us on our way. But the library is vast and the way to the Camera Librorum Prohibitorum where the Necronomicon was kept, long and involved. Many were the times we had to stop in the protecting shadow of a wall of books to consult the map. A library by day or well-lit is to me the most welcoming of places, but in the dark of night it assumes an aspect of menace. Several times I fancied I heard the tread of furtive feet behind me, but I dismissed this as idle imagining and pressed on, though I noticed Mr. Brady once or twice cast a hasty glance behind him.

  At length by devious ways and by descending several flights of steps into the vaulted cellarage of the library we arrived before a low Gothick doorway of heavy oak bound with iron on which the following was inscribed:

  C L P [for camera librorum prohibitorum or “chamber of forbidden books”]

  STRICTLY NO ENTRY EXCEPT BY EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE PRINCIPAL AND GUARDIANS

  The arch which formed the doorway had as its keystone a grinning head of such menacing and malignant appearance that we were both taken aback and around it was carved the following inscription:

  CAVE, QUAESITOR, CUSTODEM ENIM SUPER HANC PORTAM POSUI

  The inscription, translated means: Seeker, beware! For I have set a guardian over this doorway. Of what nature the guardian was or whether this was a mere idle threat we did not pause to consider, but neither the inscription nor the carved keystone had been present on my last visit to the library.

  From his haversack Mr. Brady took a curious metal instrument which, he told me, had been developed in the FBI laboratories, but which looked to me like a version of the old skeleton key. This he applied to the lock, which after several tentative turns yielded and the door swung open.

  The small vaulted chamber that revealed itself to our torchlight looked at first like a kind of mausoleum. It was windowless and painted black. On all walls were shelves housing a number of ancient leather-bound volumes as well as several iron-bound muniment boxes, no doubt containing loose manuscripts. What gave me something of a shock, I must own, was that in the centre of the room was a small wooden table covered in a red velvet cloth fringed with tarnished silver thread, and on the cloth reposed a heavy volume bound in black and heavily corrugated leather. I recognised it at once as being the Miskatonic’s copy of the Necronomicon. It was as if the book itself had been expecting us.

  Latent feelings of terror and misgiving, which had been present with me as soon as we entered the building, suddenly became urgent. I turned round to see the door of the chamber beginning to swing shut. I hurled myself upon it, anxious beyond reason that it should not close upon us and managed just in time to interpose myself between the door and its frame. My slender body felt that it was being crushed; yet the air was close and still, and I could feel no trace of a breath of wind which could account for the door’s movement. Brady picked up the volume, thrust it in his haversack, and then with me forced the door open. Once we were through it closed with a deafening clang and we were horrified to see two heavy steel bolts descend vertically from either side of the keystone and settle themselves over the door. Had I let it shut Brady and I would have been immured.

  It was then that something like a panic seized us both and we began to run. Brady, being now burdened by the considerable weight of the book on his back, could go no faster than I. Several times we had to stop reluctantly to catch our breath and in those dreadful moments the silence was punctured not only by the gasping of our exhausted lungs but also a strange pattering, rustling sound as if someone or something were in pursuit. Sooner than we would have wished we felt compelled to run on. Several times we lost our way among the dark and brooding stacks, which compounded our terror.

  At last we reached the law library and the open casement. Through the great Gothick windows we could see wind-driven clouds racing across the moon, sometimes obscuring it entirely and plunging the law library’s great hall into Stygian darkness. The pattering sound came closer, and was in the hall as we scrambled our way to the open window.

  We had reached the window when Brady, in a moment of absurd folly, turned round and shone the torch back into the obscurity of the library. It caught a whitish object. I saw it for barely a second but the memory of it will remain with me til the day of my death and—who knows?—beyond. It was roughly human in shape and monstrously tall. The head, like the body, was featureless and entirely composed of what looked like scraps of paper or parchment on which signs and sigils had been inscribed. The thing was forever shifting and turning as if a whirl of wind were keeping it in shape. On it came rustling dreadfully and intent on some nameless harm. Brady turned me about and bodily pushed me through the casement.

  I collapsed in a heap outside. Meanwhile I saw him pick up a sheet of paper from one of the desks, squeeze it into a ball, light it with his lighter and then hurl it at the oncoming spectre. It burst into flames and only then did Brady follow me through the window.

  We began to race across the playing field towards the belt of trees and the wall, but our peril was not over yet. I heard the barking of dogs and then I saw, galloping over the grass towards us, the shapes of several massive hounds, bullmastiffs by the look of them. They gained on us rapidly but we managed to reach the belt of trees. Brady shouted to me that I should climb the wall first while he held off the hounds, but I said I was too weak to climb by myself and needed to be hauled up from the top of the wall. The dogs were almost on us and I also saw several human figures hurrying towards us in the distance.

  One of the animals, outrunning the others, leapt upon us but Brady struck it on the nose with a densely folded copy of The Arkham Observer, upon which it slunk away whining. The rolled-up newspaper, he later informed me, was a sovereign remedy against aggressive canines, a stratagem he had learned during his boyhood in Maine.

  Brady climbed up the wall and tossed his rucksack containing the book over the other side. Then he told me to take hold of the rope that was hanging down and he would drag me up. I caught the rope but just then I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. It had been seized in the jaws of one of the mastiffs. I shook it off, losing my shoe in the process. Brady by this time was pulling me steadily up the wall, but then another of the hounds leapt up and seized hold of the seat of my pants. I was, perhaps fortuitously, wearing a pair of particularly old pants—and nearly all my garments are somewhat threadbare—so that the cloth ripped easily and the mastiff fell to earth with nothing but a piece of old tweed and a few minor abrasions on my posterior for his pains.

  At last I was pulled to safety and sat for a moment atop the wall while the dogs yelped and barked beneath it. I looked across to the library and saw to my horror that the interior was illumined by a sheet of yellow flame. Then Brady was enjoining me to hurry. I climbed over the other side of the wall and dropped onto the soft turf beneath. Then, bruised and panting, my lower garments in a state of hideous disarray, I staggered over to the Packard whose engine Brady had already begun to stir into roaring life. The next moment we were speeding away from the Miskatonic along the midnight roads of Arkham County.

  March 13, 1937

  That morning, Miss Billie Bernard had invited Brady and Miss Ellie Jackson over to her apartment (lavishly paid for and equipped by Micky “the Angel” Buonarotti) for cocktails
. Neither Brady nor Miss Ellie were in the habit of drinking dry Martinis at such an early hour, but they thought it churlish to make their reservations known. After her ordeal, Billie had been off sick from the production of Zip Ahoy! but she had summoned them to announce that her absence from the show would become permanent and that Miss Ellie Jackson, formerly the understudy, was now confirmed in the part of Ruby Emerald. As the show was now a popular and critical success with Miss Ellie in the role, not even Micky Angel had raised objections.

  “Micky has asked me to be his ever-loving wife,” said Billie, “and I have agreed. He may be a big sap, but he’s my big sap. As for the show business, you can keep it, and I hope it keeps fine for you, Miss Ellie. Me, I am going to have six kids, and make cupcakes and become a member of the Manhattan ladies sewing circle. Hell, I might even start going to church, for Micky Angel is very big on the Pope, whom he regards as a regular guy. Though how the Pope sees Micky Angel might be not quite so dandy. Mr. Brady, I wanted to thank you properly for your rescue of me from the clutches of the Artichoke, and as a token of my thanks I am giving you this, which may help you in your further career. I obtained it from my ever-loving Micky Angel, who does not know that I have it, and if you ever breathe a word to him or anyone that I have it, I will personally use you for target practice, and though no Annie Oakley like Miss Ellie here, I am also no beginner with a betsy.”

  She handed him a thin brown Manila envelope, which Brady immediately put in his inside jacket pocket. When he had done so, Miss Ellie took hold of his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back.

  “You have my word I will not split on you ever, Miss Billie.” said Brady.