Shadows Out of Time

Then, a week ago, while ferreting out more information regarding what might lay under the Red Hook docks, Suydam came across an off-hand reference to the closure of the Cobble Hill rail tunnel in 1861. A mention of unclaimed luggage would mean nothing to anyone else, but it revived his interest.

“And here it is,” Suydam announced to Clarence. “A single sentence — not even complete, just a police blotter notation — a distinguished gentleman, W.B., mysteriously vanished from a Boston-bound train on August 29, 1850.”

Suydam clapped his wrinkled hands. “Bauer did not lose himself in New York, as we believed! He actually boarded a train here in Brooklyn, headed home. There is no record of his being seen at any later stops, so I’d abandoned that line of inquiry. Do you understand what this means?”

Clarence waited in polite silence for him to continue.

“The Lustrous Triacontahedron must still be somewhere in that tunnel.” Suydam frowned. “A tunnel that has been sealed since the Civil War. Gathering the resources to enter it could attract much unwanted attention.” He tapped the glass jar. “Have you any suggestions, friend?”

The brain bobbed briefly.

“I like that idea. Yes. Let the U.S. government do the work for us. This city is already paranoid about German spies. We can spread word over the next week or so that saboteurs are using the tunnel as a base of operations. When the Bureau of Investigation checks it out, we can slip in behind them.”

Clarence remained stoic.

“Of course, you’re right. By ‘we’ I mean only myself. I don’t need a horde of minions for this task. A simple spell of distraction, and whoever’s investigating the site won’t see anyone but their own agents.”

Suydam rose, patting the jar lid. “You are a most excellent listener, Clarence. No one living can so effectively help me focus my thoughts.”

Edward Alexander Crowley reclined on a couch in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, silk robes draped above his knees, pondering the scribbled letter in his left hand. Lady Jenna, as he’d dubbed his latest Scarlet Woman, casually massaged his broad shoulders. Occasionally she paused to alternately plant a kiss on or lick his shaven skull. Her own silk robe, more diaphanous than his, hung open.

“This is a very odd missive, Jenna.”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s from a man named Monk Eastman. We met briefly when I first arrived in New York. He would be a good candidate for a model, should I start taking painting seriously. Very Neanderthal.” What he did not tell Lady Jenna, for there was no reason for her to know, was that Eastman had been among several underworld figures he originally hoped to use as his eyes and ears while in this city. Unfortunately, like most of Crowley’s early recruits, the man had ultimately proven useless.

He glanced at the envelope and chuckled. “He’s writing from Dannemora prison. Apparently, I made quite an impression.”

“Of course you did, my Beast. Aleister Crowley — occultist, magician, mountaineer, author, and so much more — makes quite the impression on everyone he meets.”

Crowley offered a half-smile. “I cannot deny that truth. We met at a Tea House on Mott Street — of course he won’t say opium den in a letter likely to be vetted by the warden. Years ago, Eastman was a prominent gang leader in the Five Points district. He wants me to help him make a comeback.”

“Put together a new criminal gang?” Jenna asked. “You?”

“He wants me to teach him magick. Give him special powers.” He allowed the letter to drift to the floor, unfinished. “I think not, Mr. Eastman. Much as I enjoy being called the Beast, a name for which I will always be grateful to my mother, and have sympathy for fellow drug users…helping establish criminal kingpins? Not my cup of tea at all.”

Jenna worked her way down Crowley’s pate to nibble on his right ear. “But I am. Aren’t I?”

He reached up to stroke her breast. “Better than tea. You are sheer nectar, you fiend.” He shifted in his chair. “Alas, I need to get dressed. I have urgent business downtown.”

“Hmmm?”

“Preparations.” Crowley paused. “For the Equinox Ceremony. And of course the ensuing Bacchanal.”

Crowley’s open, eccentric nature led most people, in particular his followers, to believe him incapable of keeping secrets, save those involving certain esoteric magical rites. He took pains not to discourage this impression. Several married women knew of, and were grateful for, his discretion.

A more important reason for rectitude was a major reason he had come to New York two years earlier: he was on a secret mission for the British Government. This occasionally required him to work with America’s fledgling Bureau of Investigation, rooting out German saboteurs and propagandists. The United States continued to resist being drawn into the Great War in Europe, but anyone with half a brain saw that this isolationism could not last. The Kaiser certainly did.