The shadow kind, p.7
The Shadow Kind, page 7
Besides, seedy was what he was looking for, and finding it didn’t take him long. Toward the end of a small side street, on a rundown block that also housed two pawn shops and a hotel that rented rooms by the hour, he spotted a garish sign in a window–a red hand held upright palm first, with an eyeball in its center.
MADAME ZASHA FORTUNE TELLER, the inscription read. PALMS TAROT HOROSCOPE. The backdrop was a swath of billowy blue curtains that concealed the interior.
Williams pushed open the door, tinkling a bell, and stepped inside.
The room was small and close, lit by candles, the walls draped with tapestries of arcane symbols. The air was heavy with the scent of patchouli oil. A glass counter on the right displayed pendants, bracelets, and charms for sale. To the left was a table with a chair in front and behind; on it were deck of tarot cards, a wooden box of coins with holes in the middle, a small black scrying bowl, and an ornately engraved metallic disk that appeared to represent the zodiac and perhaps to serve as a ouija board as well.
All of this was as Williams expected, and when the proprietress emerged through a beaded curtain at the rear, so was she–dressed in gypsy mode, peasant blouse and bright multi-colored skirt, dark hair bound by a scarf, and much dangling jewelry. She was in her forties, full-bodied and sultry, and the low-cut blouse revealed a rather shocking degree of cleavage, doubtless adding to her popularity with male clients.
“Madame Zasha bids you welcome,” she said. Her voice was seductively husky, with an accent he could not identify, possibly because it was no more real than anything else here. “What service may I offer you?”
“I don’t really know.,” he said, adopting a shy uncertain manner. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Whatever you recommend, I suppose.”
She gazed at him thoughtfully, as if consulting her inner perceptions on how best to help him. Actually, she was measuring his appearance, affluence, and degree of gullibility.
“I see already that you are troubled–suffering,” she said.
“I haven’t been doing well of late,” he conceded.
“There is someone in your life who worries you.”
“Yes,” he said, appearing surprised at her insight. But who was not troubled by something and worried about someone?
“Tell me the question that brings you here,” she said. “That will point to the path we take to answer.”
He spoke hesitantly, as if unburdening himself. “When I was very young, I lost my brother. He simply disappeared. I never knew what happened to him. But now–he seems to be trying to contact me. Can you help me understand what he wants?”
“Is he angry? Vengeful? Frightened?”
“Frightened, I’d say.”
Madame Zasha stepped close to him, raising her crimson-nailed hands to press her fingertips against his temples. She remained like that for perhaps fifteen seconds, eyes shut and ample bosom tantalizingly near. When she released him, she had a solemn frown.
“Yes, we must help you,” she said. “I will take no money for this–it is too serious.”
“Oh, dear.”
“What comes to me is this. You have an enemy. Your brother sees this from the spirit world, and he is trying to warn you.”
“An enemy!” Williams said. “There are people who don’t like me, certainly, but I can’t think of anyone so hostile.”
“That makes him–or her–all the more dangerous. It is likely to be someone you suspect least–who secretly feels that you wronged them, or who sees you as an obstacle, covets your position or is impatient to inherit your wealth. They have caused a curse to be placed on you. That is the reason for your suffering, and it will grow steadily worse.”
“Good heavens! Can this be true?”
“It is what I sense. Let us see what the cards say. Come, sit.” She stalked to her chair behind the table, gesturing him to the other. Williams settled himself across from her, fidgeting appropriately.
But he had already recognized what she was setting up–a common scheme in this shady business, much more lucrative, and damaging, than sham readings. The client–or more accurately, victim–was persuaded of the curse, caused by a secret nemesis. It must be removed or the consequences would be dire–sickness, mental anguish, even death. The psychic had the power to do this, and refused any payment for herself. But a counter spell must be cast, which required expensive ingredients, and for these she needed a tidy sum..
Once the magic was supposedly worked, he would be assured that it succeeded–but soon after that be informed that the enemy had leveled a new curse with redoubled force, far more dangerous than the first and far more expensive to get rid of. This process could be escalated indefinitely, even for years, with the victim’s agitation and vulnerability manipulated to an ever higher degree–this would be purveyed as proof of the curse’s power–and it would end only when his bank account was wiped clean.
In a way, he had to admire her skillful manipulation. Not only had she quickly laid the groundwork, using his anxiety about his supposed brother as leverage, she had turned the situation from being his problem alone to the two of them as allies facing an outside enemy, with herself as the good power who would save him from the evil one. That was shrewd psychology, as old as humankind, and so were these overall workings, practiced through the millennia by shamans, magicians, witches, mediums, and respectable religious figures alike, with a keen understanding of what people feared or wanted from the spiritual world–and how to turn that to their own advantage.
“First we must find the nature of the curse,” she said, shuffling the tarot cards with fluid expertise. “Then I will know how it can be stopped.” She tapped the deck sharply on the table to even it, and spread it face down in a long arc. “Gaze at them and concentrate on this injustice done to you! Then choose four.”
Williams stared at the spread–did someone have it in for him? he couldn’t help wondering–then pushed four random cards toward her. She arranged them in a row and flipped over the one at far left.
“Ten of Pentacles, reversed,” she murmured, then moved on to the others. “Knight of Swords, also reversed. The Chariot. The Fool.” She gave him a significant, and somewhat ominous, look. “Yes, there is great power here–great harm directed at you.”
“This is very upsetting. But please, tell me what you see.”
“The Pentacles stand for something of value–money, happiness, even your life. This is what your enemy wishes to take from you. The Knight is dangerous, a reflection of who it might be, although learning this is very difficult. The Chariot signifies misfortune, the strife and pain that have only just begun. And you yourself are the Fool unless you act at once to stop it.” If he had chosen any other four cards, she would have come up with an explanation that suited her purposes just as well, he was sure.
He started getting ready to extricate himself–tell her he needed to recover from this shocking news, and he’d return soon. There was no point in going any farther with this game. In years past, he might have called her on it, but he had no taste for that, either–it wasn’t why he’d come here, and it would stop her only until the next mark walked in the door.
Then, abruptly, her face changed–as if a veil dropped down over it that left her staring at something only she could see. With it came a grating sense of disconnect that he could feel himself, as if he was looking at a different woman.
“What is this?” she whispered–but she was not talking to him.
Her hand snaked forward to the Ten of Pentacles and her fingertips stroked its surface. “Ten, ten, ten,” she said beneath her breath, in a crooning sort of chant. “In this tenth month, the palace of wealth will fall, proud owners ruined and the people brought to misery for ten, ten, ten years more.” Her hand slid over the Knight of Swords and then on to the Chariot as her eerie words went on. “Iron cross, dawning sun, and northern bear will rise, with men of bloody might to seize the reins of war. All nations will be scourged, with slaughter such as never has been known.” Her fingers came to rest on the Fool. “And here, those who think themselves masters of pawns–but themselves only pawns of the seven.”
It must be part of her act, he thought, a twist unlike any he had encountered before. But it was a damned good act, with the spontaneity especially impressive.
Her talking stopped and the veil seemed to fade from her face, leaving her pale but perspiring as if from effort. She focused on him and her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What did you bring here?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me, isn’t it? Was that a message from my brother?”
“I don’t know what it was. I don’t know what I said.” Her former cryptic accent was patchy now, with traces of working class Boston.
“You said the Ten of Pentacles means the tenth month, and–”
“I don’t want to know.” She sagged back in her chair, turning her face aside and waving him away. “Leave, please.”
Maybe that was the pitch, Williams thought–a double fake. She had sensed his skepticism, and so was pretending to be shaken in order to convince him the experience was genuine. If he took the bait, she would have him firmly hooked. Money would be the litmus test, he decided.
“Come, now, just a few more minutes of your time,” he said, reaching inside his coat and taking out his billfold. “Shall we say ten dollars?” That was probably more than she made in an average day.
But she shook her head, a quick tense refusal. “I don’t want your money, mister, or no more to do with this.”
“At least tell me what has you so upset.”
“All I know is, there was something here,” she said, voice breaking with a little tremor. “It was never here before and I don’t want it here again. So take it with you.”
He stepped back out through the door with its jingly bell. When he got to the next block, somewhat less claustrophobic, he took out a notepad and jotted down what Madame Zasha had said.
Ten, ten, ten. In this tenth month, the palace of wealth will fall, proud owners ruined and the people brought to misery for ten, ten, ten years more. Iron cross, dawning sun, and northern bear will rise, with men of bloody might to seize the reins of war. All nations will be scourged, with slaughter such as never has been known. And here, those who think themselves masters of pawns–but themselves only pawns of the seven.
Then he tried to make sense of it. At first glance it seemed like gibberish, but as he parsed it, glimmers of possible meaning and even a certain coherence began to appear. It seemed to be largely a prophecy–for the very near future.
The fallen palace of wealth and attendant ruin suggested a financial crisis, evidently severe enough to bring years of misery to the populace. That was slated to begin in the tenth month, October–so sometime within the next two weeks.
Northern bear–as in the constellation of Ursa Minor, which contained the North Star–and dawning sun might refer to astronomy; he’d never heard of a celestial iron cross but there was a southern one, and he was far from expert. Perhaps these had a particular relationship with each other, or were moving toward a conjunction of some kind. But they might also represent nations. The iron cross was a symbol of Germany, as well as a medal awarded to their soldiers for valor; the bear, of Russia; and while he wasn’t sure of this, he thought the flag of a far eastern nation, China or Japan, featured a rising sun. Whatever the three stood for individually, there seemed no doubt of what they meant together–a devastating war, worse even than the horrors of 1914-18, building through the next decade and breaking out at the end of that time, which would be 1939.
The last line strayed from the prophetic tone into judgment–those who believed themselves wise and masterful were really fools. There was nothing unusual about this kind of opinion, in Williams’s experience; in fact, it was pretty much the rule in any given controversy, with each side thinking it of the other.
But this was set apart by a reference to ‘the seven.’ In itself, this was too vague to mean anything; the number seven had myriad arcane connotations. Still, it struck him as the single most disturbing bit of all–a statement, flat, unadorned, with no need to bolster or explain itself. Whatever ‘the seven’ were, the implication was that they were immensely powerful, superhuman, far above those who unknowingly served them.
This speculation was absurd, of course–the incident was simply a fluke, something Madame Zasha’s brain had produced from whatever strange melange lurked within it, including possible imbalance.
But together with Sally, that made two flukes–both of them involving declarations that were not linked to reality, and yet had a sense of substance.
Williams stood there a moment longer, annoyed with himself for giving it even that much credence, and annoyed too that instead of reassuring him as he’d thought, his foray to the psychic had done the opposite–now he was more bothered than ever.
Then it occurred to him that there was one aspect of her message that might have immediate tangibility–the prediction of a coming financial crisis. He was not involved in that world, but through Harvard connections, he knew people who were. One of them, Samuel Northrup, was president of the First Maritime Bank, and that was only a few blocks away.
He started walking there, concocting a story that wouldn’t make him look like an utter fool.
***
The bank was a regal stone structure on State Street, dating back to colonial times and built in classical style, with a massive entryway flanked by fluted columns. Elevators had been added in more recent years, and Williams was ushered up one of them by a deferential clerk to Northrup’s top floor office, a large richly appointed suite that looked out onto the financial district’s other splendid monuments to wealth and power. The rosewood desk was large enough to sleep two, the walls were paneled with fine mahogany, and the muted afternoon light gave it all a polished glow. But it was also oddly sterile, a far cry from Williams’s untidy lair crammed with books, stacks of papers, and peppered everywhere with shreds of pipe tobacco. Both places were comments on where different men felt at home, and he would not have traded his own.
Samuel Northrup came from old Boston Brahmin lineage and he looked the part–handsome Yankee features, clean shaven, and dressed impeccably in a tailored three-piece suit. Williams was under the impression that he owed his position more to his family than to brilliance. He had the kind of refined snobbery that was so ingrained it was oblivious to itself, and a hint of coldbloodedness quick to take advantage of anyone or anything. He had a model wife and family, but a reputation for philandering and high living; right now his face had the lax look of a few stiff drinks, suggesting he’d started his weekend early. But he was affable enough, at least to people of prominence like Williams, and rose from the desk to greet him with a handshake–clearly surprised to see him here. Their contact had only ever been through university events and other related matters.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Northrup said.
“I’ve come to ask your advice, Sam. This may sound silly–I hope it is–but I’m wondering if there’s any serious trouble brewing in the financial world. I don’t know much about all that myself, but I’ve heard a couple of things recently from people who do know, and they seem worried.”
“No, no, there’s nothing like that going on,” Northrup said, with a shade of condescension. “The stock market has built up steadily–no, I’ll say tremendously–for the past couple of years. Why, only a few weeks ago, the Dow Jones reached an all-time high, and experts predict that to be a permanent plateau. There are occasional fluctuations, of course; that’s probably what the remarks you heard refer to. But the people at the top have learned how to smooth those out.”
“What a relief. My investments are modest, but needless to say, I want to protect them. I was starting to think I should pull out my money and hide it under the mattress.”
“On the contrary, there’s never been a better time to go bullish.” He opened a cabinet to reveal a crystal decanter of whiskey and glasses. “Care for a splash?”
“Another time, thanks.”
Northrup poured himself one and knocked it back. “I get privileged information, of course, along with opportunities,” he said, pouring another. “And strictly between us, I’ve entered into a couple of ventures that stand to double this bank’s assets. Germany, in particular, is developing factories and industry like wildfire–they’re desperate for capital, and the sky’s the limit on the interest they’re willing to pay.”
The iron cross? Williams thought. Building the machines of war? But that was another outlandish stretch.
“Well, best of luck with it, and thanks again for easing my mind,” he said. “Oh, by the way–does the name Anstruther mean anything to you?”
Northrup’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, indeed. Why?”
“A colleague of mine has been in contact with a lady of that name–a matter involving one of our patients. It struck me that I’d heard it before, possibly related to the shipping business.”
“It’s actually much more widespread these days. They’re a major part of a global interest that’s diversified into everything you can think of. No one can guess with any accuracy how much it’s worth–but even more important is the enormous influence. They can make almost anything happen, and if information filters down from them, it’s considered to be gold. In fact, they’re in the vanguard of promoting the bull market, and everyone is following their lead.”
