Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (60 page)

Zarnak did not turn out to be what Bowditch had expected.

He was just finishing up breakfast when the telephone rang. On the other end was an unfamiliar voice whose owner identified himself as Dr. Anton Zarnak.

“Dr. Zarnak!” said Bowditch. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I arrived early this morning and have just settled in to my rooms in alumni housing,” replied Zarnak. “When will be a convenient time to get together?”

“I’m ready now,” replied Bowditch, impressed with Zarnak’s willingness to get right to work. “Shall I meet you on campus?”

“By all means. Say in about an hour?”

“Fine.”

Bowditch hung up and washed the breakfast dishes before throwing on a light coat against the brisk fall temperatures and heading down to the garage stall. A minute later, he had backed out of his unit and was tooling across central Arkham toward the campus of Miskatonic University.

Delayed by a number of traffic signals, Bowditch entertained himself by recalling what he had read about Zarnak on the computer the night before. Except for a stray article or two about his standing in the field of psychology and his popularity on the lecture circuit, most of the information available on the man was of a tabloid nature concerned with flying saucers, exorcisms, voodoo cults, and ghost hunting. Items that only verified Bowditch’s first impression of the man when Paxton first brought up his name.

Truthfully, the sound of Zarnak’s voice over the phone, calm and measured, went far to disabuse him of the questionable profile he had of the man from his brief readings. There was something about it, a quality of reassurance that put the listener at his ease. As he pulled onto the campus of Miskatonic University, Bowditch was certain that if circumstances warranted it, Zarnak would have no trouble with hypnosis, if psychologists were still using the technique these days.

He had no more time to ruminate on the matter as he found an empty spot in the parking area reserved for alumni. He was just getting out of his car when a tall gentleman in slacks and tweed jacket approached him from the sidewalk. Over one arm was folded what appeared to be an overcoat and as he drew nearer, Bowditch noticed a distinctive slash of silver that zig-zagged like a bolt of lightning through his otherwise dark hair.

“Prof. Bowditch, I presume,” said the man. He smiled as he extended his hand in greeting.

“No need to be so formal, doctor,” replied Bowditch shaking hands. “Call me Sam.”

“You may call me Anton,” said Zarnak. “So we are to work together.”

“So I was told,” said Bowditch. “Are you familiar with the case?”

“Quite. I’ve been keeping track of it since Pondwaithe’s disappearance and have since read up on his articles relating to the missing artifact.”

“Then may I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“I thought we might drive over to the Peabody Museum before looking over Pondwaithe’s place in Dean’s Corners,” suggested Bowditch. “As Paxton told me, maybe people more familiar with Pondwaithe’s field of study might pick up information that the police have missed.”

“I agree; especially since it was me who gave him the idea,” said Zarnak. “But might I also suggest that we stop by the police station in Dean’s Corners too? It cannot hurt to review the more mundane results of crime scene investigation.”

“Good idea. Well, then. Shall we take my car?”

“Just let me get my briefcase,” said Zarnak, going over to a sporty BMW parked a few spaces away.

A moment later, the two men sat side by side in Bowditch’s less flashy Cavalier as he headed north to Route 128. While they made their way through Arkham traffic, there was little talk about Pondwaithe as Bowditch pointed out various places he thought might be of interest to a newcomer in town. Zarnak seemed to appreciate the preponderance of historic structures that had been preserved in the town’s historic district, remarking that he had visited Arkham in the past but that it had been many years since the last time. At last, the car made its way up a ramp onto 128 but only a few miles down the highway, turned off again on Route 114 toward Salem. Almost immediately, they entered traffic again and crawled slowly toward the center where they found parking in a multi-level garage off Essex Street.

“The Peabody Museum is just a few steps over here,” said Bowditch leading the way from the garage to the museum with its modernistic new wing dedicated to contemporary art. Across the street was the older-style building that held the administration offices, library, and storage for older items in the institution’s collection.

“I think the man we want to see is Oliver Smithson, director of Asian collections,” said Bowditch as he started up the steps to the administration’s main entrance. “It was he with whom Pondwaithe was in contact when he made his discovery of the mask.”

At the front door, Bowditch pushed through one of its leaves and then through a second set of interior doors to the tiled hallway beyond. Looking around, Zarnak pointed to a young woman sitting at a small table.

“We would like to see Oliver Smithson,” said Bowditch as they approached the girl. “I called yesterday for an appointment.”

The girl smiled sweetly and consulted an appointment book on the table.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mr. Smithson is in his office downstairs. Just take those stairs and then left at the bottom. You can’t miss it, his name is printed on the door.”

Thanking the girl, the two men took the stairs and found themselves in a corridor a good deal more gloomy than that above. On either side stood ranks of old file cabinets and tables piled high with cardboard boxes and other packaging material. Among them was a door of pebbled glass with Smithson’s name on it. Bowditch tapped it a few times before pushing it open.

Inside the office, a middle-aged man looked up from a battered metal desk. Around him were more file cabinets and more boxes but this time actual artifacts and other objects lay revealed here and there.

“Are you Samuel Bowditch?” asked Smithson.

“Yes, and this is Dr. Anton Zarnak,” replied Bowditch gesturing to his companion. “We’re looking into the disappearance of Prof. Pondwaithe for the university and were told you might be able to answer some questions for us.”

“Not about his disappearance maybe, but if you want to know what he was doing while he was here, I can tell you that,” said Smithson.

“What can you tell us about the mask Prof. Pondwaithe identified while he was working here?” asked Zarnak before Bowditch could say another word.

“Not much,” admitted Smithson rising from his chair. “I know from the scant notes that were included in the packaging along with the artifact that it had been stored here at the museum for quite a while, about 175 years to be exact.”

“How exactly did it come into possession of the museum,” Zarnak wanted to know.

“Near as we could figure from the notes, it was donated to the museum in 1915 by Zelia Carney, the widow of Captain Able Carney. The donation was one of about a dozen items given by Zelia from a collection that had belonged to her husband. Seems the captain had a yen for offbeat kinds of Asian art and managed to bring back quite a few pieces from voyages he made there before the Civil War. Unfortunately, the captain didn’t have a trained eye for such things and when his collection was presented to the museum, experts at the time classified them as nothing special and stored them away. When they opened the new wing a couple years ago, the museum’s directors decided to go through all of the uncataloged items in storage and invited Prof. Pondwaithe to help identify them.”

“And was the professor excited when he found the mask?” asked Zarnak.

“Not at first,” said Smithson, tucking his hands in his pockets. “He just seemed puzzled. But he did put it aside and later went upstairs to the library where I supposed he did some research to help identify it. I don’t know if he found anything useful, but a couple hours later he came back down and returned to work. It was only after he left for the evening that I noticed the mask was missing. I thought maybe I just couldn’t find it amid all the packing material and other items lying around, but after the professor was reported missing, I had second thoughts and told the directors about my suspicions. They instructed me to repeat them to the police. I guess you know the rest.”

“Since the professor’s identification of the mask, has there been anyone else here asking about it?” Zarnak wanted to know.

“Besides the police and the directors? No; and frankly, I can’t imagine who’d be interested. The thing is pretty disgusting.”

Dismissing Smithson’s final comment, Bowditch wondered at Zarnak’s last line of questioning but immediately realized that the psychologist only wanted to make sure there was nobody else who could possibly have taken the mask. It was good thinking, but something he was sure the police had already verified. But then, Zarnak’s next question took him by surprise.

“There have been no foreigners asking about the mask? No evidence of break-ins into the building since Prof. Pondwaithe’s disappearance? Any other items from the same period or collection missing?”

“Why, no…of course not; I mean, not that I’m aware of,” said Smithson slowly. “In connection with the mask? Why should there be?”

Instead of answering Smithson’s questions, Zarnak turned to Bowditch. “Do you have any questions, Sam?”

Caught wondering about the psychologist’s line of questioning, Bowditch was unprepared for an immediate answer. Finally, he managed a “No, none.”

“Then might I suggest we take our leave? Thank you, Mr. Smithson.”

“Sure. Any time.”

Bowditch followed Zarnak from the room and moments later the two men were moving down Essex Street to the garage.

“I have to admit, that was an unexpected line of questioning, Anton,” ventured Bowditch.

“In what way?”

“Well, why foreigners especially might be interested in the missing mask,” said Bowditch. “What kind of foreigners were you thinking of?”

“I’m not sure myself,” replied Zarnak. “Do you mind if I keep my conjectures to myself for the time being?”

“Not if that’s what you want. But I have to say, you’ve got me wondering about your train of thought.”

Back in the car again, Bowditch had soon returned to Route 128 and after a short journey north exited the highway at the old Aylesbury Pike interchange. Sooner than one would expect, the landscape gave way to more open country and the occasional farmstead as they passed a roadside marker welcoming them to Dean’s Corners, established 1742.

“If my memory serves,” observed Zarnak as he studied the countryside, “the town of Dunwich is not far from here.”

“Never been there myself, but I think the turnoff is on the other side of Dean’s Corners,” replied Bowditch as a passing mileage marker indicated that Dean’s Corners was only 7 miles further on.

Soon, farmland shifted to a more wooded landscape with trees and unpruned underbrush crowding the sides of the roadway. The scent of browning leaves and fresh-cut grass was in the air and here and there, single family homes started to appear.

The day was becoming cloudier as they rolled into Dean’s Corners proper; not that there was much to look at. A typical small town, the main street was lined with local businesses: attorney’s and real estate offices, a café or two, a local branch bank, and a dozen or so consignment and antique shops. Bowditch aimed for the tall, white steeple of the Congregational Church and sure enough, right across a small common with the inevitable stone dedicated to Civil War veterans, stood the Town Hall and next to it, the tiny police station. There, the parking lot was empty but for a single cruiser and the building itself looked hardly big enough to handle more than a single prisoner.

Quickly, and perhaps unfairly, Bowditch judged that it was no wonder little progress had been made on Pondwaithe’s disappearance. The Dean’s Corners sleepy-looking Police Department did not inspire confidence in him that anything near a thorough investigation could have been possible.

Inside, a ceiling fan rotated slowly and the front desk was unoccupied. A card on the counter read “ring bell for service.” Bowditch looked questioningly at Zarnak who shrugged. He slammed his hand down on the bell and a voice called from an inner office.

“Can I help you?”

Bowditch leaned over until he could see around the door jamb to the other room. A man in a blue uniform sat behind a desk covered with a scattering of manila folders. At the front of the desk was a name plate that read “Chief Paul DiFriggio.”

Straightening, Bowditch walked to the open door and introduced himself and Zarnak.

“Don’t know if there’s anything more you can learn at the professor’s place,” said DiFriggio leaning back in his swivel chair. “We went over it pretty thoroughly. FBI even took an interest as it might have been a case of kidnapping. They went through the prof’s computers and cell phone but so far as I know, found nothing much.”

“Has the equipment been returned?” asked Zarnak.

“It never got taken,” replied the chief. “Seems these days they have gear that just sucks out the guts of computers on the spot. No need anymore to haul all of that stuff around.”

“So if we go over to Prof. Pondwaithe’s home, we’ll be able to check his computer files?” Bowditch wanted to make sure. “It’s important as my superiors at the university feel that people familiar with the professor’s work would be able to find something out of the ordinary that non-experts might not have recognized.”

“Don’t know if you’ll be able to find anything new, but yes, you’ll have access to the professor’s computers,” said DiFriggio.

“Aside from the computers, did you find anything else of value at his home?” Zarnak inquired.

“Only what you’ve read in the papers,” replied DiFriggio, rising. “We went over the premises for fingerprints and found quite a few aside from those of the professor but so far, we haven’t been able to identify them.”

The chief pulled open a file drawer and withdrew a folder. “Here they are if you want to look at them.”

Bowditch looked over Zarnak’s shoulder but as he figured, wasn’t able to make heads or tails of the prints.