Dead of Night

1. Number Thirteen

Below Fourteenth Street, between Chinatown and the river, extends a disreputable region of cryptic, winding alleys, crumbling tenements, rotting wharves and abandoned warehouses slumping in decay. Here dwell the human dregs of a thousand Eastern ports: Hindus, Japanese, Arabs, Chinamen, Levantines, Turks, Portuguese. Once these dark and sinister side- streets and fetid alleyways were the battlefield of the Tong wars; that was in the days of the legendary detective Steve Harrison, who single-handedly dealt out the white man’s law and the white man’s justice along River Street.

Those days are long since gone—not that River Street has changed in any noticeable way. Urban renewal has yet to touch the decaying tenements, nor has the law managed to close down the dives and dope dens and honky-tonks. Neither has the furtive, polyglot Asian populace altered, and few could guess what drugs are trafficked in these dark rooms or what crimes of violence and greed are done in those black and garbage-choked alleys—

Of all these matters, Dona Teresa de Rivera was all too uncomfortably aware, and with every block her taxi carried her deeper into the tangled maze of filthy slums, her discomfiture grew. Only the urgency of her mission goaded her into venturing into this ill-famed corner of the city, far from the quiet residential streets and fine cafes which were her accustomed haunts.

Fog came drifting in from the riverfront to wind its clammy tendrils about walls of rotting old brick, and to blur the dim luminance of the infrequent street lights.

The cab pulled up before the yawning mouth of a black alley off Levant Street, and the gloom that thickly shadowed the narrow, cobbled lane was feebly dispelled by a single light which burned above a doorway only a few steps from the street.

“That’s it, lady. Number Thirteen China Alley,” announced the driver, cocking his thumb at the dim light. Privately, the cabby wondered what the handsome young Spanish woman could possibly want in this dangerous neighborhood. She had money, that was obvious: No woman wore an expensive frock with such careless elegance unless she had wealth, breeding and taste.

“Are you quite certain this is the address?” the girl faltered.

“Yes, ma’am, Number Thirteen China Alley, between Levant and River Streets. That’ll be six seventy-five.” Dona Teresa gave the driver a ten dollar bill and declined to accept any change.

“How do I get back from here?”

He handed her a card. “Call the garage; they’ll send a cab to pick you up.”

With uneasiness clutching at her heart, the young woman left the cab, which hurriedly drove off, fog swirling in its wake. She entered the dark mouth of the alley, cautiously feeling her way on the greasy cobbles. The light which was her goal burned above the single door of a small, narrow, two-story building, shouldered to either side by larger tenements. The small house would have looked long abandoned, had it not been for that light above the door. Its walls of crumbling brick were black with generations of grime, and the windows peered blindly like cataract-infested eyes, their panes dim and smudged with greasy soot. Dona Teresa shivered and drew her fur wrap more closely about her slim shoulders against the chill, damp air from the river.

The door, surprisingly, was an imposing slab of solid oak. A small brass plate above the bell read Zamak. Shivering a little, the young woman pressed the bell. She did not have to wait long before it opened noiselessly on well oiled hinges.

In the doorway was a tall man, lean and rangy, in an immaculate white jacket—a Hindu of some sort, from his swarthy, hawk-like face and spotless turban. Keen dark eyes as sharp as dagger points scrutinized her closely.

“Pray come in, madame,” said the Hindu with a slight bow. “The sahib is expecting you. Let me take your wrap.”

Mechanically, Dona Teresa handed him her gloves and fur, staring about the foyer with astonished eyes. Nothing about the locale or outward appearance of the little house could have prepared her for its furnishings. The foyer held an immense bronze Chinese incense burner on a teakwood stand; Tibetan tonkas or scroll-paintings adorned the walls, which were hung with watered silk. Lush Persian carpets were soft and thick underfoot.

She was ushered into a small study and informed that her host would attend her presently. As the door closed softly behind the tall servant, Dona Teresa looked about, her amazement growing. All her young life she had been raised in luxury, but nothing like this. Furniture of antique workmanship stood here and there, all of carved and polished teak, inlaid with mother of pearl or ivory plaques. The walls were hung with rich brocade and displayed illuminated cabinets crowded with exquisite antiquities—Etruscan, Greek, Roman, Hittite, Egyptian—museum-worthy pieces all. The carpet underfoot was a superb Ispahan of fabulous value, faded with centuries but still glorious. A subtle fragrance hung on the still air, rising in blue and lazy whorls from the grinning jaws of a silver idol of Eastern work.

Bookshelves held hundreds of scholarly-looking tomes whose gilt titles were in Latin, German, French—Unaussprechlichen Kulten, Litre d’lvon, Cultes des Goules. None of the titles were familiar to her, but they held a sinister connotation of the occult, of the nightside of science and philosophy.

A carven teakwood desk was drawn up before a fireplace. It held a clutter of books, manuscripts and note pads, weighed down with Egyptian tomb figurines of blue faience, huge scarabs of schist, Babylonian or Sumerian tablets of baked clay inscribed with sharp cuneiform. Above the fireplace hung a grotesque mask of carved and painted wood, scarlet, black, and gold. It depicted a hideous devil face with three glaring eyes and open-fanged jaws from which escaped painted gold whorls of stylized flames. She was staring up at it with fascination mingled with revulsion when a quiet voice spoke from behind her, startling the girl.

“Tibetan,” said the voice. “It depicts Yama, King of Devils. Some say that he was worshiped in pre-history, in Lemuria, as Yamath, lord of fire.”

The girl turned swiftly. Her host was tall, slender, saturnine, with a fine-boned visage as sallow as old ivory. His hair was sleek, seal-black, with a dramatic streak of pure silver that began at his right temple and zigzagged to the base of his skull. The dark eyes were hooded and cryptic and thoughtful. His age was indeterminate. He wore a dressing gown of black silk acrawl with writhing gold dragons.

“I am Anton Zarnak,” he said with a slight smile, “and you are Miss de Rivera. Pray make yourself comfortable.” Zarnak glanced at a side-table laden with crystal decanters. “A sip of brandy, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” the girl declined, sinking into a deep chair. Zarnak nodded, seating himself behind his desk. He opened a notebook and selected a pen.

“How can I assist you?” he inquired.