Through the Looking Glass
SLITHERING OUT THE back way, Black Dog on his heels, was almost too easy. Only a few steps took him out of Battle’s office, around a corner, and into a rear stairwell. He spared only a single backward glance. Orange light glimmered at the far end of the hall, and there might have been a muffled voice or two. He met no one. At the back door, he hesitated and looked at the basement stairs that led to the morgue. Why take Battle’s word that the bodies weren’t there?
“You can go round this all night,” he murmured. “You’ve got a plan. Stick to it. If you find nothing in his rooms, then you go look.” And if he still found nothing?
Cross that bridge when and if. He let himself out, wincing a little as the door creaked. The police dormitory was across an enclosed courtyard. To the left, an arched cloister marked the entrance into the police stables, and through the muffling mantle of snow, Doyle caught the snort and nicker of the station’s remaining horse. No other sound save the whistle of wind scouring the roof, the dull patter of falling snow, and the chuff of Black Dog’s breath. Ahead, he saw gauzy light from candles and oil lamps seeping through thin draperies in several rooms. Now and then, shadowy silhouettes drifted across individual windows. The only fairly bright light was a splash of orange spilling through a window to his far right from the desk sergeant’s lantern in the station at his back. Under his coat and attached to his belt, his own dark bull’s-eye was warm against his belly. While the courtyard was trammeled, there didn’t look to be fresh prints.
He started across the yard. The dormitory had three entrances: right, left, center. His own rooms were on the second floor and on the right. He realized with a start that he’d no idea where Battle’s were, other than a vague recollection of them being somewhere on the first floor because all senior staff were assigned to the lower floors. You idiot. He skidded to a halt so quickly he felt his boots try to fly out from underneath on a thick layer of compressed ice and snow. He’d have to go back. Or abandon this plan altogether; simply go to his own rooms, throw what belongings he wanted into a sack. Or … Think, think. He stood, snow salting his coat and helmet …
Keys, my dear.
“Right. His key.” In order to precisely know, though, he would have to read the number. Couldn’t risk lighting up the courtyard with his bull’s-eye. Shuffling sideways, he edged as close to that wedge of orange light, and now the shadow of a man’s head and shoulders, as he dared. Leaning forward, he brushed a quick gaze up toward the window. The sergeant was facing away. Good. After another look across the empty courtyard, he tugged his right glove off with his teeth and dug out his own room key, which he kept on a ribbon pinned to his trouser pocket. Running an index finger over warm iron, he felt along its length, from the rounded and very thick bow and down the shank to a notched collar. Nothing. I know it’s here. Flipping the key, he repeated the process, carefully dragging his fingertip from the throating just below the collar … Got it. He felt his heart kick as his finger ran over a tiny plaque upon which there was a minute engraving: 2-2-1-b. Which was correct: second floor, room 21, right side of the hall.
Returning his key to his pocket, he withdrew Battle’s pouch. In the light, the iron and brass keys inside gave off an almost nacreous glow. Finger-walking the many loops, he found the inspector’s room key, then felt for the room number: 4-2-1-b.
Fourth floor? Odd. He could’ve sworn Battle’s room was on the first. In fact, he knew that the station wasn’t at full capacity, and only the first three floors of the dorm were occupied. He double-checked by angling the key into the light. No mistake. Battle lived on the fourth floor, in number twenty-one. The b signified that he occupied the rooms on the right side of the hall. All this meant that Battle had virtually the run of the fourth floor, if he chose. Doyle massaged the engraved numbers with the ball of his thumb. Very strange.
To his right, the orange glow wrinkled. Startled, he tossed an instinctive look and then had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep in the scream.
The desk sergeant was there, another lantern in hand, peering out into the snow. Doyle was sure he wasn’t visible. Even if he had been … what stood there, framed in orange light, couldn’t possibly see him.
Because the sergeant’s face was blank. Completely. Totally. No eyes, no nose, which made that frill of wiry ginger whiskers all the more ghastly, because there was also no mouth or chin. The sergeant’s face was as flat as unformed clay.
I don’t see this. But he couldn’t look away. This isn’t real. This is Kramer. This can’t be.
Above and from inside came a burr of sound that Doyle recognized, belatedly, as laughter. Transfixed, he watched the desk sergeant’s shoulders convulse and that clay-blank of a face rock back. There was a flash of tin at his throat, and Doyle realized that he—it—was laughing. It’s laughing, but it’s got no mouth, no eyes, how can it …
Steady, darling, steady. Black Dog nuzzled his ear. This is Kramer and his drug, nothing more nor less … unless it’s not.
“Whatsat mean?” Without waiting for Black Dog to reply, he wheeled about, lurching away from the light. In another minute, he was across the courtyard and into the dormitory. Slivers fired under many of the doors, and he heard the occasional rumble of conversation. But he didn’t stop, and for all sorts of reasons, he prayed to God he wouldn’t meet anyone either.
A BALL OF cool air sighed past as he pushed into 421b, which was at the very end of a long hall. Pulling the door shut, he stood a moment as the darkness, thick as wool, settled. The room was still and chilly but not frigid. Battle’s rooms were a corner suite that faced a narrow, blank-walled alley. If the suite’s layout was similar to his own rooms, he now stood in the parlor. That meant the windows were to his right. Dead ahead would be a second door leading into Battle’s bedroom.
Turning to his left, he cautiously unbuttoned his coat. Warm air, smelling of singed tin from his bull’s-eye, wafted out, and he was absurdly grateful. You’re real; I smell that. Still facing left to avoid the windows, he unbuckled the lantern, then slid the panel aside a half inch, enough that light dashed out in a bright ribbon. Sweeping right but keeping the angle low, he picked out only spare furnishings: a table and two chairs, a mahogany writing desk with a great many drawers, and a standing wardrobe. No pictures on the walls, no decorations, nothing personal on the table, and the desk was immaculate. To his extreme right, very dark, thick curtains were drawn tightly over the room’s windows. He felt his shoulders relax. Certainly not in danger of anyone seeing in.
Crossing to the desk, he played his light over the surface. The stained quill nib was dry. Of course, the pen drawer was locked. Take a look inside? He chewed his mustache. Might be papers, case notes, some clue where the bodies were. Yes, but best to look around first, and wasn’t he there to light a lamp? Steady, Doyle; don’t get distracted. Straightening, he looked up and across the room and into Battle’s bedroom.
Someone was there, watching him.
“Guh!” His scream might have been louder if his throat hadn’t frozen. He jumped, and across the room, he saw light dancing a fantastic jig. Then he realized: he’d been frightened by his own reflection in Battle’s bedroom mirror.
Touch on edge, aren’t we? Black Dog glided into view, which was to say that the reflection of its eyes, red as hellfire, glistered in the mirror by Doyle’s reflection.
He knew better than to look down on this side of that mirror. Black Dog would not be there. (Was it progress that the hound was in the mirror? Probably not. Christ, he needed a proper drink.) He stood there a full ten seconds waiting for his heart to slow. Across the room—in Battle’s bedroom—the other Doyle stood with a hand over his chest and a wild look on his face as a huge black death hound with bloodred eyes showed its fangs in a grin. What a damned bad place for a mirror. He couldn’t paw through the man’s desk with someone, even his own reflection, looking on. Swallowing, he took up his lantern and crossed to close the door. At the threshold, he could see the whole of Battle’s bedroom. The inspector’s bed, neatly made, was tucked below two windows. A bedside commode squatted nearby. An odd placement for both because of the cold spilling through the windows, even with the shades drawn. Two floors below, he’d moved his bed to an inside wall for warmth. But along Battle’s inside wall, there was a large standing wardrobe, a mat with another set of shoes and boots, and a hefty shaving stand with a basin and picture.
What a bizarre arrangement. Doyle stood there a good few seconds, sorting it out, then crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Inside were trousers, a few suit jackets, two vests. Ties on hooks. No mirror, though. If Battle wanted to check his tie, he either had to step back to his shaving stand or cross all the way to the far wall and that mirror. So why not move the mirror alongside the wardrobe? There was plenty of room.
“What are you getting your knickers in a twist about, Doyle?” he muttered. So what if Battle’s personal habits were a little odd? Did he care that Battle bared his arse cheeks to the winter wind? No. But this is just so … off.
It wasn’t until he got closer to the mirror, an ordinary oval set in a wood stand, that he realized it was much warmer here, and the scent of wood smoke was stronger. What? He pressed a palm to the wall alongside the mirror. By his side, he heard Black Dog snuffling with interest. Glass wasn’t toasty but not freezing either. And that ought to be an outside wall. Unless there were other rooms behind this one? Possible; he’d never been up here. But then who was Battle’s neighbor? The hall had been completely dark.
“Strange.” Lifting his lantern, he examined the mirror. The wood stand was a reddish-orange wood, teak or light oak, and carved: flowers, vines, bizarre symbols.
The symbols, dear. Black Dog nudged. Look at them. See something familiar?
Black Dog was right. Leaning forward, he squinted at a design along the right-hand side of the mirror that he recognized: three interlocking circles. Setting his lantern on the floor, he withdrew Battle’s pouch of skeletons and searched until he found what he was looking for. Unhooking the brass key from its fabric loop, he held it before his bull’s-eye. Same design. It was also the key Battle’s finger kept straying toward. What had he said? They weren’t in the morgue because … “Too cold,” he said.
Yes, and the wall is warm, poppet. So what if …
“The mirror’s really a door, or masks a door.” There would be no reason in the world for anyone to check unless he had the key. Opening his lantern all the way, he aimed the beam. The light washed shadows flat, but he saw that the symbol was raised a touch higher than its background. Either more deeply incised or … “It’s a flap, like what you use for a Judas hole.” Or in this case … “No, it can’t be this easy,” he said, even as he used the tip of a finger to lever the flap out of the way and expose the keyhole hidden beneath. Socking in the key, he gave it a twist. Deep in the mirror, he heard the tongue slide and the lock disengage. The mirror popped out, enough to hook his hand around an edge.
Be very sure, my dear. Black Dog’s voice held an edge of warning. Once you cross through the looking glass, this can’t be undone.
“Ya joking? I’ve murdered a man,” he said. “I’m already committed.”
He slipped inside, with Black Dog close behind.
THERE WAS ONLY one window, cracked to allow for ventilation, and a corner hearth in which the remains of a fire were beginning to burn low. The room was close and comfortably warm. The only furniture was three low cots over which sheets were drawn.
My God. He felt all the hairs on his body bristle. Moving slowly, he fanned his dark lantern over each cot and saw how the body beneath tended the sheet. Two seemed roughly the same size, though one was a bit slighter than the other—a woman or a thin boy, he just wasn’t sure. The other was small. A child, he thought.
He stood at the foot of the cots, turning his lantern from one to the other. “What were you doing, Battle? What are you hiding here?” It was strange hearing his voice.
Go on. Black Dog nosed his left hand. This is what you came for, after all. Pick a card, any card. Don’t you want to see, poppet, don’t you?
The child, he wasn’t ready for. So he selected the one on the left, which was the slighter of the two adults. Heart throbbing, he lifted the sheet.
WHAT HE SAW was bad enough that if he hadn’t jammed his knuckles between his teeth, he would have surely screamed. Yet that still wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst of it was when it opened its eyes.