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September 10, 1939
Los Angeles, California
United States of America
“I don’t get it,” Richard said as they walked down the boarding ramp from the ship among the other passengers, their bags in tow.
“What’s that?” Wilkins asked.
“You’re telling me you saw dwarves from Norway in Peru, and then some Irish monster attacked us on a ship off the coast of Mexico?”
“Quiet!” Wilkins urged as he glanced about the press of people. “I rather think this is not the time or place for this.”
“Oh.” Richard followed his gaze. “I guess not.”
They made their way through the harbor with the other passengers, neither of them wanting to talk to the port authority about the death aboard the ship. Wilkins knew this might arouse suspicion, but the captain of the ship seemed to believe their story. Most likely, the widow’s testimony would be enough. Nobody would believe them, anyway. The best they could hope for from discussing the matter with the authorities would be an extended stay in a local asylum.
“We should catch the next train heading east,” he said.
Richard nodded, most likely as eager to put distance between them and the ugliness aboard the ship.
They took a cab directly to the train station and booked tickets on a streamliner leaving in the morning for New Orleans. The ticket master assured them that from there, they could catch a train to New York. Richard would be home, and with luck, Wilkins would be able to book passage on a ship from there to England with little delay. They procured a room for the night in a hotel only two blocks from the station and settled in to wait for their departure.
Wilkins sank into an oversized armchair in the hotel lounge, feeling lost in the plush cushions. He grabbed the arms and squirmed to find a more comfortable position. He finally gave up, sat on the edge of the chair, and leaned forward. He looked down to check on the leather satchel and found it still resting by his foot. Even though he could not see it, he felt the idol was resting safely inside.
“Scotch?” Richard asked as he set a glass down on the round table in front of the anthropologist. He had another in his hand and took a sip before sitting.
“Thank you, Richard,” Wilkins said as he took the glass. He wasn’t much of a drinker—and by no means as dedicated to the hobby as his counterpart—but it seemed like then was as good a time as any to indulge in the habit. He took a sip and his face screwed into a grimace as the bitter liquid burned his palate.
Richard chuckled. “You get used to it,” he said as he took another drink and his face mirrored Wilkins’s. “Although, this isn’t very good scotch.”
“I’m sure I’ll find better back home. I’ll send you a bottle.”
“Speaking of which. Do you plan to take that all the way there, and what will you do with it when you arrive?”
Wilkins took a tentative sip. “Are you still wanting to sell it?”
“Heavens no!” Richard’s voice carried across the lounge, then he lowered his tone. “I want nothing to do with that thing. I say you dump it in the trash and we both forget we ever found it.”
“Believe you me, I’m tempted.” Wilkins looked down at the satchel again. The thought had occurred to him on several occasions, none more than after the attack on the ship. How easy would it have been to toss the accursed thing into the sea and be done with it? What stopped me?
“Then why don’t you? You never got a chance to answer on the ship. Are you trying to save the world or something?”
Wilkins sighed. “Evil follows this thing, and I have a feeling it will continue to do so, whether or not it is in our possession. I can’t simply cast it off to become the problem of others.”
“I could. And if you ask me, you should. In fact, when did this become your decision?”
Wilkins thought for a moment. It was a valid question. The two men had an arrangement which went back for years. They would locate an artifact, Wilkins would have time to study and catalog it, and then Richard would sell it to some collector or museum. What was different now? “I haven’t finished my study of the artifact.”
“Really? You want to spend more time with this death-magnet?”
“If you don’t want to be near it, you could always take another train.”
“And leave you alone with that thing?” Richard laughed. “You’d be dead in a day. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Why, Richard,” Wilkins beamed, “I didn’t realize you had a conscience.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
Wilkins leaned forward and set the nearly empty glass down on a low table. He noticed a discarded newspaper resting there, and some fragment of a headline caught his eye. He grabbed the paper and unfolded it. His eyes grew huge as the shock of what he was reading washed over his face.
“What is it?” Richard asked.
“The Germans have invaded Poland,” Wilkins said as he turned the paper toward his friend.
Richard shook his head in dismay and took another sip of his scotch. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that thing we found fouling up the world. Looks like we’ve got that well enough in hand with no help.”
* * *
It was still dark the next morning when Wilkins and Richard arrived at Los Angeles Union Station. Wilkins’s shoes clicked on the mosaic tile floor as they made their way through the main lobby. Wood beams, matching the pueblo-style architecture of the building’s exterior, crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. The smell of fresh paint and varnish still filled the space, which had only recently been opened to the public. They passed the ticket counters—as they already had their tickets in-hand—and made their way through to building toward the train platforms.
The straps of the satchel and his briefcase bit into Wilkins’s shoulder as he struggled with his suitcases. They stepped out onto the platform, checked their tickets, and walked up to the train. It was one of the new streamliner models, probably not even a year old. The aerodynamic nose of the train was bright red, and the rest of the engine shone a brilliant silver as the first rays of the morning sun struck it. The cars stretching behind the train were more conventional; mostly wood grains with red trim to match the engine.
As they approached, a young man in a railway uniform approached them. “Good morning, sirs. Need help with those bags?”
“Thank you,” Wilkins said. “That would be most appreciated.”
The porter placed a suitcase under each arm, grabbed another with one hand, and reached toward the bags on Wilkins’s shoulder with the other. Wilkins grasped the straps with his newly freed hands and turned away abruptly. “Thank you, but I’ll carry these.”
The young man looked surprised at the sudden reluctance, but was given little time to protest as Richard shoved his last bag out. “You can take this.”
“Very well, sirs.” The skinny lad—who couldn’t have been a day over sixteen—struggled under the weight of the four large suitcases. He sorted the load as only one used to carrying as such could do and asked, “Where to?”
Wilkins looked down at the ticket, which had the sleeper car and cabin numbers stamped on it with red ink. “Car seven, cabin four.”
“Very well, this way,” the porter said, then led them down the platform.
As they approached the train, Wilkins looked around and saw several other passengers readying to board.
An older woman in a bell-shaped dress, which had a volume contested only by the size of her hat, was yelling something at another porter about her cabin assignment. She held a small white dog under one arm, which barked at the young man as its master berated him.
A large man in an all-white suit and a cowboy hat was exchanging banter seemingly intended to impress a young redhead.
She wore a modest dress which only accentuated her beauty, and appeared young enough to be his daughter. She also seemed not at all interested in prolonging the conversation, as she excused herself and hurried toward the train with a single small bag.
A pair of men in pin-stripe suits turned away an offer of aid with their own luggage, one of them cradling a hard-sided briefcase under one arm as if it were a newborn babe in being swaddled. Wilkins had an impression the two men were in business together, but of a nefarious sort, to be sure.
Finally, a man with a thin handlebar mustache and wearing a meticulously tailored suit caught Wilkins’s eye. He was asking questions about the cabin assignments, seemingly very insistent on not sharing his own with any other passengers. He seemed to be a Frenchman, judging from his accent.
“What a curious lot,” Wilkins mumbled.
“What was that?” Richard asked, almost bumping into his friend as he craned his neck to get a better look at something, presumably the redhead.
“Nothing,” Wilkins said as he jabbed an elbow into Richard’s ribs.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“Watch where you’re going.”
Their porter spoke up then. “Here we go, car seven.” His voice was full of the jaunty frivolity one would expect naturally from youth and unnaturally from a service worker. It seemed to come easily to the boy, which made Wilkins think the source was more of the former than the latter. When age and cynicism set in, he knew the tone would become more forced.
As they walked up the metal steps into the train car, a sudden wave of nausea struck Wilkins. No. Not again. Not now, he thought.
Richard must have recognized something in his expression as he turned to check on his friend. “Are you okay?”
Wilkins’s stomach felt as if it were turning over with every step he took into the train. “Simply not feeling well,” he lied. Fortunately, the feeling passed once they were fully within the car.
The porter led them down the narrow corridor, barely squeezing through with the suitcases. Mahogany wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls, while a cream-colored wallpaper with a rose paisley pattern covered the upper sections. I may become ill again simply from the wallpaper, Wilkins thought. Still, his mind was troubled by the feeling of unease as he boarded the train. It was almost as if something were warning him away. Perhaps it was simply his distaste for travel.
I hope that’s all it was, he thought.
