Part 23 (2/2)

'It may not have been difficult, Rhodajane, but it took great nerve. Ashapola is aware how courageous you were, and Ashapola is deeply appreciative.'

'We didn't manage to take out El Grando Freako, though, did we? Are we going to have another crack at him tonight?'

'Actually, we're considering a different approach,' said Springer.

'I sure hope so. I'm still sore from the last approach.'

John shook his head in amus.e.m.e.nt, but Springer stayed deadly serious. 'For whatever reason, Dom Magator's Absence Gun had no effect on Brother Albrecht, so we're going to go for Mago Verde instead, to see if we can stop him from taking Brother Albrecht his ninth and last sacrifice.'

Three Rhodajanes looked at Springer out of her triple mirrors. 'OK - you take out Mago Verde. But won't Brother Albrecht simply find somebody else to bring him victim number nine? Another one of those - what do you call them - Dreads?'

'I don't know,' Springer admitted. 'I can't tell for sure if Mago Verde is Brother Albrecht's only contact with the waking world, but so far I haven't sensed the presence of any other Dreads in this vicinity, not for hundreds of miles, and so I'm a.s.suming that he is.

'If Brother Albrecht doesn't receive his ninth sacrifice, he'll have to stay in the world of dreams for ever - or at least until he recruits some other Dread to do his dirty work for him. Which may be hundreds of years. Or never, let us pray to Ashapola.'

John said, 'The thing is, sweetheart, we don't know where Mago Verde is going to find his next victim, which is why we've come here, to the Griffin House. Sooner or later, no matter where he first attacks them, he stays here and dreams them into the walls of this hotel. We don't know why. But from this hotel he pa.s.ses them on to Brother Albrecht's circus.'

'It's my guess that he mutilates them as a way of preparing them for Brother Albrecht's dream,' said Springer. 'He makes it physically impossible for them to think of returning to their normal life. Then - once they arrive at the circus - Brother Albrecht decides what kind of freaks he wants them to be turned into, and his surgeons get to work on them and finish what you might call the finer details. The dogs' faces, the goats' legs. All of the other abominations.

'Throughout history, in all religions, from the Aztecs to the Nors.e.m.e.n, a sacrifice is only considered to be spiritually meaningful if the victim is willing to accept their fate - happy, even. Whenever a Viking chieftain died and was burned on his boat, one of his female slaves would volunteer to die with him. By the time Brother Albrecht has finished with them, I very much doubt if any of his victims aren't willing to stay in his circus. They can never return to the waking world, can they, and pick up their lives where they left off? Not if they have no legs, or snakes instead of arms, or a face like a llama.'

Rhodajane was pouting at herself as she applied bright red lip gloss. 'What if I tried?'

John frowned at her three reflections. 'What? What if you tried what?'

'What if I tried to take out Brother Albrecht, the same way I took out that clown?'

'I don't know,' said Springer. 'Brother Albrecht is no ordinary man, and I don't think he ever was. What goes on inside of his mind, n.o.body knows.'

'I have no intention of appealing to his mind, Springer! I'm going to appeal to his... Kercheval. He might not have arms or legs but he's not lacking in that department.'

'Too darn dangerous,' said John, dismissively.

'Then why the h.e.l.l was I invited along last night?'

'You were chosen for this mission so that you would distract Brother Albrecht's attention,' Springer explained. 'We know that he has a fatal weakness for women. That's what got him mutilated in the first place.'

'I took out that harlequin, didn't I - and that harlequin was dreamed up by Brother Albrecht. If the harlequin went for me, so will he.'

'But this time, sweetheart, he's going to be ready for us, and he's going to know all about your needles, and how you could make his blood boil.'

'I still think I ought to try.'

'And what happens if he takes you out, instead? Where does that leave the rest of us? If the Absence Gun doesn't have any effect on him, I doubt if any of the rest of our weapons are going to be much good.'

Springer said, 'Listen - all of this is academic until we find Mago Verde. Maybe, when we do, we can persuade him to tell us if the good Brother Albrecht has any other weaknesses, apart from women.'

'Oh, you mean we could torture him?'

'No, I don't. There are other ways of extracting information from people without torturing them.'

'Like bribing him?'

'In a way, yes. Remember that Mago Verde is a Dread, who can s.h.i.+ft at will from the waking world to the dream world, and back again. But in the human sense, Dreads are not alive. They are something between ghosts and zombies. And if there is one thing that all Dreads crave more than anything else, it is to have their humanity back.'

'But how can we offer him that? I don't know about you, but I'm fresh out of humanity.'

Springer closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, his pupils were a very pale agate color, and luminous. 'Ashapola is the greatest power in the universe, John. Ashapola can turn the night into day. Ashapola can heal the sick and make the dead dance.'

'OK,' said John. 'I'll take your word for it. But what we need to do now is set up some kind of surveillance, right? One of us needs to keep an eye on the hotel lobby in case Gordon Veitch tries to register, and the rest of us should patrol the corridors. Whatever happens, we mustn't let him slip into the hotel unnoticed. Otherwise we're screwed.'

NINETEEN.

Hunt The Clown Detective Wisocky was studying the menu outside the entrance to the Boa Vinda restaurant when Detective Hudson came toward him across the hotel lobby, accompanied by a white-haired old man in a brown three-piece suit.

He checked his wrist.w.a.tch and said, 'It's five after six, Charlie. You're twenty minutes late. I was just about to go in and order the tilapia with peanuts. I never ate tilapia with peanuts before. Come to that, I never ate peanuts with tilapia.'

'Sorry, Walter. We had to stop off on the way and buy a new battery for Henry's hearing aid. By the way, this is Henry Marriott. Henry - this is Detective Wisocky.'

The old man held out his hand. He was small and frail, with a bulbous nose and large hairy ears, and he put Walter in mind of a miniature version of Jimmy Durante. He wore a crisp white s.h.i.+rt with a red silk necktie and a matching red carnation in his b.u.t.tonhole. His hand felt like a turkey's claw.

'Good to meet you, Henry,' said Walter. 'My partner tells me you used to run the Clown Museum down on Pearl Road. When was that?'

'What's that?' asked Henry, cupping his hand to his left ear. The background music in the hotel lobby didn't help, and neither did a business executive standing right next to them, yelling into his cellphone.

Walter leaned forward and shouted, 'When - did - you - run - the - Clown Museum?'

'Oh! Got you! I was there for almost forty-eight years, from August nineteen hundred and thirty-five through June nineteen hundred and seventy-nine. I was only eighteen years old when I started. I took over the running of it when I was twenty-seven, which was in nineteen forty-four, because Mr Cascarelli was called up to join the Marines. He was killed at Okinawa, poor fellow. Stepped on a mine and got blown to smithereens. Good way for a clown to go, though.'

Charlie said, 'Henry knew Gordon Veitch. In fact he knew him better than most - didn't you, Henry?'

Walter laid a hand on Henry's angular shoulder. 'Let's go through to the bar, shall we, Henry? It's a whole lot quieter in there, and you'll be able to hear me better. What would you like to drink?'

'A long slow comfortable screw up against a cold hard wall, if that's OK.'

Walter looked across at Charlie and raised one eyebrow, but Charlie simply shrugged. 'That's kind of a circus drink, I guess.'

They walked across the lobby toward the Lantern Bar, pa.s.sing beneath the portrait of the stern-faced man with the reddish hair and the formal black suit. As they did so, Henry stopped and pointed up at him and said, 'Now there's your guilty party. Gilbert T. Griffin.'

'Gilbert Griffin? Gilbert Griffin built this hotel and it's the best hotel in Cleveland. What's he guilty of?'

'Meddling with things that shouldn't be meddled with. That's what he's guilty of.'

'OK...'

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