The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler Page B

Doyle’s response had been to retreat into drink. Everything was different now. Houdini had become a caricature of himself. Even Lovecraft, the youngest of them, was outmatched by this new breed of conspirator.
    The Penn Hotel rose in the front windshield. Doyle gathered his walking stick and long coat, but the taxi showed no sign of slowing.
    “This is it. Right here.”
    The taxi picked up speed.
    “Driver, this is the hotel.”
    Doyle watched as the doorman and the glowing stoop of the Penn Hotel rushed by his window. He banged his stick on the back of the driver’s seat.
    “I say, you’ve missed the stop.”
    The driver pressed down on the accelerator, throwing Doyle forward then back.
    “Stop the car!” His hand went to the door handle. He pulled on it, but to no avail.
    The driver kept going.
    “I’m ordering you to stop this car!” But even before he spoke, Doyle recognized that he was in no position to give orders. And even if the door were to open, a dive out would most likely kill him.
    The taxi careened around a corner, missing a pedestrian by inches and throwing Doyle across the seat. His head cracked the window glass. He was sobering fast as the taxi sped up Central Park West, past the Museum of Natural History. Central Park whizzed by on the right. Doyle had at first assumed that the police had found him, but the situation suggested otherwise. It seemed he’d blundered into the hands of Duvall’s killer.
    He cursed himself. “Old fool.” He still knew how to fight, though. This would be one victim his captors would not forget. THE STREETS OF Harlem pulsed with activity as motorcars honked and jockeyed for position on the packed streets. The sidewalks were clotted with ticket lines and laughing couples. Club lights sparkled. The Novelty Fire played across from Wilbur Sweatman’s Jazz Band. Even through the closed car window, Doyle could hear the wail of jazz trumpets. There was a refreshing mix of whites and blacks together on the streets, all dressed in tuxedoes and evening gowns.
    The assault on the senses was such that, for a moment, Doyle did not realize that the taxi had taken a sharp left into an alley, then screeched to a halt.
    Bodies converged on the car. The back doors swung open. Doyle thrust his cane at the groping hands that reached for him, but he was dragged out from behind by the scruff of his neck. He landed on his back on the pavement. Legs shuffled in the gloom. He expected a volley of blows but none came. Instead, he was wrenched to his feet and his arms pinned behind his back. Doyle weighed two-hundred-plus pounds, yet he scarcely touched the ground as he was ushered through a rusted back door.
    “Tell me what this is about! Tell me—”
    The
bwwaaaaap
of a horn solo greeted him, and his words were lost in the music. The nightclub stench of cigar smoke and sweating bodies made his eyes water. He was pushed through the mob.
    Doyle felt faint by the time they reached the velvet staircase. The soft carpet muted the sounds of the music. And, like Alice hurtling down the rabbit hole, he entered another world beneath the jazz club. Beaded curtains gave way to warm, candlelit corridors, where the dark eyes of suspicious children peeked out from behind cracked doors. There was a delicious combination of kitchen smells: baking breads, spicy soups, and fried meats. An attractive black girl with a jeweled necklace pulled red curtains aside as the men forced Doyle into a voodoo parlor. Circulation returned to his arms as the well-dressed black men set him free and departed.
    Only the driver remained. He circled Doyle aggressively, bare-chested beneath his suit jacket. Doyle flinched as the man patted him down for a weapon. As the driver’s rough hands swept down each pant leg, Doyle surveyed the room. Hundreds of dripping candles warmed the chamber. Ornate chaises lined the walls, reminding him of French New Orleans. A rooster clucked in a small cage atop a table decorated with human