The Innswich Horror (4 page)

This shock of shocks
almost put my knees out. The attractive woman’s brother had
met
the Master! What
precious conversation must have taken place. And now this: the
reference to her brother’s map! Surely this had founded Lovecraft’s
early scene in the story where a congenial “grocery youth” had
provided Robert Olmstead with just that: a
map
of Innsmouth. Like most writers,
HPL had used an ordinary factual occurrence in which to dress the
fiction.

“Foster, why, you look—”

“Dumbstruck?” I laughed.
“It’s true, Mary. I know it might seem peculiar but the work of
Lovecraft is my foremost hobby; I pursue it with a passion as well
as any information about his life in general. And this is such a
stroke of luck. You could very well help me in my indulgence.
Please allow me to take you and your brother to luncheon sometime.
Aside from your wonderful company, of course, I’d just like—Paul,
is it?—I’d like to ask him a few questions about Lovecraft’s
visit—” but then the bungle hit me like a physical blow. “Pardon
me, Mary, but of course I meant you, your brother,
and
your
husband.”

Mary didn’t balk at the comment; she merely
replied, “Oh, I’m afraid my husband turned out to be not much of
one. He left me for another woman, ran off to Maryland.”

“I truly regret to hear that, Mary. You
deserve better than an irresponsible lout like that.” It infuriated
me, that any real man could abandon a pregnant wife.

“Oh, it’s all right. It’s one of life’s
lessons,” came a surprisingly cheerful reply. “My stepfather says
the hardest lessons serve us best.”

“How true.”

“And I
do
have a good life. I have good
work and live in a good town. I feel very blessed.”

“A selfless and commendable attitude. Too
many these days take so much for granted,” I amended.

“And my brother, Paul”—her glance cast down
for a moment—“he’s not well, I’m afraid, and wouldn’t be able to
manage an outing.”

I didn’t know how to respond other than
topically. “Oh, that’s too bad. I hope he recovers quickly.”

“But I’d be happy to talk to you about Mr.
Lovecraft at any convenience. You see, Paul quite took to the man,
and related to me everything they talked about while Mr. Lovecraft
was here. ”

“Then, please, we must do that, Mary.”

She gave the faintest coy
smile. “That is if your
wife
doesn’t mind you taking another woman to
lunch.”

“I’ve never married,” I blurted, only now
aware of the slightly sticky situation. She was pregnant, after
all—with a stumblebum’s child.

“You can’t be serious!”
Came her exclamation after another spoonful of ice cream. “A
handsome, well-mannered gentleman like you?
Never
married?”

I prayed I didn’t blush. “I fear I wouldn’t
be suitable for any woman,” and then I played it off with a laugh.
“I’m far too indulgent.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that!”

“But, yes, I’ll stop in tomorrow morn and
you can tell me a time convenient for you.”

“That would be fine, Foster. I’ll look
forward to it.”

By now I felt a bit guilty admitting this
attraction to a woman with child but, of course, my only interest
was strictly of the platonic variety. That aside, this was a great
opportunity. What Mary could convey of Paul’s conversations with
the Master would be of joyous interest to me. I was about to
continue conversation when the bell rang again and the door
opened.

“Oh, hi, Dr. Anstruther,” greeted Mary.

“Hello, my dear…”

“Dr. Anstruther, meet Foster Morley. He’s
here on vacation.”

I turned to face a distinguished,
well-suited man with iron-grey hair and beard. “How do you do,
sir?” I shook a soft but strong hand.

He grinned broadly. “I’m splendid, Mr.
Foster. How are you liking our little town?”

“I’m intrigued by it, sir, a very clean,
self-respecting prefect, indeed.” I glanced minutely to Mary. “And
such nice townsfolk.”

“Oh, yes. Perhaps you’re not aware, but
you’re sampling the wares of Olmstead’s very first ice cream
machine. It caused quite a row when it was first installed.”

“God bless such luxuries!” I tried to
joke.

“We’re prospering where other towns are
going by the wayside—quite a feat in these economic times. We’ve
been very fortunate of late.” He turned to Mary, handing her a stub
of paper. “Dear, check this claim number, please. I’m expecting a
delivery of some urgency. Mrs. Crommer should be going into labor
any day now.”

“I completely forgot,” Mary remarked,
checking a shelf of boxes, then finding one. “Will it be her
tenth?”

“Her eleventh,” the doctor redressed. He
glanced to me. “Stock for the future, as the President says.”

“Uh, yes. So true,” I
practically stammered. But this information? A woman expecting
her
eleventh
child? And thus far I’d seen several other expectant
mothers.
Olmstead is certainly a virile
town…

Mary opened the box on the counter, and Dr.
Anstruther withdrew its contents: four securely packed quart
bottles of caramel-colored glass. Each was clearly labeled:
CHLOROFORM.

“No safer anesthetic for difficult births,”
Anstruther commented, and replaced the bottles.

“American medical technology,” I offered,
“seems more burgeoning now than ever before. I’ve read they’d found
a near-cure for schizophrenia, via electric current.”

“Not to mention bone-marrow transplantation,
for patients with blood problems, and coming breakthroughs against
poliomyelitis. America’s leading the way by leaps and bounds.
Judging by the current global political climate, though, I fear
we’ll be focusing our prowess of knowledge and industry on war
rather than peace.”

“Let’s pray that’s not the case,” I said.
“This man Hitler does seem sincere in his promise to annex no more
land after Austria. Plus there’s his pact with the Soviets.”

“Time will tell, Mr. Foster. And now, I must
go.” He shook my hand once more. “I’ll hope to see you soon.”

“Good day, doctor…”

“As fine a small town doctor as you could
ever ask,” Mary complimented after he left. “Seems what he’s doing
most of these days is delivering babies. He’s delivered all of mine
too.”

I hoped it wouldn’t be too abrupt a
departure from good manners to ask, for the question was somehow
irresistible. “How many children has God blessed you with,
Mary?”

“Nine”—she errantly patted her swollen
abdomen—“counting this one.”

Nine children, and with no
husband to bear half the responsibility,
came my regretful thought. Truly, she was a strong woman. “It
must be very difficult for you, being on your own, I
mean.”

“Oh, my stepfather helps out a lot. It’s
just that he’s getting so old now. And, Paul… well—”

Suddenly there came a thunk from the back
room, and what I could only perceive as an accommodating human
grunt. “What’s he done now?” Mary whined. “I’ll be right back,
Foster.” She scurried through a door behind her.

I couldn’t help but overhear:

“Can’t you
wait?
” Mary’s muffled
voice complained.

“Not-not much longer, I can’t.” A male
voice, one in some distress.

“But there’s a nice man out front, and he’s
asked me to dine with him! Now—” A pause, then what seemed a grunt
on her part. “—get back in your chair! You’ll just have to wait! I
won’t be long—”

“I’ll try…”

Mary returned with a sheepish smile, then
came close to whisper, “That was Paul, just trying to get
attention, I’m afraid.” She seemed to be tempering herself against
an inner rage. “The reason it wouldn’t do to have you meet him is
because of his injuries. He’s very self-conscious—he had a terrible
accident several years ago.”

A selfish notion, I know, but it made me
cringe to realize that the true-life model for Lovecraft’s “grocery
youth” was on the other side of that door and not accessible to me.
And what of these injuries? There was no genteel way to
inquire.

“I let him stay in the back while I’m
working, so he doesn’t get too lonely. Sometimes he even sleeps
here when no one can give him a drive home.”

“Oh, I see. It’s, um, good
that you can do that,” was all I could muster to say, but what else
could she have meant by her insistence,
Get back in your chair—
? That and
the remark about drives home?

She could only mean
a
wheel
chair.

The moment had struck an awkward note but it
was that same selfishness of mine that sufficed to turn the
subject. “Before I’m on my way, I have a question.”

She leaned over, elbows on
counter, chin in fists, and smiled in a way that struck me as
dreamy, though I couldn’t imagine that
my
presence solicited the look. “Ask
me anything, Foster. You’re really an interesting man.”

Did I audibly gulp? I hope not! “I’ve
decided to find a quiet place outdoors to read,” and then I held up
my book. “See, reading the story whose setting Lovecraft formed by
his direct impressions of this very town strikes me as fascinating;
it’s my favorite story of any, and re-reading it here will allow
for an entirely new perception.”

“I think I know what you mean,” she said.
“But the Olmstead you’re seeing today is nothing alike what Mr.
Lovecraft saw when he was here so many years ago.”

“That’s my point!” I exclaimed of her
perceptivity. “Would you by chance have a photograph of Olmstead
before the rebuild? I’d love to compare it to Lovecraft’s
descriptions in the book.”

“We’ve never had a camera, but…” She held a
finger up. “There is a man you could try talking to. Er, well,
maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

Was she teasing me now? I
absolutely
quailed
. “Mary, I implore you, please—”

“There’s a townsman who used to be a
photographer; he trained in New York even, and took pictures for
newspapers. He even took a picture of Mr. Lovecraft standing on the
New Church Green with Paul. You can see the entire waterfront in
the background, the harbor inlet and lighthouse, the old Larsh
Refinery, and the town dock, which they used to call Innswich Point
back then.”

I could’ve collapsed by
these new parallels! Innswich: obviously a variation of Innsmouth.
The dead lighthouse which overlooked the notorious
Devil’s
Reef from whence
came the batrachian Deep Ones. And the Larsh Refinery: in
Lovecraft’s grand tale, it was at the
Marsh
Refinery where the gift of
gold trinkets bestowed to human worshipers by the Deep Ones was
melted down and sold on the market.
I MUST
see that picture!
I determined.

“Please, Mary. How can I find this
photographer? It’s imperative, truly—”

Her chin slumped in her
palms. “How can I say no to
you
? I only mean that it’s not a
good idea. The man’s name is Cyrus Zalen. He’s about forty but he
looks sixty, and you can’ miss him. He always wears the same long
greasy black raincoat. He smells horrible and he’s… well, he’s just
not nice. He lives at the poorhouse behind the new fire
station.”

Cyrus Zalen. Presumably a breadliner or, to
use Lovecraft’s term, a “loafer.” In Providence, they called them
“bums” and “rummies.” “An unfortunate turn of fate for a newspaper
photographer,” I remarked.

“He was a fine photographer… before he got
mixed up with the heroin. In New York he got hooked up with
ex-soldiers who’d become addicted to it when they went on leave in
France, a city called… Marcy? I can’t remember.”

“Marseilles,” I corrected. I’d read of these
places there called heroin laboratories where they converted the
resin from opium poppies into this devastating new drug. “Still,
I’ll have to find Mr. Zalen.”

The prospect seemed to
worry her. “Please don’t, Foster. He’s not a nice man. He’ll try to
connive money out of you, and he may even be a thief. He’s known to
do… immoral things, but it would be unladlylike for me to explain.
And this was so many years ago, at least ten, I guess. I’m sure he
doesn’t have the photo anymore anyway. Really, Foster, don’t go
there.” She leaned even closer. “It’s a
dirty
place where he lives—there’s
probably diseases. A woman died of typhus there several years
ago.”

I didn’t take her warning lightly, actually
flattered by her concern for my well-being. But if it was money
that Mr. Zalen wanted for his old pictures, then money he would
have. My wallet was chock full.

“You needn’t worry, Mary. I’m of hardy
enough stock. I survived the outbreaks of 1919 and 1923, and, in
fact, I’ve not been sick a day in my life. I’ll be very careful
when interviewing Mr. Zalen, and I can’t thank you enough for your
guidance.”

She gripped my forearm
with some determination. “At least make a deal with me, Foster. I
think Paul has an extra copy of the photo. If so, I’ll get it for
you, if you promise
not
to go to Cyrus Zalen’s.”

I was touched to the point of amusement by
the vigor with which she insisted I not meet this man. “All right,
Mary. I promise.”

She beamed a smile, then gave me a sudden
hug which almost made me flinch. The all too brief contact brought
my cheek to hers. The scent of her hair was luxuriant.

“And I can’t thank you enough,” I went on,
“for your acceptance of my invitation for luncheon tomorrow. Oh,
and here—for your wonderful ice cream.” I put five-dollars on the
counter.