Arkham International: Shadow of the Drowned City

CHAPTER ONE: PARIS

by Josh Reynolds

Trish Scarborough sighed and sat back in her chair. The smoky air of the café thrummed with sound. Music and voices mingled in a tidal pulse that did little for her burgeoning headache. Paris was loud these days, even in its quieter corners. The City of Lights had become a city of noise, and she longed for the quiet of Venice.

She took a sip of her espresso, wishing it were something stronger. She tapped her cigarette onto the side of the saucer and took a steadying pull. The last few days had been stressful. She’d only just gotten back from a fact-finding expedition to a nasty little patch of Hungarian soil called Stregoicavar. The Bolsheviks were interested in it as well; something to do with files purloined from the Germans. From what she’d seen, there wasn’t much there unless one was keen on bad feelings and worse memories.

Trish, who had more than enough of both, had gotten out of Hungary one step ahead of the Russians. The Bolshies had somehow gotten her description and they were still carrying a grudge after that misunderstanding in Trieste. She wasn’t overly worried about it. They had bigger things to worry about at the moment. Everyone did.

Something was happening, out of sight in the dark corners of the world. Every intelligence agency in the western hemisphere was on high alert, but didn’t know why. They could all feel it, like a tremor shivering through a fault line. But she figured she was the only one who had a good idea of what was causing it all. And that scared her.

Trish had always been good at puzzles. She saw patterns the way other people saw colors. Sometimes, however, those patterns were just pieces of a larger whole. Her duty, as bestowed upon her by Director Yardley, the Cipher Bureau, and the government of the United States of America, was to tease out the edges of the big picture. Only that picture was getting uglier and more uncertain by the day.

Word was, Yardley was on the way out. Someone new – no word who – was coming in. But whoever they were, they’d already started sticking their oar in where it wasn’t needed. A number of agents, Trish included, had been quietly encouraged to join Yardley in retirement. But leaving the game before it was finished had never appealed to her.

Another sip of espresso, another drag on her cigarette. Her eyes rested on the door. Her contact was late, which meant she was late making her report to control. Somewhere in the city, the Paris office was probably getting even more antsy than they already were. Everyone was on edge after Massachusetts. After Arkham. Not that she knew what had happened in Arkham, exactly. No one else seemed to know either, but it had all sorts of very strange people feeling very nervous. And that, in turn, made her edgy.

Her instincts were screaming at her to run, but not in any particular direction other than away. Since that wasn’t particularly helpful, she’d decided to do what she did best, and find the pattern in the chaos.

“Scarborough. You look tired. Busy day?”

Trish looked up. A narrow, sallow-faced American in a slick suit stood beside her table, grinning down at her. Chauncey Swann wasn’t anyone’s idea of handsome, except maybe his own. “You’re late, Chauncey.”

“I wasn’t aware I was on a schedule,” Swann said, as he doffed his straw boater and dropped it on the table. He snapped his fingers in the general direction of a waiter, eliciting a nasty look that he blithely ignored as he ordered coffee in his atrocious French. For a man as ostensibly well-travelled as he was, Swann wasn’t much for languages. “What do you want, Scarborough? I’m a busy man.”

“And how is business, Chauncey? Because you’re looking a bit threadbare to me. Shiny patches on your elbows and that stupid boater is starting to fray. Rough times?”

“I am currently between opportunities,” Swann said, stiffly. He called himself an acquisitionist, which was a fancy word for thief. Until recently, he’d been employed by Carl Sanford and the Silver Twilight Lodge. Sanford had paid Chauncey to filch esoteric bric-a-brac when he wasn’t playing bagman.

“Consider this one, then.” Trish patted the envelope. “Enough money to keep you in croissants and wine for at least a month.” Chauncey, she knew, liked the high life. It was why he’d gone to work for Sanford in the first place.

Swann eyed the envelope warily, as if expecting a trick. “I don’t like croissants.”

“So buy whatever pastry suits you.”

“And what service must I perform in return for such largesse?”

“I need information.”

“On?”

“Tell me about Arkham,” Trish said.

“Not much to tell. I haven’t been back since Sanford – well. You know.” Swann scratched his chin and let his gaze dart about the café. He was nervous. Trish wondered why. Chauncey wasn’t the sort to suffer from anxiety. Not unless he had a good reason. He licked his lips and looked back at her. “I’m a free agent now, if you hadn’t heard.”

“I hear a lot of things. But nothing about Arkham. About the flood. Why is that?”

Swann shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the one working for the government.”

Trish finished off her espresso and set the cup down with a clink. “The government says it was a natural disaster. An act of God. One in a million.”

“There you go. Asked, and answered.”

Trish fixed him with a steady look. “I want to know what really happened.”

Swann looked away. “What makes you think I know anything? Like I said, I ain’t been back in over a year. Between you and me, I haven’t missed it either. Arkham was – is – not the sort of place you go for a good time, right?”

Trish fiddled with her cup. “Chauncey, how can I put this delicately? You’re a cockroach. You scurry from one shadow to the next, looking for crumbs.”

Swann snorted. “You call that delicate?”

“Given what I could call you, yes. You’re a scavenger, Chauncey. You hear things. So, what have you heard?”

“About Arkham?”

“About anything,” Trish said, flatly. She was getting tired of Swann’s ingenue act. She decided to show her teeth a bit. “The Lodge can’t protect you anymore, Chauncey. Sanford’s in the wind, and the way I hear it, he burned whatever influence he had saving his own hide. Staying on my good side might help keep you alive someday.”

Swann lit a cigarette. She noticed that his hands were trembling. “Maybe I did hear something at that,” he allowed, after a moment. “I was there. Just last week.”

“So you lied.” She wasn’t surprised by this. Chauncey lied like other men breathed. The only way to deal with him was to winnow the chaff from the wheat.

“I obfuscated. It was a flying visit. The Lodge is gone, sure, but I stashed away some… bits and pieces for a rainy day. And, buddy, it was rainy that day. Arkham looked like it had been on the wrong end of a wrecking ball. Businesses, houses – just gone. Washed away, like they were never there.” Swann’s gaze went vague. “They were still picking bodies out of the wreckage when I got there. I decided to get what I needed and beat feet, post haste.” He paused. “Only I wasn’t the only one poking around. You ever hear the name Randall Tillinghast?”

“He sounds vaguely familiar. Old money family, right? Lodge members?”

Swann laughed sharply. “Not exactly. Same line of work, different company.”

Trish frowned. “Which one, exactly?” There were a lot of secret societies haunting the fringes of her world. Spies and occultists went together like eggs and cream. She’d encountered her share of them over the years. Groups like the Red Coterie or the Thessalian Sisterhood; all of them weird, all of them bad news in their own special way.

“They call themselves the Pilgrims of the Drowned City. I don’t suppose you’ve got them in that impressive mental Rolodex of yours?” Swann waved her reply aside. “Never mind. I don’t know much about them, and I do not care to educate myself. Ignorance is bliss, right? Especially when it comes to this sort of thing. What I do know is that Tillinghast was – is – associated with them, somehow.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because the guy who braced me in Arkham was looking for him.”

Trish was careful not to let her surprise show. “What guy was this?”

Swann smiled. “A Fed, named Banks.”

Trish paused. “Banks… Roland Banks?”

Swann’s smile faded. “Yeah. Friend of yours?”

She frowned and squelched a sudden surge of old memories, mostly bad, and all of them a world and a lifetime away. “Not exactly. What did he want?”

“Same as you. I hate to tell you this, but you’re not the only terrier digging at this rat-hole. Your pal Banks is on the hunt, same as you.” Swann hesitated. “I lied to him, of course. I don’t talk to cops, especially Feds.”

“But you talk to me,” Trish said, absently.

“You’re not a cop.” Swann looked around the café again. Trish wondered who, or what, he was looking for. “If Tillinghast is involved in whatever happened to Arkham, then it’s bad news. I worked for him, once or twice, back before Sanford made me a better offer. Ol’ Carl had his foibles, but Tillinghast is a whole different kettle of fish. And I mean that literally.”

“I’m not paying you to be cryptic, Chauncey. That’s my job.”

“That’s all I know, I swear.” Swann reached across the table as if to take her hand, but stopped short. “Look, Trish, I don’t like you, but I’ve always respected you. So know that what I’m about to say comes from a place of regard: leave it alone. Forget Arkham. Forget Tillinghast. Find something else to get your teeth into.”

“You’re afraid,” Trish said, softly. Chauncey wasn’t the courageous sort, but it took more to scare him this bad than some penny-ante cult. Whatever he was worried about was big. And that worried her in turn.

Swann rose from his seat and retrieved his boater. “Very much so. And if you had an ounce of brains, you would be, too. We’re small fry, Trish. We’re in deep water now, and there’s bigger fish swimming around out there – and they’re hungry. If you’re not careful, they’ll swallow you whole.” He tossed a few coins on the table. “Thanks for the coffee. Let’s never do this again, huh?”

Trish watched him sidle through the crowded café and vanish out the door. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be seeing Chauncey again. Maybe that was for the best. The tenuous alliance between the Black Chamber and the Silver Twilight Lodge was old news. Good riddance to bad rubbish. She’d been against it from the first and had made sure her objections were on the record. Recent events had proven her correct, not that she expected Yardley to admit it. Nor was she planning to gloat; she was still on thin ice with the bosses.

Maybe Chauncey was right. Maybe she ought to lay low, and let whatever storm was building blow over. She chuckled softly to herself. No. That wasn’t her style. It never had been. There was a puzzle here, and she was going to solve it.

Trish dropped a few sous on the table and rose. Time to find another café. She’d been sitting here too long, and this one didn’t have a public call box. She retrieved her coat and headed outside. But as she let the door close behind her, she felt a sudden flicker of warning. There were eyes on her. And not friendly ones, either.

She paused on the stoop, as if she were a tourist trying to get her bearings. Paris was full of watchers, most of them watching each other. Spies, Bolsheviks and worse. She gave the street a surreptitious sweep, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one lurking in the shadows or waiting to grab her. No one obviously watching. But even so, she could feel the unseen onlooker’s attentions, like an itch at the base of her skull.

Someone was out there. Maybe they’d been following Chauncey. Maybe it was the Russians, still looking to settle scores. Or maybe it was someone – or something – else. Trish shivered, pulled up the collar of her coat and hurried away from the café. Something told her she’d outstayed her welcome in Paris.

It was time to go home.