I found my way to the kitchen. An open door next to the pantry revealed a narrow stairway winding down to a small cellar where shelves lined the walls, heavy with preserves, canned food, canisters, and boxed MREs. The professor must have been planning for Armageddon. A doorway opposite the stairs led from the cellar into a short hallway. I heard the sound of a cardboard box sliding on a concrete floor and followed it to a storeroom lit by a bright bulb in a wire cage, hanging from the center of the ceiling. The bulb illuminated carefully stacked file boxes against one wall and Lester Dworkin crouching over a box, picking through the books inside. I hadn’t really thought about how I would approach him. I would have to improvise but I had an ace up my sleeve. I knew why Dworkin had come to this particular estate sale. After locating it and finding out who the deceased was, I had researched the professor briefly while walking back to my hotel. It wasn’t hard to find information about him. He had been an emeritus at Bryn Mawr—retired after a long career teaching philosophy with a specialization in the intersection of music and logic. A couple of the publications listed on his faculty page mentioned Edward Elgar and cryptography. Dworkin was undoubtedly looking for the professor’s books on that subject.
“Anything good down here?” I asked.
Dworkin tensed and looked up, surprised. “Maybe,” he answered, giving me a once over and returning his gaze to the box. “What are you looking for?”
“Books. Old and rare. Just like you I assume.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve been through all of these boxes now and there’s nothing worth a rat’s ass. And I know my shit. Dig through if you want but you’re better off just taking my word for it.”
“Nothing on music? I’m looking for books about Edward Elgar.” Dworkin’s head snapped up and I continued. “I heard the professor was an expert.”
“Elgar huh?” He put the lid on the box and hefted it back onto the stack. “Anything in particular?” He stood and took a couple of steps toward me. “Biography? Musical scores?” Dworkin’s body language seemed subtly threatening, his tone almost angry.
“Mainly anything on the Enigma Variations,” I replied, casually. “I’m interested in the mystery surrounding…”
“Who sent you here?” Dworkin demanded, cutting me off. He stood absolutely still for a moment then darted to the door, surprising me with his quickness. Before I could react he slammed the door closed and stood with his back to it, facing me. “Did they send you? To question me?”
I held my hands up in front of me. “Who do you mean? No one sent me.”
“I mean the servants.” Dworkin glanced around nervously. His eyes seemed to be looking through me. It was cool but stifling in the windowless cellar with the door closed. Dworkin’s face looked deranged in the light from the overhead bulb.
“Whose servants?” I asked. “Someone else who’s interested in the Enigma?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Dworkin’s mouth twisted with contempt. “They have the knowledge. They have the lore. They don’t need to scratch around like stupid chickens in the dirt, looking for seeds. Like I do. They’re not looking for information. They’re trying to stop people from learning their secrets. Is that why you’re here?”
The situation had escalated rapidly. I wasn’t sure Dworkin was entirely sane. I didn’t want to make any moves that would upset him further. He could be dangerous. He was a lot bigger than me and panic can give people unusual strength.
“Nobody sent me here. I’m just looking for books. I’m an amateur Enigma enthusiast. I heard about the sale so I came out. Looks like everything is pretty picked over though. Maybe he kept the best materials in his office at the college. Who are these people you’re talking about though? Why would they be trying to keep you from finding some old books?”
“People?” he asked, incredulous. “You really don’t know anything, do you? People. The servants aren’t people. Maybe they look like people. You could be one.” A weird, strangled giggle started deep in his chest. He began to shake and the giggle grew louder, escaping from him in shrieks. It went on for a full ten seconds. His eyes never left mine. Suddenly he stopped and his eyes seemed to almost glow. “They’re always watching. I see them. At night. I know they’re there. Outside the door or the window. I hear them!” He shouted. “They know I’m close. Close to breaking the code. Elgar knew. He knew it. He put it in the music. The dark saying. Oh yeah.” Dworkin began nodding his head up and down frantically. He was sweating now, his face damp. A bead of sweat flew from the end of his nose. “Oh yeah,” he said again. “They’re sleeping but the dark saying will wake them up. That’s power. That’s real power. No fucking around.”
Now I was sure his mind wasn’t totally right. I had not eliminated the possibility that he was the thief who stole Wolhardt’s notes though. People can do amazing things based on fantastical ideas.
“Have you been to Los Angeles recently?” I asked.
The question seemed to confuse him for a moment and bring him back to reality. “Los Angeles,” he
