A single slug exploded from the barrel of Hearthstone’s automatic, and the yakuza slumped forward. His severed digit slipped from the handkerchief and dropped into the elegant dish. A thick line of blood oozed over the filet mignon and puddled beneath the thin teriyaki sauce.
Hearthstone watched the yakuza’s face, stiffened when the man sank to the floor.
It wasn’t that the man’s death disturbed the professor.
Behind him, something had begun to growl.
She came each day to Hearthstone’s Grant Avenue suite, though she preferred to call the street Dupont Gai, or old Dupont Street, in the manner of the local population. She came with books tucked under one arm, ready to teach the Chinese language to Jacob Hearthstone.
Her name was Anastasia White, and she had grown up in Shanghai. Her father was a diplomat — of what nation she would not say. Her mother was not a topic for conversation, either. But Hearthstone judged that Anastasia’s mother must have been a true beauty, for the young woman’s complexion was a stunning creamy gold and her amber eyes were as delectable as spiced almonds.
Needless to say, Hearthstone played at being a poor student, ever eager to keep the beauteous Miss White in his employ. Soon they were working their way through the extensive menu at Madame Liu’s, Anastasia’s favorite restaurant, under the pretense that chatting with the waitresses was good practice for the professor; but before long there was no need of pretense. There were evenings at the opera and excursions to the cinema, though Hearthstone attempted to avoid the latter, especially when the night’s program included features starring Bela Lugosi or Boris Karloff. No sense, he thought, in rekindling unpleasant memories when romance was on his mind.
And then, on a rare, warm afternoon, Anastasia came to him in tears. “Professor, I’m afraid that I will be leaving San Francisco immediately. I’ve come to refund the balance of this month’s lesson payment, as I shan’t be able to instruct you further.”
“My dear, whatever can the matter be?” Hearthstone asked, strong concern evident in his voice. “And why so formal? This isn’t like you at all.”
“Please, Jacob. Don’t make this difficult.”
“But I must insist — ”
“Very well. A man has been visiting my apartment. A very disagreeable man. He has related several stories concerning his association with you, stories which I refused to believe until very recently. And then, just last night, he threatened to reveal our relationship to the most sordid members of the press. He demanded blackmail payments. When I refused, he… he forced himself… ”
Anastasia broke down, and Hearthstone moved to comfort her. “This… this man,” he said, his voice trembling as he remembered The Shroud. “You must tell me his name.”
Anastasia managed to collect herself enough to whisper, “His name is Thomas Clancy.”
A relieved smile twisted the corners of Hearthstone’s lips. Clancy. The busted policeman who had headed up the takeover of Chinatown. ‘You mustn’t worry, my dear,” he said. “I will handle this matter. Personally.”
Within the hour, the professor was standing outside a dingy saloon which, while located in the same city, was a world away from his Chinatown home. A blood-red scarf was draped around his neck. A target pistol was secreted beneath his camelhair coat. Four masters of wing chun gung fu stood at his side.
“I’m going in,” he said, his Chinese impeccable. “Alone.” His subordinates knew better than to argue.
Hearthstone entered the saloon. Yellow light swimming with smoke. The smell of whiskey and beer and the unwashed. A song ringing over loud conversation — the same song he’d heard during the destruction of Sun Lim’s Restaurant many months before.
When I’m dead and laid out on the counter,
A voice you will hear from below,
Sayin’ send down a hogshead of whiskey,
To drink with old rosin the bow.
In a dark corner, all alone, sat Thomas Clancy. Hearthstone elbowed his way through the crowd, one gloved hand on his hidden pistol.
Hearthstone sat down. Clancy grinned. The Irishman held a bowie knife in his left hand, and he was sawing it gently across the top of his right wrist. There were dozens of small cuts there, some scabbed over, some weeping blood.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Clancy whispered, “for a high ‘n’ mighty pris, she was awful lively ‘tween the — ”
The pistol thundered, time and again, until the chambers were empty.
Clancy still grinned. His voice came in a purring whisper. “Remember, Jacob Hearthstone, I come for those who are evil… Those who are evil must suffer… They must suffer, and then they must… ”
Clancy slumped backward. His jaw slackened and a bloody bubble formed on his lips.
Hands grabbed at Hearthstone’s arms. Someone wrestled the empty pistol from his grip.
The bloody bubble burst. A scarlet shadow poured from Clancy’s mouth and rippled across the scarred tabletop. It hit the floor and slithered over the professor’s shoes. Hearthstone screamed at the icy feel of the thing. The crowd screamed as well, but their screams were for him, for
The professor fought against his subduers, and he saw for the first time that they were policemen. Irishmen like Clancy. A punch thundered into his stomach. Clancy was a busted copper, but there was no such thing as a busted Irishman.
The professor hit the floor. Filthy sawdust caked his bleeding lip and stained his expensive camelhair coat. He rolled away from his attackers, desperately trying to gain his feet. He didn’t fear kicks or punishment. No, he feared the scarlet shadow that had slipped from Clancy’s mouth, the shadow that had to be The Shroud.
God. Where were his reinforcements? Where were the wing chun men now that he needed —
The Irishmen pulled Hearthstone to his feet and towed him into the alley behind the saloon — deeper, deeper — the professor’s eyes watching the street, drinking in the maddening scene with the sardonic humor of a true masochist, an unabashed cynic.
For in the street, he saw it. The shadowthing that was The Shroud. It expanded like a great net and ensnared the wing chun masters, whose punches and chops proved laughably ineffectual as the thing tightened its grip on their muscular bodies, crushing bones and reducing flesh to bloody pulp.
Then came the true horror.
Once more a snake, the scarlet shadow slithered across the bloodslick pavement. Encircled a creamy gold ankle. Coiled around a delicate calf, a perfect knee, and disappeared beneath the skirt of the woman with amber eyes.
The Doberman advanced, growling, its nails ticking against the tiled kitchen floor.
“Down, Dempsey… Good boy, Dempsey.” Hearthstone whispered, inching toward the center of the kitchen.
He glanced at Machii’s corpse. Damn. For the last few months, the yakuza had been feeding Dempsey, and now the dog thought that Machii was its master, thought that Machii was the one who provided teriyaki-marinated filet mignons.
Hearthstone almost laughed. If only his bride hadn’t loved the dog so much. If she hadn’t spoiled the animal, and if he hadn’t gone along with the spoiling… If only he’d complained about the price of filet mignon in the Japanese markets, then maybe Dempsey wouldn’t care a damn about the dead man on the floor… If only…
If only he hadn’t been crazy enough to think that Machii was The Shroud returned.
Hearthstone toed the expensive dish and slid it toward Dempsey. Slowly, slowly…
“Good boy. Good doggy.”
The dog began to pant.
