“The youngest of the three brothers.”
“Indeed. I wonder if he could be the V who sent the invitations.”
“If that turns out to be the case,” said Frankenstein, “we will be well advised to be extremely careful.”
Carpenter showered and dressed quickly after Frankenstein had left, but was still ten minutes late meeting Willis in the diner on Broadway that the American had selected as they said their farewells the previous evening. He slid into a red leather booth opposite Willis, ordered coffee and eggs, and quickly filled his partner in on the morning’s developments. Willis listened intently, then asked the question Carpenter had been waiting for.
“Surely you realise that this invitation is a trap of some kind?”
“Of course I do,” replied Carpenter. “But it still represents the best opportunity for me to carry out my mission. Surely you realise that?”
Willis sipped his coffee.
“I do, John,” he said. “I just felt it necessary to draw your attention to the fact that this V’s motives for inviting you and the monster are unlikely to be honourable. I meant no offence.”
Carpenter felt his anger dissipate.
Control yourself. This man is not your enemy.
“Needless to say, I will take up position outside the building, and will be ready to assist in any way that is required,” Willis continued. “Unless that does not sit well with you?”
“That sits fine,” replied Carpenter. “I will be grateful for your presence.”
“That settles it then,” said Willis, and forced a smile. “Now, let us turn our attention to breakfast. It promises to be a long day.”
John Carpenter stood at the corner of Central Park West and West Eighty-Third Street, waiting for Frankenstein. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, and the night was cold and dark.
He had left Willis in the diner and caught a carriage uptown to take care of some errands. He purchased a dinner suit from a tailor that Willis had recommended on Madison Avenue, continued north into Harlem to pay a short visit to a builder’s merchant, before returning to his hotel to prepare himself for the ball, eating a light dinner in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue, and making his way towards the wide expanse of Central Park.
“Cold night,” said a deep voice from behind him.
Carpenter started, and spun round. Frankenstein towered above him, a beautiful dinner suit covering his huge frame. He was looking down at Carpenter with a faint smile on his face.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said, and the smile widened by a few millimetres.
“Apology accepted,” Carpenter managed in reply.
You bloody fool. Concentrate on the matter in hand, for God’s sake. To be so easily surprised is unacceptable.
Frankenstein nodded.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Shall we?”
He gestured along Central Park West, to the corner of the Upper West Side that was their destination.
The two men walked quickly to the address the invitations had specified. On the corner before them was a vast gothic townhouse, dominated by a tall circular tower that rose high above the slanted roof. The many windows of the building blazed with light, and even from their position across the road the sounds of laughter and music could be heard. Standing by the large wooden door was a large figure in a dark grey overcoat and an expressionless Venetian mask, and it was to this apparition that the two men presented their invitations.
The figure studied them carefully.
“Masks,” it said, in a flat voice.
Carpenter pulled a black eye mask from his pocket and set it in place. Frankenstein carefully looped the ribbons of a white mask, with a long, narrow nose, over his ears, and the doorman stood aside.
The hallway was wide and grandly appointed, mirrors and paintings hanging at intervals along the walls, vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface. A black and white tiled marble floor gleamed beneath their feet. An elderly waiter clad in immaculate white tie appeared beside them, proffering a tray of delicate crystal champagne flutes. The two men accepted, and walked down the corridor towards a pair of double doors, from behind which came the sounds of a ball in full swing.
Carpenter opened one of the doors, and they walked inside. There were at least two hundred people in the cavernous ballroom, some on the wide marble dancefloor, others standing in groups around the edges of the room, or sitting at round tables, laughing and conversing. At the back of the room a low stage held a jazz quartet who were thumping out a furious rhythm of bass and drums, over which the pianist was rattling out a ragtime melody. The air was full of cigarette smoke, the pungent scents of opium and incense, shrill peals of laughter, and the hum of a great many voices mingled together.
“Look how big you are!” shrieked a voice to their left, and the two men turned.
A young woman with a feathered mask hiding her face and her figure wrapped in a dark red ball gown that brushed the floor was staring openly at Frankenstein, a look of wonder on her face as she swayed ever so slightly on towering stiletto heels.
“It’s considered rude to stare,” said Carpenter.
“Don’t be so silly,” the woman replied, turning her face towards him. Through the holes in the mask Carpenter could see that the woman’s eyes were struggling to focus, and he relaxed.
“I believe you may have had too much to drink,” he said to her. “Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good. I’m sure you don’t wish to embarrass yourself.”
He stepped back and opened the door to the corridor, holding it for her. She looked at him for a moment, as if she were trying to construct a riposte, then lifted her nose high into the air and strode unsteadily into the hallway without giving them a second look.
“Thank you,” Frankenstein said as soon as the door was again closed. “I would have surely lost my temper had you not removed her.”
“You’re welcome,” Carpenter replied. “I suggest we part company, and search for our respective targets.”
Frankenstein agreed, turned away, and disappeared into the crowd. Carpenter went in the other direction, skirting the edge of the dancefloor, looking for Jeremiah Haslett.
He passed a table full of sleek young men, their dinner suits gleaming black, the pleats razor sharp, and he found himself unable to look away. There was something intoxicating about them, the cigarettes dangling casually from their pale fingers, the easy manner of their conversation, the—
“Watch where you’re going, for heaven’s sake,” said a loud voice.
Carpenter pulled his gaze from the table, sought the source of the reprimand, and felt his heart lurch. In front of him stood a large, stocky man wearing a carved vulture mask, from the eye-holes of which flashed a dark red glow. The man leant forward, peering at Carpenter. He seemed about to speak when a young woman in a black dress danced into him and he spun round and berated her for her clumsiness. When he turned back towards Carpenter, the glow from the mask was gone, and the man shoved roughly past him and disappeared.
I saw them, though. I saw his eyes. What is this place?
He worked his way towards the long bar and was about to place an order when he saw a skeletally thin shape in the corner of his eye, and turned towards it.
Jeremiah Haslett was standing fifteen feet away from him, leaning on the corner of the wooden bar, talking to a beautiful blonde woman who could barely have been more than a teenager. He was wearing a red velvet eye mask and