80

You lean closer and study the engravings on the drawers. Some can be immediately eliminated.

A dozen are merely symbols connected to the signs of the zodiac, none of which have a marked connection with the theme of secrecy. Seven others are also familiar, though it takes you a little while to place them: they are medieval iconography from Catholic representations of the Seven Deadly Sins. Again, no link to secrecy.

You have ruled out nineteen of the twenty-four drawers. If you're right about how the box works, one of the five remaining panels bears an image related to the theme of secrets.

You pay close attention to the five candidates. One shows a man dressed in the garb of a European monk; he clutches a lily stalk, and a flaming heart hovers over his head. Another shows a dog-headed being standing over a corpse. The third depicts a matronly woman breastfeeding a child with the waves of the sea behind her. The fourth is a man in an Egyptian-style headdress, his forefinger raised to his lips. Finally, there's an image of a rabbit running rings around a coyote.

One of those five options must be the right drawer. You take a moment to consider the possibilities.

Expecting the worst, you touch the handle of the drawer.

Nothing happens. No buzz, no stab of agony, no smell of singed flesh. You've found the right drawer! Eagerly, you tug it open and remove its contents.

Inside is a book, plain and black, filled with scrawled, spidery handwriting and set out like a journal. But the entries are not full of tittle-tattle; they're full of terse accounts of Maman Danflous's one-on-one meetings with clients.

Your eyes widen as you scan the names written in these records. Many of the most prominent figures in Louisiana politics and society have been to see Maman, even those you would never suspect of an interest in Voodoo—including some well-known Christian preachers who have publicly condemned the practice.

You holler for Cleo, who jogs up the stairs and joins you. She takes one look at the metal contraption and susses it out immediately.

"Harpocrates," she says, studying the image on the open drawer. "Hellenistic-Egyptian god of keeping secrets. Pretty obvious, when you think about it."

Goddamn it, she's so irritatingly competent! You grit your teeth and show her the journal.

Next

Cleo seems less surprised than you were at the famous names in the book. The entries are all laid out with dates in chronological order in a column on the left of the page, with Maman's terse remarks on their meetings in the right. She skims rapidly through the pages, alert eyes keenly searching for anything that might shed some light on your investigation, and stops on the last page.

The page is dated from late last week. In the name column, it simply says, "Mr. O'Shea, from the factory." In the observations column, it says, "He asked about a potion called Willbedone. Told him I'd never heard of it. Then he asked for information about the amulet of Chantelle LaValle. Told him I don't know about it, to ask at the Museum. He left. Didn't pay. Damn fool."

Cleo's eyes meet yours. "Mr. O'Shea, at the factory. We need to find out who that is. And we need to have a word with him, urgently."

There's nothing else here for you, so you head back out to the landing. Once again, you stand before the grisly spectacle of the late Maman Danflous.

Next

Cleo looks up at her old friend.

"We have to tell the cops," she says. "Anonymously of course. But wait a moment. I really don't know how you'll feel about this, but hear me out. It's—it's the Satanic stuff. The pentagram, and the 666. You know the cops here ain't smart. They see that, it's another nail in Winton Elliot's coffin. Up till now, he's facing assault and robbery charges, which are serious enough, but if the cops connect him to this he's on a murder rap. We can't let that happen."

"So what are you suggesting?"

She pauses, hesitant, but eventually risks sharing her thoughts. "Maybe we could…you know? Maybe we could just clean up a little? Before we tell the cops?"

It's a scandalous suggestion. Destroying evidence at a crime scene could get you in very serious trouble and may even prevent the police from tracking the real culprit. On the other hand, the cops are clearly trying hard to pin the theft of the amulet on Elliot purely on the strength of the Satanic scrawls left at the museum. The same iconography here will make them even more convinced of his guilt.

You mull the situation over.

We leave the scene as it is.

Cleo looks poised to argue, but at the last moment, she changes her mind. "You're probably right. Dumb idea. Let's just get out of here."

Before leaving the store, you grab some of Maman Danflous's stationary and scribble an anonymous note with her address and the details of the crime. You seal the note in an envelope, head back out onto Bourbon Street, and find an obliging urchin who agrees to run your message over to the First Precinct for a quarter.

You and Cleo consider your next move.

The First Precinct is just a couple of blocks away from Antoine's, the bar where Elliot was arrested last night. It's a handsome brownstone block with a well-scrubbed frontage and an air of regimented officiousness, incongruous beside the colonial architecture of Tremé.

"We better hope they're feeling cooperative," says Cleo as you climb the steps and enter the foyer.

For once, the universe hears your prayers. You recognize the desk sergeant immediately. It is Eugene, the chatty cop who was so forthcoming with Cleo last night. He certainly seems more obliging than most of New Orleans's finest. When you approach his desk, he looks up and recognizes Cleo immediately.

"Morning, ma'am," he says. "I remember you from last night! Sorry about my buddies. They can be real misery guts sometimes. Anyways, I'm Officer Hannigan. How can I help?"

"We'd like to see Winton Elliot, please," says Cleo. You spot Elliot's guitar case leaning against the wall behind the desk and glance down at the detainees register which Officer Hannigan has rather carelessly left open on the desk. Sure enough, Winton Elliot's name is there. He's signed it with an X, indicating he can't read or write.

"I—I guess that'll be OK," says Eugene. "Are you his lawyers or something?"

"Something like that," says Cleo with a bright and flirtatious smile. "We'll also need to confirm a few details about the investigation, if that's alright."

"Sure, ma'am. I mean, I'll try to help. Detective Miller don't always tell me much. Says I'm too chatty. But ask away, you never know, I might be able to help!"

You confer with Cleo. What do you want to do first, visit Elliot or grill Hannigan about the investigation?

"Take us to see Mr. Elliot, if you please," you say.

Eugene eagerly bounds up out of his seat. He leads you into the precinct proper and down an ill-lit flight of stairs to the detention cells below. There are five cells in a row, all against one wall, lit up by a single yellow electric light bulb.

Sitting on a chair opposite the cells and looking bored mindless is another uniformed officer; a cheap paperback adventure novel rests on his lap. He raises his hand languidly at Eugene as you come in. There's something distinctly familiar about him; perhaps he's one of the officers who raided Antoine's last night.

"These here are Mr. Elliot's lawyers," says Eugene, a little to your alarm. That was his idea, not yours. Technically, you haven't impersonated a lawyer—though if you get rumbled, that distinction might not mean too much.

"Lawyers?" asks the officer, raising an eyebrow. "Well, OK then. Talk away. Just keep your voices down, I'm trynna concentrate over here."

Winton Elliot, still wearing the same tattered suit and skinny tie from last night, gets slowly off his cot and to his feet. He walks over to the cell door. If he's feeling any unease in this situation, he's refusing to show it. Up close, his eyes are ringed and haunted, his manner unearthly and unsettling. He has something of the air of a reanimated corpse; corruption clings to his shambling frame.

"Dr. Stone," says Cleo. "Dr. Spillane. We're here to help."

"My lawyers?" he asks, in a slow, languid, studied voice. "Well, that's sure as hell a first. So, then, how can I help you?"

"Are you a Devil worshiper?"

"No way no how!" he says, holding your gaze with his limpid, dead eyes. "Them Devil worshipers seem—what's the word—pathetic? All they want is to be accepted by that ole Devil. But I don't need that. He already claimed me. Facts is just facts, ain't no need to worship him. He owns me."

Cleo tuts impatiently. "You can't say things like that around the cops here. It won't do you any good."

Elliot simply shrugs and subsides once again into unearthly stillness.

"Alright, Mr. Elliot. We'll be in touch."

You turn away from him, but Cleo stays put. She seems gripped by indecision, trying to work out whether or not she should say something. After a few seconds, she decides to be bold.

"Look. I'm gonna hate myself for asking this, but I gotta. All that Devil stuff. The crossroads. It's all bullshit, right? You're just an artiste, trynna build up a little mystique."

Elliot says nothing for the longest time. He just stares straight ahead into Cleo's eyes. When finally he speaks, it is in a faraway voice. "I ain't one o' your Louisiana dandies. I don't know what all them fancy French words mean. But I do know what happened to me, and I know what I saw with my own two eyes."

Then he turns, and suddenly he's staring right at you. "I saw him alright, that ole Devil. At midnight, at the crossroads, he was there, plain as you are here right now. Big ole man, he was, more beast than man. An' he didn't have red skin and horns, like in all them church books. His skin was white, but not like white folks white, like real white, like porcelain, and his eyes were the blackest black you ever did see, all a-speckled with gold. And he was all dressed in red, red leather, like snakeskin, and it crawled all over him like it was a livin' thing."

Your blood runs cold as you remember last night's dream.

Did the Devil come to me last night?

Cleo touches you lightly on the back, breaking your reverie. "Come on. We've got everything we can here."

We should find out what Officer Hannigan can tell us about the investigation.

"Do you think Elliot did it?"

Well, sure! Sure as boots is boots," Eugene says, invoking an aphorism he appears to have just invented himself. "He's one o' them Devil worshiper types. Known for it. Ain't no type o' villainy beyond them folks, let me tell you."