Cursed in the Act by Raymond Buckland Page A

come out eventually.
    â€œWhat are Ralph’s cronies like?” I asked as innocently as I could, after a long draw on my porter. “You hear of him running around with them, but I’m wondering just who they are. Anyone I’d know, do you think?”
    Jack stared down into his now-empty tankard for a moment. I signaled for a refill for both of us.
    â€œA lot of ’em come and go. They’re all sorts, I suppose you’d say. O’ course there’s one or two as is real thick with Ralph. That understudy as you just talked about f’r instance. The two of them was pretty thick, it seems to me. As well as that Willis fella.”
    â€œWas Ralph thick with Richland?” I was surprised.
    â€œWas that ’is name? Richland? Yes. Ralph and ’im spent a lot of time together, right ’ere in this same watering ’ole.”
    I made a mental note.
    * * *
    I left Jack in the public house, having his lunch, and started back to the Lyceum. As I came onto the street, a figure approached and stood blocking my way. Smartly dressed in a fashionable topcoat, with top hat and carrying a cane, it was the West Indian man I had seen with Ralph Bateman on the Embankment.
    â€œMr. Harry Rivers,” he said.
    I was startled that he not only knew who I was but that he could see through my disguise when even my old friend Jack Parsons had not done so. However, Jack had told me the man’s name. I thought to throw it back at him.
    â€œMr. Henry Ogoon,” I said.
    It didn’t faze him.
    â€œThere is a saying in your country, Mr. Rivers. It is ‘a word to the wise.’ You are familiar with the expression?”
    â€œOf course.” I nodded.
    â€œA word to the wise, then, Mr. Rivers, assuming that you have some wisdom. Do not go prying where you are not welcome. Do I make myself clear?”
    I took a deep breath. I didn’t know this man nor was I aware of what he might be capable. But I was not going to be browbeaten. After all, I represented the Lyceum, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Stoker.
    â€œThat cuts both ways, Mr. Ogoon,” I said. “You are familiar with the expression ‘to cut both ways,’ I take it?”
    His deep brown eyes—almost black—bored into me. He said nothing for a long moment, and then he raised his hat, turned, and walked away. I saw that his head was completely shaved; not a hair on it nor on his face. I don’t know why, but I shivered.
    * * *
    â€œS o nothing definite, I’m afraid, sir,” I reported back to Mr. Stoker as soon as I returned to the Lyceum. “Just wild talk and boasting by Ralph Bateman.” I felt myself loath to report on my meeting with Henry Ogoon. I tried to put it out of my mind. If necessary I would mention it to my boss later, I told myself.
    â€œNothing new about that,” grunted Stoker.
    I had caught him in his exercise period. Perhaps with memories of his invalid childhood, when he had been confined to a bed and unable to walk, Bram Stoker observed a strict regimen of exercise. This involved pounding a large, stuffed canvas bag, which he had suspended in a corner of his office, and—as he now was—the swinging of heavy Indian clubs. I was always afraid that one would escape his powerful hands and fly off in my direction, so I tended to keep close to the door when I found him so engaged.
    â€œOh, and it seems Bateman is close with our ex-stagehand Herbert Willis who, I’m sure you recall, sir, cursed the Lyceum when he was fired from it for excessive drinking,” I said from around the doorpost. “And Bateman was definitely involved with Peter Richland.”
    â€œInvolved? How so, Harry?”
    I took a chance and eased myself into the room.
    â€œBateman and Richland were thick as thieves both before Ralph took off for the Caribbean Islands and, it seems, more so since his return. Right up to the time of Richland’s