Edmund Mouse and the Assassin

By D.M. Campbell

It’s 1938 and the world’s mammal tribes teeter on the brink of war. In New York, a mysterious lodger takes up residence at the Explorers Club. Who is Edmund Mouse? What is it he knows about the peculiar Barrow stones in Times Square? Who is hunting him and why? As our narrator Mole confronts these questions, he is lured into a noct

• Language: English
• Publisher: West 26th street Press
• Release date: Oct 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9780786753840

Book preview

I FIRST HEARD MENTION of our mysterious guest from Dr. Lowell, the hedgehog, who occupied his usual chair beside the fireplace. The rain outside fell in drenching sheets, hammering against the windows of the brownstone at 46 East Seventieth Street, home of New York’s venerable Explorers Club, of which the doctor and I were resident members. It was on a chilly night in November. The year was 1938.¹

What I heard, Dr. Lowell said, plucking a nonexistent trace of lint off his tailored black three-piece suit, is that this fellow is mixed up in that business in Friesland. He gestured at the newspaper I was reading, adding darkly, "With the hares."

I sighed, glancing at the front page of my New York Times. The headline read:

HARE SHOPES AND TEMPLES

SMASHED, LOOTED, AND BURNED

UNTIL PARTY OFFICIALS CALL HALT

What I heard, continued the hedgehog, is that this fellow is a most shady character. A shady character, is what I heard, mixed up in shady, unsavory doings. Such as espionage. And murder— He leaned forward in his burgundy leather chair, his beady eyes glittering in the firelight. And black magic, he hissed, obviously relishing the prospect. I rustled the pages of the Times in irritation.

Magic, indeed, I muttered. "I am a rationalist, Dr. Lowell. My worldview does not allow for magic, be it black, white, or any other color of the spectrum. Are there not enchantments enough to be found in science? You’ve been indulging your taste for Weird Tales, Dr. Lowell, and neglecting your Annals of Medicine."

The doctor, a retired military surgeon, stirred the embers with an iron poker. The fire leapt in the grate, throwing shadows on the paneled walls of the reading room, which club members referred to as the Commons. Over the fireplace hung a pair of crossed sabers that Dr. Lowell claimed had once belonged to two cavalry officers at Waterloo, both of them brothers, each on opposing sides of the conflict. On the engraved mantel was a bronze statuette of the Archangel Michael, slaying the primordial serpent.

Dr. Lowell sucked thoughtfully on his teeth, which were yellowed and rotten from old age, except for the needle-sharp long front incisors.

Your worldview, Mole, he said, "does not allow for a great many things. You call yourself a rationalist, yet what is a rationalist to make of events that are demonstrably irrational, such as what is taking place in Friesland?² What is he to make of evil? Does he dismiss it simply because it does not register on his scientific scales?"

His gaze drifted over to the three-foot antique globe next to the fireplace. Across from it were shelves containing the latest periodicals and journals, and a rack that held newspapers from all around the world, threaded through the slats of rattan rods. All about the Commons were comfortable leather couches and chairs. On the paneled walls hung oil paintings of notable members, and curios and memorabilia from their expeditions. Items from my own meteorological survey in Antarctica—the ice axes that I used to scale the Aurora Glacier, and the Explorers Club flag that I flew there—adorned the wall behind the club bar, which adjoined the Commons through a set of curtained French doors. At the bar, a few members sat talking quietly, while Frank Munsey, the barkeeper, helped himself to a generous pint of ale from the taps.

The doctor shifted moodily in his chair.

Civilization is a veneer, Mole, he said. Underneath lies the forest primeval. Powerful forces are reawakening in the world, yet you choose not to see. And why should you? You are perfectly happy within the sheltered confines of your so-called worldview.

The hedgehog was one to talk. As a resident member of the Explorers Club, Dr. Lowell did more residing than exploring. And ever since his wife became ergrifft,³ he was becoming more of a crank with each passing day. It was after his wife went away that he took up fulltime residence here at the brownstone on East Seventieth Street, where he could often be found ensconced in his favorite chair in the Commons, or prowling the stacks in the library, or sniffing around in the kitchens for a between-meals snack.

I glanced again at the front page of my New York Times. Underneath the banner headline was the subhead:

ALL VIENNA’S SYNAGOGUES ATTACKED

FIRES AND BOMBS WRECK 18 OF 21

And beneath that, above the lead story, it read:

HARES ARE JAILED, BEATEN, KILLED

FURNITURE AND GOODS FLUNG FROM HOMES AND SHOPS

Criminal, I said, setting the paper aside. But evil? Come now, Dr. Lowell. We needn’t dig too deeply to discover the real motive behind this mayhem.

The hedgehog looked at me pityingly. Oh? And what might that be?

Political theater, I replied. The Fisher has orchestrated this whole episode to divert attention away from his failing domestic policies. I tapped knowingly at the folded paper. The editorial pages have said so.

Don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, Mole.

"What we don’t need, I said firmly, warming to my subject, is more immigration. Let us hope that this display of, of—"

Harmony and Strength, Dr. Lowell said,