Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?

 A conversation between the intrepid, but very tired and shaken, investigators, January 10, 1927.

"What a party that was!" Mackenzie MacNamara was of course referring to the New Years' party thrown by Frau Clare Bonhofer's extravagant friend Ramon Hofstädter at the Haus Hofstädter with some fifty guests from the Berlin cultural and/or queer elite, sort of. "Just imagine, Felix Jeremiah almost being smooched by that fat Nazi, Ernst Röhm." Felix Jeremiah glared at Mackie. "I was not amused. His compund stench of alcohol, tobacco, and cheap perfume clung to me for hours afterwards. And remember, our friend Hubert Bosch at the Berlin Polizei told us to lie low for a bit after the explosion at the Nollendorf abattoir. Ha!"  

Hubert Bosch of the Berlin Polizei (NOT at the party).

 
Ramon Hofstädter and Ernst Röhm.

Frau Bonhofer chimed in: "You know that Ramon used to be the em-cee of the El Dorado Club, and he was quite known for hosting lavish and deliciously decadent private parties. I, for one, very much enjoyed putting out lit cigarettes with my trusty Peitsche, not to mention using my Peitsche to disrobe that dastardly fellow Ramon." Franz Alter looked terrified and disgusted when Frau Bonhofer mentioned her antics. He left the living room to was his long, gaunt hands. Meanwhile, Howard Lake was trying to pick out a cigarette from his silver cigarette case, but he fumbled and spilled out the contents. Cursing while picking up the contents with shaky hands, he added: "Mackie I saw how you looked rather hungrily at that fashionista and designer, Birgitte La Perla." Mackie looked indignant. "Should I? She was only in need of some, well, counselling. She did actually have some really relevant questions regarding this... occult mess we've been encountering over the last couple of years. Sg4he had actually heard of us and some of our findings, and she wanted advice regarding horrible nightmares that had been recurring for some time and left her imagination quite dry. Not a good thing for a fashion designer. And then I think she may have introduced me to Siegwald von Mansfeld, the guy who asked me about an artifact, a statuette of a faceless pharaoh in black stone. That's how we ended up at his Krummbeck manor outside Rostock.

 
Brigitte La Perla and Siegwald von Mansfeld.

"I had a really good time, though." Moira Baker smiled and gazed upwards. The food, the ten-man (and woman!) band, the celebrities, like Conrad Veidt, Asta Nielsen, and Thea von Harbou. What a nutter she is by the way! Almost as brown as Röhm. I'd say. It only took a bottle of champagne or two to get the Nationalists flailing about. Well, verbally, at least. And Hofstädter had a fountain in his apartment!"

 
Asta Nielsen, Thea von Harbou, and Conrad Veidt.

"And that's how you ended up outside Rostock, at Krummbeck Manor. I see." Jules Pollack had missed out both on the party and the dreadful events some days later, since he'd been both down with a cold and then fully occupied with the Zukunst store close Nollendorfplatz, the occult, fine arts, and bric-a-brac store managed by Moira Baker in outlandish gypsy garb.

"Yes, and then just after recuperating from our New Years' hangovers we travelled north, to Rostock on the Baltic Sea." Lake was still fumbling with his cigarettes as Franz Alter reappeared. "You were not suffering, Mr. Lake. I had made sure of that. You are making this up. I take care of all good suffering." The room went quiet for a second or two as Franz Alter looked at all of the Intrepid Investigators. Lake dropped his cigarette case again. Jules coughed. "So, you were off to Krummbeck Manor outside Rostock?" Mackie picked up the lead. "Yes, and we were met by Siegwald von Mansfeld, and we had a very nice evening, even if the weather was atrocious. Atrocious, I'm telling you! And then strange things started happening. Suffice to say, it seems as if Siegwald had been told by his batshit crazy mother (in the attic, of course) to bring home fresh meat for her to consume. We were the appetizer, main course, and dessert in one serving. Well, Felix was the appetizer of course." Felix rolled his eyes as Mackie laughed at her own joke. "May I remind you", Felix interjected with a raised finger, "that we very well might have been turned into morsels. Remember Siegwald's ox-like and half-witted brother, Gustave? It was touch and go there for a bit, and it seemed as if the mother claimed that she was receiving instructions from some dark-skinned..." Mackie interrupted: "Yes, the statuette, right. And then we torched the place, and now we're back here in Franz Alter's mansion in Grünewald!"

 

Krummbeck Manor during happier times.

Investigators vs. The Salvation Army

Friday, February 11, 1927. 

Officer Gallo left the office after an additional cup of coffee, and the PIs were intrigued. The case of Annamaria Brady's dog Rover was indeed weird, and somehow there seemed as if there might be a connection between what was going on in the old warehouses by the Miskatonic River and those strange entities that apparently were working hard to retrieve the weird and disturbing jewelry that had been found on board the S/S Ladylove back in December last year. The Arkham PD may have been doing a mighty fine job, but the PIs and investigators felt that some additional friendly questioning might be in place. The jewelry was concealed under a loose stone in the very old basement that the much more modern building that housed the PI office and three other businesses, not to mention three small converted studio apartments for Cannon, Doctorow, and Lockwood.

Lockwood remained in the office, just in case, while Doctorow, Cannon, Coleridge and Madame Tekla took a trip to the Arkham PD for some additional questions regarding the case, as well as some more general inquiries. The office was warm and cozy, and Bill Lockwood soon dozed off. It was not long before his nap was haunted by horrifying images, all seemingly led by the grotesque caped figures in stovepipe hats, and an image of a gargantuan mouth devouring somebody at sea. Fortunately, Lockwood's nightmares of being devoured at sea were dissipated by the return of his dear friends. It even seemed as if the ghostly stovepipe hats had managed to enter the PI office, and Lockwood could share his impressions of the apparitions leaning down towards him, silent and menacing. 

It was decided to John and Carrie Brady on 22 East Main Street, the parents of Annamaria. The investigators piled into Bessie 2 and drove off on a beautiful winter afternoon. Mrs. Brady was already entertaining a visitor, a woman from the Salvation Army, and Mrs. Brady was quite concerned, if polite. The killing of poor Rover just didn't seem, well, natural, and Mrs. Brady was worried about her daughter. However, the moves of the intrepid investigators may have been anticipated, or had they been followed? The friendly call to the Bradys ended in mayhem, though. The woman from the Salvation Army turned out to be none less than Hortensia Robinson, and she attacked Frank Cannon. Meanwhile, the stovepiped hats had appeared on the street a few houses down, and they were subverting the very minds of the investigators in general and Lockwood in particular, pitting friend against friend and testing the sanity of the investigators. Shots were fired, and the stovepipes retreated into an unseasonal mist that mysteriously appeared from the Miskatonic River. Hortensia Robinson was eventually overpowered by Frank Cannon, despite her uncanny physical strength, and she was trussed up and transported to the PI office and subsequently to a shabby motel outside Arkham. The stovepipes seemed to have escaped into a disused warehouse, and the investigators were planning a visit!

Hortensia Robinson.

Later that Friday night, the Intrepid Investigators changed into more suitable garments: coveralls, heavy coats, and filled bags and pockets various types of equipment, including firearms. It was time to put an end to the unearthly creatures that were preying on humanity!

The Friday night was cold, but it seemed as if some of the unnatural mist was lingering around the warehouse, despite the frigid temperature. A single dim light was shining from a filthy window, and the Miskatonic waterfront, the "Old Port" was mostly silent. Even the obscure vagrants that typically frequented the Old Port seemed to have taken refuge from the biting cold. Doctorow managed to open up the door to the warehouse, and the Intrepid Investigators were met by compact silence. Some light was streaming in through dirty windows, and a car was parked almost in the middle of the building. There was what might be an office in the corner and a top floor or landing with various crates. The Intrepid Investigators stepped in quietly, securing the top floor and then splitting up, with some of the investigators proceeding to the upper landing. One of the boxes did contain an impressive amount of cash, and this was confiscated by the investigators to cover any charges incurred.

As the Intrepid Investigators entered the office, the quiet was shattered. The stovepipes had apparently prepared an ambush. What were these creatures? Were they even human? The issue was solved when Madame Tekla opened up with her Springfield rifle, hitting one of the stovepipes in the head, and clearly proving their mortality. It was touch-and-go, though, as the investigators proved vulnerable to the mind-control powers of the remaining stovepipe, pitting the investigators against each other with grevious bodily damge as a result. However, the awesome bitch-slapping power of Bessie Coleridge proved decisive, and the investgigators snapped out of their possessed states long enough to take down. The remaining stovepipe.

Madame Tekla ready for action!

Beware of Bessie!

But what about that trapdoor in the office? Did it lead down to the Miskatonic River itself? And what about that sloshing sound. The investigators had all firearms at the ready as they opened the trapdoor, sonly to see a staircase and a gigantic horror of indescribable proportions in the beams of their flashlights! Several rounds were fired, but the unanimous decision was to slap the trapdoor shut, pile furniture on top of it and leave the premises with utmost haste. 

Epilogue: Sunday, February 13. The PIs and investigators at the office of Professor Harold De Winter together with Professor Henry Armitage, Head of the Orne Library at the Miskatonic Univerity.

"I warned you! Death or worse! You were incredibly lucky!" Professor De Winter was almost scolding the investigators after their horrifying experiences. 

"All of this, and Hortensia Robinson escaped. It was however interesting that she apparently changed her name from DeLuca to Robinson. She's related to both the Saunders family and to the old man Waite himself." Doctorow was fidgeting with his strax hat. He had to get a new one. This one was starting to look suspiciously ratty.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Miskatonic University will gladly become the custodian of the jewelry that seems to be causing so much trouble in and around Arkham. The jewelry will be safe from various other... interested parties. Trust me on that one. Meanwhile, perhaps you should all take some time and recuperate after this mess, and then leave Arkham for a bit. I know that the Ashford fgamily estate will welcome you as guests again, thanks to Mr. Cannon's connections. I also have a favor to ask. Would you be able to attend a meeting for me? It takes place in New York, but I am afraid that I cannot go myself." Armitage handed an envelope to Brad Doctorow. 

Dear Professor Armitage,

I am happy to inform you that the next meeting of the Arbiter's Society will take place on March 15, 1927. The meeting will be held at Happy Harry's Bar, conveniently located behind Mushnik's Flower Shop on the corner of 15th Street and 9th Avenue. RSVP before February 30 to "Jolly Roger".

Professor Henry Armitage

In Vitro

Yes, the Intrepid Investigators were indeed (in)famous, and they realized that they had better figure out what was going on with the dead young women dug out of fresh graves and relieved of their private parts through horrifying mutilation, not to mention Werner Haupt, Dr. Erich Kaminski, and the abhorrent Proletkult! There was the lead to the abandoned abattoir in the vicinity of Nollendorfplatz, but the Intrepid Investigators felt like more reconnaissance was required. So why not open a store in the area? That Monday and Tuesday, December 20 to 21, say a flurry of activity. A storefront was found and rented, the surrounding flea markets and bric-a-brac shops were raided for "interesting" goods relating to the occult, no, spiritual character, photography, and fetish. Very Berlin. A business plan was drafted by Jules Pollack for the store, which was to be named Zukunft. Both Felix Jeremiah and Howard Lake took turns staking out the abattoir in various ways. Moira Baker adopted the role of medium, dressing up in her very own interpretation of a gypsy, with scarves and crystal balls galore, while Mackie made snide remarks at anyone entering the store.

The Nollendorf Abattoir.

Moira Baker's new look.

Berlin's premier shop for the strange and outright bizarre?

With the shop in operation, the Intrepid Investigators could stay away from the Berlin police and focus on the abattoir. Both Werner Haupt and Dr. Erich Kaminski seemed to frequent the wretched location, and on the Thursday before Christmas Eve, the investigators decided to enter the building once Haupt and Kaminski had left. They were all well prepared with the handgun they had secured, a quite limited amount of ammunition, various tools, and winter clothing 

Despite the supposedly joyful season, the area around Nollendorfplatz seemed to display a very limited amount of Chrustmas spirit. The neighborhood could conveniently be described as 'drab', but this included cold, moisture, smoke, and what seemed to be a whiff of several thousand unwashed human bodies. The half-melted snow on the streets did not provide even an inkling of holiday cheer. There were no carols to be heard.

From the diary of Felix Jeremiah:

What was that place? We have seen so many weird and strange things, but this may be one of the most disturbing encounters ever! I am so grateful that we all kept it together, but yet, my hands are shaking as I am pinning down my impression of that horrifying night. God! I wish it could be erased from my mind, but it seems to be our curse to never forget, and only repeat. Why has the world decided to undo its form and display these abominations from parallel existences, or are they even that? Am I just permanently stuck in an awful dream, while my true self is thrashing and turning in a comfortable bed somewhere?

I managed to scale the outside of the abattoir to a broken window on the third floor, despite the surface being slippery due to ice and humidity as well as unhealthy patches of lichen infesting the walls of the disused building. The inside was even more dismal than the outside, with chains and weird implements hanging from the ceiling and a profound stench of putrefaction. Strange and disturbing noises could be heard from the bowels of the building. Having climbed down inside the building, I opened the front door to my comrades.

From the diary of Howard Lake:

An effigy of days. Memories of infinite darkness, utterly out of the cosmos, yet parallel to the mundane spheres of the mortal. A maze of time, a closed gate open.

This one tried to kill us.

This one just wanted to be killed.

From the diary of Frau Claire Bonhofer:

I had really not believed these strange foreigners when they whispered about ancient evil hidden in the corners of the world and sneaking out from alternate universes. However, the events of that Thursday night may have changed my opinions. They had done such horrible experiments, creating such wretched forms of existence, abominations in the most true sense of the word. We killed all but one, a small girl with so many pairs of arms and legs. Some of these parodies of life were violent, while others were just begging for someone to take them out of their misery. These were mercy killings, all of them.

Cans on strings to alert the creatures inside of trespassers?

From the diary of Mackenzie MacNamara:

Tentacles and a gargantuan vulva. A gargantuan vulva with half-inch thick pubes. Bizarre reproductive parts. Being dragged into a aforementioned giant vagina while juggling gasoline bombs. It is just another day in my life, Nevertheless, the giant birth or breeding contraption that probably had been engineered by Werner Haupt and Dr. Erich Kaminski with the help of Proletkult was terrifying, and seemingly sentient. I did not feel like ending my life by being sucked into a giant vulva. No. Not today. Good thing the police came. Too bad that the place exploded with so many of the Berlin police still inside. This makes me queasy.

Possible segment of giant vulva.

  

From the diary of Jules Pollack:

The office.

We secured a couple of stacks of paper from the desk in their sort-of office, and now that I have had time to go through them, I am convinced that the USSR and Proletkult are working on a dreadful and very dangerous plan. It does seem - although I am still examining the texts - that Haupt, Kaminski and Proletkult have been trying to use the instructions in the Pnakotic Manuscripts to create what they call Cho-goths. These masses of protoplasm seem to be similar to what we found beneath the pyramid we ventured into in Central America as members of the doomed MacNamara expedition. And Proletkult were in Central America as well! My thoughts shudder when I ponder what an army of such vile beasts could do to the world if they were controlled by the Soviet Union?

From the diary of Moira Baker:

They may have retained their sanity, but I have been working on their physical injuries for days. I am really getting to know my friends well.

Doctorow och labradoren

 Doctorow går runt, runt, runt på kontoret. Svetten sipprar långsamt nerför pannan under brättet på den solblekta stråhatten, som sett sina bästa dagar. "Nej! Nej! NEJ!", utstöter han så med emfas, blickandes mot taket, där en trött fläkt långsamt viftar runt den närmast stillastående varma luften längs takfärgen som sedan länge börjat krackelera. "Värre än att skåda Dagon, käre Gud! Jag är kränkt djup in i min själ!" Doctorow går ryckigt över golvet, fäktandes uppgivet med armarna, och endast genom gudarnas försorg undgår den enda levande krukväxten på kontoret att knuffas i golvet, och fram till det oputsade fönstret. "Fan också, Lockwood! Det var ju din tur att hålla efter kontoret", muttrar Doctorow, och lirkar till sist upp handtaget till fönstret, som närmast fastkärvat långsamt öppnas, högljutt gnisslande i protest. Doctorow sticker ut huvudet genom fönstret, andas in djupt av den, jämfört med inomhus, friska luften och fyller lungorna, innan han i upphetsad falsett vrålar ut i gränden: "DEt hETeR LAbrAdOr ReTriEVer, OcH InTe ROveR!!!" Efter att ha fått rimlig kontroll över sitt farligt höga blodtryck igen, drar så Doctorow in huvudet till sist. Han går fram till den lilla städskrubben, där Frank Cannon allt som oftast sitter på en skurhink och sover med ena ögat öppet och sitt vapen i knät, och plockar fram städsaker till Lockwood, så att denne får ändan ur och tvättar fönstrena någongång. "Allt ska man behöva göra själv" kverulerar Doctorow närmast parodiskt uppgivet, då han sjunker ner i soffan med dagens Arkham Advertiser i ena näven, och en grogg i den andra....

Dog Missing

It was Friday, February 11, and Bill “The Hook” Lockwood was shivering on the worn couch at Cannon, Doctorow and Lockwood, P.I. after his somnambulism. His whisky bottle had been broken during the burglary yesterday, but it turned out that both Cannon and Doctorow had whisky bottles stashed away in their desk drawers, so Lockwood was grasping a well-fortified cup of coffee between his hands. Bessie Coleridge was already on her way to the office to continue the strange investigation, and the intrepid investigators were quite certain that the curious and irredeemable Madame Tekla would show up shortly. However, when there was a knock on the door it turned out to be a swarthy, tall and stocky police officer. Doctorow greeted the uniformed gentleman cautiously, but Frank Cannon leapt out of his chair and greeted the officer with a wide smile and a firm handshake.

“Rick Gallo! What the…what are you doing in Arkham?”

“We left The City, you know. It is not a good place to work as you grow older, and you know Corinne, my wife, her folks are from Kingsport, so we decided to move here two months ago, and the Arkham P.D. had an opening. I only realized that you were here the other evening when that other P.I., Moe Zuckermann, told me about your agency. Anyway, I thought I’d surprise you. Hey, I see that liquor bottle. Do I need to report this? Nah, just gimme a cup of joe.”

Rick Gallo

Cannon poured officer Gallo a steaming cup of coffee, and introduced him to Lockwood and Doctorow.

“Hey, Frank, you remember when you worked in the city?” Officer Gallo’s New York accent was way out of place in bucolic Arkham. “Youi used to work on some weird cases, right? Like the Doll man homicides? And Rex the Paper Cutter?” Cannon nodded quietly. There were still too many bad memories from New York.

“Yeah, so whaddaboudit?”

“I saw something really weird yesterday. Perhaps not by New York standards, but still...”

 “Ok?”

“I was out patrolling my beat by the Miskatonic river, by the Old Port, when I heard a really horrifying shriek somewhere by the Ecclestone pharmacy at around 8 p.m.” Gallo took a sip of his coffee. “It was a girl. I didn’t recognize her, but she might have been ten or twelve or so. Her winter coat was splashed with blood, and the was holding a leash. Her dog walk had ended really badly, since the head of a mutt was the only thing left on the leash. Below the neck there was just a mass of tendons, some spine, and torn dog meat. It also seems as if the torn parts were partially covered in some weird foam or ichor, orange to the color and emitting a fetid stench. But then, that might only have been the contents of the poor mutt’s digestive tract. Anyway, thoroughly disgusting.”

Some of the old warehouses by the Miskatonic River.

“I took the girl to the station, and it turned out that she was recognized by one of my colleagues as Annamaria Brady, who lives with her parents, John and Carrie, on 22 East Main Street, next to Christ Church. She had been out walking their Chocolate Lab Rover, when the dog started sniffing something. It apparently then became furious and tore the leash out of Annamaria’s hand. Annamaria ran after Rover, and she was relieved to see Rover peeking out from the corner of a building a few minutes later, but imagine her horror when she realized that the dog’s body had been torn away.”

Cannon, Doctorow, and Lockwood were listening intently. Lockwood had stopped shivering, but he was still all bundled up. “We had her parents pick her up, and they were terrified as well. Poor people! Now, Frank, have you heard of anything like this happening in Arkham or elsewhere, or will this be labelled a car accident?"

That is when Bessie Coleridge and Madame Tekla stepped in to the office.

Annamaria Brady

  

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Felix Jeremiah, Frau Claire Bonhofer and Franz Alter had struggled for several weeks with the enigmatic third volume of the Pnakotic Manuscripts in the basement of the Neues Museum Library. This was the volume that dealt with what seemed to be no less of a matter than the creation of life itself! The old English text was quite difficult to penetrate, but the trio was up to the task. The contents themselves seemed to be more of a challenge, with vast plethora of bizarre and disturbing concepts stacked upon each other. All three of the impromptu researchers were looking increasingly harried, with Franz Alter in particular looking even more gaunt and haunting. Frau Bonhofer simply applying more harsh makeup, while Felex Jeremiah looked as if he actually might be a young teenager.

The frenzied work of the trio was disturbed a by an equally frenzied MacKenzie MacNamara, who had been cared for by Moira Baker and the other investigators for some time after being poisoned in her office. Well, the office of Professor von Kleist, but Mackie was getting quite comfortable in his spacious office while Professor von Kleist recuperated at the Gollingsdorf Sanatarium.

"Have you seen this?" Mackie was holding a newspaper in her raised left hand, while pointing at an article. "You guys are famous!"

 

Montag, Dezember 20, 1926

_____________________________________________________

Suspects at Large!

Three individuals are considered prime suspects for the poisoning and murder of Herr Rudy Becker, age 34, of Luitpoldstrasse, Berlin. The poisoning occurred at the Zum Alten Hof restaurant outside Munich, on Saturday, Dezember 18. One suspect has been identified as Frau Claire von Tanz of Berlin, age 42, of above average height, dark-brownish hair, blue eyes, and typically wearing Bohemian clothing. The other suspect is a tall and very slender (more than 200 centimeters) American or British male with deep-set eyes and a handlebar moustache. The third suspect is a child of approximately twelve years of age with dark hair, also American or British, typically wearing formal clothing. These three individuals are to be considered violent and dangerous, and any sighting should immediately be reported to the Berlin Police. 

A Message To You, Rudy

Sontag, Dezember 6, 1927. Hans-Joachim and Erich, still two small-time crooks, have joined forces at the Café Friedrich on a dreary Sunday afternoon to plan petty crime, and, more importantly, discuss some of the tumultuous events that had happened around Nollendorfplatz recently.

"It was early this Friday when an unlikely group of people stepped into Anton's workshop. There was this unnaturally tall man sporting a moustache and a bowler hat, a very strict-looking middle-aged woman in remarkably high heels, and a kid dressed as an adult. They were asking for trucks that had been in accidents, and of course everyone, and Anton in particular, knew about the bus that had been abandoned in the neighborhood, and subsequently dumped in the Landwehr Canal." Erich nodded and looked into hos almost empty beer glass. 

"You know that they went to see Inspector Hubert Bosch later that same day, right?"

"Yes, of course, and Bosch did not have any reason to protect that bastard Rudy Becker, who still owes me money. Bosch apparently sent them right here, to the café. Sarah, you know the odd-day waitress, spoke to them and gave them the address to Madame Lola, Rudy's on-and-off girlfriend. The weird threesome decided to pay Madame Lola a visit."

"Oh, I would have loved to see that up close!" Hans-Joachim and Erich toasted each other before ordering another round.

 

Berlin Police interrogation of Greta Aschenbrenner, also known as Madame Lola.

20:en Dezember, 1927

"Right, so you were waiting for a friend, not a client. Is that correct?"

"A friend. A dear friend, as a matter of fact."

"Ok, so these two individuals, a tall man and a strictly dressed lady, forced themselves into the apartment?"

"Yes, breaking and entering, and violently as well!"

"And what about Rudy Becker? What is your relation to him?"

"A friend, nothing else."

"Since when is friend spelled p-i-m-p? That will give you time in the Big House."

"Rudy...er, Herr Becker is NOT my pimp! I am a self-employed woman!"

"Who sees lots of friends..."

"I have a rich social life. So what?"

"Listen, we all know that shots were fired, and apparently you were trying to protect Rudy Becker. Is it not so that the two assailants were trying to catch Rudy Becker, and that you tried to stop them? That you produced a handgun and fired two rounds?"

"It was this woman, who... who tried to roll over my living room table, destroying it in the process, but jumping up from wreckage wielding a whip! I had to defend myself! But she cracked her whip over my head before having it twirl around my wrist, pulling me straight into the living room as a young boy attacked me from behind after bouncing over my bed. I was at their mercy!"

Madame Lola's bedroom,

And I believe that a particularly tall man smashed your living room window before chasing after Rudy Becker? That he took a contemporary statue of a diver to clear out the window before chasing after Becker? Do you know anything about the three suspects taking an automobile trip together with Rudy Becker before leaving him on the night train to Bavaria? Answer me, dammit! I need to know this, because Rudy Becker is dead! Dead, poisoned at a restaurant outside München, and these three are prime suspects!

So it seemed as if Mackie had been poisoned by some strange narcotic substance in her tea, and that somebody, perhaps Werner Haupt, the looker from the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, had used this opportunity to access the restricted section of the library in the Neues Museum, and, according to a note on Mackie's desk, the dreaded Pnakotic manuscripts. It also seemed, according from what the Intrepid Investigators had found out while asking questions around Nollendorfplatz, that Werner Haupt might have been friendly with the notorious Doctor Koslowski, who had been expelled from the Berlin School of Medicine for brutal and unethical practices. It was said that he had hired a former abattoir somewhere around the Nollendorfplatz.

Back at the Neues Museum library, special librarian Heinrich Miller had taken Felix Jeremiah, Frau Claire Bonhofer, and Franz Alter to see the Pnakotic Manuscripts. It did indeed seem as if Werner Haupt had copied certain pages dealing with creating bizarre organisms, perhaps even early lore on molecules, currents and cell modification. This required further attention, and since the Pnakotic Manuscripts were written in medieval, but still English, Jeremiah, Alter and Bonhofer decided to achieve a deeper understanding of the strange and ungodly manuscripts. This would be a long couple of weeks, but it would give Mackie the chance to recover and to once and for all figure out how the grave robbings, the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, the Neues Museum, Proletkult, and all other entities were connected!

The Pnakotic Manuscripts had all been bound, and re-bound, into five separate volumes, the last binding dating from the first part of the 19th century. These are, however, simply partial copies of a greater work that is now lost. The manuscripts have been translated by an unknown translator into 15th century English from its precursor volume, The Pnakotica, which probably written in Classic Greek and based on an Egyptian text (a copy of The Pnakotica was supposedly taken to Rome just before the Fall of Constantinople in 1453). There might be as many as five copies in exiestence, with one copy being stored in the New York Public Library, and another in the Miskatonic University Library.

The volumes trace - and to an extent legitimize - certain Pharaonic dynasties to pre-human crinoids that seeded life on Earth. Two of the volumes deal with mythic pre-human civilizations, two, with some of the more obscure aspects of Egyptian history, including the debated Pharaoh Kih-Osk, while the third volume is thought to explain how to actually create life. Some researchers claim that this process is simply a joke or a parody, while others have suggested that some form of weird servitor race may be created.

Pages from the Pnakotic Manuscripts.

Hoppla, wir leben! Directed by Piscator in 1927,

Neues Schauspielhaus, Nollendorfplatz. Between 1927 and 1931, it was the scene of Erwin Piscator’s productions. Piscator was an avant-garde and political theater, which used such modern techniques as film-projections, multiple or simultaneous setting and motorized bridges. John Heartfield, George Grosz and Bertolt Brecht took part in these productions.

Lassen uns feirern wie es ist 1927!

(Meanwhile, a remarkably fit Jules Pollack is joining Howard Lake and his adorable teacher Adele Christo. They are having a great time at the Berlin Christmas Market.)