South by Southwest

              
It was a relief to enter Albuquerque, especially considering that McCloud was in quite some pain after the snake bite. He was also dizzy, a tad nauseous, and just not feeling well. McCloud was howewer also quite the stoic, and he endured in private agony until the bus stopped by the small Albuquerque General Hospital. By then, McCloud was feeling a bit better, although still far from good. The doctor at the General Hospital was very helpful, but he could not even identify the remnants of the snake that Frank Cannon displayed. Nevertheless, McCloud seemed to be heading in the right direction, so the Three Amigos departed for the upscale Franciscan Hotel, where hopefully Mr. Wright, or The Collector, would be waiting for them in the Art Deco finery of the hotel. He was supposedly already downstairs, in the tea room, so it was decided to split up: Lotus Ashford would survey the situation from the bar, while Frank Cannon and Bill McCloud sought out The Collector. Hotel staff where more than eager to point the two gentlemen in the direction of The Collector, and McCloud and Cannon found themselves in the presence of a tall and extraordinarily well-dressed tall man who introduced himself with a little bit of a Southern accent. Tennessee perhaps?

The Collector

 
The Collector seemed quite eager to hear about the painting that he'd purchased from the Gnospelius sisters, and he offered Cannon and McCloud lunch, which was a most lavish affair. He himself did not partake in the lunch, but he did smoke prodigiously while engaging the investigators in conversation. He turned out to be a witty and charming man, and he claimed to be just what his nickname implied: a collector of objets d'art, especially from the American West and Southwest. The Collector pointed out that he had some hired help available to transport the boxes with the paintings, and they all stepped out to the Frank Cannon's waiting bus. It was now time for Frank Cannon to ask some real questions, and he thrust his trusty .38 snubnosed revolver into the midriff of The Collector. 

"There is really no need for that". The Collector looked down at the revolver with a mix of sadness and disdain. Cannon could not help notice that The Collector's body was rock-hard, like a well-trained sportsman. "Oh yes, there is" Cannon assured. "We were attacked by a surge of snakes in the middle of the night, all seemingly coming from the paintings. We had to destroy the artwork, but we kept the receipt. Who are those Gnospelius sisters, really?"

The Collector seemed noticeably saddened as Cannon and Ashford told him about the destruction. He suggested that they all go back to the tearoom, put away the gun, and ask the friend at the bar to join them for a talk.

Seated once again, The Collector lit yet another cigarette. "The Gnospelius sisters are... quite special. They may not know this themselves, as they seem quite innocuous or even downright unaware, but it is said that their paintings contain figments of events transpired, or other, strange, visions. I commissioned them to paint the Santo Doming Gorge, considering the reputation of that place. It may very well be that the rumors were true, then. I am so very sorry for your inconvenience, gentlemen." 

The conversation continued for some time, and eventually The Collector mentioned that if they were from Lincoln, would they know Father Bose? Lotus Ashford did day that this was the case, and The Collector asked if they could carry a letter to the good father. Frank Cannon agreed to this, and The Collector took out two pages of cream-colored letterhead and a fountain pen. He quickly penned a letter, signed it, and placed it in an envelop that was handed to Frank Cannon. Before parting ways, The Collector mentioned that they should seek out his friend Timothy Harper at the University of New Mexico, who happens to be a herpetologist. He might be able to identify the snake-and-a-half that McCloud had kept.

Professor Harper the herpetologist.

It turned out that the University of New Mexico actually was a sister university of Miskatonic University back in Arkham, and Lotus Ashford recognized the crest of his alma mater at the main entrance. The Department of Biology was still open, and Professor Timothy Harper was available. The herpetologist's office was a cavern of taxidermy, with all kinds of serpents, lizards and other kinds of creepy crawlies adorning almost every surface of the dimly-lit office. Harper was more than enthusiastic to lay his hands on the dead serpents, but even a thorough investigation could not indicate the exact breed of snake. The specimen did indicate some rather primitive features usually found in prehistoric serpents, and not in the snakes of the American Southwest. It was most curious, according to an increasingly agitated Professor Harper, who then very much wanted to show the investigators the afternoon snake feeding. He had several particularly fluffy rabbits that would be an excellent snack for Livia the boa constrictor and the vicious king cobra only known as Ralph. Ashford, McCloud, and Cannon politely declined and left for the Franciscan Hotel, where The Collector had ensured reservations.

Special Agents Smith and Jones.

Upon return, the investigators found two grumpy-looking individuals in cheap suits waiting for them. The two men introduced themselves as Special Agents Smith and Jones, and they wanted to ask some questions, mainly about whether the investigators had any associations with known Communists, as The Collector was on the Federal watch list. The Special Agents were entirely devoid of humor, but they were quite concerned about whether the investigators had agreed to deliver any items on account of The Collector. The agents also reminded Ashford, McCloud and Cannon of their patriotic duty, just in case.

Before settling in, the investigators simply could not resist opening the letter from The Collector to Father Bose. The contents seemed trivial enough:

Albuquerque, January 14, 1925. 

My Dear Father Bose, I hope this letter finds you well. Unfortunately, I am writing you to tell you that pressing business will keep me away from Lincoln, although I could most definitely use one or two of Magda’s fine tamales. However, next time I will make a point of traveling straight to Lincoln, since I believe we have quite a bit of catching up to do, something I really look forward to. Meanwhile, take good care of yourself and give my very best to dear Magda and that little rapscallion Rodriguez.

Humbly yours in Christ, C

However, by exposing the letter to heat from a candle, it turned out that there was also some form of five-digit code written in invisible ink on the empty part of the second page. Why would an art collector communicate with a small-town priest in code? The speculations ended abruptly when the Three Amigos heard the sounds of glass breaking from Frank Cannon's room across the corridor. The investigators barged in, only to find the hotel room trashed and the window to the fire escape open. Someone was running down the fire escape, but McCloud was going to get him! McCloud rushed down the stairs inside the hotel and around the building, but the snake venom made him a bit slower than usual, and the person got away, leaving only his hat lying in the parking lot. Nothing was stolen from Cannon's room, so something else was afoot. An inspection of the hat showed the name M. Diaz embossed inside, but also a newspaper clipping inside the hat to improve the fit. The article was written by a journalist named Martin Diaz. Despite the early evening hour, the investigators had little problem finding the address of Diaz. The Three Amigos opted for an evening trolley trip to 110 West Federal Street.

From the diary of Lotus Ashford:

I am nursing a most dreadful cut and bump on the back of my head, and the ice pack provides little relief. This is the result of being attacked by a Martin Diaz, a deranged Mexican journalist and in all probability, a (former) spy. God knows who - or what - might have been Diaz's master when he leapt out of the window to attack me, his face a twisted mass of anger and desperation, and his eyes entirely devoid of any semblance of sanity. I am most fortunate to have friends such as Bill and Frank, since they could pry away that madman Diaz from my throat. Ruiz kept going on about a letter, and the letter in question seems to be the letter written by that enigmatic Collector to Father Bose.

The nefarious spying activities seem to have been conducted during several years. He was documenting US troop movements close to the border as well as other items of presumed national interest. His reports were concealed on the backside of a painting, but the last one was written more than a year ago. It was a report from Lincoln County.

My head really hurts, and look, there's Special Agents Smith and Jones!  

Martin Diaz in happier times.