The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  Unlocking the door, I led them up to the office and turned on the lights. With the others waiting impatiently in the hall, I gave them each a minute of my time, except for a guy who’d been drinking—he needed five for me to get through to him—and sent them on their way. They were all happy, and so was I; they were gone for good, though there was a chance the drinker could return. My hypnosis was either unreliable or completely ineffective at getting past alcohol with some people, but if the rest of the papers lost interest in the case, then he had no reason to return, and I’d be in the clear. My last suggestion to them was to pester the cops for answers if they had any more questions. Blair would love me for that. If he ever found out.

  But unless the cops turned up something, I didn’t think much more copy would come of the case. Most news stories had beginnings but no endings. Only rarely did John Q. Public hear of a conclusion to any of the endless number of human disasters that filled up the evening papers. Once in a while you might find a snippet about someone being arrested in connection to one crime or other, but it was often long after the case ceased to be of front-page interest.

  Chances were that mine would die down in such a manner. I hoped it would. I wanted Lady Crymsyn to be notable rather than notorious.

  The phone was off the hook just as Leon had left it. I put it on again as an experiment, and it remained satisfyingly silent. Things were looking up.

  Leon and the others were gone, signing themselves out at the usual time. I noted the two new names on the clipboard roster he’d left on my desk, one of which was heavily scratched through. There was annoyance in every line of the black ink for the reporter Leon had bounced off the payroll. If for nothing else, that decided me about asking Leon to stay on to run the building’s maintenance after the renovations were finished.

  I went through the mail, discarding the junk—which included requests for exclusive interviews slipped through the slot by reporters—and piling up the real stuff. I had insurance forms, employment applications, and bills to see to, and not for the first time realized I’d soon have to find a general manager and an accountant. I had some paperwork experience from helping my dad when he opened a little hardware store back in Cincinnati, but not enough to cover all this. Once the club was running, the load would only get worse. Not being up and around during business hours put a serious handicap on me; I needed someone to take care of such necessities so all I had to do was sign checks and enjoy myself.

  Getting through this batch of responsibility as quickly as possible took about an hour, then I stretched and went downstairs to see what kind of progress had been made.

  There’d been a general cleaning up of the lobby and club areas, and even Escott would have approved of the thoroughness of the job. Someone left the lobby bar light on again, which irked me. There was no reason to use it yet. During the day there had to be plenty of light from the big overheads and the windows to work by, and no one was around at night but me.

  As I went to shut it off, I noticed Leon had apparently seen to the stain on the floor tiles. He’d seen to it a little too well. Whoever had done the cleaning had scrubbed the glazing right off the surface. The stain was still there, though, some kind of dark stuff. It was probably a flaw that went all the way through the ceramic square. Damn. That’d have to be replaced. I’d brought another clipboard with me and made a note about it before moving on.

  The basement was mostly cleaned up, too. Though I could see adequately by the pale light filtering through the doorway, I turned everything on before descending into its dim depths. Being alone in the building didn’t bother me, being alone in the dark did. The string of temporary bulbs went all the way to the back where the alcove had been and illuminated everything enough to stave off my heebie-jeebies.

  All the rubble was hauled away, by the cops or my own people, it didn’t matter. The alcove was clean except for a dusting of mortar grit on the rough floor.

  The rest of the false wall and the dividers that held it were now torn completely away, and it seemed like everything was ready for the new cement to be laid out smooth. In this part of the cellar they’d need to use a lot of it. Right against and along the far wall of the basement the floor dipped down about a foot or more below the level of the rest of the room. It looked like it had been chopped out by picks and was either bad planning on the original builder’s part or some kind of intentional drainage construction. The contractor said it was unnecessary and to just fill up the trench.

  My imagination was well in hand; I didn’t feel one sign of the dead woman’s lingering presence tonight . . . but then I didn’t want to, either. The changes had helped banish her.

  I quit the basement and sat at one of the tables near the stage to scribble fresh orders for Leon. He’d left a few notes for me to consider, like buying more cement to go with the bags already stored under the stairs, and the rental of a cement mixer. I gave him the okay to see to it and called it a night, trotting up to the office long enough to leave the clipboard in its usual place so he could start on things in the morning.

  Back in the lobby again and ready to leave, I found that this time it had been my turn to forget to flick off the little light. I must have forgotten to do so while busy muttering over the stain on the tile. As I reached around for the switch, I suddenly noticed a shot glass sitting on a coaster left in the middle of the shining marble surface of the bar. The glass contained exactly one finger of amber liquid.

  I was absolutely certain the glass had not been there when I’d been down earlier. I’d have seen something like that. What the hell was this?

  Leaning close, I took a cautious sniff. Whiskey, I decided.

  My order for glasses and other items hadn’t yet arrived. The storage areas for all three bars in the place were quite clear of supplies.

  And there was no liquor on the premises, either. This could only have been brought in by someone. What the hell for?

  “Hello?” I looked around. All I could figure was that one of the workers must have stayed behind or somebody snuck inside after they left and put it there for a joke while I was busy elsewhere. None of my friends would do such a thing since they knew I wouldn’t be able to drink the stuff. “Leon?”

  No answer. I listened for all I was worth. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a mouse belch, but nothing came to me in this big, hollow building.

  I was alone but needed to be sure of it.

  Highly aggravated, I searched the joint, starting at the roof and moving downward. I worked fast, vanishing in one spot to appear in another so as not to make any sound myself, and I looked everywhere, even the dead space under the tiers of seating.

  Nothing and no one.

  I checked the doors and windows, found them to be locked, including the front, where I’d been about to make my exit. Maybe someone had his own key and slipped out before I’d come in, but the point of the joke eluded me. A prank’s a lot more fun when you can see the face of the sucker you play it on.

  There wasn’t anything really valuable in the club yet, so I had no huge qualms about going even if somebody had another key. Leaving a shot of whiskey on a bar isn’t exactly in the same league as vandalism or burglary. If it really bothered me, I could always get a locksmith in to change things and debated on writing Leon another note about it.

  Too much trouble for the moment. The incident was more irritating than worrisome, and there were other things I had to get to tonight. The perpetrator would probably come forward soon enough to get his laugh. I gave the coaster a quick glance. It was of the plain cork variety, clean, but slightly brittle, as though it’d been left unused on the shelf for a long time and had dried out. Shrugging, I dumped the liquor in the sink behind the bar and left the glass there. If the prankster wanted to try some fun and games with me, he’d be back soon enough.

  And I’d be ready.

  PARKING at the Red Deuces, even on a weeknight, was always a pain. This time I tried a different direction but still had to hike a block t
o get there. The doorman gave a friendly nod and ushered me in just on the stroke of ten. The hostess knew my face, too, and spared me from paying out the dollar cover charge. I told her Bobbi had asked me to come backstage, and she got one of the waitresses to escort me there. For all the glitter out front, behind the curtains it was plain and run-down-looking, something I planned to avoid with Crymsyn. My entertainers were to be as happy about their surroundings as the patrons.

  Bobbi had a tiny dressing room, but it was all hers, and she’d assured me she’d been in worse. I thanked the waitress so she could leave, and cautiously inched my way in. A table with a mirror took up most of the space. I sniffed the air and picked up a wealth of greasepaint, talcum powder, and old clothes with Bobbi’s rose scent over all.

  I didn’t have long to wait; a small commotion outside announced her presence there as she spoke with other performers in the narrow hall. A few seconds later she came in, flushed from being under the spotlights, but happily relaxed. She wore the exaggerated makeup required for the stage and a midnight-blue dress that I liked for the way its neckline wasn’t anywhere near her neck. Instead of jewelry, she’d wrapped a silky blue scarf around her throat to conceal the small marks I’d left there.

  “Hi,” she said warmly, and came up for a hello kiss. “How’s your night been?”

  “Not too bad, considering what was in the papers. Charles thought I should be grateful they spelled my name right.”

  “I saw some of those stories. It’ll blow over.”

  “Not the stigma on the club, I don’t think.”

  “You can make people forget it.”

  “I could at that, but will the headache be worth it?”

  She sat at her dressing table and checked her makeup for smears. “What’s got you so testy? Besides the papers?”

  I didn’t think I was being testy, but she was just too good at reading me. I told her about the shot glass of whiskey on the bar and how impossible it was for it to have been there.

  “Someone must have left it while you were in the basement and snuck out one of the fire exit doors,” she suggested, fixing her lip rouge.

  “That’s what I was thinking, but I would have heard him. Those things make a big racket when they swing shut.”

  “It was eased closed, then. But that building’s kinda old. Ever think there might be a secret passage?”

  “You’ve been hanging around Charles too much.” Escott loved that sort of thing. He’d been the one to construct the trick trapdoor in the kitchen for emergency access to my sanctuary. His office also contained a couple of hidden surprises.

  “That old speak was a hot spot during Prohibition. They might have made a concealed escape for raids. Lots of places did. You know the Nightcrawler’s got one.”

  “I don’t see how Leon or the contractors could have missed it. Or me for that matter. The building’s not connected to any others; the basement floor’s uneven but solid. That place has been gone over inch by inch; they’d have found something.” And they had. That woman’s remains.

  “So whoever it was used a fire exit to get out, then.”

  “But why leave a shot of whiskey behind? As a joke it’s a lame duck.”

  She spread her hands and shook her head. She wanted to help but couldn’t.

  “Okay, I’ll figure it out later. Now what’s the big deal having me here so early?”

  “You complaining?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sweet. Did Charles tell you I’ve tracked down the dress?”

  “Not exactly, but he got these from Lieutenant Blair.” I gave her the manila envelope. She pulled out the photos and studied them. “He said something about the label inside. That you used to go to the dress shop.”

  “I sure as hell did and paid through the nose there, too. Could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me the name of the place. It’s shut down now, but”—and she looked happily smug—“the former owner should be here any minute.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She slipped the photos back and held up her index finger. “Look at that and be grateful. I nearly wore it down to the joint from all the dialing I’ve done today trying to find him.”

  “Him?” I had some idea that dress shops were strictly female territory.

  “He’s a bit festive but very nice. He’s got a real gift for knowing what looks good on a girl—”

  A brisk knock on the door interrupted her.

  “That’ll be him.”

  “The mirror,” I said.

  “Just a minute—” she yodeled to her visitor.

  She grabbed a kimono from a hook and draped it carelessly over the offending furniture, covering its selective reflection of the room. Selective in that I wasn’t included with the inventory.

  “All right, come in.”

  A slender, athletic-looking man in his thirties pushed the door open. He was handsome and dressed in a light mustard sporting coat with tan trousers and two-toned shoes of buff and white. His reddish hair was puffed rather than slicked back and matched his pencil-thin mustache. Instead of a tie he wore a pale scarf bunched around his open shirt collar, held in place by a gold stickpin. He might have gotten first place in a John Barrymore look-alike contest.

  “Roberta, darling! It has been entirely tooooo long!” he said, sailing in, arms wide. As the room was small, he didn’t have far to go before encountering Bobbi. They wrapped up tight in a hard embrace.

  “Joe, you sweetheart! You look wonderful!”

  “Oh, you are just too, too kind, my dear. And to have me come backstage at the star’s special request. My friends will be soooo jealous!”

  They went on like this for a time while I played chopped liver in the corner. When they finally pried themselves apart, Bobbi introduced me to Mr. Joe James, designer of beautiful gowns for lovely ladies. We said the usual things to each other and shook hands.

  “Joe used to own La Femme Joeena, the ritziest couturier’s west of Paris,” she said.

  “Own! Darling, I was La Femme Joeena! And Paris was the ritziest place east of me. I’d still have the shop except for the call to higher things.”

  “He does costume design work for Hollywood now,” she explained.

  “Here in Chicago?” I asked. The festive Joe James did seem just a touch out of place on the prairie lands, but he’d fit in perfectly in the movies or New York theater.

  “Absolutely!” he said. “They send me pictures of the actress and a script, and I send them exquisite works of art in return. Most of the time it’s pearls before swine, and they change everything, but so long as those nice big checks clear the bank, who cares? Roberta, how did you like that last one I did? The one with Joan Crawford? But the other one with what’s-her-name—I swear Adrian was stealing all my work from my last film and taking the credit. And what is that rag you’re wearing? I’ve used better things than that to dust my studio. I want you to come by tomorrow and let me do you a favor. That blue is just too purple for you. What you need is something cooler and more saturated to do you justice. I’ve always said that, haven’t I?”

  “You’re a genius, Joe, that’s why I called you.”

  “And only just in time—”

  “But it’s not my wardrobe I want to talk about.”

  “Then your friend here? I suppose I could give him a few sterling snippets of advice, but menswear just isn’t my specialty, though I know what I like.” And he gave me a charming smile with lots of twinkle in his eyes.

  Bobbi didn’t raise her voice; in fact, she sounded just as cheerfully pleasant. “Back off, bitch, he’s mine.”

  Joe James made a little mewing sound of disappointment in his throat. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a fellow for trying. Don’t mind me, Mr. Fleming, I’m an unrepentant flirt.”

  “No problem, Mr. James,” I said affably.

  He gave a huge sigh and rounded on Bobbi. “All right, darling, what do you want done?”

  “Have a seat.” She indic
ated that he take her dressing chair while she perched on a spare stool facing him. I stood by and watched the show. She took the photos from the manila envelope and gave them to him.

  “What is this?” He looked from one to the other and then at Bobbi. “A traffic accident?”

  “Just about. I want you to cast your mind back a few years. What can you tell me about a bright red evening gown with matching sequins for a woman with dark hair?”

  “Bright red? I use that a lot. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “This is special. A deep tone, intense, it stands out.”

  I wondered if she’d compare it to blood. The dress must have been close to that color when new.

  James thought about it a moment. “What you might be describing is something I called Royal Red. I’d use it to make a violent splash here and there, but I’ve not much need for it now. It photographs on film stock as being sooty black. Throws the whole balance off if I’m not careful.”

  “Can you remember making such a gown in that shade?”

  “I made several.” Another glance at the photos. “Oh, dear. You mean one of my masterpieces has been reduced to this?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Oh, the poor thing.” He clucked and shook his head at the loss.

  “The patterning of the sequins on the skirt is pretty distinct. Can you remember this particular design?

  “Every last stitch of it. Custom-tailored jobs at that price I never forget.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  “No one you’d know, I hope. Bit of jumped-up trash was that bolt of goods, but she had the money, and who am I to argue with the lovely clink of cold cash in these hard times? She called herself Lena Ashley, but I know she couldn’t have had that much class on her birth certificate. One is either born with it or not. She was not.”