by P. N. Elrod
“I dimly recall chasing her around the swimming pool with a dessert spoon instead of a sword,” he said. “We didn’t want to do each other an injury, you see. Marion was laughing so hard she fell into the pool, and it was only gentlemanly that I jump in to save her. We were having a fine time splashing about until Hearst turned up. Seemed he didn’t care to have his lady friend dripping wet with her clothes clinging to her, not with all the other guests to see, anyway. Marion laughed it off, but the next morning I woke up on an airplane heading back to Hollywood with no idea how I’d gotten there. She later sent me a note, apologizing. I still have it somewhere. Lovely girl.”
Bobbi asked him to tell another one, but Escott came in and walked over. Whatever his phone call to Vivian had been about left him in a good mood. He bowed over Bobbi’s hand, smiling warmly and complimenting her on the Snow White dress. That made her sparkle a little brighter. If I had a soft spot for Marion Davies, then Bobbi had one for Escott. Must have been his accent. I introduced him to Roland. They said the usual things, sized each other up, then Roland asked what part of London he was from.
“Oh, several places at least,” was Escott’s light but gently discouraging reply. He didn’t talk much about his past. “I understand you had some success on the stage there. Quite an accomplishment. May I inquire what productions and theaters?”
Roland was more than pleased to share stories about past triumphs, then with a prompt from Bobbi, talk changed to the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott kept things on the most general of terms, but she wanted details. He seemed ready to supply them. Then Anthony dear came back to his friends.
“Good lord,” Escott muttered under his breath.
“Something wrong?” Bobbi asked.
He wore a peculiar, stretched smile. “A slight digestive upset. I think I’ll see if the barman has something to help.” He excused himself and walked unhurriedly away, his back firmly to us and the other table.
Roland looked puzzled. “That was a quick onset of symptoms.”
“I’ll see if he needs a doctor,” I said, excusing myself, too.
Careful not to make a beeline, I threaded between tables, playing host, until reaching the bar. Escott had a brandy instead of a bromide in front of him.
“What’s up?” I asked.
The left side of his mouth twitched, and he remained turned from the room. “That young fellow with the large group is related to our infamous Hurley Gilbert Dugan, that is what’s up, old man.”
It was a struggle, but I resisted the urge to check over my shoulder at the high-hatters. “You’re kidding.”
“I assure you I am not. He’s one Anthony Brockhurst, a distant cousin. His picture was in the papers, those society events Dugan went to with his late mother. This is no coincidence. What the devil could he be doing here?” he wondered, irritated.
“Following you.”
“Or you.”
“How would he—oh.” If Dugan remembered our hypnosis session, he’d be curious and ferret out my partnership with Escott pretty quick. Part of that could be asking a few staunch supporters to go to my club and play spy. Now I understood the stares and backhand talking. How much had Dugan told them? Were they in on the kidnapping? I got an itch to corner Anthony dear for a private “chat.” The rest of them, too. They couldn’t all be as crazy as Dugan.
“This is not amusing,” said Escott, his face sour.
“Dugan probably had you under a microscope within an hour of his arrest. Those birds will know we work together. No sense staying glued to the bar, so relax.”
“I suppose not. I just hadn’t expected this, particularly from a pack of bloody amateurs.”
It did rankle. Usually we were the ones shadowing people and making them nervous. “Well, I wasn’t exactly watching for tails when we left home tonight.”
“I advise a change in that for the time being.”
“No kidding. Think Dugan’s got a real detective after us?”
“It’s a possibility to consider. I would, in his place.” Escott turned around, one elbow casually resting on the bar. Despite his tense mood, he showed nothing of it in his posture or expression now, which was that of a man free of cares, in a celebratory mood, even. He was one hell of an actor.
Still too pissed off, I knew better than to try mimicking him and stayed in place. “You see any contenders?”
After a few minutes, during which he took a mental picture of everyone in the room and compared it to the filing cabinet in his brain, he said no. “None that I know or have seen, at any rate. There are none here with the look.”
I could trust his conclusion. He was better at spotting cops or PIs than Gordy, which was saying a lot. “So we just have the society types to worry about, huh?”
“Indeed. They’re amateurs, which is something of a relief, but one never knows what tomfoolery they could get up to.”
True. This wasn’t our usual kind of opposition where we could swap fists in a back alley with mugs who knew the ropes. Anthony’s well-scrubbed and perfumed bunch seemed fit for nothing more harrowing than a college fraternity party. They were playing way outside their field.
Escott pretended to watch the dancers as they swung in time to Adelle’s latest song. “I’m getting the impression they’re waiting for someone. Dugan, perhaps?”
Hell. I didn’t want him here dirtying up the place. “Maybe. I can find out. If any of them leaves for the john, they’ll have a detour they won’t remember.”
He puffed a laugh.
“Take your drink back, make like everything’s normal, and lemme see how this plays. Tell Bobbi I’m working, whatever’s safe to say in front of Roland. She’ll get it. Gordy’s here—”
“I noticed. Isn’t that Hog Bristow with him?”
I’d not mentioned him, but I wasn’t surprised Escott knew the man by sight. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to crime bosses. “Yeah, they’re talking business, though; Gordy’s gonna be working on that.”
“Just as well. No need to trouble him with such a minor annoyance.”
Minor? I hoped he was right.
We went our separate ways. I took my time, again stopping at tables, but managing to miss Anthony’s. Carefully not stealing a glance at him or the rest of his crowd, I felt them watching me as I left.
Between the lobby and the main room there’s a small blind spot in the passage, just this side of the portrait. It wasn’t anything planned by the designer, just turned out that way, and at times like this, was useful. Once there, I vanished and streamed quickly back toward the party.
I hovered over Anthony’s table but only picked up a word or two; it was hard to hear with Adelle’s singing going on. They were a sulky bunch, not saying much.
Then a woman, Marie Kennard by the bored tone of her voice, said, “I think he’s gone for a while, Anthony. Time for another call.”
“Right,” came the reply. I sensed Anthony’s slow exit from his seat. “I’ll be a minute.”
“We’ll keep what’s left of your drink warm.”
He grunted. I tagged along as he walked. The music faded, replaced by the brief creak of hinges as he closed us into the confines of the lobby phone booth. Coin in the slot, dialing, then he greeted whoever was on the other end of the line.
“Hello, hello? Gilbert? . . . Yes, it is I, who else?”
I experienced a warm feeling of satisfaction, slightly marred by the frustration of getting only half the conversation. I’d have given a lot for Hurley Gilbert Dugan’s side.
Anthony went on. “He’s left . . . No, I don’t know where . . . Follow him? But you told us to stay together and not draw notice . . . Oh, bother this. Why are you so interested in him? . . . Well, be that way. We’re only trying to help . . . All right. All right . . . No, I’m not drunk . . . Yes, I’m sure I haven’t the least idea where he’s gone. Probably in the building if you’ve not seen him. His friend is still here. I think they spotted us, though . . . No, we did not do anything; he’s a
detective and must know his trade . . . All right. Yes, I’ll call again if I see him . . . Well, don’t let yourself freeze . . . Yes, good-bye.”
He snorted and hung up in disgust.
“He’s completely mad,” he said, apparently to himself, then shivered. I’d not been careful about avoiding contact with him. He shoved the folding door open and slipped clear. I trailed again; he headed for the main room instead of the john, which was too bad. Not that he was in any condition for hypnosis. His slurred speech told me the futility of that ploy, but there are other ways of getting information that don’t leave marks. I intended to ambush him in the passage, but he moved too fast for me to materialize and grab him.
Damnation. Aiming for his table, I got there just as he sat down. He repeated his private comment to his friends.
“He’s going through with it?” a girl asked. Marie Kennard again. She sounded less bored now.
“If that Fleming fellow ever decides to cooperate. Blast. Gilbert will catch his death out there waiting for that fool.”
Interesting. So Dugan himself was on the watch for me? I didn’t want to miss him, but I also didn’t want to miss whatever else this pretty crowd might have to say.
“Oh, Anthony, don’t make such a face,” Marie said, petulant. “Gilbert won’t blame you if the man doesn’t cooperate. He’ll just go home.”
“Be sure to remind him of that, won’t you?”
“I’ll write a note in my diary. How much longer must we endure this place?”
“At least an hour more.”
“So long? How perfectly dreadful.”
Now, that just hurt my feelings.
“Marie, it’s not as though we’re on the front lines in a trench, so put on a brave face and think of how this is helping Gilbert. We’re spies in enemy territory, sacrifice is de rigueur, and it is in a noble cause.”
“I’ll feel more noble after another drink.”
They impatiently called for a waiter. I waited for more information, but they seemed to be stuck in their collective sulk; Anthony ordered another Four Roses triple. Hardy type. Might as well leave and see what opportunities Dugan presented, if any. I felt my way back to the blind spot and hoped no one would be there when I materialized again.
It was clear, and just as well. Dizziness struck with a vengeance, sending me staggering as though I’d been blackjacked. I swayed against the wall like a drunk, both hands on it to steady myself. Hot and cold shakes waved over my body, retreating slowly and leaving a clear message: get to the Stockyards before the hollow ache inside went out of control. I couldn’t push further without risking all kinds of grief. When my version of hunger got too serious, common sense and restraint were the first to go. Food now, fun and games later.
No activity in the lobby. The check girl chatted with Wilton; both stood a bit straighter when the boss appeared, but I didn’t mind so long as their work was caught up and the customers were promptly served. I gave the girl a message to repeat to Escott: that I’d be gone for less than an hour and to keep an eye on our special guests for me.
“An hour?” Wilton asked when she’d left.
“Got an errand.”
“You okay, Mr. Fleming? You don’t look so good.”
“Just a little warm. You remember that fancy-suit stick who was just in here using the phone? Look out for him, see if he makes more calls, and write down when. If he or anyone else asks for me, I’m still around but unavailable.”
Wilton nodded, and I went upstairs. In the office I got the cash envelope from the safe, locked the door, and avoided the lobby by using the back-alley exit to leave the club.
A slow walk around the building to the parking lot didn’t flush any obvious stakeout. I fully expected one. Anthony gave me to understand Dugan might be lying in wait. I’d be pleased to find him, but only after I was in better shape.
Eyes peeled, I gave everything in view a good scrutiny, but the street looked the same as ever, no unfamiliar cars at the curbs or extra shadows in the doorways, just the wind blowing stray paper around. Nothing conspicuous here but myself, doubled by the fact I’d left my hat and coat behind. The cold didn’t affect me as much as it had before my change. On a run to the Stockyards outer coverings weren’t necessary; I moved faster without them.
If Dugan was on watch, where would he be hiding? My skin prickled as I imagined the kinds of things that could go wrong. Did he have a gun aimed at my chest? Hard luck for him if he fired. Metal bullets, whether silver or lead, can’t kill me, but they hurt like hell, and getting shot would put me in exactly the right mood to break his neck. With Gordy’s help, disposing of a body was no great challenge.
But all was quiet. I almost wished otherwise. It would bring an end to the matter for damn sure.
Uneasy but not able to wait, I got in my Buick, the cooled-off motor obligingly turning and catching on the first try. We’d not had any really bad weather lately, and it was still holding in the low thirties. Moderate for this time of year. That had been of great concern to Vivian Gladwell in her worry for Sarah. The girl’s wasted, sleeping face kept popping to mind as I backed from my parking spot. It was depressing, made me feel like I’d failed her by not completely removing Dugan as a threat. I’d done my best but would just have to try again.
For distraction I put the radio on loud and caught Fred Astaire in the middle of “The Way You Look Tonight.” We didn’t share the same key, but I sang along for the hell of it and wondered if I could get him and Johnny Green’s band to play at the club. They were famous and likely pretty busy, but it was worth a try. I’d ask Bobbi to look into it.
No one seemed to be in my wake on the short drive to the bank. They were either good at tailing or didn’t exist. The rearview mirror remained clear of anything troubling, though there was plenty of traffic. A disappointment, but not much of one. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten things wrong, but it always was better to err on the side of caution. I took a careful look around when I left the car to slip the money into the night deposit, but I was quite alone.
I was more cagey on the second leg of my trip, making a lot of turns and double-backs. A couple times I thought someone was following, but I shook them too easily for it to be anything but my imagination. After ten minutes of circling blocks and beating out stop signals, my guts gave a sharp twist as a reminder. My corner teeth were beginning to bud all on their own. Next would come the tunnel vision. After that, a strange, lightheaded kind of insanity.
Hitting the gas, I endeavored to outrun it.
In order to feed the country, the Stockyards had to run day and night, but some areas slowed down sufficiently to allow me to get in without drawing notice. My being able to vanish was a big help, allowing me to remain out of sight the whole time except for those few moments it took to feed. I knew the place so thoroughly by now that I could get around quite well in that state. It made things easier on the shoe leather, too. Less cleaning.
No such convenience tonight. I’d stretched too thin. Sure, I could still vanish, but coming back would mean another bout of sickness and having jelly for legs, not something I wanted to go through again. Playing ghost could wait until after I’d fed.
I had plenty of physical strength left, though; boosting over one of the fences was easy, and again when I found a pen full of prospects. Now all I had to worry about was keeping some cow from bowling me over on my ass. I’d done the milking plenty of times growing up on the old family farm; cattle could be skittish but were generally cooperative if you knew what you were doing.
Picking an animal in the small enclosure, I calmed it to my presence, knelt, and went in quick and clean on a leg vein, supping deeply. The lush red stuff filled me with vast warmth and reassurance. Weariness melted from my bones. Before my change, no food ever had this profound an effect. Drink came the closest. A shot of booze was remotely comparable, but that had dampened the senses; this brought energy and rejuvenation, pulsing life into a body with no beating heart. I drew on it,
exulting in the primal joy of satiation.
Once again I speculated about taking away extra to store in the refrigerator at home. Escott and I had talked about it; he didn’t mind, even suggesting placing it in beer bottles so their amber glass hid the telltale color. The scare with Bobbi earlier resolved me to figure out something. Blood wouldn’t keep for long, but even if it lasted a few nights, my trips to the Yards would be cut by half. How much better to squelch around here only once a week instead of every second or third night.
It would also lower the chances of my being caught by one of the workers. That had happened a few times. I’d dealt with it, hypnotically convincing them they’d seen nothing and to go on with work. The encounters had put the hair up on the back of my neck and made me wonder if there had been others I’d not spotted.
That prickly feeling was on my neck again, but I was inclined to put it off as more imagination. Just thinking about a threat could bring out the heebie-jeebie sense. I’d been extra careful tonight.
Replete and restored, I pulled away, pinching the vein to slow the flow. The cow showed no great concern. It remained in place a moment, then abruptly snorted and moved off. Time I did the same.
On the other side of the fence. I fished out a handkerchief and swabbed my mouth for stains. God, that had tasted good. I felt ready for anything now.
Until I heard something toward my right, toward the street where I’d parked.
A narrow passway ran between the high enclosures, just wide enough for one animal at a time. Pelting down it at full speed was a man. It was a good assumption he’d seen something very disturbing. Like me.
I ran after. With the advantage of strength and speed, I closed up his lead. He didn’t make a sound when I caught his shoulders and hauled him around. Not wanting to hurt him, I went easy on the spin, backing him against the fence. Cattle on the other side milled, alarmed.
