Terrors

by Richard A. Lupoff

  From behind the two men came the sound of a woman’s voice. “Hey, up there, can a lonely lady get a nightcap or is this joint closed for business?”

  The lighting in the club car was dim, supplemented by the almost daytime glare of a full moon reflected off the sere sands of the southwestern desert.

  The bartender, unobtrusively manning his station, rasped his reply. “I’m sorry, Miss, club car is closed for the night.”

  He winked at his two male customers. “I see you’re checking out the headlines,” he growled. “What do you think of that bank robbery? Take a gander at that, will ya?”

  With a blunt finger he traced the story’s subheads. “Looks like the coppers put a couple of slugs into one of them muggs, even if his buddies managed to drag him into their getaway wagon.” He shook his head. “Takes all kinds, don’t it? That’s what I always say, it sure takes all kinds.”

  The woman’s voice cut in again. “I don’t see you shutting down those two muggs.” She stood up, holding the table-edge to steady herself as the car lurched, jerking a thumb at Whistler and Traveler.

  The two men in black exchanged a knowing glance. One of them addressed the woman. “Didn’t you get on the train in Chicago, Miss?”

  “Yeah. That’s home. So what?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,” the second man in black replied. “Chicago is a splendid metropolis. What did that poet call it, ‘Hog butcher for the world?’ Of course, the winters can be difficult. Are you headed for a warmer locale?”

  The car lurched again, and the woman stumbled, caught herself, then made her way forward.

  “Here now,” a man in black said, “won’t you have a seat?” He slid courteously aside and the woman climbed onto a red leather stool between those occupied by the two men.

  She looked from side to side. “You two must be brothers or something.”

  “You might say as much.”

  “You even drink the same kind of booze.” She flicked her deep eyes toward the bartender. “I’ll have the same as the brothers here.”

  The bartender cast a glance at one of the men, caught an almost imperceptible nod in return, lifted a silver-capped bottle and a small glass and poured.

  The woman gazed into the glass, not touching it. She turned on her barstool to scan the moonlit desert. Windows had been opened on both sides of the car, and the cool night air of the Southwest provided refreshing relief to the usual stuffy air of railroad cars.

  Black shapes flitted through the night outside the car. The woman made an odd gesture, the dark red of her long, pointed fingernails reflecting in the overhead lamps. Something silent and black flittered through the window. It hovered briefly near the ceiling, then flapped its wings, crossed the car and disappeared out the other side of the car.

  “Wha — what was that?” the bartender gasped.

  “Just a bat.” The woman smiled at the red-jacketed server. She was small and slim, her skin pale and her features fine, a marked contrast to her rough speech. In the artificial light of the club car her platinum blonde hair, artfully darkened eyebrows and lashes and vivid lip rouge made a dramatic image. A tiny purse of gold lamé hung from one shoulder by golden chains as fine as angel’s hair.

  The red-jacketed bartender shook his head. “Pretty weird, but we get ’em now and then on this run. Some women are scared, think they’ll get caught in their hair or something.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Maybe they’re afraid of vampires.”

  “No,” the woman said, “I’m certainly not afraid of bats. I use them in my work. And there are no vampires. No human ones, anyway. My poor uncle back there in the baggage car, he was raised on horror movies, he always believed in vampires. Lot of good it did him, the old fool.”

  The train’s whistle punctuated her words, its shrill wail echoing through the night.

  She lifted her glass. “To Chicago.” She paused.

  “I’ll drink to that,” one of the men said.

  The woman said, “Let me finish. To Chicago, good-bye, you’ve seen the last of Satin Blaine.” She drew the glass to her lips and drained off half its contents. To her newfound companions she said, “How come you two aren’t drinking?”

  In unison the two men lifted their glasses. A moment later one of them said, “That was quite a trick, Miss Blaine. It is Miss Blaine, isn’t it? Yes. Quite a trick getting that bat to fly through the car.”

  “I’ve always been good with animals.”

  “And you’re leaving Chicago because of the climate?”

  She let out a quick, harsh laugh. “You might say that.”

  “Too cold for you?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe too hot.”

  She took another sip of her beverage. “Actually, I’m taking my uncle to Los Angeles.”

  “Oh. I thought you were travelling alone. I didn’t see any companion with you.”

  “He’s back in the baggage car.”

  The lights in the club car flickered, as they often do on trains. In the momentary darkness the bright moonlight pouring through the club car’s window settled on the woman’s hand. A magnificent Australian opal mounted in a fine gold setting graced her finger; the stone seemed to capture the moonlight and glow with its swirling effulgence.

  The electric lights came back on.

  “He’s dead,” Satin Blaine explained.

  “It must be difficult, travelling with a casket.”

  “I can handle a stiff. They never give me any trouble. I’ve had a lot more grief from live men than from dead ones, you can believe it.”

  She heaved a sigh, a world-weary gesture for one so young and attractive.

  She downed the last of her drink, lowered the glass to the bar and slid from the stool to her feet. “Okay, gents, many thanks for the companionship and the refreshments. I think I’ll be on my way now.”

  “We’ll walk you back to your compartment, Miss Blaine.” One of the men slapped a bill on the bar. They both joined the woman.

  “Well, how nice of you. But call me Satin, then, if we’re going to be friends.”

  They left the club car and started toward the rear of the train only to be stopped by a uniformed conductor. His hair beneath his uniform cap was steel gray. His eyes held the look of one who has seen everything there is to see, or who thought so until now.

  “Sorry, folks, passageway’s closed for a little while.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll just have to stay in your compartments. Everything’s all right.” The way he said it indicated that everything was not all right.

  One of the men in black leaned over and whispered a few words to the conductor. At the same time he pulled back his carefully tailored suit jacket and showed something to the railroad man.

  There was a moment of silence. It was broken when the train lurched and the lights flickered.

  After a moment the lights blazed again and the conductor nodded. “Okay, follow me.”

  They made their way through a series of Pullmans and ordinary passenger cars. A seeming eternity later they approached the streamliner’s baggage car, only to be halted in their tracks by a frightful sight.

  A gray-haired oldster wearing railroad man’s overalls staggered toward them, an expression of fright on his face. “It — it — it’s a vavamp –” escaped his blue lips. His eyes were open wide. He pitched forward and lay motionless in the corridor.

  The conductor bowed over the body, turning it over so that the gaping mouth and frightened eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. After a moment the conductor knelt and a uniformed sleeve stretched toward the old man’s throat. Experienced fingers felt for a pulse that was not there.

  The conductor looked up at the two men in black and the slim, platinum blonde woman. “He’s dead,” the conductor gasped. And after a moment he added, “and he’s cold. As cold as ice.”

  The woman, Satin Blaine, spoke in her distinctive voice, “He tried to say something. He said, ‘Va-vamp.’”

 
A man in black said, simply, “Yes.”

  Satin Blaine resumed, “Do you think he was trying to say, vampire?”

  Briefly, no one spoke.

  And what do you think, dear reader? Was the old man talking about a vampire? Perhaps he’d seen one movie too many, or read one tale more than was good for him, about Transylvanian counts with courtly manners and very sharp fangs. Perhaps he was the victim of his own, too-vivid, imagination. Or … perhaps not.

  We shall see.

  One of the men in black asked the conductor, “Who is this?”

  “Old Jenkins. Old Ollie Jenkins. He’s been with the railroad for forty years. Started as a fireman and worked his way up to brakeman and finally engineer. One of the best. He never married, never had a family or even many friends. Said he loved his locomotives and that was all the love he needed. Management tried to retire him years ago, but he loved the trains so much, he wouldn’t let go. Said he wanted to die riding the rails, so they gave him a job as a baggage car attendant, paid him as much salary as his pension would have been. Can you imagine, a top-notch engineer, sitting and watching baggage hour after hour? But Ollie said he’d do anything he had to, just so long as he could keep riding the high iron. Well, I guess he got his way. Poor old-timer.”

  “Enough sentiment,” said a man in black. “Just a moment.” He bent and touched the white cheek, then rose. “Cold, all right.”

  Satin Blaine asked, “What could have killed him?”

  The conductor shook his head. “No way to tell, but it looks to me as if he died of shock.”

  A man in black — the one who called himself Traveler — said, “I need to look in that baggage car.” He stepped away from the others and tried the door. “It’s locked.”

  “Baggage car’s always locked.” The conductor stepped forward. He pulled a huge key ring from his uniform pocket and found the correct key. “Even scared as he was, Ollie slammed the door behind him coming out.”

  Traveler held up his hand. “Just a minute, then. Don’t be so fast to open the door to the baggage car.”

  He turned and placed the palm of one hand on the metal surface, then snatched his hand away as if he’d placed it on a red-hot stove. At the same moment a trickle of white smoke, or what appeared to be white smoke, crept through the keyhole.

  An expression of fear contorted the conductor’s features. “Something’s burning in there! We’ll have to uncouple the baggage car.”

  “No.” Traveler held his hand at shoulder level, rubbing it with the other. “Take a look at Jenkins there.” He pointed at the cadaver. “Look at his eyebrows, his mustache. That’s frost.” He swung around and pointed in the other direction. “Not smoke, not smoke at all. There’s something freezing cold in there.”

  Whistler pressed his fingertips briefly to the door. “You’re right, Traveler.” Then he addressed himself to the railroad man. “Conductor, what are you carrying in this baggage car?”

  The conductor reached inside his uniform jacket. “I’ve got the manifest right here.”

  He opened a small, much-battered leather portfolio that resembled an oversized wallet, pulled from it a folded sheet of oversized foolscap and spread it for them all to see. He ran a finger down a column of brief, blue-inked entries.

  “You see? Nothing but the usual passengers’ luggage, a few trunks being shipped by express service, and — and a coffin holding human remains. We need a special permit to carry human remains. I’ve got it right here.”

  A second sheet bore official seals and signatures. It listed the point of origin and destination of one casket, bronze. Point of origin, Blaine Chemical and Pharmaceuticals Corporation, Chicago, Illinois. Destination, Blaine Works West, Los Angeles, California. Contents of casket, embalmed and preserved remains of Walter Martin Blaine, deceased.

  “You uncle, Miss Blaine?” Whistler frowned at the shapely platinum blonde.

  From her gold lamé purse she produced a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes. My Uncle Walter. My parents both died when I was a child and Uncle Walter was like a father to me. And now, now he’s gone.”

  The conductor raised his uniform cap and scratched a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. “I just don’t get it. You have my sympathy, Miss Blaine, you truly do. But I don’t see how that connects with this icy mystery.”

  Traveler asked a question. “Could there be any machinery or chemicals in there?”

  The conductor shook his head. “Not possible, sir. Anything like that would have to ship on a freight. We don’t mix freight with passengers, not policy, sir, no way. Would be against railroad rules and government regulations both. And even if we made an exception, maybe some high-priority defense materials that couldn’t wait for the next freight, why, you see—” He held the baggage manifest in one hand and slapped the page with the back of his other hand. “—you see, it would show on the manifest. It just isn’t here, sir. It’s impossible.”

  A pretty puzzle, don’t you think? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Didn’t a great detective once say that? But what happens when you eliminate the impossible — and no other explanation remains? What then, eh? Maybe the impossible is true after all.

  Or is it?

  “All right,” Traveler hissed. “Whatever killed Oliver Jenkins is inside that baggage car. And whatever it was, we’re going to find out. Let me have your key, conductor.”

  The railroad man had dropped his keys back into his pocket. Now he found them again and handed them to Traveler. “That’s the one. Right there. That’s the one that opens the baggage car.”

  Traveler held out his hand.

  The conductor laid the collection of keys in Traveler’s palm. He pointed to an old-fashioned, oversized blue steel key of a type that had been popular half a century before. “That’s the one, sir. That’s the one that will open the lock.”

  Traveler extended his arm, moving the huge key toward the lock that stood between them and the baggage compartment. Even as he did so the cold white mist continued to pour from the keyhole. Once through it crept down the door like a living, malevolent thing and puddled on the compartment floor, forming a lake of white, icy vapor.

  As the key made contact with the lock, a woman’s voice, angry, authoritative, maybe a little bit desperate, rang out.

  “Go ahead, Traveler. Open the door. And when you do, we’re all going to take a ride in the baggage compartment.”

  Traveler and Whistler were calm but the conductor showed his puzzlement. “What do you mean? What — oh.” He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the tiny pearl-handled .22 that she had pulled from her purse. It was pointing at them now.

  Satin Blaine swung the little automatic from one to another, covering Traveler, Whistler, and the conductor in turn.

  Traveler inserted the key in the heavy, old-fashioned lock. He turned it and the lock emitted a loud click.

  “Go ahead,” Satin Blaine ordered. “All three of you, into the baggage car. And don’t try any tricks. I suppose you two mystery men are willing to risk your lives but I don’t think you’d risk the life of an innocent man. So any tricks and the conductor gets it. A .22 only makes a little hole but if it’s through the heart or the brain, it’s as deadly as a cannon.”

  Traveler shoved the door open with a black-clad shoulder. There was a rush of white vapor as the door swung back. The vapor flooded the platform where Satin Blaine and the others stood, then was swept into the Arizona night as the wind caught it.

  One black-clad figure, then another stepped across the platform into the baggage car. Hesitantly, the conductor followed. Finally Satin Blaine followed them, her little gold lamé purse swinging from its glittering chain and the pearl-handled automatic steady in her fist.

  Whistler looked around the car. Its contents were utterly uninteresting. For the most part they were men’s and women’s suitcases doubtlessly containing light clothing for wear in the balmy winter weather of Southern California.
There were several steamer trunks. Most likely they belonged to wealthy passengers planning to proceed from California to the Hawaiian islands for an interlude of luaus and surfing while their less fortunate neighbors shivered in the Midwestern winter.

  Whistler’s eyes flicked back to Satin Blaine and caught her glancing involuntarily at a large suitcase. Clearly, it was of high quality but it was obviously well traveled. It bore stickers with scenes of Los Angeles, Honolulu, Singapore and Sydney.

  Against one wall of the compartment, resting on a pair of wooden trestles, there lay a casket, its burnished bronze surface reflecting the dim electric lights in the ceiling. A light coating of frost gave its rounded lid the illusion of a graceful, snow-covered hillside. The very air near the casket was frigid.

  “You boys are making things hard for me,” Satin Blaine hissed. “As for Mr. Jenkins out there on the platform, if he’d just minded his business he would have been all right. That casket was sealed in Chicago and it shouldn’t have been opened until we got to Los Angeles. Now I think I’ll have to get off before then and leave my poor uncle to his own devices.”

  The others waited for her to continue.

  “What’s our next stop, conductor?”

  The railroad man went fishing in his vest pocket and came out with a huge old watch. He pressed a button and the engraved metal front of the timepiece popped open.

  “Phoenix, Miss. We pass through around eleven tonight. Los Angeles in morning.”

  “Okay, bub. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to lock you in here. You — buster — the keys. That’s right. Toss ’em gently.”

  She caught the heavy collection of keys skillfully.

  “I’m sure they’ll wonder what happened to you, Mister Railroad Man, but that won’t be my problem. And as for you two undertakers, just don’t try anything clever and you’ll stay alive.”

  She edged toward the casket.

  “All right, all three of you, step back. That’s right. Undertakers first, so the railroad man is closest to me. I have a feeling you might try something, even risk getting shot at. You’d figure that I couldn’t get both of you. Actually, I might. I’m a good shot. But you wouldn’t risk an innocent man getting plugged. So you stay in front of the others, railroad man. Stay between me and them. If they try anything fancy, you get the first bullet, right in the belly. It’s a lousy way to go, believe you me!”