P N Elrod Omnibus

by P. N. Elrod

  I froze. I’d been easing to one side, hoping to lunge with my sword and disarm him. Deveau shifted ever so slightly, and I feared he would charge the lot of them, collecting a pistol ball for his effort. Perhaps if I offered them a substantial bribe and got their attention on me. . .

  Percy made a strong snapping motion with his wrist, sending the hat spinning right into Talmadge’s face. It was a fine distraction, but the man pulled the trigger on his pistol. There was a flat crack, strangely muffled.

  Providence had smiled on us; the damned thing had misfired. Talmadge’s threat was without force, and before he could react to his change of fortune, Deveau leaped upon him like a tiger. I thrust my blade at the nearest of the henchmen, wounding his arm. He yelled and fled along with two others, which was most gratifying.

  Oliver’s blood was also up, for he roared like a savage and charged one of the men who topped him in size by a good half foot. Nonetheless, he won his contest, for Percy dropped low and curled himself tight behind the man’s legs. When Oliver slammed into him, the wretch went tumbling over this unexpected obstacle. By the time he caught his wind, his captain was also on the floor, knocked insensible by Deveau’s good right fist.

  The row brought a crowd, of course, and it was some while before everything was properly sorted out, even when Sir Algernon returned with the authorities. It was nigh on to midnight before the house was settled and the guilty and wounded marched away to be locked up.

  The landlord was guardedly pleased to have the trouble resolved, and stood us a round of brandies. It served to remind me that Oliver and I would now have to deal with Captain Shellhorse to complete our errand in Dover. I was not unduly put out by the prospect. Indeed, Oliver and I faced the likelihood of having many more brandies and invitations to tell the tale of this night’s events once we were back in Cambridge. If not for the ghastly demise of poor Captain Keech, we might have counted this as an excellent adventure to share with our friends.

  “That was dangerous business with the hat, though,” I said to Percy. We were again gathered before the fire in the coffee-room, along with most of the hotel. “He could have killed you but for the devil’s own luck that his pistol failed to fire.”

  Standing on a chair, young Percy flushed under the admiring scrutiny of the adults. It must have been a heady experience to him, for we had pledged that he was the hero of the hour for his actions, perilous though they were. “It was not luck, Mr. Barrett, only logical reasoning,” he said with much dignity.

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “It’s a shocking wet night out, sir. Captain Talmadge was soaked coming here, and more so when he was outside quarreling with Captain Keech, and again when he helped bring in the body. It struck me that the rain would have made his pistol very safe, so I—”

  “Brilliant,” said Oliver, and he called for a toast to Master Percy Blakeney’s—only now did I collect the family’s full name—very good health and wits, and suggested additional celebration was in order.

  The boy’s somber father even looked pleased, but gently reminded us that the hour was late and the morning would be early as it always must be for travelers. Deveau agreed with this, and Sir Algernon preceded them toward the door; Deveau and his charge close behind.

  Their progress was slowed by the number of well-wishers who patted the boy on the head or, in the case of ladies, bent to kiss his cheek. He squirmed a bit under that particular reward except when it came to Miss Manette. He seemed to rather like her and lingered long enough to collect a kiss on each side of his face and another on his forehead from her. He bowed low as any gentleman and professed himself to be at her service.

  Then Percy gave a little cry and tore back to the chair he and been standing upon, and from it retrieved a by now much crushed specimen of the flower that had been Talmadge’s downfall. The boy hurried to Deveau with his trophy of the hunt.

  “What the devil sort of weed is that, anyway?” Oliver called after him.

  Percy paused, at a momentary loss until Deveau stooped and whispered discreetly in his ear. “It is a scarlet pimpernel, sir!”

  “Deuced peculiar name for a plant,” muttered my cousin as they left. “Who’d have thought so little a thing could make such a thundering great mischief?”

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, never again will that happen if we live to be a hundred. Come, good Coz, another brandy. Let us celebrate and be thankful for small favors.”

  * * * * * * *

  __________

  DRAWING DEAD

  Author’s Note: In 2008 I decided to self-publish an all new Jack Fleming story and offer it, along with some reprinted stories, as a signed, limited-edition collection from my website. But the intended 10K-word story, THE DEVIL YOU KNOW swelled into a full length novel! In the original version of TDYK I had a long scene where Jack takes on some card sharps on the train ride to New York, but concluded that it just didn’t fit into the rest of the book. I yanked it out, did some tweaks to make it more of a stand-alone, and here is the shiny new result.

  Chicago, March 1938

  Long journeys are as complicated for vampires—or at least this vampire—as they are for regular people. You have to figure out food, shelter, and hope your luggage arrives on time and in the right place. In my case I would be in the luggage, another complication. Since my change from normal human to blood-swilling creature of darkness I tended to avoid travel.

  Vampire. Yes. That’s how I spell it. Look it up in the dictionary, but don’t believe everything you read.

  I’m a bloodsucker, but I am polite about it. No leaping out of alleys or seducing damsels for me, not while the Union Stockyards has cattle pens. Before leaving town to see to my errand in New York, I’d stopped there and drink my fill, which would cover my needs for the next few nights.

  There were no direct lines running from Chicago’s LaSalle Street Station to Long Island, necessitating a changeover at Grand Central Terminal. I’d be in the baggage car of the Twentieth Century Limited for most of the trip, specifically inside a large trunk, only it wasn’t so roomy once I was stuffed in along with clothes and a bag of my home earth. Uncomfortable and boring, but you can’t beat the privacy. I could afford a sleeping compartment, but didn’t want to wind up being a problem for a day porter. Post-sunrise, I’m literally dead to the world, which alarms people should they find my body. Of course, they get even more agitated when I unexpectedly wake up, so it’s best to just keep out of the way.

  A porter charged in with a trolley and swept my trunk away, shoving it in next to a mountain of similar items being efficiently loaded into the baggage car. I slipped off, glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, took a bead on the trunk, and vanished.

  Hurtling forward in a straight line, I blundered into something that was the same size and shape and tried to sieve in. Whatever I’d found was packed solid with no room to materialize. I slipped out, fighting claustrophobia, and felt around, but it was hopeless. Those porters were fast. I gave up and clung to the top of something else, riding it into what I hoped was the right car. A man bawled directions on where it was to go. I drifted free, my weightless, formless self bumping gently against the ceiling, and went semi-transparent to get my bearings.

  Just enough sight returned to allow me a faint glimpse of my target below. Anticipating problems, I’d slopped a big X on my trunk’s sides and top in white paint the night before, and the precaution paid off. I went invisible and dove in before the next load buried my refuge.

  Re-formed again and safe, my rump on a flat bag of home earth and knees crowding my ears, I half-listened to the rowdy racket outside. Strangely, I didn’t feel closed in; it must have been the presence of my home soil. During the day I needed it next to me so I could truly rest, but I’d never considered that it might have a general calming effect at night. Don’t ask for explanations for the why of it, because I don’t know. So long as it worked I had no complaints.

  For something to do in the pitc
h darkness I fished out a quarter and practiced rolling it across my knuckles. That was possible to do by touch alone, though I dropped the coin more often than not. The magician who’d played at my club and taught me how had made it look easy.

  I had a flashlight and plenty of magazines, but it was too cramped for reading. After a weary wait I heard rumbling followed by a solid slam and clank, signaling the car’s wide door was shut. Not long afterward the train began lurching eastward, taking it slow until we cleared the city.

  When the click-click, click-click of the wheels on the rails and the car’s rocking steadied, I vanished and eased out of the trunk. It took a few minutes to feel my way to a clear spot to materialize.

  More pitch blackness, I used the flashlight. The place was as I’d expected, noisy, cold, and loaded with crates, bags, and trunks. I couldn’t see mine from here, but I’d find it again. If nothing else the soil itself would draw me in the right direction.

  Thinking about it, that was a little creepy.

  I made my way toward the passenger area of the train. To avoid trouble I’d bought a regular ticket. It was easier than dodging the conductor all night.

  The lounge was crowded, but I found a chair, pulled two magazines from my coat pocket, and settled in for adventurous distraction courtesy of Street and Smith’s The Shadow. I couldn’t always catch the radio show, but two new stories every month almost made up for it. I had both January issues, bought but unread. Which to read first? The Crystal Buddha was the earlier story, but The Hills of Death had a more interesting cover with a motorcycle cop bursting through a map covered by the Shadow’s red silhouette. I opted to be chronological and took on the Buddha tale to find out why The Shadow found it necessary wave one of his .45s at a startled man in a green turban.

  A waiter or porter or whatever you call them when on a train asked if I wanted a drink. I ordered water and tipped a quarter just to show I wasn’t cheap. Having a glass at hand might keep him from bothering me again. Water was best, no one minds if you don’t drink it. Order coffee and you have to keep turning down a fresh hot cup every ten minutes.

  “Traveling far?” a man in the next chair asked.

  People hate a reader. They can’t stand when someone’s not also bored. They interrupt, want to know what you’re reading, if it’s interesting, and then discuss what they like to read. At some point in the encounter they’ve ceased being bored and suddenly you are, thoroughly.

  I gave discouraging grunt, not looking up. Hell, we were all headed toward New York, wasn’t that enough information?

  My neighbor moved off to find someone more sociable. The bar did a brisk business and enough conversations were going on elsewhere in the car to allow me and Lamont Cranston—only he seemed to be Kent Allard in this one—to get on with the plot.

  It didn’t last. Just as The Shadow was about to make his first appearance, someone tapped my shoulder. I looked up, annoyed, into the cheerful open face of a natural-born grifter.

  Over the years I’d developed an instinct about certain types of people. Some you warm up to instantly and know you’ll be best friends for life; for others you just as instantly comprehend they’re planning to nail your hide to the barn wall and scrape it clean.

  He’d come to invite me into a card game. Maybe I look like someone who plays cards on trains. I try not to, but after two years of hanging out with gang bosses and gamblers some of it must have rubbed off.

  But more likely it was because I appear to be in my young twenties wearing an expensive new suit and overcoat. He must have taken me for a well-heeled college kid, ripe for plucking. I checked the two players already at the table, who waved and smiled. They looked okay. Then I spotted the first man’s partner buying a new deck of cards and matchboxes at the bar. He nodded absently at me, cracking open the cellophane wrap from the cards.

  They looked exactly like a couple of regular guys wanting another player for a friendly game of poker. The man said they’d play for matchsticks, not money, a harmless way to pass the time.

  How could I say no? Besides, if not me, then they’d just pluck some other bird.

  In the interest of the public good, I folded my magazine back into a pocket and joined them, shaking hands, exchanging casual introductions. The grifter calling himself Sawyer shuffled, clumsily, chuckling when a couple cards went flying out. He gave the deck to me and watched as I also demonstrated bad shuffling. I apologized and said when I was at school I did more reading than anything else, and passed the deck to the guy on my right. He muttered, showing better dexterity at the art. He said he and the wife played a lot of bridge. I’d never been able to figure that game out, so he had my instant respect.

  The second grifter, calling himself Fogelson, gave each player a box of matches. We spilled them onto the table and started the first hand.

  Just to be clear, I don’t like poker. It’s not as interesting as a faster game of blackjack, so it goes without saying that I’m a terrible player. Sawyer and Fogelson made me feel like a champ, though. An hour later I won the pot, breaking the matchstick bank. I would have felt proud if I’d had anything to do with it. My improbable lucky streak gave me to understand I was to be their mark.

  We divided the matches up to start over. The two other men were better players, dealing straight when it was their turn; I only won when Sawyer or Fogelson had charge of the deck. As the game stretched on this interesting point went unnoticed. They had to work at it since I had a bad habit of throwing away good cards. Must have been frustrating for them, but entertaining for yours truly.

  Around eleven the other two potential marks said they had to get their beauty sleep and left. In the course of the game we’d gotten to know each other. One sold insurance, had five kids, a wife, and in-laws to support; the other was going to Altoona to repair and sell used furniture with his brother. The grifters spoke of similar bland backgrounds; I didn’t bother to memorize them.

  I topped them all, going to the trouble of cleaning up my usual slang and letting drop that my name was William (call me Bill!) Wollmuth. My doting pater was on the board of several banks, and I’d be expected to step into his shoes some day (not too soon!). College was the pip, and I’d even met a sweet little gal I was sure I could take home to mater. Once I got that elusive degree there was a bright future ahead.

  I thought I was laying it on too thick, but Sawyer and Fogelson couldn’t get enough of my autobiography.

  Wish I could have taken the credit for it, but I’d lifted the story from a dime magazine I’d read the other week. In that one, young Bill had been kidnapped, but won the heart of a kidnapper’s sister. They eventually escaped the bad guys to commit first-degree matrimony.

  Not the writer’s best effort, but it worked wonders on the grifters.

  I used to be a terrible liar. I still am with friends. But a couple of card sharps hoping to skin me blind brought out the worst in me. I enjoyed every minute, guilt-free.

  The lounge’s population dwindled to a couple holdouts dozing in chairs and the three of us. I turned down offers of drinks, assuring my new friends I was a confirmed teetotaler due to an unfortunate allergy to alcohol, which was perfectly true.

  “I want to be alert, anyway,” I added. It was about time for me to start my own con game. I hoped this first cast would land right.

  “For another hand?” asked Sawyer, casually shuffling the deck. His fingers were clumsy-looking, but during the course of play I’d noticed him using the mechanic’s grip. It gave him a lot of control over what cards to deal and hold back. Plenty of honest dealers use it, but he wasn’t one of them. Knowing what to look for helped me spot him at work, but he was a fast bastard.

  “I should like that, but I wouldn’t want to miss seeing the ghost.”

  As a conversation stopper, it did the trick. Up to that point I’d been successful at passing myself off as a naïve collegian with more money than experience. Now I was moving into more-money-than-sense territory. This angle needed to be examined be
fore they took me to the next stage of the plucking process.

  “Ghost?” asked Fogelson, nibbling the bait.

  “You never heard of the Twentieth Century Limited ghost?”

  They were an excellent team, not even exchanging a glance. They’d do whatever it took to keep me playing. “Uh, well, I always thought it was just one of those stories.”

  True enough, since I was making things up as I went, this time with no dime magazine inspiration.

  Sawyer seamlessly took the cue and allowed that he thought he’d once heard a rumor of a ghost on a train but not on the Limited.

  I obliged them with a sad tale of a friendly card game gone wrong. One of the players had been shot right through the heart when he caught out the others, who were cheating. They’d thrown him off the back of the train just as it crossed a river. His body was never found.

  Now my new friends traded glances. I caught only a suggestion of it in my peripheral vision since I was studying my new hand. They’d be wondering if I was on to them.

  “Apparently his spirit got trapped on the train, unable to rise to heaven or drop into hell,” I went on, oblivious. “And to this day he haunts the line. The train company hushed the murder up, of course, but people talk, and the stories get passed around.”

  “Stories?” prompted Sawyer.

  “When people see him. First everything gets cold. That’s how you know he’s around, the air gets like ice. He’s supposed to be a solid as you or I, but look close a second time and he’s gone. Houdini could have learned a thing or three from him about disappearing. Don’t bother asking the conductor or the porters, it’s as much as their job’s worth to talk about him.”