“I’m done,” Helen Rossi said behind me. Her voice was low, and she looked pale and tired. “You were right,” she said. “There is no mention of his affair with my mother, or even of his traveling to Romania. You were telling the truth about that. I cannot understand it. This must have been during the same period, surely the same trip to the Continent, because I was born nine months after that.”
“I’m sorry.” Her dark face hadn’t asked for pity, but I felt it. “I wish I had some clues for you here, but you see how it is. I can’t explain it, either.”
“At least we believe each other, don’t we?” She looked directly at me.
I was surprised to discover I could feel pleasure in the midst of all this grief and apprehension. “We do?”
“Yes. I don’t know if something called Dracula exists, or what it is, but I believe you when you say Rossi-my father-felt himself in danger. He clearly felt it many years ago, so why not a return of his fears when he saw your little book, an uncomfortable coincidence and reminder of the past?”
“And what do you make of his disappearance?”
She shook her head. “It could have been a mental breakdown, of course. But I understand what you mean, now. His letters have the mark of”-she hesitated-“a logical and fearless mind, just like his other works. Besides, you can tell a great deal from a historian’s books. I know his very well. They are the efforts of stable, clear thought.”
I led her back to the letters and my briefcase; it made me nervous to leave them alone for even a few minutes. She had put everything neatly back in the envelope-in its original order, I had no doubt. We sat down on the pew together, almost companionably.
“Let’s just say there might be some supernatural force involved in his disappearance,” I ventured. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but for the sake of argument. What would you advise doing next?”
“Well,” she said slowly. Her profile was sharp and thoughtful, close to me in the dim light. “I cannot see that this will help you very much in a modern investigation, but if you were to obey the dictates of Dracula lore, you would have to assume that Rossi has been assaulted and removed by a vampire, who would either kill him or-more likely-pollute him with the curse of the undead. Three attacks that mingle your blood with that of Dracula or one of his disciples make you a vampire eternally, you know. If he has been bitten once already, you will have to find him as soon as possible.”
“But why would Dracula appear here, of all places? And why abduct Rossi? Why not just strike him and corrupt him, without making the change noticeable to anyone?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “It is unusual behavior, according to the folklore. Rossi must be-I mean, if this were all a supernatural occurrence-he must be of special interest to Vlad Dracula. Perhaps even a threat to him somehow.”
“And do you believe my finding this little book and bringing it to Rossi had something to do with his disappearance?”
“Logic tells me that it is an absurd idea. But -” She folded her gloves carefully in her black-skirted lap. “I wonder if there’s not another source of information we’re overlooking.” Her mouth drooped. Silently, I thanked her for thatwe.
“What’s that?”
She sighed and unfolded the gloves. “My mother.”
“Your mother? But what would she know about -” I had only begun my string of questions when a shift in light and the breath of a draft made me turn. From where we sat, we could see the church doors without being seen from them-the vantage point from which I’d chosen to watch Helen’s entrance. Now a hand inserted itself between the doors, then a bony, pointed face. The strange-looking librarian was peering into the church.
I can’t describe to you the feeling I had in that quiet church when the librarian’s face appeared between the doors. I had the sudden image of a sharp-nosed animal, something stealthy and sniffing, a weasel or a rat. Beside me, Helen was frozen, staring at the door. Any moment now he would be catching our scent. But we had a second or two left, I calculated, and I gathered the briefcase and stack of papers silently in one arm, grasped Helen with the other-there was no time to ask for her permission-and drew her from the end of the pew into the side aisle. A door was open there, leading into a small chamber beyond, and we slipped in. I closed it quietly. There was no way to lock it from the inside, I noted with a pang, although it had a big iron-lined keyhole.
It was darker in this little room than in the nave. There was a baptismal font in the middle, a cushioned bench or two along the walls. Helen and I looked silently at each other. I couldn’t read her expression, except that it seemed to hold as much alertness and defiance as fear. Without words or gestures, we moved cautiously behind the font, and Helen put a hand on it to steady herself. After another minute, I couldn’t stay still any longer; I handed her the papers and went back to the keyhole. Looking carefully through it, I could see the librarian moving past a column. He did resemble a weasel, his pointed face thrust forward, glancing around at all the pews. He turned in my direction, and I drew back a little. He seemed to study the door to our hiding place, and even took a step or two toward it, then stepped away again. Suddenly a lavender sweater moved into my field of view. It was one of the altar ladies. I could hear her voice, muffled. “Can I help you?” she said kindly.
“Well, I’m looking for someone.” The librarian had a sharp, whistling voice, too loud for a sanctuary. “I-did you see a young lady come in here, in a black suit? Dark hair?”
“Why, yes.” The kind woman looked around, too. “There was someone by that description here a little while ago. She was with a young man, sitting in the back pews. But she’s certainly not here now.”
The weasel swiveled this way and that. “Couldn’t she be hiding in one of those rooms?” He wasn’t subtle, that was clear.
“Hiding?” The lavender lady turned our way, too. “I’m sure there’s no one hiding in our church. Wouldn’t you like me to call the priest? Do you need some help?”
The librarian backed away. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “I must have made a mistake.”
“Would you like some of our literature?”
“Oh, no.” He backed down the aisle. “No, thank you.” I saw him peer around again, and then he passed out of my range of vision. There was a heavy click, a thump-the front door closing behind him. I gave Helen a nod and she sighed noiseless relief, but we waited a few more minutes there, glancing at each other over the font. Helen looked down first, her brow furrowed. I knew she must be wondering how on earth she’d gotten into such a situation and what it really meant. The top of her hair was glossy, ebony-she was hatless again today.
“He’s looking for you,” I said in a low voice.
“Maybe he is looking for you.” She indicated the envelope I held.
“I have a strange idea,” I said slowly. “Maybe he knows where Rossi is.”
She frowned again. “None of this makes much sense anyway, so why not?” she muttered.
“I can’t let you go back to the library. Or your rooms. He’ll be looking for you in both places.”
“Let me?” she echoed ominously.
“Miss Rossi, please. Do you want to be the next disappearance?”
She was silent. “So how do you plan to protect me?” Her voice held a mocking note, and I thought of her strange childhood, her original flight to Hungary in her mother’s womb, the political savvy that had allowed her to travel to the other side of the world for academic revenge. If her story were all true, of course.
“I have an idea,” I said slowly. “I know this is going to sound-undignified, but I would feel better if you would humor me about it. We can take some-charms-with us from the church here -” She raised her eyebrows. “We’ll find something-candles or crucifixes or something-and buy some garlic on the way home-I mean to my apartment -” The eyebrows went up further. “I mean, if you would consent to accompany me-and you could-I may have to leave for a trip tomorrow, but you could -”
> “Sleep on the sofa?” She had her gloves on again and now she folded her arms. I felt myself flushing.
“I can’t let you go back to your rooms knowing you might be pursued-or to the library, of course. And we have more to discuss, I think. I’d like to know what you think your mother -”
“We can discuss that right here, right now,” she said-coldly, I thought. “As for the librarian, I doubt he would be able to follow me to my room, unless -” Did she have a sort of dimple on one side of her stern chin, or was that sarcasm? “Unless he can turn himself into a bat already. You see, our matron doesn’t allow vampires in our rooms. Or men, for that matter. Besides, I’m hoping he will follow me back to the library.”
“Hoping?” I was startled.
“I knew he wouldn’t talk with us here, not in the church. He is probably waiting outside for us. I have a bone to pick with him”-that extraordinary English again-“because he is trying to interfere with my library privileges, and you believe he has information for you about my-Professor Rossi. Why not let him follow me? We can discuss my mother on the way.” I must have looked more than doubtful, because she suddenly laughed, her teeth white and even. “He is not going to jump on you in broad daylight, Paul.”
Chapter 21
There was no sign of the librarian outside the church. We strolled toward the library-my heart was thumping hard, although Helen looked cool-with twin crucifixes from the church vestibule in our pockets (“Take one, leave a quarter”). To my disappointment, Helen did not mention her mother. I had the sense that she was merely cooperating temporarily with my madness, that she was going to vanish once we reached the library, but she surprised me again. “He is back there,” she said quietly about two blocks from the church. “I saw him when we turned the corner. Do not look behind you.” I stifled an exclamation and we walked on. “I am going to go into the upper stacks in the library,” she said. “How about the seventh floor? That is the first really quiet area. Do not go up there with me. He is more likely to follow me if I’m alone than to follow you-you are stronger.”
“You are absolutely not going to do that,” I murmured. “Getting information about Rossi is my problem.”
“Getting information about Rossi is precisely my problem,” she muttered back. “Please do not think that I am doing you a favor, Mr. Dutch Merchants.”
I glanced sidelong at her. I was getting used to her harsh humor, I realized, and something about the curve of her cheek next to that long straight nose looked almost playful, amused. “All right. But I’ll be right behind him, and if you get into trouble I’ll be up there in a split second to help you.”
At the library doors we parted with a show of cordiality. “Good luck with your research, Mr. Dutch,” Helen said, shaking my hand in her gloved one.
“And you with yours, Miss -”
“Shh,” she said and walked off. I retreated into the card-catalog stands and pulled out a drawer at random to make myself look busy: “Ben-Hurto Benedictine.” With my head bent over it, I could still see the circulation desk; Helen was getting a permission slip to enter the stacks, her form tall and slim in the black coat, her back turned decisively on the long nave of the library. Then I saw the librarian creeping along the other side of the nave, keeping close to the other half of the card catalog. He had reached “H” by the time Helen moved toward the door of the stacks. I knew that door intimately, went through it almost daily, and never before had it yawned with meaning for me as it did now. It stayed propped open during the day, but a guard nearby checked entrance slips. In a moment, Helen’s dark figure had vanished up the iron stairs. The librarian lingered for a minute at “G,” then groped for something in his jacket pocket-he must have special library identification, I realized-flashed a card, and disappeared.
I hurried to the circulation desk. “I’d like to use the stacks, please,” I said to the woman on duty. I’d never seen her before-she was very slow-and it seemed to me her round little hands fumbled for an eternity with the yellow slips before she could give me one. At last I made it through the doorway and put a cautious foot on the stairway, looking up. On each floor you could see up one level through the metal steps, but no farther. No sign of the librarian above me, no sound.
I crept to the second floor, past economics and sociology. The third was deserted, too, except for a couple of students at their carrels. On the fourth floor I began to feel really worried. It was too quiet. I should never have let Helen use herself as bait on this mission. I suddenly remembered Rossi’s story about his friend Hedges, and it made me quicken my pace. The fifth floor-archaeology and anthropology-was full of students, undergraduates attending some kind of study group, comparing notes sotto voce. Their presence relieved me somewhat; nothing heinous could be going on just two floors above that. On the sixth floor I could hear footsteps above me, and on the seventh-history-I paused, unsure how to enter the stacks without giving my presence away.
At least I knew this floor well; it was my kingdom, and I could have told you the placement of every carrel and chair, every row of oversize books. At first, history seemed as still as the other floors, but after a moment I picked up muffled conversation from a corner of the stacks. I crept toward it, past Babylon and Assyria, treading as quietly as I could. Then I caught Helen’s voice. I was sure it was Helen’s, and then an unpleasant scraping voice that must be the librarian’s. My heart turned over. They were in the medieval section-I knew it well, now-and I got close enough to hear their words, although I couldn’t risk looking around the end of the next stack. They seemed to be on the other side of the shelves to my right. “Is that correct?” Helen was asking in a hostile tone.
The scraping little voice came again. “You have no right poking around in those books, young lady.”
“Those books? University property? Who are you to confiscate university library books?”
The librarian’s voice was angry and wheedling at the same time. “You don’t need to fool around with such books. They aren’t nice books for a young lady to be reading. Just turn them in today and nothing more will be said.”
“Why do you want them so badly?” Helen’s voice was firm and clear. “Does it have something to do with Professor Rossi, perhaps?”
Cowering behind English feudalism, I wasn’t sure whether to cringe or to cheer aloud. Whatever Helen thought of all this, she was at least intrigued. Apparently she did not consider me crazy. And she was willing to help me, if only to gather information about Rossi for her own ends.
“Professor-who? I don’t know what you mean,” the librarian snapped.
“Do you know where he is?” Helen asked sharply.
“Young lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I need you to return those books, for which the library has other plans, or there will certainly be consequences for your academic career.”
“My career?” Helen scoffed. “I cannot possibly return those books just now. I have important work to do with them.”
“Then I will have to force you to return them. Where are they?” I heard a step, as if Helen had moved away. I was on the verge of swinging around the end of the stack and bringing a folio of Cistercian abbeys down on the nasty little weasel when Helen suddenly played a new card.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you can tell me something about Professor Rossi, maybe I could share with you a little -” She paused. “A little map I saw recently.”
My stomach dropped all seven stories at once. The map? What was Helen thinking? Why was she giving away such a vital piece of information? That map might be our most dangerous possession, if Rossi’s analysis of its meaning were true, and our most important one. My most dangerous possession, I corrected myself. Was Helen double-crossing me? I saw it in a flash: she wanted to use the map to get to Rossi first, complete his research, use me to learn all he had learned and passed on to me, publish, expose him-I didn’t have time for more than a fleeting revelation because the next moment the librarian let out a ro
ar. “The map! You have Rossi’s map! I’ll kill you for that map!” A gasp from Helen, then a cry and a thump. “Put that down!” screamed the librarian.
My feet didn’t touch the ground until I was on top of him. His little head hit the floor with a thump that rattled my brains, too. Helen crouched next to me. She was very white but looked calm. She was holding up her twenty-five-cent silver crucifix from the church, keeping it trained on him as he fought and spat under me. The librarian was frail, and for a few minutes I could more or less pin him down-lucky for me, since I’d spent the last three years turning through brittle Dutch documents, not lifting weights. He flailed in my grasp, and I brought my knee down on his legs. “Rossi!” he shrieked. “It’s not fair! I should have gone instead-it was my turn! Give me the map! I waited so long-I did twenty years of research for this!” He began to sob, a pitiful, ugly sound. As his head jerked back and forth, I saw the double wound near the edge of his collar, two scabby thorn holes. I kept my hands as far away from it as I could.
“Where’s Rossi?” I growled. “Tell us this instant where he is-did you hurt him?” Helen held the little cross closer and he turned his face away, writhing under my knees. It was astounding to me, even at that moment, to see the effect of that symbol on the creature. Was this Hollywood, superstition, or history? I wondered how he’d been able to walk into the church-but there he had stayed far from the altar and chapels, I remembered, and had shrunk away even from the altar-guild lady.
“I didn’t touch him! I don’t know anything about it!”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Helen bent closer. Her expression was fierce, but she was very white, and I noticed now that she held her free hand tightly over her neck.
The Historian Page 17
