The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  He saw me trying to sneak in, and he poked his head out and yelled, “No damn wonder I been catching you asleep in the battery room! If you don’t get Judge Mottley’s business back, I’ll fire you.”

  Mr. Hill was not playing. The judge’s account gave the station prestige. I had more than Spanish vampires to contend with.

  Mrs. Hill was blinking and smoking her morning cigarette when I stepped into the kitchen. I used to think she was nice-looking, but now blonds seemed a bit stuffy. She said, “You’re up awful early, Eric.”

  “Yeah, and I feel faint, too,” I said, and dug into the oatmeal.

  She looked at me rather funny, but said no more. Getting up in the middle of the night to get Hill’s breakfast was tough, I gathered.

  So was that day at school. Most of the time I didn’t know whether they were talking about torts or tarts. What with sleepwalking around the campus, I was eyeing more co-eds than I ever had before. I was looking for the honey who had ribbed me last night.

  Somehow, I lived through the day. Four bowls of chili under my belt bucked me up enough for the night at the filling-station. It was on El Camino Real, the old Royal Post Road that reaches from San Francisco to San Diego. The good padres used to march from one mission to the next, on foot. It was a laugh, picturing what they’d have thought of Catalina.

  That idea led me to a detour. There was enough time, so I went to that slab in the thicket. By daylight it looked bleak and lonesome, but this was no time for sentiment. I lifted a picket from the snake fence and pried at the slab. It was easy to work it away.

  There was no digging to do. The burial crypt was of squared stones. In the bottom was a home-made casket, with handles of tarnished silver. Like the plate on the lid, they’d been hammered out by a smith.

  I dropped down into the hole. There was room enough for my feet, without standing on the coffin. I lifted the top and pretty nearly let it slam down. Catalina had not been feeding me moon-dust.

  She was lying there, eyes shut. Her hands were crossed on her breast. Talk about complexion. Transparent olive, with a rosy flush.

  “Snap out of it! I found you.”

  She didn’t answer. There was a sleepy little smile that kept her lips from closing too tight. No mortician ever made a girl up that cleverly. Her nails were pink and long. There was not a trace of a scratch on her little feet, nor any dust. That was what made me lower the lid in a hurry. I climbed out and spent some minutes working the slab back into place. Talking to a girl about how cozy it must be in her coffin is one thing, and seeing her in it is another.

  I didn’t feel quite natural until I reported for duty. Mr. Hill eyed me as though something was missing. I said, “Watch me sell Judge Mottley a refill of Green Gold.”

  “You’d better, you chump,” he grumbled. “I’m giving you another chance, maybe. I can’t fire you today account me and the missus is going to a movie.”

  When I closed the station and locked up the water and air hoses, so the public can’t steal them, I made the next move to reform Catalina’s diet. After taking on another bowl of chili, I had Mike put some in a carton to take along.

  Catalina was sitting on the grave, waiting for me. “Everyone but you is frighten,” she said, adoringly. “Now we will eat, no?”

  She kissed me and made a job of it. I said, “Well, if you just got to, you got to, I guess. But it seems to me you could gradually get off that blood diet. I was down to Mike’s and here’s some chili for you.

  “Oh!” She wiggled free and gave me a reproachful eye. “You have eat the chili? With garlic?”

  “What’s the matter?” It got me down, the way she looked at me. “I always figured you early Californians were nuts about it. Anyway, I took some of those drunkard’s delights. They kill your breath. The boss keeps them at the station, so the missus won’t know he’s tossed off too many noggins.”

  “But you don’t understand. The vampire, she cannot smell the garlic, but it is poison. That is the danger. So I must call on selected people. Now you are—”

  She shrugged. I wasn’t fit to eat. “I mus’ go back, over there.”

  She gestured in the direction of the place we’d been the other night.

  I felt like a heel. But I tried to square myself. “Then suppose you go on the prowl again tonight, while I work on some plans. You need some nice clothes, and then people won’t say eek or awk and pass out when they see you.”

  That worked, as I knew it would. Not to be outdone, Catalina said she’d skip her dinner that night. She’d go on a hunger strike, and all for me.

  We finally compromised on a raid on Prof Rodman’s laboratory. Catalina had a way with locks, as I previously remarked. When we came back, she wanted me to sit around while she gossiped about the Ortegas, who were her neighbors in 1809, but I had to get some sleep and do some thinking. So she solemnly promised to lay off blood-drinking.

  It was several days before I got rid of the garlic taint, and Catalina was decidedly peaked-looking. In the meanwhile, I’d drunk most of Prof Rodman’s mixture. Likewise, I’d doped out a way to get Judge Mottley back in line.

  The Palo Verde papers ballyhooed the startling recovery of several pernicious anemia victims. Under the prof’s daring treatment—handled by a local physician—a cure was being effected. This was hot news, but it meant that my missionary work and not the tonic was doing the job.

  It looked as if one Eric Binns was nicely on the spot. The only out seemed to be eating two-three pounds of liver a day, and keeping Catalina on a reducing diet. That, or sharpen up a wooden stake.

  I sneaked out one afternoon to do just that, but she looked too pretty, lying there in her coffin. Vampire or no, it was next door to murder. Anyway, I wasn’t developing anemia myself, not yet.

  So for the next move, I snitched Mrs. Hill’s evening gown—the one she took on approval, and wore, and got a cigarette burn on it, so she couldn’t return it the day after the party. It was a shade of red that looked like hell on her, but with Catalina’s early Spanish architecture and coloring, she’d roll ’em in the aisles.

  I was planning a complex trick that only a legal mind could follow. There was one of those dances to replenish Palo Verde’s fund for the underprivileged. With all the refined people and members of civic organizations attending en masse, you’d call it a ball, I guess.

  Judge Mottley would be there. Mrs. Mottley also. Likewise, Catalina and I would be among those present. The Hills would not attend. She had nothing to wear, and he couldn’t afford the ten bucks admission. Neither could I, but look what Hannibal did about the Alps.

  * * * *

  Catalina was thrilled silly when she saw the red dress and silver shoes. Her hair never got mussed up, and she never needed make-up, which is one of the handy things about being a vampire. I was getting awfully fond of her. A swell dame, and good-hearted. Tolerant of my plans for her future, just in case Prof Rodman’s blood-builder didn’t work out right. “Baby,” I expounded, “the human organization is the most versatile thing on earth. Particularly when it comes to diet.” We were sitting on the tombstone when I went into my pep talk, as it wasn’t quite late enough for Catalina to get dressed for the ball. “Now, I’m standing these blood transfusions well enough. And here’s how you can gradually switch—”

  It was simple. Look at the Hindoos, they eat practically nothing but starch, and so do millions of Chinese. Then there’s the Eskimos: hundred percent blubber diet. Why couldn’t Catalina shift, bit by bit, to beef blood, or chicken, or something? And finally to bullion cubes.

  Even if Prof Rodman’s tonic did work. I’d feel a little less like a human hor d’oeuvre. Another thing, he’d missed his bottle, and the police were investigating. No telling when we could snitch some more.

  Catalina was reasonable about it all, and open-minded. So I was thrilled and lighthearted when we started out for the ball. At t
imes I had to carry her to save her shoes. She whispered, “When you are a famous lawyer, querido, we will move the coffin to our house, no?”

  You see, as I got used to her, I realized she’d never really been dead. Being in a coffin doesn’t mean you’re a corpse. Maybe Prof Rodman, with all his biochemistry stuff, could have explained things. Only, there’d be too much publicity, and so I didn’t dare take it up with him.

  We hailed a taxi at the S. P. Station. I’d told Mr. Hill I wanted the evening off, by way of getting in good with Judge Mottley, showing him I was public-spirited.

  The civic Center is a low and rambling building with a red-tiled roof and arcades along the patio. Being California Spanish, it was strange and thrilling to Catalina. There was a fountain in the court, and festoons of colored globes made artificial moonlight.

  She didn’t know the latest steps, but no one cared, not even the handful of collegians who had showed up, for some unheard-of reason.

  Judge Mottley was particularly thrilled when he saw her. He forgot all about his wife and the other battle-axes and tapped me on the shoulder, just about the time I cut in on a tall and handsome and started edging Catalina into the patio. The women were making dirty quips about her dress, and not even a vampire can take that.

  I wasn’t surprised about the judge. He’d been eyeing us all evening.

  “Ah…Mr. Binns. I am pleasantly surprised to see you here.”

  “Civic spirit, sir,” I said, and presented him to Catalina.

  When she got through turning the magnificent eyes on him, he hailed a flunkey who was distributing glasses of punch. Then he changed his mind and asked us to drive to the country club for a spot of Scotch.

  Catalina said she never drank and didn’t smoke, but the drive would be lovely. He was too cagey to try to edge me out. That would come later; he was a foxy old buzzard. In the meanwhile, he was much impressed by a fellow who had a girl who didn’t gargle furniture polish. I began to seem the sort of person who fitted into the firm of Mottley, Mottley, Bemis & Burton. It was really a nice evening, in spite of finally having to get back to the ball.

  While the judge was telling me how well he liked Green Gold, the tall and handsome snagged Catalina. By the time I got rid of the judge, I couldn’t find my date.

  Not for a while, that is. I was worried. Suppose she had reverted to type and was taking a light lunch? Suppose her victim yeeped or started talking later? I was in a sweat, dashing around looking for her.

  I got good and sore when I missed the tall and handsome. When a fellow is neither, he is inclined to be sensitive about such things. So when I found them in a parked car, I was relieved and hog wild at the same time—relieved because she wasn’t doing any blood-drinking, and griped because the big lug was kissing her breathless, and she liked it. Liked it, and wearing the red dress I furnished. One hundred and twenty-nine years in a shroud, and double-crossing me, who’d got her into the social whirl.

  He got out of the car when I cracked off. I just measured him and flattened him. This was no time for politeness, and if I’d given him a chance, where’d my chance have been?

  He flopped to the running-board. That was what finished knocking him cold, I guess. There was a general departure from the other parked cars, but a crowd of newcomers who hadn’t been committing themselves came out of the patio to watch the show.

  I turned around to give Catalina hell. She straightened up and showed her claws.

  “Go away! My poor Johnnie—” She knelt beside the big lug and began crying.

  I had to check out before the judge heard I was a law-breaker again. Assault and battery at the Civic Center was as bad as having leprosy.

  The minute she saw a good-looking fellow, she made a sap of me. That burned me up. That I had Judge Mottley on the right side again fell flat. With the evening totally sour, I hoofed it to East Palo Verde and began lapping up firewater.

  After about eight noggins of fifteen-cent Bourbon, I began to see the joke of it all. Catalina was now so used to me not screaming and running, she’d be tactless with Johnnie. Funny, huh?

  Positively excruciating. It never occurred to me to think of what’d happen if she did scare him silly. I guess I must have been drunk when I went into the next place.

  Anyway, I was when I toddled out of there, singing, “I love a lassie…”

  Also, being hungry, I went to Mike’s and scoffed up all the chili he had in the pot. He was making a fresh batch, so he gave me a cut rate on the bottom stratum. What’s more, he dug out a bottle of mastika and gave me a big shot. That’s Greek brandy with a flavor like varnish, only spicy.

  When Mike looked at the bottle, he handed it back and said, “Take him along. Need eye-opener, huh?”

  Maybe I would, so I took it and wove my way home. That was the only thing I hadn’t forgotten. But habit, I learned later, is stronger than mastika.

  When I woke up, I was frozen stiff and lying on the tombstone, where I had passed out. Catalina was bending over me. My throat felt funny. She was smiling and licking her lips. The moon made her shoulders white and beautiful, and there were tears in her eyes.

  “I was just teasing you,” she whispered. “When you went away, everything she is spoil. I am lonesome, but I pretend I like it. Only, I cannot stand the ball any more, so I come home. You forgive me?”

  “Uh—um.” I was groggy, and trying to think of something, but I forgot what it was. Supposing Mrs. Hill’s silver slippers had been ruined? “Sure. What time, is it?”

  She shrugged. Time didn’t matter. She knew now who was boss, and she liked it. Socking that big lug had been a good move after all.

  “I was so hungry,” she went on. “This dancing.”

  “Say no more about it, honey. Gee, my damn head!”

  Catalina frowned. She sat up real straight, and tried to smile.

  “I have the headache, too.”

  She looked sick. I rubbed my throat.

  I should have known the answer then, but I didn’t. Not until she made gagging sounds and doubled up. Then she wrapped both arms about me and said she was going to die.

  There was nothing to be done. Whoever heard of an antidote for chili and Bourbon? But I was on my feet, with wild notions about dashing to a drug store. When she screamed, I turned back to get her. It’d save time, taking her along.

  I was all rattled, but that was nothing to what I was when I saw Catalina huddled face down on the slab. The red dress was collapsing as I stared. A queer sort of mist swirled up like cigarette smoke. Up this time.

  Her cry was not out of my ears before the dress and shoes were empty. I grabbed them and ran. There was no work and no school for me the next day. What kept me busy was thinking of what’d happen when someone wondered about my girlfriend; when someone trailed my footprints to the grave, and began to figure it was a nice place to hide a corpse.

  Mrs. Hill had a hunch someone had worn her dress and shoes, and she looked at me a lot, the next couple days. Half the wives in town were gabbling about the girl in red. One thing about that, Judge Mottley wouldn’t be asking me about her!

  Finally I went to the grave and opened it.

  The coffin wasn’t empty, but anyone could see that what was in it had been there for years and years. Now that that was settled, I sat down and bawled like a kid. Even when I learned that the epidemic of pernicious anemia was over, and Prof Rodman was the big scientist of the day, I felt rotten.

  Anyway, I got the job with Judge Mottley. I’m a member of the firm. And in odd moments, I sit on that slab, dosing my eyes and trying to bring Catalina’s face back in memory. Just what did happen to her is one for Prof Rodman to figure out.

  SELENE WALKS BY NIGHT

  (Also published as “Selene Slays by Night”)

  Originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, August 1940.

  She had gorgeous legs, and h
er skirt was high up over her knees. But it was her eyes that nailed me; they kept me from noticing garter clasps or what-have-you, of which last she had lots.

  Her smile said, “It’s awfully lonesome out here, every afternoon, I wish you wouldn’t hurry away…”

  Anyone can say that, but this gal could look it.

  Her eyes were hazel, with greenish glints in them. I don’t know why I thought of cats then, but I did. Women with cat-eyes aren’t awfully scarce. I mean the kind with drooping lids, longish and with a slant. This dame out in the hills gave me that notion from everything about her.

  Every move she made was cattish, particularly when she looked down and smiled a little, and let her skirt drop. She purred almost when she said, “I’ll take a dozen pair, Mister—?”

  “Uh—Clay,” I stuttered, like I’d just met myself.

  Legs weren’t a treat to me, not even when they’re part of a Grade A gal who looks lonesome. They were long and slim and sleek, but punching doorbells to sell Tru-Silk Hosiery is not conducive to sustained enthusiasm. Particularly not since the company sent out that gadget so the customer can figure out the exact length and thigh measurement for a perfect fit.

  That just made more work; but it quit being tiresome when this dame moved like a cat trying to rub up against someone it liked, and said, “Oh, I never was any good at figures, you could do it better, couldn’t you?” Well, she wanted a dozen pair, and her name was Selene Felice Brown. A queer combination, but the first two fit like the hose she was wearing at the time. I hadn’t the foggiest idea why they fit. They just sounded like she looked. I wondered if I’d spelled them right. Before I could check it back, she swayed closer, with a move that made me think of a friendly cat; so much so that I didn’t know whether she was or wasn’t getting familiar.

  I hoped she was. This business is not what people think it is. It’s as bad as peddling brushes, and let me tell you, the ice business has been way to hell-and-gone overrated. I’ve tried them all.