The Vampire Files, Volume One

by P. N. Elrod

I slipped inside and got oriented. The front window shades were pulled, but the low level of illumination was more than adequate. Turning the lights on would have just annoyed a passing cop. After poking around, I located a pencil, receipt book, and a pair of gloves, not necessarily in that order, and proceeded to wait on myself.

  Careful to print, I recorded the purchase of several shirts, ties, a couple of suits, some other odds and ends, and the real corker: a tuxedo, complete right down to the white fringed scarf to drape around my neck. I figured the scarf would make me look more like Fred Astaire than Bela Lugosi.

  The clothes were high quality and with a price to match, but aside from rent and a few tips, I wasn’t spending my money on very much else. I overpaid the purchases by three bucks since I was out of small bills, but thought it would be sufficient compensation to the shop owner for my inconvenient nocturnal intrusion. I could have just walked out with the stuff, but I’m basically an honest guy. Besides, if the incident were reported to the cops, they would probably do nothing. The stuff was paid for and then some. They’d have bigger fish to catch than some customer who took self-service very seriously.

  After packaging everything up into a stack of long, flat boxes, I tried leaving by the back door in order to avoid witnesses to my impromptu Houdini act. There were alarms on all the doors, set to go off if they were opened, so I was forced to dematerialize to get out. Not all the boxes went through, the ones that didn’t tumbled to the shop floor. I made several trips in and out after that, holding the larger ones close. Since I had to enter the back door of my hotel by the same method, I got a lot of practice in that night. The boxes all bore the name of the store I’d “burgled” and I didn’t want to be seen entering the lobby at a late hour with an armful of incriminating evidence. Should the story of the honest thief make the morning papers, the last thing I needed was to have some night clerk putting things together. Maybe I was being overly cautious, but sometimes paranoia pays off.

  Before midnight had rolled around, my new duds were hung up, their labels removed and flushed. Taking another short walk out the back way, I disposed of the boxes and wrappings in some isolated trash can.

  Escott was sitting in my armchair smoking his pipe when I returned.

  “You certainly waste no time.” He nodded at my open closet and its new contents, and his eyes went to the top hat on the bureau. “Planning an evening out?”

  “Maybe. From what I hear about the Nightcrawler Club, I figure a plain old suit and tie wouldn’t get me past the hat check girls.”

  He murmured agreement. If he had questions about how and where I came by the stuff, he kept them to himself.

  “Is this a social visit?”

  “More or less. I was wondering if you had seen the papers.”

  I knew what he was talking about. “Yeah, but you know how these things can get distorted. Editors like to punch things up; it sells papers.”

  “True, but even taking that into consideration, there was quite a lot of copy devoted to Frank Paco’s mental condition.”

  “He must have been running close to the edge. The fire may have pushed him right over—either that or he’s faking to keep Morelli from collecting.”

  “Has your memory come back on anything since last night?”

  “Haven’t thought about it,” I lied. “I’ve been busy.”

  “And I as well.” He pulled five thousand dollars from his inside pocket and gave them to me.

  “Clean?”

  “Very clean.”

  “I’ll try not to spend it all in one place. Don’t I owe you something, though?”

  “For what?”

  “For this case, or are you working for free these days?”

  He made a noise that was something like a laugh. “Mr. Fleming, I have already received a very exceptional fee for this case and it is safely lodged in my home, all five thousand of it. You have been more than generous, believe me. As it was, I had not planned to bill you anything at all, especially not after you prevented Sanderson from dumping my careless carcass into the river.”

  “All right, we’ll call it even, then.”

  “You don’t keep banker’s hours. You have a safe place to keep your share?”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be locked away.”

  “Very well.” He changed the subject again, but kept the conversational tone in his voice. “Did you know that several of Paco’s key men have been arrested on suspicion of arson?”

  “Fancy that,” I chuckled.

  “I’ve also been going through the papers you brought out.”

  “Is it good stuff?”

  “It is excellent stuff. I made copies for future reference, and then anonymously turned them over to the right people. If Paco were in his right mind, he would certainly be in jail by now, rather than in hospital.”

  “Better that he’s in the hospital; he can’t make bail and leave the country.”

  “He does have a police guard on him.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.”

  “What did you do to him?” he asked in the same quiet tone.

  I wasn’t ready to talk about it. He could see that, but just sat there and waited.

  “Was it something to do with your condition?” he said after a long time.

  After all the activity last night I had needed to go straight to the Stockyards, so he knew I hadn’t touched Paco’s throat. Such an assault might have driven the man around the bend, though at the time it hadn’t even occurred to me to try. Escott was fishing around for something more subtle.

  I avoided his eyes. “You’ve seen him?”

  “I talked with a nurse who had.”

  “How is he?”

  “The same as he was last night.”

  He wanted to know very badly.

  “Was that a result of one of your powers?”

  I caught myself avoiding his gaze again and stopped. “You make it sound like I’m Chandu the Magician.”

  “More like Lamont Cranston.”

  He was referring to the introduction of “The Shadow” radio show. Every time it came on, the audience was reminded of his power to cloud men’s minds. “Yeah, I guess it was something like that.”

  “What kind of control do you have?”

  “I don’t know, that was the problem.”

  “Are you going to learn how?”

  “No!”

  He gave me a few minutes to cool down. I paced the little room and looked out the window for a while. The street was still down there. I thought about Maureen and all the things she hadn’t told me.

  “Mr. Fleming . . .”

  His formality was annoying. “Why don’t you call me Jack?”

  “I was going to wait until your case was cleared away. I prefer to keep things on a business level with my clients until they cease to be my clients.”

  I looked at him now. My mind was concentrated and I prayed controlled. His gray eyes had ceased their normal movements and were locked onto mine. It was so damned easy.

  “Call me Jack.”

  His pipe dropped to the floor with a clack, and the tobacco inside scattered from the impact. The movement distracted me just enough. He blinked and his face resumed the expression he had a few seconds ago.

  “Where’s your pipe?” I asked.

  He found it and apologized for the mess.

  “But how did it get there?”

  “I must have dr—” He let his breath out slowly. “You did it just now?”

  “Yes, I told you to do something. The pipe falling was just a side issue. Now do you see why I want to leave this alone?”

  “Induced hypnotism . . .”

  “No—”

  “Jack, this is not something you should avoid, this demands responsib—”

  “Am I still your client?”

  It was an oddball question and he wondered why I’d asked it. I told him.

  “You see how it is? You weren’t even aware of what I did. You think it’s
your own idea. If I told you to jump out the window singing ‘Swanee’ you’d do it.”

  “If it were hypnosis, I would not.”

  “Yeah, I know all that. You can’t get a person to do anything against his will—but that’s for the normal kind, and this isn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I saw what it did to Paco.”

  “Did you do it on purpose?”

  “No—I don’t know—it was an emotional thing as well. I don’t know how it works, it just happened. It got away from me and I’m not going to try anything like that again. I have no right to.”

  “And how do you plan to control it if you choose to ignore it?”

  “I don’t know. . . . I’ll work things out. I could avoid all this arguing by just telling you to forget all this.”

  “Then do so.”

  “No. I’m not going to go banging around in your brain with a monkey wrench and have you ending up like Paco.”

  Escott nodded thoughtfully and refilled and lit his pipe. “I almost wish other people were as morally minded as that, but then I should be out of a job.”

  It took me a minute to figure out what he meant by that beyond the obvious, but at times I could be pretty damn slow. His needling had been more of a test than curiosity. Apparently my reaction was satisfactory and I almost resented his game. Almost, because if our positions were reversed I might have done the same thing to him.

  I tried to laugh, but it came out sour. “Yeah, I’m a goddamned Jack Armstrong.”

  He stood up. “If you’ve nothing else planned, would you care to go for a drive? I find it to be quite relaxing and I’ve found something you might like to see.”

  I didn’t, so we did. He took the Nash as far north as the streets led without actually being in the lake, then took an east-west road. He went dead slow past a two-story brick building that took up the whole block. The place was dark except for a couple of upstairs windows.

  “The Nightcrawler Club,” he said, in case I’d missed the dark neon sign on the front. “I thought you’d like a look at it. They’re closed on Sundays.”

  He drove down a block and pulled over. We got out and walked past the place, then around to the back. I noticed someone standing in the rear alley and told Escott to keep going. We turned away from the club, going north again until we were stopped by a railing that overlooked the lake. We stood only ten feet above the black water, but I hated any kind of height, and kept away from the rail. Escott leaned on it and stared at the garbage swelling against the concrete boundary of the land.

  “Who was in the alley?” he asked.

  “An off-duty waiter, maybe, but he was dressed fancy.”

  “We can try again later.”

  He pushed away from the rail and headed east along the water. There wasn’t much to see: a few boats tied up, others were at anchor farther out; they all looked asleep at this late hour.

  “Do you see anything there?” He pointed to something large on the lake. The last time I’d seen it was in profile. It’s stern was toward us now, but I had no trouble reading the name.

  “The Elvira.”

  “I couldn’t be sure of her in the dark, but she is in the same spot she was in this afternoon. Morelli’s on board now with his lady friend. He spends his free time there when he can.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “What does it bring to mind?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Right now it’s just another boat.”

  We walked on and made a big circle before coming back to the club. The alley was clear this time, but there wasn’t anything worth seeing. It was wide enough for the delivery trucks, and had no more than its share of trash at the edges and the usual loading platform and steps that go with back doors. When I took an incidental breath, the place stank with a wet and used smell—nothing extraordinary—it could be found in any alley with bad drainage the world over.

  I shook my head again to his unasked question. As a memory jog, the place was useless. We walked back to the car, or at least tried. The fancily dressed man must have taken a turn around the block himself. It was hard to tell who was more surprised. Automatically his hand went to his belt, where he kept his gun.

  “What’re you doing here? Get out!”

  We were more than ready to oblige and moved away from him, but like a yapping dog, he trotted up behind to make sure we left. Things were peaceful enough until someone else stepped out the back door.

  “What is it, Ed?”

  “Couple of guys and they’re leaving.”

  “Who are you with?” he said to us.

  “Just ourselves, takin’ a walk home,” said Escott. He had an American accent now and sounded slightly drunk.

  “And where’s home?”

  “Nonayur business. You want us out, we’re out.” Swaying, he grabbed my arm and started away.

  “Ed.”

  Ed needed no further instructions. He came around in front of us and pulled the gun. I hoped it was too dark for him to see our faces clearly.

  “What’s the big idea?” protested Escott. “We’re goin’.”

  “In a minute,” said Ed. “Turn around and keep your hands out.”

  He marched us up to the loading dock, the second man joining us at street level. He also had a gun. With his other hand he was pulling out a lighter. While he fumbled to get it working, I felt Escott’s muscles tighten. It wouldn’t do us any good if those bozos got a clear look at us. While they were watching the sparking lighter, Escott released my arm and twisted backward, grabbing Ed’s gun hand and forcing it down. I jumped the other guy and tried to do the same. He had the gun up and fired once, but I knocked it to the outside before it could do any damage. I didn’t waste time pulling it away from him, but just hit the side of his head and stunned him. He went down hard and ceased to be a worry.

  I checked Escott. Ed had lost his gun and they were both scrambling and rolling on the concrete to get it. I kicked it out of the way and when there was an opening in the punching and flailing, leaned in and knocked Ed cold. I dragged Escott to his feet, and we ran out of the alley for the car before the one wild shot could bring reinforcements. Escott had the keys out and ready. He opened the passenger door, dived in, and slid over. The Nash was started and in gear almost as fast.

  He was breathless with a thin sweat on his face, but his eyes were gleaming happily. The man was crazy, he’d been enjoying himself back there.

  “That was good exercise,” he puffed. “At least we know they take their security as seriously as Paco.”

  “That could be a problem.”

  “But not for you, my dear chap. Thanks for the helping hand, that fellow was awfully fast.”

  “Anytime. Are you done for the night or do you want to take on any wandering longshoremen just to cap things off?”

  “Another time. Believe me, I did not think they’d react so suspiciously. The one on the steps must have seen through my drunk act. A pity, it went over well enough on stage. I shall have to show you my press clippings sometime. Oh, dear.”

  He pulled the car over fast, the right front wheel bumping the curb as we jerked to a halt. He was still breathing hard and his damp skin was gray.

  “Oh, damn. Oh, bloody damn.” He pressed a hand against his left side. Blood was seeping freely between his fingers. “The bastard had a knife.” He slipped sideways against me in a dead faint.

  7

  DR. Clarson was a small man with large brown hands that at first glance didn’t look dexterous enough for the work they were doing. His tightly curling hair was cut close to the scalp. He was about fifty, but the gray at the sides made him seem older. His movements were economical, and if he had any opinions about patching up a white man in his tiny examining room at two o’clock on a Monday morning, he kept them professionally to himself.

  Escott was out cold again on the exam table. The room was too small for anyone else but him and the doctor, so Shoe Coldfield and I had to be content to
cool our heels in the waiting room outside. There were six old wooden chairs, each as scarred as the matching floor, a small table that must have served the receptionist as a desk, and some ancient file cabinets, also of wood. The place was very clean, though, and smelled sharply of antiseptic. Coldfield looked worried, but not overly anxious. However shabby the place was, he had trust in Clarson’s medical skills.

  I was restless and wanted to pace, but held it in check, trying to follow Coldfield’s example of patience. He sat quite still on one of the chairs, his gaze straying to the doctor and Escott, alert in case he was needed. All I could do was fidget around on my perch on the table and try not to look at the smears of blood we left decorating the floor when we brought Escott in. Bloody damn had been right, my hands and clothes were covered with the stuff. From the literature I’d read in the past on the subject of blood and vampires, I should have been feeling something other than sick horror.

  The blood on my hands got sticky, and I asked if there was a washroom nearby. Coldfield glanced up and led the way out to one down the hall. We cleaned up as best we could, but our clothes would be the laundry’s problem.

  Things hadn’t changed at the office. We sat down again. I chewed on a nail, a habit I hadn’t fallen into since I was a kid. It tasted lousy, so I forced my hand down with the other and kept still. I looked at Coldfield and wondered why he hadn’t asked for explanations, as he was certainly entitled to do, but then I hadn’t volunteered any. I looked at Clarson’s back and wondered what was taking so long and if we should call an ambulance.

  I had eased Escott down on the seat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it against his side. It soaked through in what seemed like an instant, but I could see now that my reckoning of time had been distorted by fear. With his head level with his heart, he came to after a moment and said something unintelligible, then clearly said my name.

  “I’m right here. I’ll get you to a hospital if I can find one.”

  “No. Find Shoe . . . closer.”

  I had no better ideas and at least I knew where to go. Somehow I got over to the driver’s side and drove like hell to the Shoe Box.

  Half a dozen dark men jumped when we screeched up outside the place, and I could hardly blame them. A couple came up to the car, and I recognized one man from our previous visit. He stuck his head in the window, his eyes going wide and curious at Escott’s huddled form.