Department 19 d1-1

by William Hill

  Then he realized that was wrong. There was one person.

  He pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the howl of pain from his injured neck and crashed blindly back through the trees toward the headlights. He emerged to find the driver and Frankenstein leaning against the van. The look on the monster’s face suggested he had not been overly concerned.

  “Got that out of your system, did you?” asked Frankenstein, his voice containing a hint of laughter, and Jamie scowled at him.

  “Take me back to the Loop,” he said. “I want to talk to her again.”

  Frankenstein’s mouth narrowed.

  “Talk to whom?” he asked.

  “You know who,” said Jamie, and smiled.

  22

  THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART II

  New York, USA

  December 31, 1928

  John Carpenter was roused from sleep by a loud knocking on the door of his room. He awoke instantly, his hand reaching for the wooden stake he had placed on his bedside table. He slipped from beneath his bedding and padded softly across the carpeted floor to the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Henry Victor,” a low voice boomed from the other side of the wooden panels.

  Carpenter put the hand containing the stake behind his back and opened the door six inches, the length of the sturdy chain he had left fastened. Henry Victor stood in the hallway, his vast frame reaching to within an inch or two of the ceiling. He looked down at Carpenter with a look of anger on his face.

  “You know who I am,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I believe I do,” answered Carpenter.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “I told nobody.”

  “Your partner. Willis. Not even him?”

  “Not even him.”

  Victor reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a thick white envelope.

  “Then perhaps you will be able to explain this to me,” he said, handing the envelope to Carpenter.

  Carpenter took it, noting as he did so the enormous size of the man’s hand, and slipped the chain off its latch. He opened the door wide.

  “Come in,” he said, walking over to the small desk beneath his window and placing the envelope on the wooden top. Victor did so, shutting the door behind him. Carpenter pulled three sheets of stiff card from the envelope. The first two were invitations, gold-edged rectangles of board with three lines of ornate printing on them.

  CENTRAL PARK WEST AND WEST EIGHTY-FIFTH STREET DECEMBER 31, 1928 11 P.M.

  He set these aside and looked at the third card. It was a note, handwritten in beautiful copperplate script. Dear Mr. Frankenstein: Please do me the honor of gracing me with your presence evening. And do with your presence this evening. And do bring your new British friend-he has taken a room at the Hotel Chelsea on West Twenty-Third Street, in case you need to find him. Masks are mandatory, black tie is preferred. Yours, V

  “I haven’t used that name since I arrived in America,” Frankenstein’s voice said from above Carpenter’s head. “More than a year ago.”

  “Do you know anyone whose name starts with a V?” Carpenter asked.

  “No.”

  V for Valentin, thought Carpenter and a shiver ran up his spine. The youngest of the three brothers turned by Dracula himself. Could it be him?

  “What about Haslett? Jeremiah Haslett?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Frankenstein took a deep breath that sounded very much to Carpenter like an attempt at keeping his temper. “Mr. Carpenter, I keep myself to myself. Especially where vampires are concerned.”

  Carpenter snapped his head round. “What did you say?”

  Frankenstein laughed. “I’m sorry. Did you assume that you and your friends were the only ones who knew?” He laughed again, this time at the look of surprise on John’s face. “I am a creature of the night, Mr. Carpenter, for reasons that should be obvious to you. I have traveled widely and seen and heard a great many things. I knew the sorry tale of Dracula before the Irishman wrote it down. I heard the rumors about Crowley and others like him. I have heard about your little organization. I have even heard of you, Mr. Carpenter. Or your father, at least.”

  Carpenter stared at the monster, stunned. “Then you know why I am here,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

  “I presume you are here to make sure that Mr. Haslett does not return to England’s green and pleasant land?”

  Carpenter nodded.

  “And I would imagine that this evening’s gathering strikes you as your best opportunity to carry out your task?”

  “I am certainly hoping so. Will you let me have both invitations?”

  Frankenstein laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carpenter. I want to ask this V certain questions of my own. But I will accompany you, and if the opportunity to assist you in your mission presents itself, then I will certainly consider doing so. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds fine.” Carpenter hesitated for a moment. “One of the oldest vampires in the world is believed to live in this city. His name is Valentin Rusmanov. Have you heard of him?”

  “The youngest of the three brothers.”

  “Indeed. I wonder if he could be the V who sent the invitations.”

  “If that turns out to be the case,” said Frankenstein, “we will be well-advised to be extremely careful.”

  Carpenter showered and dressed quickly after Frankenstein had left but was still ten minutes late meeting Willis in the diner on Broadway that the American had selected as they said their farewells the previous evening. He slid into a red leather booth opposite Willis, ordered coffee and eggs, and quickly filled his partner in on the morning’s developments. Willis listened intently, then asked the question Carpenter had been waiting for.

  “Surely you realize that this invitation is a trap of some kind?”

  “Of course I do,” replied Carpenter. “But it still represents the best opportunity for me to carry out my mission. Surely you realize that?”

  Willis sipped his coffee.

  “I do, John,” he said. “I just felt it necessary to draw your attention to the fact that this V’s motives for inviting you and the monster are unlikely to be honorable. I meant no offense.”

  Carpenter felt his anger dissipate.

  Control yourself. This man is not your enemy.

  “Needless to say, I will take up position outside the building and will be ready to assist in any way that is required,” Willis continued. “Unless that does not sit well with you?”

  “That sits fine,” replied Carpenter. “I will be grateful for your presence.”

  “That settles it then,” said Willis, and he forced a smile. “Now, let us turn our attention to breakfast. It promises to be a long day.”

  John Carpenter stood at the corner of Central Park West and West Eighty-Third Street, waiting for Frankenstein. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, and the night was cold and dark.

  He had left Willis in the diner and caught a carriage uptown to take care of some errands. He purchased a dinner suit from a tailor that Willis had recommended on Madison Avenue, continued north into Harlem to pay a short visit to a builder’s merchant before returning to his hotel to prepare himself for the ball, eating a light dinner in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue and making his way toward the wide expanse of Central Park.

  “Cold night,” said a deep voice from behind him.

  Carpenter started and spun around. Frankenstein towered above him, a beautiful dinner suit covering his huge frame. He was looking down at Carpenter with a faint smile on his face.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” he said, and the smile widened a fraction.

  “Apology accepted,” Carpenter managed in reply.

  You bloody fool. Concentrate on the matter in hand, for God’s sake. To be so easily surprised is unacceptable.

  Frankenstein nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he sai
d. “Shall we?” He gestured along Central Park West, to the corner of the Upper West Side that was their destination.

  The two men walked quickly to the address the invitations had specified. On the corner before them was a vast Gothic town house, dominated by a tall circular tower that rose high above the slanted roof. The many windows of the building blazed with light, and even from their position across the road, the sounds of laughter and music could be heard. Standing by the large wooden door was an equally large figure in a dark gray overcoat and an expressionless Venetian mask, and it was to this apparition that the two men presented their invitations.

  The figure studied them carefully. “Masks,” it said, in a flat voice.

  Carpenter pulled a black eye mask from his pocket and set it in place. Frankenstein carefully looped the ribbons of a white mask with a long, narrow nose over his ears, and the doorman stood aside.

  The hallway was wide and grandly appointed, mirrors and paintings hanging at intervals along the walls, vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface. A black-and-white tiled marble floor gleamed beneath their feet. An elderly waiter clad in immaculate white tie appeared beside them, proffering a tray of delicate crystal champagne flutes. The two men accepted and walked down the corridor toward a pair of double doors, from behind which came the sounds of a ball in full swing.

  Carpenter opened one of the doors, and they walked inside. There were at least two hundred people in the cavernous ballroom, some on the wide marble dance floor, others standing in groups around the edges of the room, or sitting at round tables, laughing and conversing. At the back of the room, a low stage held a jazz quartet who were thumping out a furious rhythm of bass and drums, over which the pianist was rattling out a ragtime melody. The air was full of cigarette smoke, the pungent scents of opium and incense, shrill peals of laughter, and the hum of a great many voices mingled together.

  “Look how big you are!” shrieked a voice to their left, and the two men turned.

  A young woman with a feathered mask hiding her face and her figure wrapped in a dark red ball gown that brushed the floor was staring openly at Frankenstein, a look of wonder on her face as she swayed ever so slightly on towering stiletto heels.

  “It’s considered rude to stare,” said Carpenter.

  “Don’t be so silly,” the woman replied, turning her face toward him. Through the holes in the mask Carpenter could see that the woman’s eyes were struggling to focus, and he relaxed.

  “I believe you may have had too much to drink,” he said to her. “Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good. I’m sure you don’t wish to embarrass yourself.”

  He stepped back and opened the door to the corridor, holding it for her. She looked at him for a moment, as if she were trying to construct a riposte, then lifted her nose high into the air and strode unsteadily into the hallway without giving them a second look.

  “Thank you,” Frankenstein said as soon as the door was again closed. “I would have surely lost my temper had you not removed her.”

  “You’re welcome,” Carpenter replied. “I suggest we part company and search for our respective targets.”

  Frankenstein agreed, turned away, and disappeared into the crowd. Carpenter went in the other direction, skirting the edge of the dance floor, looking for Jeremiah Haslett.

  He passed a table full of sleek young men, their dinner suits gleaming black, the pleats razor sharp, and he found himself unable to look away. There was something intoxicating about them, the cigarettes dangling casually from their pale fingers, the easy manner of their conversation, the-

  “Watch where you’re going, for heaven’s sake,” said a loud voice.

  Carpenter pulled his gaze from the table, sought the source of the reprimand, and felt his heart lurch. In front of him stood a large, stocky man wearing a carved vulture mask, from the eyeholes of which flashed a dark red glow. The man leaned forward, peering at Carpenter. He seemed about to speak when a young woman in a black dress danced into him, and he spun around and berated her for her clumsiness. When he turned back toward Carpenter, the glow from the mask was gone, and the man shoved roughly past him and disappeared.

  I saw them, though. I saw his eyes. What is this place?

  He worked his way to the long bar and was about to place an order when he saw a skeletally thin shape in the corner of his eye and turned toward it.

  Jeremiah Haslett was standing fifteen feet away from him, leaning on the corner of the wooden bar, talking to a beautiful blonde woman who could barely have been more than a teenager. He was wearing a red velvet eye mask and a triangular hat, but Carpenter recognized the sharp nose and the thin, cruel mouth from the photographs that had belatedly filled the London newspapers.

  Carpenter reached into his pocket, withdrew a narrow wooden stake, and let his arm drop to his side, concealing the weapon in his hand. He stepped forward, slowly, not wishing to announce his presence before it was necessary, then suddenly found the path to his target blocked by a group of laughing men and women, as they carried a tray of drinks and cigars away from the bar and back to the tables. He pushed one of the women gently out of the way, trying not to lose sight of his quarry, and she rounded on him, hissing loudly, the same dark red glow emanating from the holes in her delicate feathered mask. His heart leapt, but he stepped past her.

  Haslett was gone.

  Carpenter cursed and ran to where his quarry had stood, attracting looks of disapproval from the throng of drinking, dancing men and women. He looked around in every direction, but there was no sign of the Englishman.

  Behind him the band struck up a new number, and the activity on the dance floor intensified. A grandfather clock set between two long mirrors behind the bar tolled once, and Carpenter looked at it; the hands on the ornate face told him that it was a quarter to midnight.

  He no longer wanted another drink. He pushed on into the crowd, looking for Haslett, or for Frankenstein, but could see neither man. He passed a heavy locked door that he presumed led into the rest of the house, then found himself caught among a large group of guests and was carried out onto the dance floor, his feet barely touching the ground.

  He pulled free of the good-natured hands that grabbed at his arms and spun, disorientated. He tried to make his way toward the band, but a pretty redheaded woman blocked his path, smiling seductively at him, the tips of her incisors sharp and gleaming beneath the fractured light of the enormous crystal chandelier that hung above them. He turned about and struck out in the opposite direction but had no more success. A ring of men and women rotated in a frenzied circle of kicking feet and flailing arms, their momentum spinning him like a top. As a young man swung past him, his long blond hair flying out behind him, Carpenter saw the red glow beneath the material of his feline mask, and his skin ran cold. He turned and almost ran into the wide chest of an elderly man, who was dancing with great enthusiasm with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. The man turned and snarled at him, his white mask glowing red, two pointed teeth appearing beneath his upper lip.

  Oh God, there are hundreds of them. What have I done?

  He reached into his pocket and pulled the stake free, but a girl wearing a diamond tiara above a Japanese kabuki mask thumped into him, and the weapon clattered to the floor. He swore beneath his breath and stooped to look for it, but a dozen feet kicked it beyond his reach. Carpenter stood up and a wave of terror so strong it was almost physical flooded through him.

  Standing before him was a luminously elegant man. He wore no mask, and his face, the features hinting at an eastern European ancestry, was so pale it was almost transparent, the veins tracing a faint pattern of blue across the milky flesh. Around them the dancing seemed to have intensified, if that were possible, yet no one collided with the man, or even appeared to come close to doing so. It was as though he were surrounded by a magnetic field that repelled the revelers.

  It is him. Dear God, it really is. The youngest of the three.

  Valentin Rusmanov rega
rded Carpenter with a look that made him feel like a specimen in a laboratory. The man’s eyes were the same pale blue as the veins beneath his skin and had a hypnotic quality; he felt himself sinking into them and struggled to pull his gaze away. He was about to say something, although he had no idea what it was going to be, when thundering peals of bells began to count the chimes of midnight.

  Everything stopped. The chimes rang on, three, four, five, but they were now the only sound in the room. The dancing had ceased, as had all conversation. Carpenter looked around, sure what he would see, but fear still flooded his system when he saw that he was right.

  Everyone in the room was staring silently at him.

  The final chime rang out, echoing in the quiet air, and from the back of the room a voice shouted, “Unmask!” There was a second of hesitation, then Valentin nodded, and there was a frenzy of movement as the guests removed their masks, a red glow filling the room as they did so. Carpenter looked around helplessly as the hundreds of men and women turned back to face him.

  He was surrounded by vampires.

  They regarded him with smiles on their faces, their fangs now fully extended, their eyes gleaming terrible crimson.

  This is how it ends. Torn to pieces on my first mission. My father would be ashamed.

  23