by Alan K Baker
‘Johnny Sanguine did – at least, that’s what Capone believes.’
‘Sanguine?’ said Carter.
‘Yeah. Capone wants me to help him prove it – that’s why he had his goons pick me up. He thinks Sanguine’s planning to muscle in on his Chicago territory, and used zombies to steal the Falcon so that suspicion would immediately fall on Capone. With the Diesel-Powered Gangster fingered for the heist, the Vampire King of Brooklyn will have a clear run at Chicago.’
‘That fits,’ said Carter.
‘My ass,’ said Wiseman.
Carter gave him a warning look.
Fort glanced at each of them in turn. ‘What do you mean it fits?’
‘Three deadwalkers were found in the alley behind the Algonquin a short time ago,’ Carter said. ‘Deactivated, just your run-of-the-mill corpses. We took mugshots and showed them to the security guard who survived the heist at the Metropolitan Museum. He ID’d them. They’re the ones who stole the Falcon.’
Fort smiled. ‘Yeah, but you don’t think so, do you Dave?’
Wiseman shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring true to me. Maybe Capone had the bird stolen, then cooked up this cockamamie story to point the finger at Sanguine to get him off his back.’
Fort sighed. ‘It’s a tough one, all right. Got you going round in circles, huh boys? Did Sanguine steal the bird to finger Capone, or the other way round? Yep, it’s a tough one all right. But think about this: Capone wouldn’t dispose of his goons like that – it’s way too messy. They were obviously planted in that alley…’
‘By whoever was really controlling them,’ added Carter.
Fort nodded, blowing smoke across the room. ‘If this was Sanguine’s doing, it would make sense for him to plant the deadwalkers outside Capone’s hotel; but if it was Capone, trying to make it look like Sanguine was framing him, he wouldn’t do it that way. It’s too complicated, too clumsy. Occam’s razor, boys.’
‘Whose razor?’ said Wiseman.
‘It’s a scientific principle, genius,’ said Fort. ‘It means that the more complicated an explanation is, the less likely it is to be correct. Capone steals the Falcon and tries to make it look like Sanguine stole it and is attempting to frame Capone? Come on! That’s what doesn’t ring true.’
‘And you’d know about that, wouldn’t you, Fort?’ said Wiseman.
Fort stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately began to roll another.
‘Pretty nervous, aren’t you?’ said Wiseman.
‘I’m tired and I want to get back to bed, so why don’t you two gentlemen take a hike? I’ve told you nothing you didn’t already know, so either tell me the real reason you’re here at twelve-forty in the goddamned morning or get lost.’
‘Watch your mouth, Charlie boy,’ said Wiseman with sudden heat in his voice.
Fort dropped his newly-rolled cigarette and stood up. ‘Or what, pussy cat?’
‘That’s enough,’ said Carter, ‘both of you. Charlie, sit down.’
‘It’s bad manners to sit when your guests are about to leave,’ Fort replied, his eyes still fixed on Wiseman.
‘Johnny Sanguine is dead,’ said Carter.
‘He’s a vampire – they’re all dead,’ said Fort.
‘I mean he’s really dead. He was staked in his apartment yesterday afternoon. Now… will you please sit down?’
Fort sat down. ‘Someone murdered him?’
‘That’s what it looks like,’ replied Carter. ‘Can’t say too many people will be sorry. In any event, word is out already.’
‘Do you have any idea who did it?’
‘We were kind of hoping you’d know something about it,’ said Wiseman.
‘I don’t.’
Wiseman turned to Carter. ‘I’m tired of this, John. Let’s take him in. Fort, get dressed.’
Carter held up a hand, and his partner fell silent. ‘You have to help us out here, Charlie. Was Capone responsible?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Wiseman.
Fort picked up his cigarette. ‘I’m telling you the truth, boys. You can take me in if you like, stick me in a cell and bring me breakfast in the morning – I like my eggs over easy – but you’ll get the same answer, today, tomorrow and the day after that. But tell me something: if Sanguine was staked in his apartment, how could Capone be your guy? I mean, that’s what you’re implying, right? An inside job?’
Neither of the policemen said anything.
‘Maybe one of Sanguine’s men was working for Capone…’
Carter and Wiseman maintained their silence.
‘Pretty unlikely, huh? Given the loyalty vampires show toward each other – especially mob vampires. So… who did it?’
‘Maybe you,’ said Wiseman.
‘Do I look like I could go up against someone like Johnny Sanguine and win? And even if I did manage to get into his apartment, how could I have got out again without being flayed alive?’
Wiseman shrugged. ‘Way I see it, you contacted Sanguine and asked for a meet. Maybe you told him that Capone was onto him, and you had some information that might be useful to him. The details don’t matter at this stage. What matters is that you managed to get into his apartment, staked him, and managed to get out again.’
Fort chuckled. ‘Details don’t matter? That could be your motto, Dave. Putting aside the fact that what you’ve just said undermines your own theory, you’re painting with a pretty big brush, aren’t you? Come on! You know that bird won’t fly – although I understand why you’d want it to. It would make your job an awful lot easier, wouldn’t it? The way I see it, you’ve got a big headache. Not only do you have to find out who really killed Johnny Sanguine, but you have to do it before a war starts between Sanguine’s vampires and Capone’s bunch.’
‘If that happens,’ said Carter, ‘the entire city’s going to go up in flames. Nobody wants that.’
Fort blew another stream of smoke. ‘I’ll say. So why don’t you boys run along and stop it from happening?’
Carter gave him a miserable look. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us, Charlie?’
‘Nothing, John. But I promise I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.’
‘Let’s go, Dave,’ said Carter.
Wiseman smiled at Fort in a humourless way. ‘Thanks for your help Fort, what little there was of it.’
Fort raised his half-empty coffee mug in an ironic toast.
‘What are you going to do now, Charlie?’ asked Carter. ‘And if you say “go to bed”, so help me God I’ll run you in.’
Fort chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed. Sanguine’s out of the picture – whoever did it. There’s no more reason for me to have any involvement with Capone. I won’t lie to you – I’m glad about that. But that’s it, for me.’
Carter smiled. ‘I envy you.’
‘Like I said, I’ll still keep my eyes and ears open.’
Carter and Wiseman left without saying another word. Fort closed and locked the door behind them, then went back to the living room and poured himself more coffee. He sat at the table, smoking and drinking, for a long time.
CHAPTER 8
Zombie Autopsy
Fort had offered to pick up Lovecraft at his apartment on Clinton Street, but Lovecraft had declined, saying he preferred to meet the private detective at the Manhattan Municipal Building. Something in Lovecraft’s tone told Fort that his new employee didn’t want him to see the depressed circumstances in which he was forced to live, and Fort had agreed without further comment.
It was 8.45 in the morning when the bullet-nosed upway train carrying Fort glided on its single rail into the station in the tower of the Municipal Building on Center Street. The cobweb-like network of upway lines that covered New York City had been built followin
g the Interborough Rapid Transit Company’s discovery of several Dero caverns during its excavation of the first subway tunnels in the 1890s. The entire subway project had been abandoned a few weeks later in favour of the upway system, since although the caverns had apparently not been used for years or even centuries by the Dero, the IRT’s planners did not relish the prospect of the creatures returning to wreak havoc with paying passengers.
Fort stepped onto the platform, which was decorated in the same grand Beaux-Arts style as the rest of the building, to find Lovecraft already there, waiting for him.
‘What time did you get here?’ asked Fort.
‘About an hour ago. I thought I would take some time to admire the architecture of the station.’
‘You’ve been wandering around the place for an hour?’ Fort shook his head and smiled. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘My favoured mode of existence is nocturnal,’ said Lovecraft as they joined the lines of office workers filing towards the elevators. ‘I much prefer the peace and darkness of the night when writing; but when circumstance requires that I be abroad during the day, I am a habitual early riser.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Fort as they stopped in front of the bank of elevators and watched, along with the other commuters, the arrows above the doors slowly rising.
‘May I enquire,’ continued Lovecraft, ‘as to our reason for being here?’
‘I want to talk to the City Medical Examiner,’ Fort replied.
‘For what purpose?’
Fort lowered his voice as he replied: ‘The three zombies who stole the Martian Falcon were found, deactivated, in an alley out back of the Algonquin yesterday. I need to get a look at the autopsy report. Maybe it’ll tell us who created them.’
‘Will you be allowed to do so?’ Lovecraft asked in surprise.
‘The Medical Examiner owes me a favour. A big one. A while back, I got rid of an imp which his ex-wife had sent to bug him. Nasty little bastard it was. Made his life a misery.’
‘How did she…?’
‘Hired a wizard in the Bronx. I took care of the imp without having it bounce back on him. Now he owes me a favour, too.’
‘Are you a wizard, Mr Fort?’
‘Charlie.’
‘Sorry… Charlie?’
‘Not as such, but I do know a little Magick. I can take care of myself on that score.’
The elevator arrived, and Lovecraft and Fort squeezed themselves in amongst the commuters. Lovecraft opened his mouth to say something else, but Fort gave him a warning look, and he closed it again.
They left the elevator on the fifth floor, and Fort led the way along several crowded corridors. In spite of his greater height, Lovecraft struggled to keep up with his rapidly-striding employer. The sounds of voices and footsteps bounced from the Art Deco walls and marble floor, and Fort weaved in and out of the throng with the grace of a ballet dancer.
When they finally arrived at the outer door to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, Lovecraft was quite out of breath.
Fort looked him up and down. ‘Not one for exercise, are you Howard?’
‘I’ve never really experienced the necessity to take any,’ Lovecraft replied in a contrite tone.
Fort grinned unsympathetically. ‘That may change, pal, that may change.’
He opened the door and strode into a large room, one wall of which was dominated by the seal of the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office, a winged caduceus combined with the scales of justice on a blue background.
The receptionist, a bespectacled woman in her middle years with an immaculate hairdo and a no-nonsense attitude, looked up at him. ‘May I help you?’ she asked curtly.
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said Fort. ‘I’d like to see Mr Dunsby.’
She raised a carefully-plucked eyebrow. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, I’m afraid Mr Dunsby is very busy.’
‘I’ve no doubt,’ Fort smiled, ‘with three deadwalkers in his lap. Just tell him Charles Fort would like a word.’
The receptionist sniffed at him. ‘That won’t be possible. If you’d just like to…’
‘Mr Fort?’ said a voice from the open door to an inner office.
Fort and Lovecraft turned to see a small, balding man in his late fifties, whose neatly-pressed suit couldn’t hide the fact that its occupant had seen better, less stressful days.
‘Good morning, Mr Dunsby,’ said Fort. ‘Any chance of a quick word?’
‘About what?’
Fort’s smile grew broader. ‘I need a favour.’ He nodded at the door in which Dunsby was standing. ‘Do you mind if my associate and I step inside for a few minutes?’
The Chief Medical Examiner hesitated, then said to the receptionist: ‘Miss Davenport, hold all calls.’
‘Yes, Mr Dunsby,’ she replied, before giving Fort an extremely dirty look.
‘A pleasure, ma’am,’ he said, then beckoned to Lovecraft to follow him into the office.
‘How are things, Mr Dunsby?’ asked Fort when Dunsby had closed his office door and motioned him and Lovecraft to a pair of chairs facing his cluttered desk. ‘No more problems with supernaturals, I take it.’
‘None whatsoever,’ Dunsby replied. ‘Whatever you did, it worked.’
‘By the way, this is my associate, Howard Lovecraft.’
Lovecraft leaned across the desk, offering his hand, which Dunsby shook reluctantly.
‘You wanted a quick word, you said.’
‘That’s right.’
Dunsby smiled humourlessly. ‘Now I understand why you refused payment when you got rid of that imp.’
Fort shrugged. ‘Now you understand.’
‘I thought money was the only thing that mattered to you guys.’
‘Far from it, Mr Dunsby.’
Dunsby sighed. ‘Well… what can I do for you?’
‘You can give me a peek at the autopsy report on those three zombies that were found outside the Algonquin yesterday.’
Dunsby frowned. ‘What’s your interest in them?’
‘I had a run-in with some of their pals yesterday morning in Brooklyn.’
‘What… kind of a run-in?’ Dunsby asked slowly.
‘That’s not important.’
Dunsby sat forward in his chair. ‘Listen, Mr Fort. I accept that you’re calling in a pretty big favour, but you have to square with me. Why do you want to see the autopsy report?’
Fort sat forward in his own chair. ‘All right, I’ll square with you. Johnny Sanguine has been murdered, and the police are looking at me pretty hard.’
‘They think you might have had something to do with it?’
‘They do, and as if that weren’t enough, they also think I might have had something to do with the theft of the Martian Falcon. Seems like those boys have got me lined up to take the rap for half the crimes in New York.’
‘John Carter is heading up that investigation,’ said Dunsby.
‘Yeah, him and his boyfriend Dave Wiseman. I need them off my back, especially since the vampire mob will also be looking for someone to blame for their boss’s death, and if word gets out that I’m a suspect, I’ll be in more trouble than even I can handle.’
‘We must also confront the likelihood,’ Lovecraft added, ‘that the police will be trying very hard for a speedy resolution to their murder investigation, before a war erupts between the Capone gang and Sanguine’s vampires. If they can pin Sanguine’s murder on Mr Fort, it’s all the more likely that a war will be averted.’
Dunsby glanced sharply at Lovecraft. ‘Are you implying that Lieutenant Carter would pursue Mr Fort under false pretences?’
‘Er…’ said Lovecraft.
‘No, he’s not saying that,’ said Fort with a quick, narrow-eyed glance at Lovecraft.
‘Mr Lovecraft chose his words poorly.’
‘I’m afraid I did,’ said Lovecraft.
‘Look, Dunsby, here’s the thing: I need to know exactly who created those zombies, whether it was Sanguine or Capone, and I need to know real fast. Are you going to help me out?’
Dunsby sighed and began to search the clutter of papers on his desk. ‘The autopsy was conducted yesterday evening. We always put supernatural cases to the top of the list: we don’t like to keep such things in the building any longer than we have to.’
‘Very wise, sir,’ said Lovecraft.
Fort gave him a look that said ‘zip it’.
Dunsby found what he was looking for and handed a sheet of paper across the desk to Fort. ‘Preliminary report,’ he said, ‘but I think you’ll find everything you need there.’
Fort scanned the page, then passed it to Lovecraft as he returned his attention to Dunsby. ‘So, no residue of Enochian Magick,’ he said.
Dunsby shook his head. ‘They had no symbols about their person, and nothing showed up on the æther scanner when we put them through it. No, it looks like they were created through other, more subtle means…’
‘Subtle enough for a vampire?’ asked Fort.
‘That would be my conclusion. Does that answer your question?’ Dunsby’s tone of voice suggested that he fervently hoped so.
‘I guess it does,’ said Fort as Lovecraft handed back the sheet of paper. ‘Capone didn’t create those zombies. Looks like he was on the level with me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Dunsby, in a tone which suggested he really didn’t give a damn either way.
‘Well,’ said Fort, rising from his chair, ‘thanks for your help Mr Dunsby.’
‘Are we even now?’ asked Dunsby as he shook Fort’s hand.
‘Yeah, I guess we are.’
*
‘Come on,’ said Fort when they had left the office. ‘Let’s go grab some coffee. I need to think.’
They went to a small coffee shop on the far side of the building and sat at a table. Fort watched, frowning, as Lovecraft put four spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.
‘Bit of a sweet tooth, huh?’
Lovecraft nodded, stirring his coffee with agitated little flicks of his spoon. He took a sip, grimaced and added another spoonful. ‘Did the autopsy report confirm your assumptions?’ he asked.
