Pulp Fiction | The Vampire Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  "All we ask is your coöperation," Napoleon said. "We will probably be doing some fairly strange things in the next few days. You'll just have to trust us."

  "The reputation of U.N.C.L.E. is well-known, if not exactly spotless where my government is concerned," said the other. He laughed shortly. "But my position is at stake, and I feel it would be in the best long-range interests of the government were I to remain as Chief of Police in Pokol."

  Napoleon looked slightly puzzled. "Chief of Police? I thought you were head of the Securitate here."

  "I am," he said with a shrug. "I am also the head of the Fire Brigade and the Communist Party Leader for the town. Not to mention Judge of the local court, and Postmaster."

  "And groom of the second floor front?" said Illya.

  "Ce?"

  "Never mind him," said Napoleon. "He objects to bureaucracy."

  "So do I," said the Gradat frankly. "And by combining so many offices between my hair and my beard, I save a truly remarkable amount of paperwork."

  "And collect an equally remarkable salary," said Illya.

  "You have less acquaintance with our government than I would have thought. Two of my positions are voluntary, and another is appointed but unsalaried. Each of the other three pays less than half of a living wage. This is believed to encourage efficiency among government workers. Incidentally, as Chief of Police my title is Colonel—I prefer it to Gradat."

  Hilda entered the conversation. "Very well, then, Colonel, but it is late, and tomorrow should see the beginning of the investigation. Let us save the pleasantries for another time over mititei and a glass of tuica." She turned to Napoleon and Illya. "As far as the people of the village are concerned, you are the next-of-kin to Carl, come to the scene of his death. They will understand your desire for vengeance, and they will help you in any way they can. If the vampire can be destroyed, they will feel safer for themselves. Gheorghe, the innkeeper, knows who you are and what you're doing—it is impossible to hold secrets from an innkeeper. But while his walls have ears, they have no tongues. He will be of such assistance to you as he can."

  She turned to Colonel Hanevitch. "Now, may we have the residence coupons? Little may be accomplished at this hour save strain on nerves."

  He shrugged, and rummaged about in the clutter on top of his desk. Napoleon noticed that the envelope he finally "found" had been resting neatly on top of the left-hand heap all through the search, and wondered if there was more to this bearded Rumanian than was immediately apparent. He decided to watch him more closely and see how he reacted when things started to happen.

  Hanevitch held the envelope out and Hilda took it. "Kuryakin," he said consideringly. "That is a Russian name. But you are from New York?"

  "I carry an American passport," Illya said, rather stiffly. "That is all that matters."

  "But it is not, my friend," said the Colonel. "You are a product of your mother, not your stepmother. I am a Rumanian, but I am also Russian."

  "Then how is it you have represented the government, as you said, for over thirty years? The government has changed, after all."

  The Colonel grinned broadly and innocently. "The government is the will of the people, after all," he said. "I too have changed. When I was quite young I was a strong Nationalist. But when the Germans came in to aid my poor country I discovered the virtues of Fascism and supported them wholeheartedly for a number of years. But when we were saved from the villainous Nazis by our noble Russian brothers I realized that only dedicated Communism could save the battered economy of this country."

  "And you evaded the purge?"

  "This is a small village, and the people know and trust me. A change of name to something more acceptable to the Russians, a statement that my Fascist successor had been executed, and I was able to continue working for my country without the least interruption.

  "But as Domnisoara Eclary has pointed out, it is late. You will want to be safely within the inn before the hour of midnight, especially under the circumstances. There have been no corpses found since that of your unfortunate colleague, but villagers have reported mysterious things half-seen in the night all about the town."

  Hilda handed the envelope to Napoleon. "He is quite correct. There is no need to tempt fate. The inn is a quarter of a mile from here, but the street is not paved, and is unsuitable for the car. We will walk. Illya?"

  The Russian agent looked at Hanevitch appraisingly. "Colonel, do you live here in this building?"

  He took his time answering, as if he were analyzing the reasons behind the question. At length he said, "No, I live a few houses away."

  "Will you be going home before midnight?"

  The Colonel did not answer.

  "Are you...cautious of the threat your village is under?"

  Hanevitch rose to his feet and pulled in his stomach. "The government tells me the rumors of vampires are the superstitions of uneducated peasants. I am a sincere and dedicated Communist, and Marx said nothing about undead spirits. This outrage has a material cause, and my Tokarev can stop anything material and unarmored." He slapped his hand against the bulky Russian automatic strapped to his side.

  Illya slowly and casually seated himself in a convenient chair. "Napoleon," he said without turning his head, "you and Hilda go ahead to the inn. I would like to continue conversing with Colonel Hanevitch for a while. After all, midnight should be no deterrent to two rational men."

  Napoleon started to object, but Hilda poked him in the arm. "Come on, Napoleon," she said. "Am I the only one here sane enough to admit I am not rational? Or are you going to let me walk through the night alone?"

  Solo opened and closed his mouth two or three times, and waved his hands to emphasize whatever he was trying to say. At last he heaved a deep sigh and said, "I think you're all crazy! Come on, Hilda; when Illya gets an idea like this in his head there's no reasoning with him."

  As they closed the door behind them, they heard Hanevitch's voice saying, "Now, Mr. Kuryakin, what precisely was the cause of your leaving Russia?" Napoleon would have given a great deal to hear the answer, but Hilda had his sleeve and was stronger than she looked.

  * * *

  "What time is it, Napoleon?" asked Hilda, as she looked around the room where the U.N.C.L.E. agents would be staying.

  "A few minutes short of eleven," he answered, checking his watch. "Why?"

  "I just wondered," she said slowly. "It feels like midnight."

  They had come into the room only a few minutes before, Hilda carrying one bag and Napoleon carrying two from the car, which had been left behind the Satul Contru. The room was on the third story of a large inn which must have dated back to a period of greater travel in the mountains. The ceiling was low and slanted, and the beds were large and soft, with heavy down comforters. A heavy silver pitcher of water stood in a matching bowl on the dresser, with a glass beside it: Gheorghe had been appraised of his guests' importance, and had brought out a family heirloom for their especial use. Hilda mentioned this to Napoleon, who made a note to be unusually grateful. There was also a modern table with two chairs in the center of the room, flimsy by comparison with the sturdily-built furnishings which matched the wood-raftered decor.

  Napoleon didn't need to ask what she had meant by her remark that it felt like midnight. He had felt ill-at-ease since coming into the room, but he put it down to accumulated tiredness and the strangeness of the surroundings. He shook his head to clear it, and poured himself a glass of water.

  He wandered around the room sipping at it, while Hilda flopped into one of chairs and watched. She tried to look relaxed, but her hand gripping the arm of the chair quivered with nervous tension. Napoleon felt it too—an unreasoning panic slowly growing inside him. He remembered a gas that caused blind fear like this in its victims, and went to the window. He threw the casement open and breathed deeply of the cold, sharp night air. It woke him up somewhat, but did nothing to ease his agitation.

  He closed the window again and latched it se
curely, then strolled back towards Hilda. "Look," he said, as he set his empty glass down on the table. "It's late, and you've been under a terrific strain. I suggest strongly that you go back to your room, lock the door, and sleep till noon. You'll feel a lot better."

  Somewhere a tall clock began chiming. "It's eleven o'clock," he continued, glancing at his watch. "We can discuss..."

  Hilda held up her hand, listening. The clock chimed ten, eleven—and twelve. She looked up at him. "Did you set your watch ahead when you crossed the border?"

  He thought. "Illya reminded me," he said, "but did I? I don't think I..."

  Hilda's hand jumped for his wrist and grabbed it hard. She was staring past him, eyes wide with fear. Her mouth opened slowly, and she said in a strange whisper, "Napoleon—look at the glass on the table."

  He turned, gently disengaging her hand, and looked. The glass he had just drunk from was crawling slowly across the top of the table. He stared at it in disbelief for a few seconds, and then reached out almost unwillingly as it approached the table's edge. He picked it up and looked at it, then set it down in the center of the table again. Immediately it began to move toward the edge. Not fast, but quite visibly. Hilda was shrinking back in her chair, staring with horrified fascination at it. Napoleon picked it up again, then quickly looked under the table. It was too light to have any kind of mechanism concealed inside it, practically cardboard and lath. He started to say, "There's a perfectly logical explanation..." But his voice failed him, and he swallowed hard.

  The thought in his mind was Why is it moving?, but the only feeling in his stomach was primitive fear. He fought to control it. With a shaking hand he reached for the water pitcher. "Let's see if whatever it is can move half a pound of water," he said almost conversationally. Then Hilda screamed.

  Napoleon could see the room behind him weirdly distorted in the bright surface of the pitcher—the light walls and the black curved rectangles of the windows. And there was something moving outside the windows. Something so distorted by the curvature of the metal he couldn't tell what it was.

  He whirled on his toes and cocked his arm. In a fraction of a second he saw a black shape standing just outside the window, and his mind photographed it: almost as tall as one window and with a wingspread as wide as both, and with a face almost human but unbelievably baleful glaring into the bright light of the room. Then Napoleon hurled the pitcher with all his strength and the glass exploded outward in a shattering burst of sparkling shards.

  A moment later there was the sound of a shot from below. Napoleon opened his eyes again, and realized he had closed them just as he had thrown the pitcher. He ran to the window, and looked down twenty-five feet to the muddy street below. He looked up into the darkness. There was no sound, and only the feel of a vagrant breeze stroked his cheek with a clammy finger.

  He looked down again, and saw Illya standing, legs apart and braced, gun in hand, looking up at him.

  "What did you see?" Napoleon asked.

  "I don't know," countered Illya. "What do you think you saw?"

  Napoleon shook his head. "I don't want to say right out loud because I didn't get more than a glimpse of it. I couldn't identify it in a lineup." But as he spoke the picture came to him, as sharp and clear as a studio photograph, of a face in the midst of the floating, flapping blackness, just outside a third-story window with no balcony....

  "Come on up," he said. "And if you see Gheorghe, ask him for something to cover this window. No, forget it. We'll take another room. Oh, if you see a pitcher down there, bring it up."

  Ninety seconds later Illya tapped at the door and Napoleon opened it. "Find it?" he asked.

  Illya slipped his automatic back into its holster. "We can look for it in the morning," he said. "Is Hilda all right?"

  "She's coming around. Now, tell me before she comes to—what do you think you shot at?"

  "I don't know. I looked up when I heard the glass shatter, and I saw something outside the window. I know it didn't go down the side of the building or over onto the roof, because I saw it go away from the wall as if it was jumping, but then it went up into the dark."

  "Illya, what do you think you shot at?"

  The Russian agent sat down heavily and looked at the back of his hands. "Napoleon, we've been friends for a long time. You know I am not given to hallucinations or to letting my imagination run away with me."

  "Yes...."

  Illya looked up. "And don't mention this in our report—but it looked like a huge bat."

  Section II: "Werewolves Can't Climb Trees."

  Chapter 5: "Good Lord, Illya—What Was That?"

  It should cause relatively little surprise that neither Napoleon nor Illya slept particularly soundly that night. The innkeeper was quick and efficient about transferring them to another room, and made no comment about his valued heirloom being thrown through a window and left in the mud of the street all night. He also showed no inclination to go outside to search for it. "There will be time enough for that in the morning," he said. "My friends are honest, and know to whom it belongs if they find it."

  After he had left, there was a brief debate with Hilda, who absolutely refused to return to her own room.

  "I don't care what you tell New York," she said, "and I don't care what Gheorghe thinks—I'm spending the night on your sofa. I know what I saw at the window, and I know I won't sleep a wink if I'm alone."

  Illya remained aloof from the discussion, and reappeared after a few minutes' absence dressed in pajamas of a plain dark blue. "And I know what I think I saw," he said. "But I refuse to allow it to interfere with my rest. If you two insist on arguing the night away, please do it in lower tones."

  He climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and turned his back to them. Napoleon and Hilda looked at him for a few seconds, and then Napoleon heaved a deep sigh of resignation. "All right," he said. "It's your reputation. If there wasn't a third party here as witness..."

  "You wouldn't be nearly so hesitant," said Hilda, with an impish grin as her apprehension lessened. "Come with me back to my room while I get a few things."

  "And leave me here all alone?" came Illya's muffled voice from the bed.

  "Don't worry," said Napoleon comfortingly, "I'll leave the light on for you."

  Then he ducked quickly to one side as a pillow flew across the room and slapped against the door.

  * * *

  A discrete tap at the same place several hours later announced that breakfast was being prepared, and some fifteen minutes after that the three descended the stairs, freshly dressed and looking ready for anything under the sun. Under the moon might be a different matter.

  There was no discussion of last night's occurrences over the breakfast sausages and eggs. The conversation moved around local customs and traditions, and only faltered for a few seconds when Gheorghe silently poured fresh milk for them from a freshly cleaned and polished silver pitcher which Napoleon recognized.

  At last, over coffee, they got down to the business of the day.

  "I could draw you a sketch map," said Hilda, "but I couldn't show you the exact spot except in person."

  "How far away is it?" asked Illya.

  "A little over a mile from the outskirts of the village. He was running in this direction."

  Napoleon frowned. "I suppose the place will be all trampled by curious villagers by this time."

  "I don't think so. These people have better things to do with their time than wander about in the woods. And they have lately been more cautious than usual. In fact, I would be surprised if anyone from the village had been near the spot where Carl was found. They consider it a place of ill omen."

  "It was for Carl," said Illya.

  "When will you be ready to show us the place?" Napoleon asked.

  "Any time. The spot's fairly close to the road; if you have any sort of detecting gear to carry or want to avoid a long walk in the forest, we can drive."

  "Beats a long walk carrying my magnifying glass. How
about you?" Napoleon turned to Illya.

  "For myself, I can take nature or leave it alone. The car will probably be quicker, unless the road winds."

  "Not that much. I can drive you there in five or ten minutes."

  "Make it fifteen," said Napoleon. "I've got to get my pipe and deerstalker hat out of my trunk. If we're going to play detective, I may as well look the part."

  * * *

  The lumbering old Poboda took the rutted dirt road with only a few complaints, and eight bumpy minutes after leaving the garage behind the City Hall Hilda pulled to a stop in a wide area. There was enough space for a cart to pass, but not much more.

  The trees were not thick—perhaps ten feet apart. There was little underbrush. The forest had a well-kept feeling to it, and an almost park-like appearance. There was only the slightest wind breathing among the upper branches of the pines, and the occasional note of a bird rang distantly like a dropped coin.

  Napoleon and Illya felt the quiet of the place pressing softly in around them, and even the warm morning sunshine seemed a little chill. Hilda broke the silence.

  "This way," she said. "Just over that little rise."

  She pointed the tree out to them from a fair distance away, and described without a trace of emotion her own deductions as to the last few minutes of Carl Endros' life.

  "He broke out of the underbrush about there," she said, pointing. "I was able to back-trail him about half a mile, and found no indications of anyone or anything on his track. No footprints of any kind."