Stalking the Vampire

by Mike Resnick

  “What the hell am I going to do with a snake?” yelled the goblin. “It doesn't even like me.”

  “I can't imagine why,” said the detective with a sardonic smile.

  Then they were out of earshot.

  “You know,” said Mallory to his companions, “I think I liked goblins better back in my Manhattan, when all they did was scare the hell out of impressionable schoolkids. They seem to have become the merchant class in this Manhattan.”

  “But they never sell anything useful,” noted McGuire.

  “Neither do most the merchants back where I come from,” answered Mallory. “Felina, we're going back to the Gryphon's Roost. You know how to get us there?”

  “Yes, John Justin.”

  “Okay, lead the way.”

  “For six goldfish.”

  “No.”

  “Seven?”

  “No.”

  “Then skritch my back.”

  “When we get there.”

  “What if I die of a hideous disease before then?” asked Felina.

  “Then your back probably won't itch,” said Mallory.

  “I never thought of that,” said Felina. She smiled brightly. “This way.”

  They followed her to the entrance. As before, Mallory left McGuire and Nathan just outside the building, while he and Felina took the elevator up to the sixty-sixth floor. When they got off they entered the casino, where Mallory sought out Mary, Queen of Slots.

  “Back already?” she said.

  “I need some information.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Never draw to an inside straight.” She waited for the laughter than was not forthcoming. “That was a joke.”

  “Hilarious,” said Mallory without smiling.

  “All right, shamus,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You said Vlad Drachma comes here every night, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he pay his tab?”

  “You'd have to ask in the bar,” said Mary. “He never gambles, so he never spends any money here in the casino.”

  “Thanks,” said Mallory. He left the casino and walked into the bar.

  “Another cream for your cat?” asked the bartender.

  “Yeah, why not?” said Mallory, shoving a bill across the bar.

  “Hey, that's a sawbuck,” noted the bartender. “For that she gets two gallons.”

  “We'll settle for one glass and some information.”

  The bartender filled a glass and handed it to Felina, who began lapping it noisily. “What can I tell you?”

  “How does Vlad Drachma pay his bill?”

  “He doesn't.”

  “I thought he was here every night,” said Mallory, frowning. “Is he running a tab?”

  “No. I suppose we'd let him run one if he asked, but after he shelled out five large, in cash, for the booth, he hasn't ordered a damned thing. Just asks for water and never drinks it.”

  “The cash,” said Mallory. “Was it dollars or some other currency?”

  “All we take is stuff printed in the good old USA,” said the bartender.

  “And he hasn't spent a penny since then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, thanks anyway,” said Mallory. “Felina, finish that up and let's go.” “You didn't skritch my back yet,” she said accusingly.

  “I bought you the cream instead. Now finish it. We're in a hurry.”

  “Maybe I'll just stay here where I'm appreciated,” she said. “Maybe I'll just live on cream and back-skritching.”

  “Fine,” said Mallory, heading to the elevator. “I wish you a long and happy life.”

  He knew what was coming next, but the force of ninety pounds flying through the air and landing on his back still almost knocked him down.

  “I forgive you, John Justin!” purred Felina.

  “I can't tell you how thrilled I am,” he grated as he reached the elevator.

  “I knew it would make you happy,” said Felina as the doors slid shut behind them. She turned to the elevator operator. “We're a team.”

  “Bully for us” was the reply.

  “Isn't this the same elevator we took to the Gryphon's Roost?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I have an observation,” she said. “Whatever goes up must go down.”

  “Zounds,” said Mallory. “I must wire Vienna immediately.”

  “I'm a genius, aren't I?” said Felina proudly.

  “In every month that's got a K in it,” answered Mallory.

  McGuire and Nathan were waiting for them as they emerged from the building.

  “Did you learn anything?” asked the little vampire.

  Mallory shook his head. “He had some cash the first day he showed up and hasn't spent a cent since then.”

  “So we don't even know if he has a credit card?”

  “That's right.”

  “And the cash he spent is untraceable?” asked Nathan.

  “Probably.”

  “Then the money trail is a dead end,” said the dragon.

  “Not necessarily,” said Mallory.

  “I don't understand,” said McGuire.

  “The whole reason I'm trying to find him is because he bit Rupert Newton on the boat coming over, right?”

  “Right,” said Nathan and McGuire in unison.

  “He had to have paid for his passage,” said Mallory. “And perhaps it was with a credit card.”

  “I don't know,” said McGuire. “We vampires are like royalty in Transylvania. Maybe they comped him.”

  “And maybe they were so glad to be rid of him they comped him,” added Nathan. “This could be another dead end.”

  “You're both overlooking something,” said Mallory.

  “Oh? What?” asked McGuire.

  “He wouldn't have come without his coffin, loaded with Transylvanian soil. Even if he was given free passage, my guess is that he'd have had to pay the cargo fee for the coffin. I mean, there's no way he could take it into a cabin with him.”

  Nathan had his notepad out again. “Wings O'Bannon couldn't have reasoned it out any better.”

  “I'm flattered beyond belief,” said Mallory dryly.

  “What's your next move?”

  “We'll go down to the docks, find the ship that Rupert and Vlad arrived on, and learn out how Vlad paid.”

  “Very good,” said Nathan, scribbling away. “Will you go in disguise?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I've never seen a private eye don a disguise before, and since Wings O'Bannon looks like a different person in every chapter, at least until he takes his pants off, I should see how it's done.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but when you're asking questions and following leads, the very best disguise is to appear as a private eye,” answered Mallory.

  “And what if we find the right boat and the captain or the chief petty officer or whoever else you want to speak to tells you there's no record of payment, that it was made before the ship sailed?” said McGuire. “What then?”

  “Then we interview every cargo hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had to have come with his own coffin, and I'll bet every cent I have that it's not still on board. And that means there's still another way to locate him—more dangerous, to be sure, but possibly also more effective.”

  “To find his”—McGuire gulped—“coffin?”

  “Right.”

  “You know,” said McGuire, “this is America.”

  “What's that got to do with anything?”

  “It's a land of second chances,” continued McGuire. “I think if Vlad apologizes and is really sincere in his contrition, perhaps we should all just forgive him, just like we forgive all the overpaid athletes and movie stars who apologize and tell us how sorry they are each time they get caught taking drugs and driving drunk, and go back to our normal everyday lives.”

  “He's not a quarterback or an actress, Bats,” said Mallo
ry. “He's killed people—including my partner's nephew.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.”

  “How do you accidentally bite someone in the neck, and then do it again the next night?”

  “Nearsightedness?” said McGuire weakly.

  “Look, Bats,” said Mallory, “if you're scared, if you want to back out, now's a good time. I've got Nathan with me, and it's just a matter of detective work, at least until I catch up with him.”

  “I can't leave you!” said McGuire. “What kind of person do you take me for?”

  “A frightened one.”

  “Besides that!”

  “Bats, I'm just thinking of you.”

  “I've been thinking about me for forty-seven years,” said the little vampire, “and all it's gotten me is anemia and an unemployment check. It's time I started thinking about something else.”

  “All right,” said Mallory. “Let's go find this Transylvanian bloodsucker.”

  “I'm with you to the end,” said McGuire.

  “One for all and all for one,” added Nathan.

  “I'm hungry,” said Felina.

  Mallory and his team walked back through Battery Park, heading toward the dock. They had just about crossed it when Bubba appeared.

  “Hey, Bats!” he called out. “Twice in one night. What gives?”

  “We're still on Vlad Drachma's trail,” answered McGuire. “This time it's leading us to the waterfront.”

  “Bats, this is an island,” said Bubba. “Wherever you're standing, you're never more than a mile from the waterfront, and usually less.”

  “We have to get down to the docks,” explained McGuire.

  “There are docks all the hell over,” said Bubba. “Why those particular ones?”

  “Because…” McGuire stopped and frowned, then turned to Mallory. “Why those?”

  “Because that's where the Never Sink Cruise Line unloads its ships,” said Mallory.

  “There's really a Never Sink Cruise Line?” asked Bubba.

  “That's what the kid's aunt told me,” said Mallory. “And she's pretty good on details.”

  “You sure you're looking for a vampire?” said Bubba. “We don't like the water much, you know. Shipwrecks scare the hell out of us. You want something worse than drowning? Be one of the undead whose ship goes down to the bottom of the sea and isn't salvaged for a few centuries.”

  “They can just swim to the surface,” said Mallory.

  “I can't swim,” said Bubba. “I spent all my time crippling halfbacks and falling on loose balls.”

  “Besides, it's hard to push a coffin open under two hundred fathoms of water,” added McGuire.

  “So he's probably not going to be there,” concluded Bubba.

  “That's not a problem,” replied Mallory. “We don't really expect to find him there.”

  “Makes sense,” said Bubba, nodding his head sagely. “If I was after a dangerous killer from the old country, I'd spend all my time looking where I didn't expect to find him too.”

  “Why don't you tag along with us?” said Mallory. “We could use a big bruiser like you on our side—especially one who's already dead, so he can't be killed.”

  “That's a really tempting offer—risking my neck for a man I've met once for maybe three minutes and trying to capture or kill a creature of my own kind who never did me any harm.” Bubba smiled in amusement and shook his head. “No offense, but I think I'll take a pass on it.”

  “Our loss, no doubt,” said Mallory, starting to walk toward the docks again. His companions followed suit, he picked up the pace, and they reached their destination within ten minutes, despite Felina's tendency to stop and peer into every store window and then announce which five or six items she wanted Mallory to buy or steal for her.

  When they reached the dock area, Mallory slipped the night watchthing a bill and found out that the Never Sink line owned only three ships, one of which, the Moribund Manatee, was docked there.

  “Which one is it?” asked the detective.

  “You can't miss her,” answered the watchthing. “She's the one that's kind of rust colored.”

  “Funny color for a ship,” remarked Mallory.

  “Ain't as if rust comes in a lot of colors,” said the watchman. “It's about the only thing holding the Manatee together.”

  “I think I see it now,” said Mallory, looking down the dock. “Anyone aboard her?”

  “She'll have a skeleton crew.”

  “Thanks for the information,” said Mallory. “I guess we'll pay her a visit.”

  “Go ahead,” said the watchthing. “I'll give a howl if anyone comes looking for you.”

  “Like who?” asked the detective.

  “How should I know?” replied the watchthing. “Gangsters. Bill collectors. Revenue agents. Mesopotamian spies. Sweet young things who misconstrued your flights of poetic fancy as bona fide proposals of marriage.”

  “But no vampires?”

  “Around here? They ain't much for water.”

  Mallory began walking down the dock, past one impressive cruise ship after another. When he came to the one that seemed to have no earthly reason for remaining afloat, he knew he had come to the Manatee.

  A rickety gangplank led up to the main deck, and Mallory began walking it, followed by the others. When he had almost reached the top, a very strange-looking man with scaly skin and not-quite-concealed gills on his neck suddenly appeared.

  “Who goes there?” he demanded.

  “My name is Mallory,” said the detective, “and these are my associates. We'd like to speak to someone in authority.”

  “That'd be the captain.”

  “Then that's who we want.”

  “Against protocol. You can't just walk up here and demand to see the captain. There's red tape galore. I'll need your birth certificate, proof of citizenship, union card if any, library card if any, blood sugar and cholesterol readings, death certificate if you are among the undead, voter registration card, and driver's license—and the same for all your friends.”

  “Or perhaps I could just slip you five dollars?” suggested Mallory.

  “It'd save both of us a lot of time and trouble,” agreed the man, extending his hand and grabbing the bill when Mallory offered it. “Welcome aboard the Moribund Manatee, flagship of the Never Sink Cruise Line.”

  Mallory looked around the decrepit main deck. “Why is this one your flagship?”

  “It's the one that's still afloat,” answered the man.

  Mallory nodded. “Yeah, that's about the only answer that'd make sense. Where's your captain?”

  “On the aft deck, disciplining a crewman” was the answer.

  A moment later a trio of gunshots rang out.

  “I think Captain Blight will see you now.”

  “Captain Blight?” repeated Mallory. “I seem to remember someone with a similar name.”

  “That'd be Captain Bligh of the Bounty,” said the man. “They're like two peas in a pod, except for Captain Bligh being friendlier and more compassionate. Also, Captain Bligh went ashore from time to time. Captain Blight never leaves the ship.”

  “Why not?”

  “Things die when he walks too near them.”

  “Things?” said Mallory.

  “Plants, flowers, the occasional tree,” answered the man. “Those sort of things.”

  “But not men?”

  “They wouldn't have the guts to make the captain mad by dying while they were on duty. He'd follow ‘em right down to hell and bring ‘em back.”

  “Sounds like the kind of man who's sorry flogging at the mainmast went out of style,” remarked Mallory.

  “It fair broke his little black heart” was the answer. “Until he found out that flogging at the flagpole worked just as well, and could even be construed as patriotic.”

  A burly man dressed all in black began approaching them. He had a thick black beard that was starting to turn gray and was armed with two pistols, a sword, and a bu
llwhip.

  “Captain Blight, sir,” said the man, “these here gents would like a word with you.”

  Blight glared at them. “Are you ACFO?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mallory.

  “You heard me,” snarled Blight. “Are you from the American Civil Freedoms Organization?”

  “No, I'm John Justin Mallory of the Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency,” said Mallory. “These are my assistants.”

  Blight stared at each in turn. “But you're definitely not ACFO?”

  “Definitely not,” Mallory assured him.

  “All right,” muttered Blight. “You get to live—until I find out you're lying.”

  “Thanks,” said Mallory.

  “What can I do for you, as long as it doesn't inconvenience me in any way?”

  “I've got some questions concerning one of your passengers on your recent trip from Europe.”

  “She said she was nineteen, she supplied the handcuffs, cattle prod, aqualung, and apricot preserves, and that's all I'm saying until I see my lawyer.”

  “A different passenger.”

  “He challenged me to a swordfight. It doesn't make any difference whether he was drunk or sober, he was the instigator. And besides, the ship's surgeon offered to sew them back on if anyone could find them.”

  “I'm talking about a passenger from Transylvania named Vlad Drachma.”

  “Can't help you out,” said Blight. “Transylvania's not one of our ports of call.”

  “He probably got on in England.”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he buy anything during the trip? And if he did, how did he pay for it?”

  “How the hell should I know?” bellowed Blight. “You know the penalty for wasting the captain's time?”

  “No, I don't,” admitted Mallory. “But you're in Manhattan now. Do you know the penalty for withholding information in a murder case?”

  Blight stared at him for a long moment. “Are you sure you're not from the ACFO?”

  “I told you: I'm a detective.”

  “Then go detect something and leave me to run my ship!”

  “Your ship's in port,” said Mallory. “It's not running anywhere.”

  “There's cargo to load and unload, decks to swab, crewmen to discipline. You think a captain's life is easy? I've flogged so many crewmen on this latest voyage that I've damaged my rotator.”

  “Happens to pitchers all the time,” remarked McGuire, not without sympathy.