by P. N. Elrod
“Good Lord, you look like death warmed over. Let me help you out.”
I started giggling like a fool and let him pull me up. It seemed that lately all I ever did was let other people haul me to my feet. I felt weak, though, and let him, until I remembered he was still recovering from that knife wound and the strain of lifting me wouldn’t be doing the stitches any good. I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, got my legs out of the trunk, and stumbled for the bed, flopping on it. It felt great to stretch out. Something cool and wet was soothed over my forehead, a washcloth. Escott was a mind reader.
“That’s an extraordinary goose egg you have there. How in the world did you get it, or are you up to questions yet?”
I tried to open my eyes again, rubbing them clear with the cloth. Purple sparklers still floated around, so I had to locate him from the direction of his voice.
“What’s the matter?”
“I got caught by the sunrise, I can’t see anything.”
Considering the situation, I must have sounded idiotically calm. I felt his fingers propping my lids gently open and heard a match strike. I thought I could see it as it moved from side to side.
“You’re tracking light and your pupils are reacting to it.”
“Then maybe it’s temporary.”
“Are you in any pain?”
“Only from the goose egg.”
“You have a nasty hole in your shirt,” he observed calmly.
“It matches the one in the back.”
“You must have had a very interesting evening.”
This time I took the opening and told him briefly what happened last night, just leaving out the part about Bobbi and the blackjack game.
“Have things improved?” he asked, meaning my sight.
“A little, I think.” But I was only being optimistic and kept involuntarily blinking to clear my eyes.
He waited a moment before cautiously suggesting the Stockyard as a remedy. I’d have to stop being so sensitive about my feeding habits.
“It might help,” I agreed. It couldn’t hurt.
He was apparently relieved at my reaction. “I’ll be happy to guide you, but won’t there be a bit of a problem with both of us trying to sneak in?”
“There’s so much coming and going, we probably won’t be noticed. Are you up to it?”
His voice, at least, sounded stronger. “I’ve had a good forty-eight-hour rest. The stitches are itching and that means they’re healing. I’ve even sent Cal home.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. Can you help me change?”
He did and somehow got me down the backstairs to his car. I thankfully left the rest up to him. He parked us close in and then put something into my hand.
“What’s this?”
“Your dark glasses. They were in the bottom of your trunk. Should we run into anyone they will lend credence to any story I give them about your blindness.”
“As long as they don’t become a permanent part of the act.”
“See here, if any blood will do, wouldn’t it be easier if I just found a friendly dog?”
I was appalled. “A dog? I like dogs, I couldn’t—”
“It was just a suggestion,” he said hastily.
I got out and waited for him. He took my arm and guided me slowly along the sidewalk, down curbs, up curbs, and from the noise and jostling of bodies, past the front gates of the Yards. The cattle stench was very strong now, I could hear them clearly and very close.
“Try to find a place that doesn’t look busy,” I advised.
He said nothing, plainly thinking me crazy since most of the place was busy all the time. There was a long, soggy walk for us before he finally found a spot that met the requirements.
“Fence,” he said. “Shoulder height, wooden, there are several cows on the other side.”
He didn’t need to tell me, I could sense them. I felt for the fence, then glided right through it.
I guess I should have warned him.
He drew a shaky breath. “You could make a fortune haunting houses. That was quite an entrance.”
I made no comment, my hands were already reaching out to a warm, shaggy body. I calmed the animal with soft words and felt my way toward its head. I knew just where to go in. If nothing else, my fingers could guide me to the right spot, but I paused and looked back to where he was standing.
“Escott?”
“Yes?” he whispered back.
“Would you mind not watching?”
“Er . . . um . . . not at all, old man.” His feet scraped as he turned around. Maybe he didn’t understand why I was so touchy about this, but at least he respected my feelings. I could trust him to stay turned.
The ache in my head subsided quickly. I stood slowly, feeling much stronger. The stuff spread a wonderful warmth all through my body like a slug of smooth liquor, but without the drunken side effects. I took off the cheaters and tried my eyes out. The purple sparklers were fading, and I could just make out Escott’s outline above the fence and went over.
“I think I’m okay now.”
“Your eyes—”
“They’re better already.”
“They’re . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m glad . . . may we leave?”
Escott clearly did not care for cattle at all. We got back to the car without incident and scraped our shoes off. Things were improved enough that I was able to drive, but Escott was more tired than he wanted to admit and remained quiet. It was fine with me, since I wanted to think. My first waking hour had been too occupied with trying to recover and all my day time had been spent in total oblivion. I couldn’t remember dreaming; perhaps I no longer did.
Physically I was all right; emotionally I was angry. It was still inside me, ready to be directed at Morelli or myself. I could have walked out of the club at any time last night, but stayed and went through the wringer again, hoping to find a memory. Except for the humiliation suffered at allowing another man to hit me when I could have hit back, I wasn’t really hurt. Oddly enough, I felt no grudge against Gordy; the man’s manner had been so completely neutral through the whole business that I thought of him only as a tool in Morelli’s hand. I also remembered the bloody wreck of Sanderson’s face. That had held me back, that and not wanting to tip my supernatural hand to them.
There was a kid I knew in the Army whose right hand had been shot clean off. I saw him years later wearing an artificial hand covered with a glove. He’d gotten into the habit of hiding it in his pocket and pretending it wasn’t there, and each time you looked at his eyes they stared hard into yours demanding that you pretend as well. There was another kid in the same unit who’d lost a leg from the knee down. I met him again in New York while doing a story for the paper. He was the lead dancer and director of a polka troupe. He, too, was ignoring his injured limb, but in a different way.
My vampirism was just a peculiar condition, like a health problem. If I respected the rules it imposed I’d have less trouble, and that made it more acceptable to my confused brain. There were definite compensations for the rules, though. Otherwise I’d be at the bottom of Lake Michigan, forgotten and unavenged, along with who knows how many others. I’d changed in a greater sense than my grandfather could ever have imagined, but I’d been fighting it. That was why I’d been reluctant to have Escott watch as I fed. Had our positions been reversed I doubt if the thought would have even crossed his mind.
My anger had a direction now.
Morelli thought that kid brother Gerald was dead, and so did all his boys. It was a unique situation, certainly one of which I intended to take full advantage.
“I’m going after Morelli again,” I said.
Escott nodded. “I can’t think of a more choice subject for you to turn your talents upon. Have you worked out a plan yet?”
“Yes. In fact, you inspired it back at the Yards.”
“Indeed?”
I explained my idea. With a chuckle he approved a
nd added a few touches of his own. We changed direction to go to his house, picked up some stuff, then went back to my hotel. While I took a bath, he worked on my perforated tuxedo shirt.
“I certainly wish I could be around to see his face,” he said, blowing lightly on the wet gore to dry it. Gingerly I put the shirt on, doubling my chin to get a good look at my front. A large part of it was covered with what looked like blood, but was actually some very realistic-looking stage stuff Escott had developed himself.
“The trouble with real blood,” he said cleaning his paint brush, “is that it dries out, gets sticky, and goes brown, but this will stay nice and fresh looking. Unfortunately, it doesn’t wash out, but in this case that hardly matters.”
“Nope, the bloodier, the better,” I agreed. It was good to be doing something positive, not to mention sneaky, like a kid out on a college prank.
I had good color again, but Escott opened his makeup case and toned it down, putting circles under my eyes and hollowing out the cheeks.
“At least your face has the right underlying bone structure for this sort of thing. I find nothing more tiresome than trying to thin down a full face.”
“That’s never been one of my problems.” I’d always been on the lean side. “Did you learn all this in the theater?”
“Yes, in Canada. I was apprentice to the makeup artist of a Shakespearean company for three years. I was also props, scenery painter, set builder, and as you know, occasionally played a part. I’m especially fond of character parts. The Soothsayer in Julius Caesar was one of my best roles, though hardly an effective one, considering that Caesar chose to ignore me.”
“Got any similar warnings for me?”
“My dear fellow, in all fairness, I should call Mr. Morelli and warn him. He is in for a rough night. There, you don’t look quite so bad as Banquo’s ghost, but you’ll do. It’s subtlety we are striving for, after all.” He gave me the keys to his car.
“But I couldn’t—”
“I insist. Tonight, at least, so that you need not be delayed waiting for a taxi. You can drop me back home again and go on to the club from there.”
It made sense and I was very grateful for the loan. As he pointed out, I might have a problem getting a cab driver to take me as a customer the way I was got up now.
“Look, I know you must be tired—”
“Nonsense, it is not doing anything that tires me out.”
“Well, I thought if you felt well enough tomorrow you might ask around for a car for me.”
“That should be no trouble. I have a friend in the business. New or used?”
I gave him enough money for a good used one. I had no preference of model as long as it was dark in color and fairly anonymous. I drove him to his door and promised to tell him all the details tomorrow, then I turned the nose of the big Nash north and headed for the Nightcrawler.
Parking a block away and out of sight of the club, I carefully locked things up and went down the dark street, trying to look inconspicuous in the bloodied tux. It was damp and quiet; the hard heels on my dress shoes made a lot of noise against the sidewalk, at least to my ears. Having made a wide circle to avoid the front entrance, I eased into the alley, found it empty, and tiptoed up the concrete steps to listen at the kitchen door. A lot of activity was going on within, but I slipped inside anyway, feeling my invisible way along in the general direction of the twenty-eight-pace-long hall. They’d done me a favor with the blindfold last night, for it was very close to the method of travel I used now. I felt my way to the stairs and ascended, then partially materialized at the top to get my bearings.
The upstairs hall matched the one below, but was longer, running the length of the building. Just to the left and across the hall was a likely-looking door for Morelli’s office. The rest of the hall had doors at regular intervals. Some were open with lights inside, and nearby a radio was playing, competing with the orchestra down below in the club.
Things seemed deserted for the moment, so I took the opportunity to check out the area. A partially solid form made it easier and quieter to move and my senses weren’t so muffled, though it was almost like swimming in the air. I went to the office first; it was empty and I moved on to other rooms. There were several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a second set of stairs on the far east end. About a dozen of Morelli’s boys seemed to be permanent residents, at two to a room. The place was like a hotel. The next door down from the office led to a much larger bedroom, probably Morelli’s. I took a good look around, opening drawers and being generally nosy. He had a large tiled bath, a well-filled closet, and a door opening to a slightly smaller bedroom. From the decor and scent I knew it was Bobbi’s.
She’d be downstairs, probably in the casino. If she’d been singing, I would have heard her. I wondered if she knew what had happened last night. Morelli might not have told her. It was something to hope for, anyway.
On the ground floor was another hall running roughly through the center of the building at right angles to the first, and it ended in a closed door. The hall served as a buffer zone between the casino and the nightclub. The door gave joint access to the hatcheck stand and the casino cashier. I got curious as to where they kept the money they raked in, and went back to Morelli’s office.
After a short search, one of the boat paintings on the wall swung out on hinges, revealing a combination-lock safe. I was unfamiliar with such things, but had read a lot of lurid literature about them and seen a few in movies. I’d be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place and for the moment had nothing better to do. The office door was locked, so there’d be enough warning to vanish in case of an interruption.
Playing with the dial was harder than it looked, and about a minute after I started, heavy footfalls were coming in my direction. I pushed the painting back, stood behind the door, and disappeared.
They twisted a key and the doorknob at the same time and three bodies burst into the room, hitting the lights. There was silence for a while as they went over the place. I felt the tug of moving air when they whipped the door away from me.
“He must have got past us,” said someone.
“He wouldn’t have had time.” It was Morelli’s voice.
“Then maybe the trip is on the fritz.”
They tested it out. I got the idea that the second the painting swung open it set off a signal elsewhere in the building. It was working fine, but Morelli left a man to keep an eye on things while they searched the rest of the place. The other two left. I waited a decent interval until he settled into a chair. From the noises he made he seemed disgusted with guard duty. I quietly materialized before him, and his expression when he looked up was worth a million. I had his complete attention, and that made the rest easy.
“Don’t move,” I told him.
He didn’t.
“I’m not here, you can’t see me, you won’t remember me. Take a nap.” He folded his arms over the desk blotter, lowered his head and dozed off. I watched and listened, but he was genuinely asleep. I suddenly shivered all over and stifled a nervous laugh. Had it once been like this for Lamont Cranston? Only the Shadow knew. . . .
I went to the painting, swung it open, and waited.
My man woke up when the door crashed open. I could imagine everyone looking at the painting in vain, since it had been thoughtfully pushed back into place.
“Did you touch it?”
“I never went near it, Slick, honest! I been in this chair the whole time.”
Morelli growled and they tested it again with no better results. There was a brief argument and in the end a second man was left to keep the first company. I waited long enough to give Morelli time to get downstairs, or wherever it was where he spent his evenings.
The two men were facing each other, one behind the desk, the other in the chair in front. They were quiet, but from the small sounds produced, a deck of cards was in use. The first man had already been primed, hypnotizing the second was just as easy. They both got sent off to Slumb
erland, and I repeated my act with the painting.
The next armed invasion was more fun. Morelli cross-examined his two stooges, unfairly accusing them of a lot of things, and then kicked them out, electing to remain there himself to do the job right.
It was exactly what I wanted.
I let him settle down. He made some calls on the house phone and then ordered up some coffee and a sandwich from the kitchen. He swept the cards into a pile and dealt out a hand of solitaire. I was behind him, partially materialized, and watched with interest. The hand didn’t come out so he cheated until it did. I went away for a moment when his snack came and left him undisturbed as he ate. With what I had in mind, he’d need all his strength.
When he was quiet again, I moved in, covering him like a blanket. Previous experience informed me that in this form I was on the cold side. He began to shiver almost immediately. I clung around him as he got up and fiddled with something on the wall, probably the air vent. He paced up and down, then got on the phone and made an irritable inquiry on the state of the air-cooling system. We both waited until the return call came that stated everything was working fine. He slammed the phone down and poured another cup of coffee to warm up. I drifted away, coming to rest on the chair I’d occupied last night.
By very slow degrees I became visible, until I was sitting solidly in front of him, staring with blank, wide-open eyes. I thought my initial appearance should be underplayed.
His reaction was quite gratifying.
Perhaps he’d first noticed something just on the edge of his vision as he looked down at the cards, something that didn’t belong. The eye automatically tracks movement, but I wasn’t moving, only gradually becoming there.
His eyes snapped up and grew until they were as wide as my own. His heart boomed and his breath stuck in his throat, and he stayed that way for nearly a minute, apparently too terrified to look away or even move. I thought if I said boo (and I was very tempted) he’d go completely to pieces, so I kept still and slowly faded away.
Escott had said that my antics were unnerving. Now I was getting a firsthand look at their effect on the uninitiated.
