by P. N. Elrod
It was really better than I expected—at least at first, then the quality of the writing began to deteriorate along with the continuity. A cliff-hanger ending was never resolved and one of the Bannerworth brothers seemed to disappear completely from the story. When he did return, the author had forgotten his name. Whole sections written for no other purpose than to fill a word quota tried my patience and I skipped them altogether. I focused on the few scenes where the vampire appeared and had dialogue.
His blood requirements were only occasional, usually after he’d been killed and his body was carelessly left out in the moonlight, which revived him. The moonlight device had been lifted wholesale from Polidori’s story and used shamelessly each time Varney was shot dead, or in one case, drowned. He had no trouble with running water, crosses, or garlic, not that anyone thought of using the latter two against him.
Eventually all the Bannerworths disappeared, to be replaced with a steady parade of beautiful young girls that he kept trying to marry, either in the hope their love would end his curse or because he was thirsty. Sometimes, the reason was a bit vague. He was usually kept from the nuptial feasts by an interfering old enemy, the man the bride truly loved, or the bride’s suicide. He soon ran out of nubile prospects as well as European countries to ravage.
Tough, he was able to recover from mortal wounds with some lunar help, but he certainly lacked a talent for hypnotism. His victims always ended up screaming for help and interrupting his dinner. The one point I did find very interesting was that each time he was resurrected, he had to soon feed or die.
I shut the book with a slight headache and a sigh of relief just as Braxton was coming back.
“I was closing up for the day. . . . Surely you haven’t finished it?”
“Not exactly.” I explained my skimming method to him.
“Are you sure you got sufficient detail for your research? I thought you’d be here for several days, taking notes.”
“I can hold it in my head long enough to jot the high points down later.”
He registered mock disappointment. “And I’d been looking forward to some company. It is so rare for me to meet someone with a similar interest in the unusual.”
“I couldn’t help noticing your collection. . . .”
He was proud of it and this time able to talk. “Fortunately my business gives me an advantage over others. I often get advance notice of private collections going up for sale and can get first pick.” He pulled out a volume, but didn’t open it. “That’s how I found this one. A friend of mine who arranges estate sales told me about it, and I made an early purchase ahead of the auction.”
With a slight shock I deciphered the title; the script lettering was hard to read. “But I thought this was a fake, it has to be.”
“As did I when I saw it, but here it is. It came from the library of a university professor. His relatives sealed up his house when he suddenly disappeared. The police thought he’d been kidnapped and perhaps murdered, but never found the body—the case is still open. His family waited seven years, had him declared dead, and settled his estate.”
The story stunk like a barrel of very old fish. Braxton’s friend must have taken him for plenty over that book. He had believed it, though, and expected me to as well. “What was his name?”
“I don’t remember, this was years ago.”
“Maybe he wrote it on the inside of the book.”
“No, not this book.”
“Mind if I flipped through it?”
He was uneasy. “I’d rather you didn’t. The Necronomicon isn’t just any book, you know. That does sound ridiculous in the broad light of day, I realize I must appear to be superstitious.”
“Why did you buy it if it makes you uncomfortable?”
“I don’t really know, perhaps it’s the collector in me. I suppose I also wanted it kept somewhere safe, where it would not be used.” He sucked in his lips and looked embarrassed.
He wanted to impress someone, anyone, and I was his latest effort. Projecting an air of mystery and implied danger concerning his possessions was his method, and it put my hackles up. I’d met people like him before; he was more subtle than most and probably had a small, handpicked circle of acolytes. I wondered where they held their weekly séance.
“Yes, I guess it could be misused,” I commented neutrally.
He was relieved that I hadn’t laughed, and replaced the book. “Some of these others might help you in your research. I wouldn’t mind you looking them over.”
“Thank you very much, but I’m afraid most of them are outside my immediate study range.”
“Are you researching vampires exclusively?”
“For this book, yes. They’re popular now.”
“They always have been. Hardly a week goes by that I don’t have a customer asking for a copy of Dracula. Business was especially good last month, when the movie began showing. It would seem to be the last word on the subject.”
I knew better but said nothing. “Yes, I’m trying to locate Stoker’s sources. I don’t have the British Museum available so I’ve been hitting every bookstore and library in the city.”
“Why are you interested in his sources?”
“To see if there were any true accounts of vampirism in them.”
“Do you believe in vampires?”
I didn’t like the way he focused on me. “In a way . . . I’ve read about people like Elizabeth Bathory and others. There’s always going to be a few oddballs running loose, but as for the Dracula kind of vampire, no, I don’t believe in them.” And I said it with perfect sincerity, but his intense, inquiring look made me uncomfortable.
“You don’t believe in supernatural vampires?” he pursued.
“No.”
“But what if they exist despite your disbelief?”
“They don’t.”
He smiled tightly.
“You believe in them?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.” He gestured at all the books. “I’ve read them, all of them, and there is a lot of evidence. Most of it is quite absurd, of course, but once sifted through, some of it refuses to be dismissed. I like to keep an open mind.”
“To each his own,” I said meaninglessly, trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation. Someday I might want to come back, though that possibility was not looking very attractive at the moment.
His expression was still disturbing. “But tell me, Mr. Fleming, and with all truth, what would it mean if there are such things? What would it mean to you?”
“I’d have to think that one over.”
“I already have. I’ve thought a lot about it. We have this bright world of daylight, predictable and comfortable to us. Normal. But what do we do when something happens that simply does not fit into that world and makes us conscious of another world altogether, existing and blending closely with our own? A world we can but glimpse and then dismiss as a fantasy, a world we cannot sanely accept, for that would doom our complacent security. Its citizens are beautiful monsters, to be feared or laughed at as at a dream. But if their reality were to be proved to you, how would you react? You can deny it or accept the truth. One keeps your illusion of your world safe and the other . . . well, your hand might hesitate tonight before it turns out the light. How can you slumber in peace when you cannot see what the darkness conceals? Our eyes blink against it, our ears hear things that might be moving, our skin shivers and anticipates crawling things beneath the covers. Within that dark, which is as sunlight to them, they watch and bide their time until sleep takes you; they sense it as we sense the heat and cold. They approach, marking you, stealing your heart’s essence to strengthen their own Undead bodies, and when the dawn comes they’re gone . . . and one more part of your soul is gone with them.”
It was past time to leave. The man knew too much and yet too little. He was perceptive enough to know there were other reasons besides a bogus book to inspire my research. Maybe he hoped I would confide in him, show him the mar
ks on my throat and ask for help. That was out. I was not under any restraining hypnotic suggestion from Maureen, but I did have a share of common sense. Even if I told him the truth about vampires, it would do no good. He was the wrong sort to unlearn all the nonsense he had sitting on his shelves, such truth would endanger his illusions just as he said.
He read my face correctly and knew he’d gone too far too soon. Cultivating acolytes takes time. “I’m sorry, I do ramble on a bit.”
“That’s all right. It was very interesting, but I have to be going. Thank you very much for letting me read the book. I really appreciate it.”
“Not at all,” he replied, shaking hands. “I hope you’ll come again?”
“Sure,” I lied.
Social conventions sometimes come in handy. We smiled, said the usual things, performed the expected rituals, and pretended all was right in the world. It was for me as soon as I stepped out into the brisk March dusk to walk home. Braxton’s outlook on reality was enough to throw anyone off center. If nothing else, he personified my own fears of vampirism and made me realize how groundless they were. Compared to Maureen, Braxton was far more frightening.
The relationship Maureen and I shared was hardly consistent with the popular image of vampire and victim. Our love-making was astonishingly joyous and normal, and if at its climax she drew a little blood from me what did it matter as long as we both enjoyed it? Maybe she wasn’t a typical vampire, maybe there were others just as dangerous as Stoker’s creation. I did not know.
I never mentioned Braxton to Maureen; I didn’t want her to know about my fears, especially now that they’d been dispelled. She needed my love and support, not my insecurities. After a very short time, the incident faded from my memory.
5
AGAIN taking refuge in a large, anonymous hotel under a different name, I stopped for the day in Indianapolis. My car was left several blocks away in another hotel’s garage. Not the best kind of subterfuge, but I was hoping Braxton was not that good a detective. My hopes panned out or I was lucky again; the next night I was back in the familiar and relative sanity of Chicago. My first stop was Bobbi’s place.
I waved at the night clerk as usual, he nodded back, turned to a pillar near his desk, and resumed talking to it. This sort of behavior makes me curious, so I walked over to see what made the pillar such a fascinating conversationalist. Leaning against it, just out of my line of sight, was the house dick, Phil. He was a medium-sized, slightly tubby man in an old derby and a loose collar. He didn’t look like much, but Bobbi said he could take care of himself and knew where to go for help if he needed it.
He saw me and nodded. “Morning, Fleming. You up early or out late?”
I shook his calluses. “I’m always out late. How’s business?”
“Slow, but there’s the weekend coming up.”
That was when he made most of his tips. As long as the trysting couples were quiet about it, he was conveniently blind and deaf; disturb the other guests and the offenders were out on their ears.
“Good luck, then. Listen, could you do me a favor?’*
“Depends.” His face was as carefully blank as the lobby’s marble floor.
“There’s been a couple of guys following me. . . .” I gave him an accurate description of Braxton and Webber and an inaccurate account of their activities. “They’ve already pestered my folks and I figure they might try bothering Miss Smythe next.”
“They can try.” The only thing Phil liked better than bribes was kicking pests around.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept your eyes open.” I stuck my hand out in farewell and we shook again briefly. He pocketed the sawbuck I slipped him with the discreet manner that made him so popular with the other hotel patrons.
“I will do that,” he promised. The only thing Phil liked better than bribes and kicking pests around was to be bribed to kick pests around. “Please tender my regards to Miss Smythe.”
Phil and the clerk resumed their discussion, which had to do with the merits of various betting parlors in the city, and I completed my journey to the elevator. The operator put up a good imitation of being awake and he took me to Bobbi’s floor.
“She’s got guests tonight,” he told me.
“Anyone I know?”
He shrugged and opened the doors. “They look the fancy type to me.”
That could mean anything. I stepped out and immediately picked up the loud thrum of conversation down the hall. Bobbi had mentioned her plans for a little party a few days ago. Her idea of a little party meant inviting only half the city, not all of it.
The door swung open at my knock and a dangerous-looking female barred the way in. She sucked in a lungful of smoke from a skinny black cigar and let it blow out her nostrils to corrode the air. “Well, speak of the devil.”
Not knowing how to respond to that one, I waited for her to stand aside, only she didn’t, hanging on to the doorknob to look me over.
She had well-powdered white skin stretched over her bones, and dark eyes, which were made larger and darker by a liberal use of makeup. Her hair was jet black, shaped like a helmet with thick, severely cut bangs that just covered the eyebrows. The rest was leveled hard against her jawline. If any single hair dared to rebel, it had been rigorously dealt with by a dose of lacquer.
She wore something box shaped and bright purple, with green sequins edging a deep neckline that didn’t suit her long face. The talons she affected were another bad choice, as they accentuated the developing witchiness of her fingers. They were painted the same color as her wide mouth: a deep maroon. I put her down as a case that was determined to look a young and sophisticated twenty no matter what her actual age. As far as I could tell under the war paint, she’d just edged her way over forty.
She’d finished assessing me as well, took a step backward, and swept her hand in a gesture to indicate I could pass. We locked stares for a second and she smiled. It was no more than a thinning of the lips, but it expressed her contempt as plainly as if she’d spit in my face.
Then Bobbi said my name, threw her body against mine, and I forgot about everything else for a few moments.
“You should have called.” Her mouth was very close to my ear and I enjoyed the tickling of her breath. “I didn’t know when you’d be back.”
“I like surprising you.”
“It is easier to catch them out that way,” the woman said agreeably.
Bobbi pulled back a little, but kept her arms around me. “Jack, this is Marza Chevreaux. She’s my accompanist.”
I had wondered what she was. “How do you do?”
“Not as well as you, dear boy,” she drawled sweetly, and held out her hand, forcing me to relinquish my hold on Bobbi in order to take it. It wasn’t a fair exchange; her fingers lay briefly and limply in my palm and then recoiled to be better occupied at playing with the chain of her long necklace. She smiled again, took a step backward, pivoted on the same movement, and left us.
I hoped she was out of earshot and opened my mouth, but Bobbi beat me to it.
“You don’t have to say it, I already know.”
“I never saw her at the club.”
“Slick didn’t like her.”
“Fancy that.”
“She really is a good accompanist, once you get past all her dramatics. We’re a good team and I got the station to agree to have her play when I sing.”
“She said ‘speak of the devil’; should my ears be burning?”
“A couple of the girls were wondering who I was dating, and I can’t help but talk about you. Because of Slick, Marza doesn’t think much of the men in my life, but she’ll come around once she gets to know you.”
“Do you have some less discriminating guests in the meantime?”
“Sure, come in and meet them.”
“What’s this about again?”
“Just a little pre-broadcast party, then afterward we’ll have a post-broadcast party.”
“I didn’t know you were
so social.”
“Neither did I, but getting away from the club was like getting out of jail. I just want to celebrate.” Then she kissed me again, linked an arm in mine, and pulled me into the living room with all the noise.
It wasn’t as large a group as I thought, but they made up for it in volume. A half dozen were in the immediate vicinity, with several brands of cigarettes and perfumes, none of it too breathable, so I only indulged when it was necessary to talk.
Marza Chevreaux had taken up a station at the piano, but was clearly not about to play it. Her purpose must have been to prevent others from doing so. She clutched a drink and stared with glassy eyes at an intense-looking man crouched on the floor next to her. He wore thick glasses and had short skin-colored hair on the sides and long dark hair on top. It looked too much like a toupee to be one, so it had to be his own. He was making short, waving movements with his hands as he tried to prove a point of some kind to Marza.
“That’s Madison Pruitt,” Bobbi whispered. “Marza brought him along because he irritates everyone.”
“He looks more than capable of it. Why is he so irritating?”
“Because if you give him half a chance he’ll try to get you to join the Communist party. He’s as bad as the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“You’re kidding me, nobody could—” I hauled up short, staring at the mountainous back of a man on the sofa. “What’s he doing here?”
“Are you angry?”
I thought it over. “Actually, no, just curious.”
She was relieved. “He’s my friend, Jack. I wanted him here. You don’t have to talk to him, he’ll understand.”
“That wouldn’t be polite. Besides, this place isn’t that big and he’s a hard man to duck.”
“You going to be nice?” She was half-joking, half-serious. I felt like kissing her and saw no reason not to and followed through.
“I’ll be nice,” I promised, and walked over to the sofa.
