The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Only to my friend on the inside, who was present during an initial interview session. She described him as being ‘very charming’ for what that’s worth, but sensed there was something ‘off’ about him that she couldn’t describe.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “Taking stenography notes for the district attorney’s office. With my direct connection to the victim in this case, the lady could lose her post for merely wishing me good evening in the street. It’s extremely unethical, a jeopardy to the DA’s case, but this young fellow put the wind up her, so when I telephoned, hoping for a hint or two of how things were progressing, she fairly gushed.”

  “She owe you a favor or just like you a lot?”

  He lifted one hand from the glass in a demurring manner. “Bit of both, as well as her interest in seeing Dugan put away. She’s not above bending rules in a good cause and knows I can keep a confidence.”

  “My lip’s buttoned, too.”

  “Never crossed my mind to worry about you.”

  “What did Dugan do for a living before he took up crime?”

  “Very little. His uncle’s family has something to do with ball bearing manufacture. It mostly runs itself under a board of directors, so Dugan devoted himself to educational pursuits.”

  “Smart?”

  “Graduated with honors from the University of Chicago. A business degree of some sort, quite in keeping with his class.”

  “Any mention of what he does in that free time when he’s not kidnapping girls?”

  “You’ll hate this: charity events. Before her demise last year he would squire his aging mother to such things.”

  “Doesn’t support him being very isolated.”

  “No, but it does give him a point of connection to Sarah Gladwell. She and her mother often attended the same affairs. I’ve not yet been able to establish a similar connection between him and his tarnished companions in crime. I should like to know how they met.”

  I went over my memory of Dugan from last night: knocking him cold, shoving him in the car, bringing him around, finally hypnotizing him. He’d been the last in line for his turn, no special reason. He was older than the others, in his young thirties, which had struck me as odd. Most people that age were more or less settled into routines established years earlier. He’d had a pale, good-looking face, mouth quirked in a kind of secret smile. It was his natural expression, his lips shaped that way, not fading even when I had him under. Usually people go dead-eyed and slack-jawed. His eyes had glazed during his turn, but it’s easy enough to fake. Could he have wakened sooner than the others, have heard things, been quick enough to understand what I was doing? If so, then that made him far too smart for my peace of mind.

  I flipped through the newspapers. Their pages had photos of the gang, Vinzer, Ralph, and Ponti, the bearded scruffiness of their mug shots in stark contrast to a handsome society portrait of Dugan. Also included were pictures of him escorting his sweet-faced, white-haired mother to past charity events, evidently plucked from the papers’ archives. He looked very benign indeed.

  Several papers had sent photographers out to the small house in Indiana to get shots of the kidnappers’ country retreat. Captions for the scene of the crime pointed to significant sites like the bed where young Sarah had lain and the partly destroyed outhouse. I’d stopped the cleanup before it had begun; hopefully there were still plenty of Dugan’s fingerprints to be found there.

  I looked at Escott. “Does Dugan have a story on where he spent the last two weeks?”

  “He claims he was a prisoner to the other three, too fearful of his life to chance trying to escape.”

  “Bullshit. He was in a car right behind Vinzer and Ralph the whole trip back to the house.”

  “Pity you can’t testify to that.”

  I grunted agreement, skimming the papers. The articles varied wildly on angles. Though all were anti-kidnapping, few were anti-Dugan; the rest annoyed me. Were they that impressed by his wealth? Understandable in these hard times, but hardly rational. A couple of the more thoughtful ones reported on and speculated thoroughly about the mysterious Good Samaritan who had foiled the plot. They called for him to come forward with his testimony. I would have loved to oblige them, with or without their offered reward. It was hefty enough to attract plenty of phonies. They’d have to get through the coming dog-and-pony show without my help.

  “Bored rich guy,” I stated, shaking my head at the follies of the world. “Maybe he’s trying to top Leopold and Loeb by getting away with it, skipping jail altogether.” That was a lot of conclusion-jumping, but it nettled that the guy might have put one over on me. I wanted him to live down to those conclusions. “He didn’t need the money, so the kidnapping might have been an experiment to him, a thrill crime to see if he could do it.”

  “He very nearly did, if not for your intervention.”

  “He still could. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Jack . . . it would be best to deal with this before it ever goes to court.”

  “I’ll try the evil eye again, really press things. See if I can make it last long enough for him to sign a confession.”

  That snagged me a doubtful look. “If you think it worth the effort.”

  The idea behind the confessions was to wholly eliminate the need for a jury trial. The kidnappers were supposed to admit their crime, tell the judge to throw the book at them, and bring the mess to a swift end. But it promised that Dugan and his family would fight and fight dirty, and with enough money thrown around, even this serious a charge could be dodged.

  Thinking of Sarah Gladwell on the witness stand turned my guts. A halfway good lawyer could make mincemeat of any sixteen-year-old, but one with Sarah’s mental state had no chance at all. He could play up the fact that she’d been drugged, was too feebleminded to be believed, or make it look like she’d been in on the crime herself as a prank, not knowing any better. The star witness against Dugan and the rest would get pity or sympathy but no justice.

  “It’ll be worth the effort,” I said. “Let’s call it eliminating a possibility. I was tired last night. The work I did on the other guys gave me a headache. Maybe I was punchy by the time it was Dugan’s turn, took things for granted, got sloppy with the work. I’ll give it another try, see what happens.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  I didn’t want to think about that. Escott apparently read it in my face. We went quiet for a while, not the comfortable kind. I cleared my throat and stood. “Well, I got a saloon to run. Why don’t you come over? See the show, blow away the cobwebs. Bobbi would love to see you again. She thinks I’m a big hero on this case; you can tell her different.”

  He shrugged, not saying one way or another, frowning at his empty glass.

  The phone rang again. I answered it. Another reporter who’d bluffed his way in. Jeez, when I’d been one, I had no idea how irritating we could be. “Wanna do an interview?” I called toward the front room.

  Escott barked a short laugh. “I’ve left for London. A flying visit to see a certain Lady Crymsyn.”

  I told the man Escott was off crime-busting illegal pinochle games in Timbuktu and hung up.

  As the evening settled firmly on the city, lights kindled bright in the houses and stores, making me feel less alone in my head. People and cars clogged the streets. It would be hours before they thinned out and finally emptied, and by then my club would be hopping, a second home to other night people.

  We took my Buick to Lady Crymsyn, arriving an hour earlier than necessary. After parking in my slot, we walked a short block to a diner where I bought Escott a decent meal, keeping him company. The smell of cooked food tended to inspire nausea in me, but the only way I could be sure he’d eat was to watch him. I was hungry myself, but that feeding would have to wait. To look normal, I ordered a cup of coffee, stirring a spoon in it whenever the waitress passed by.

  Once Escott started on his p
late, he didn’t stop, packing the stuff away like a starved miner. The last couple weeks had left him gaunt; I encouraged him to a second dessert. I did the talking, avoiding the subject of Dugan, keeping strictly to business about the club. This included a lengthy mention of Roland, Adelle, the exotic Faustine, and the so-far-unaware Gordy.

  “Bobbi said to keep my nose out of it,” I told Escott. “And I know she’s right, but I don’t like the potential for trouble.”

  “Then you’d best retire to a distant and deserted island. Any patch of earth on this planet with people on it has that potential.”

  “Screwy world. Why can’t we be more sensible?”

  “I’m sure the Almighty has been asking that very question for several ages now. We are creatures of spirit and body, both in frequent conflict for supremacy, when we should seek a balance between the two.”

  “Where’d that come from?” I’d never heard such ideas from him before.

  “Mrs. Gladwell and I had some rather remarkable conversations about many things, including certain forms of philosophy. I tried to get her to talk to pass the time and keep her mind from dwelling too morbidly on the fate of her daughter. It seemed to help her bear up under the burden.”

  “How’s she doing now?”

  “Oh, worlds better with young Sarah back.”

  “Is she all right? Those drugs they gave her . . .”

  “The doctor is optimistic about a complete recovery. Fortunately, she remembers little of her ordeal, though the poor child has had nightmares. They moved her bed into her mother’s room for the time being. She feels safer there. I dare say Vivi—Mrs. Gladwell is also the better for it. She never lets Sarah from her sight. There’s a nurse with her at all times. Mrs. Gladwell is taking great pains to keep the troubles of the outside world distanced from the household, the best thing for them. She’s remarkably perceptive. And erudite. Some people have libraries for show, but she’s read hers. Every book. Quite an achievement with that many volumes.”

  I made noises like I was interested and got another earful about Mrs. Gladwell’s virtues. Escott was impressed with her mind, which was a rarity. Usually a woman’s looks first hooked him, then if she had some kind of artistic talent like singing or acting. He had a mile-wide streak of frustrated creativity with no time to indulge it because of the demands of his agency, but he liked talking shop. A woman who appealed to him on an intellectual level was a rarity. There were brainy women all over, but those who crossed his path in business never hung around long enough for anything to happen.

  He seemed more relaxed and less exhausted when we strolled to the club, and I unlocked the front. The staff was already at work; Wilton had let them in by the back door, and Myrna was there, of course. The lobby bar light didn’t go out, but it did flare inexplicably brighter for a few seconds.

  “Hello, Myrna,” I said, looking toward the bar. I never saw anything, but it was a general point of focus.

  “That’s damned unnerving,” said Escott.

  “You used to say that about me.”

  “Only when you abruptly appeared out of thin air. She’s not appeared at all.”

  “Would you be happy if she did?”

  “I doubt it. Have you thought of hiring a ghost-breaker?”

  Before I could reply, all the lights in the place went out, and I mean all of them. Only a little street glow filtered in from the red, diamond-shaped windows high above, plenty for me to use, but no one else. Startled exclamations came from the staff in the main room. I shot a sour look at Escott that he couldn’t see, so I put it in my tone of voice. “That ain’t gonna happen. Myrna stays.”

  He shifted. “Jack, have you just vanished?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I’m bloody freezing all of a sudden.”

  I addressed the general air, which had gone strangely cold. “Take it easy, Myrna, he didn’t mean it. You’re welcome here for as long as you want.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Myrna,” he added, sounding humble. “That was unconscionably rude of me. I apologize.”

  It was hard not to laugh. I held it in and waited. Eventually, the lobby bar light came on. None of the others, though.

  “It seems there are good reasons not to speak ill of the dead.” Escott had gone bone white, and I could hear his heart thumping. What I had come to take for granted had left him seriously shaken.

  “Mr. Fleming? Is that you?” Wilton came out of the main room, his flashlight beam bouncing as he walked. “What happened?”

  “Mr. Escott just has a misplaced sense of humor.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know where the switchbox is?”

  “Yeah. Reebie’s down there now. Good thing you got these everyplace, or we’d be breaking our legs.” He lifted the flash. It had only been prudent to keep several scattered throughout the joint; each of the bars had at least two, and every fire extinguisher had one next to it mounted on a clip.

  The lights came on again. Escott remained pale and chagrined. “I think I should like a short walk,” he announced. “Work off this chill.”

  “Chill?” said Wilton. “It must be thirty degrees outside.”

  “Thirty-four. Should warm me up nicely. Back in a tick.” He turned on his heel and bolted out the doors.

  “What’s with him?”

  I shrugged and took off my coat and hat. “Let’s open.”

  Wilton followed me upstairs for the register cash, then left me to wrestle with last night’s paperwork. It didn’t take long; out of pure self-defense against being shown up too often by my bookkeeper, I’d bought an automatic calculating machine, which speeded things. Escott said I’d lose the ability to add sums on my own, but I wasn’t overly bothered. Anything just so the books balanced, and more often than not they did. With a warm feeling of triumph, I wrapped the cash, clipped the checks together, and sealed both in a heavy envelope. There was a bank with a night-deposit box only a block distant. When I had a spare moment, I’d walk over. I never worried about thieves, though Wilton had other thoughts.

  “One of these days you’re gonna get clobbered, Mr. Fleming,” he’d say. “Take your car and one of the guys along.”

  “I’ll be fine. This way only one man gets clobbered.” The would-be thief if he was dumb enough to tangle with me.

  As I slipped the envelope into the desk safe and locked it, heels clacked purposefully up the stairs. Her color high from the cold, Bobbi burst through my office door, wrapped tight in her fur-trimmed coat, a funny kind of hat slouching over her blond head. Her arms were full of the latest papers, which she plopped before me. She came around my desk for a kiss and hug hello, then pointed to the newsprint.

  “Have you read those? What they’re saying about the kidnap case?”

  “Charles did. Gave me the lowdown.”

  “It’s infuriating! Doesn’t anyone remember the Lindbergh baby?”

  “Apparently not today. Why don’t you write a letter to the paper?” I held up the worst of the stack. Its headline proved muckraking was still alive and kicking, high circulation being the owner’s golden calf.

  “I should have dinner with the editor of that rag, then hit him in the face with the main course. Gordy knows him; maybe he can get him to write sense. What is this world coming to? How did this happen? I thought the gang were all going to confess.”

  I gave her a short version of what Escott and I had speculated about Dugan’s hypnotic resistance throwing a really big left-handed monkey wrench into the works.

  Bobbi paced up and down the office, picking her gloves off with short, jerky movements. “If that Dugan gets away with it—”

  “He won’t. I promise.”

  A pause in her course. “Really?”

  “Scout’s honor, spit in his eye.”

  That pleased her, and a lot of the tension went out of her body. “Good. I’m glad there’s someone around like you who can fix messes like this.”

  “Just the few that sock me in the face.
Charles came over tonight but took a walk. When he gets back, would you keep him company? He can use cheering up.”

  “I’d do that anyway.” She opened the liquor cabinet by the windows, poured a small liqueur into a shot glass, and sipped delicately from it. “How is he?”

  “Tired and antsy. Myrna spooked him.” I told her what happened earlier.

  Bobbi thought that funny but was sympathetic. “How is it he can room with you but have problems with a ghost?”

  “Ask him sometime. I’ve wondered that myself.” When she came close enough to my chair, I pulled her onto my lap. She finished her drink, putting the glass on the desk, and draped her arms around my shoulders. Very chummy we were. “You smell good.”

  “I should. I pay plenty for it.”

  But what I wanted was under her perfume. Intense hunger plucked at me on several levels. I forced it off to the side. “Did you talk to Adelle?”

  “Not yet. No opportunity today, and I’m not going to bother her with this before her show.”

  “How about after?”

  “If and when the time’s right.”

  Her voice told me I should back off and let her figure it out. No problem. “How did things go with Roland and Faustine?”

  The after-lunch meeting with Roland Lambert had been on time and was strictly business, which impressed her. Completely professional herself, Bobbi looked for it in others and respected the ones who came through. “We’re set up for the weekend. The band has copies of their dance music, and I’ve got ads placed in tomorrow’s paper announcing them.”

  “Remind me to put you on the payroll.”

  “Already am.” True. She was on the clock like the rest whenever she came in to help.

  “Then I should give you a raise.”

  She squirmed on my lap. “Feels like you’ve given yourself one already.”

  “Oh, no, that’s your fault.” I kissed the inside of her wrist, lips lingering on the pulse point, eyes closed to better listen to her heart. Its dark rhythm was inspiring in all kinds of ways.