The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Mabel directed Escott to a branching in the drive that went around to the rear. He cut the headlamps, and we had to trust to luck that more lightning wouldn’t suddenly reveal us to anyone watching from the house.

  She pointed toward a porte cochère serving the back door. Escott glided under its shelter, parking next to a snappy-looking Buick coupe, which was parked pointing outward. The rain drumming on our roof ceased. We’d put the windows up to keep out the water and rolled them down again to let in the air.

  “Feels like winter,” said Mabel in a more normal tone, sounding pleased.

  “Whose vehicle?” Escott asked.

  “Clive’s. He never uses the garage. Likes to leave quick when he has someplace to go.”

  “Aren’t we a bit obvious here?”

  “They’ll stay in the parlor so they can watch for their big buyer.”

  “I’m curious about this providentially wealthy collector of rare gems—how would Clive Latshaw find such a person?”

  “He must have asked around. Maybe he went to a jewelry store.”

  “What about his background?”

  She shrugged. “He said he was from New England—but his accent says Detroit. We must get moving. For all I know, Agnes might have brought the Eye down early, and all this effort will be wasted.”

  I cleared my throat. “Say she did. We can still get it.”

  Mabel gave me a sideways look. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing violent, but I can have a talk with them, make them see reason.”

  “If it’s nothing violent, why mention it?”

  “My associate has a very persuasive and calming manner even with the most obstreperous of types,” Escott explained.

  “You always talk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  She waved a hand. “All right, but let’s try my way first. I’ll get the door open and you two follow. And be quiet.”

  On the drive over, she’d given us her plan of attack, which was to sneak upstairs, have Escott pick the bedroom lock, and I’d keep lookout.

  Of course, I had my own way into the room that involved vanishing and sieving under the door, but Mabel Weaver didn’t need to witness it. This was her party; let her have her fun.

  She left the car, carefully not slamming the door. Escott and I did the same, following her through the back entry into a sizable mudroom. I had no need of an invitation to cross the threshold. Bram Stoker, go jump in a lake.

  Mabel took her shoes off and gestured for us to do likewise.

  Escott leaned close to whisper. “We’re shod in gum-soled shoes, Miss Weaver.”

  “Really? I thought that was just in the movi—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, apparently remembering her own order about silence.

  The mudroom opened to a dim kitchen, also large. There were dinner leavings forgotten on the table in the dining room on our left. The parlor was the next room over, visible through an open door; a comedy show played on the radio.

  In silence, Mabel led us to a plain hall with stairs going up. The house had been built for a large family with a lot of servants, all long gone and moved on. It seemed a shame to have it wasted on two thieves, but I was just the hired help and not entitled to an opinion about the wisdom of Grandma Bawks’s bequest.

  There were walls between us and the parlor, but I heard Rochester making a comment to Jack Benny and getting a huge laugh despite static from the storm affecting reception. The noise would mask our own movements, and just as well—the old wooden stairs squeaked.

  We took them slow. Mabel would stop and listen, anxious, then move up a few more steps. She finally made the landing, and then padded down the hall on tiptoe. Escott kept up with her, not quite so silent as I, but damned close. He had the small flashlight in one hand, but enough ambient glow from an uncurtained window allowed them to navigate. The lightning flashes were getting more frequent, the thunder insistently louder. Mother Nature wanted to let everyone know who was in charge tonight.

  Mabel stopped before a door and pointed. Escott gave her the flashlight and dropped to one knee, reaching for his inside coat pocket. He drew out his lockpick case, opened it, and went to work.

  I eased toward a second staircase that curved down to the entry foyer. White marble, lofty columns, paneled walls—nice place, but I couldn’t see myself ever living in anything this fancy. Maybe Grandma Bawks hadn’t done Agnes any favors. The property taxes would be steep, and with a husband who was allergic to work . . . I suddenly wanted a look at those two.

  It was easy to build a mental picture of them from Mabel’s talk, but I knew better than to trust such things. The parlor was temptingly close, just off the entry to judge by the radio volume.

  Escott performed his magic, listening and feeling his way as he attacked the lock. With the thunder and rain, it was taking longer than usual. Mabel held the flashlight, her fingers covering most of the beam, letting just enough escape so Escott could work. Neither noticed when I vanished.

  Escott would know I’d be reconnoitering and not worry, but he’d have a tough time convincing Mabel to do the same. What the hell, he could use the practice.

  Formless, I drifted downstairs, hugging the wall for orientation. When I ran out of wall, I bumbled toward the radio noise. When invisible, I can’t see and my hearing’s muffled, but I’ve no shins to crack. I flowed gently along, working around, and sometimes under, furniture until I was in the parlor next to the radio.

  It crossed my mind that this would be a perfect night to suddenly go solid and yell boo, but I restrained myself.

  A quick circuit gave me a sense of where various obstacles like chairs were located, as well as where Agnes and Clive had roosted. She sat close to the radio; he stood by a wall.

  Pushing away, I found what I hoped was the opposite wall and forced myself to go high until I hovered against the ceiling.

  I hate heights, but most people don’t look up. If luck was with me, Clive and Agnes would be doing what I did myself: watching the radio. The thing isn’t a movie screen, but you get into the habit of staring at the glowing dial as though it’s a face.

  Slowly I took on solidity and got some of my sight back, though the view was faded and foggy. The more solid, the better my vision, but the more weight. If I didn’t hold to a semi-transparent state, I’d drop like a brick.

  Agnes flipped through a picture magazine, her head down. She had dark hair and looked more lightly built than Mabel.

  Clive was at a window, holding the curtain to one side. Maybe he liked storms, but my money was on the gem collector’s arrival being the object of his interest. He was a square-looking specimen, clear featured, nothing unpleasant about him.

  They were not the shifty-eyed, snarling crooks with pinched and ugly mugs my mental picture had conjured. They were as ordinary as could be, enough so I doubted Mabel’s assessment.

  An important message interrupted Jack Benny’s show. Before the announcer could make his point over the increasing static, Agnes shut the sound down.

  “He won’t arrive faster for you watching,” she said, flipping a magazine page.

  Clive grunted. “I’m sure I saw a car turn in.”

  “If it did, then it went out again. We’re near the end of the lane. They use the drive for that all the time. It’s too early, anyway.”

  “What if that was Mabel coming back?”

  “She’d be inside by now, and we’d have heard her big feet clomping up the stairs. I’ll be glad when she goes.”

  “Taking her rent money with her.”

  Agnes looked up. “You’re a funny one. The money we’re making tonight and you’re worried about her five-and-dime rent?”

  “The deal’s not a sure thing, I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  “Then why’s he coming over if not to buy? Once he sees the diamond, he’ll want it.”

  “Don’t be too confident about that.”

  She slapped the magazine shut. “And you don’t be too anxious
to sell or he won’t make a good offer. I know what the thing’s worth, and if he isn’t up for that, then you’ll just have to find another man.”

  “Listen, crazy collectors who don’t ask questions aren’t falling out of trees. I had to hustle to find this one.”

  “But it’s not like we’re in a hurry. Mabel’s not caught on yet, and she never will.”

  He chuckled. “Did you see her going out?”

  “You know I did. I nearly broke something trying not to laugh. The way she was sweeping around like some queen in the crown jewels, the big snob. One of these days I’m going to tell her about this.”

  There was a white flash from the window, and thunder boomed like a cannon a bare second after. Agnes yelped, Clive jumped, the lights flickered, and I vanished altogether. It startled me, too. Just as well—people tend to look up when that happens.

  “Come away from the window before you get electrocuted,” Agnes said, shaken.

  “It’s right over us. Did you feel that? Shook the whole house.”

  “I’ll get a candle before we blow a fuse.”

  She passed under me, using the doorway into the dining room. She fumbled around and returned.

  “That’s better,” she said some moments later. “Makes it cozy. Want a drink?”

  “Not until this is over.”

  “Then I’ll wait, too.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Grandma was always gabbing on about the good old days and how it looked by candlelight. I want to see.”

  “Put it up.”

  “The yellow goes away in this light. The old bat was right. It looks like a real diamond now—come see.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe that crock about the curse.”

  “You were just telling me not to be too anxious. What’s Taylor going to think when he walks in and sees you waving that thing around like a Cracker Jack prize?”

  “That maybe I have some sentimental attachment to it and will be reluctant to sell. I’ll make sure he hears my heart breaking.”

  “Go easy on the Sarah Bernhardt act—this isn’t his first time. He’ll know if you’re trying to—”

  I missed the rest, being too busy finding and shooting back up the stairs. I moved along the hall, bumping into someone who gave a sudden shiver. Escott once compared the kind of cold I inflict in this form to that feeling you get when someone waltzes on your grave.

  “Problem?” Escott whispered, evidently recognizing the chill.

  I hung back, not knowing where Mabel might be.

  “Miss Weaver isn’t here.”

  I resumed form and weight. Gravity’s always an odd shock, like climbing out of a swimming pool after a long float.

  The door he’d been working on was open. I looked in. The flashlight was on the floor. Its beam took in Mabel, who was on her knees by a closet going through dozens of pairs of women’s shoes. They have only two feet, why is it dames need so many things to put them in?

  Mabel stopped when she heard my psst. She hastily got up.

  “We’re skunked,” I whispered. “Agnes has the rock with her. You want to try the next plan?”

  She scowled. “You’ll never talk her out of it. No matter what, there’s going to be a fight.”

  “Jack has a winning way with people,” Escott assured. “This won’t take long. We can wait in the car.”

  “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”

  “No.” I was decisive. “You two clear out.”

  “But—”

  “I promise not to break anything. Hand over the fake. I’ll trade them.”

  “But if you touch the real one . . . the curse—I can’t.” She was absolutely serious.

  “Please.” I put a little pressure on. Since she’d been under so recently, it didn’t take much. If the real diamond killed men, it was too late for me.

  Reluctantly, Mabel slipped the pendant off its chain. “You’re sure?”

  I jerked my head toward the scattered shoes. “Put those back so she won’t know.”

  While she made repairs, I turned to Escott. “You hear of any gem collectors named Taylor?”

  He shook his head. When it came to various criminals working in Chicago and points east and south, he was an encyclopedia. Honest citizens held little interest for him.

  Mabel came out, easing the door shut; Escott locked it again. We took the back stairs down. The vulnerable spot on our exit was the dining room door, still wide open with a view through to the parlor. Anyone looking our way would see us passing.

  I put an eye around the edge. The coast was clear. A quick gesture, and Escott and Mabel slipped by, heading for the mudroom. Thunder covered the sounds they made.

  The coast was still clear, so I ducked into the dining room, staying solid and sneaking up on the parlor door. Standing behind it, I could peer through the crack on the hinge side.

  Agnes was in her chair with the magazine; Clive was back staring out the window.

  If they’d split up, the job would be easy. I could hypnotize them one at a time into a nap. Both at once would necessarily be violent. I’d have to physically restrain one while working my evil eye whammy on the other. Not impossible, but it’s noisy, exasperating, and never goes smoothly.

  My best bet was to draw one of them from the room long enough to get to the other. A couple spoons from the uncleared dinner table would do. I’d toss them at the marble in the foyer. Clive was already up and more or less pointing in the right direction. . . .

  The doorbell rang.

  “It’s him,” said Clive, excited.

  Crap. I didn’t want to have to take out three of them.

  “Didn’t you see him drive up?” Agnes asked.

  “It’s like Niagara out there. You can’t see anything.”

  She put the magazine to one side, stood, smoothed her dress, and sat down again, ankles crossed, hands in her lap they way they teach girls to do in finishing schools. She had a little black box in one hand, not hard to guess what was in it. “When this is done I want a real honeymoon,” she said with a spark in her eyes. She was as tall as Mabel, but finer-boned and more aristocratic in features.

  “You got it, baby!” He hurried to the foyer.

  I had my chance. He’d be busy with the guest, finding a place for his hat and umbrella. I’d have the moment I needed to steal in and put her out.

  Only Agnes did something odd, and that made me hesitate. While looking toward the foyer with the box in her left hand, her right hand left her lap briefly, brushing against a pocket on her dress. It was swiftly and deftly done. She’d checked to make sure something was where it was supposed to be.

  What’s in your pocket, Mrs. Latshaw?

  Then my opportunity was gone. Clive led the buyer in and introduced William D. Taylor (the Fourth) to his wife. I guess they make eccentric collectors in all types and sizes, but this one looked as average as Clive. Taylor wore a nice suit, a stuffy expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and had a briefcase.

  Pleasantries were exchanged about the terrible weather. Mr. Taylor apologized and was forgiven for arriving early.

  “You’ll pardon if I’m in a rush, Mrs. Latshaw, but I’ve a train to New York to catch. The sooner I make a decision on this stone, the sooner I may leave. This dismal rain . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. I came prepared.” He produced a jeweler’s loupe. “Mr. Latshaw, may I trouble you to move a lamp to this table?”

  When the lamp was in place, Agnes stepped forward.

  “This is my family’s prize heirloom: Hecate’s Golden Eye,” she said with a well-calculated dose of hushed respect as she opened the box.

  Taylor accepted the box, held it under the lamp’s light, peered at the contents, and set it down on the table. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, and only then picked up the pendant. I wondered if they’d be enough to protect him from the curse.

  He screwed the loupe in one eye and spe
nt several minutes examining the gem.

  Clive and Agnes exchanged worried looks, but resumed their poker-playing faces when Taylor grunted.

  “The genuine thing. Superb clarity for its size. I can see that legendary flaw quite clearly. A perfect eye with pupil and even lashes. Extraordinary.”

  “My dear grandmother often mentioned it. She loved the piece very much.”

  “No doubt. I’m sure you would rather keep it in the family.”

  Clive worked hard to hide his alarm. “You’re not interested?”

  “I am, sir, but cannot offer you much for it. I collect with the intent of appreciation of value as well as for a gem’s unique beauty. Without provenance—you were clear this diamond has none beyond private family records which, forgive me, can be forged—I cannot easily resell it in the future for as much profit as I would like.”

  “You could to another private collector.”

  “Humph. That would be that so-and-so Abercrombie. I’d never give him the satisfaction. I’m glad he’s moved to Switzerland or he might have gotten wind of this first. I’m sorry, but I can offer you only so much and no more. You may take it or leave it as you choose.”

  Then he said a number that made my jaw drop.

  The Latshaws failed to hide their gleeful satisfaction.

  Clive recovered first. “My wife and I assure you that we would be very pleased for Hecate’s Eye to become part of the Taylor collection.”

  “Very good.” They shook hands.

  “A check will suffice, and once it clears you may take possession.”

  “Mr. Latshaw, my train won’t wait for the banks to open, but I am prepared to conclude this transaction now.”

  He put the briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a respectable load of wrapped banknotes. The Latshaws were appropriately impressed. My jaw kept swinging. I’d seen bigger stacks of cash, but only in gangster-controlled gambling clubs. I drew breath for a silent whistle and could actually smell the ink.

  “How can you carry all that?” Agnes asked. “What if you’re robbed?”

  “I can take care of myself, ma’am.” Taylor opened his suit coat just enough to give her a glimpse of his shoulder rig and whatever gun it held. “If Mr. Latshaw would count the money and sign a receipt, I’ll be off to catch my train.”