by Mike Ashley
They returned to the theatre. Once again inside the building, Chase doffed his warm outer coat and gloves, then made his way to the late Count Hunyadi’s dressing room, where the cadaver of the emigré actor remained, slowly stiffening, before the glaring lights and reflective face of his makeup mirror. Irony tingeing his voice, Chase purred, “You will note that the late Count casts a distinct reflection in his looking glass. Hardly proper conduct for one of the undead.” He bent to examine the cadaver once more, peering first at one side of Hunyadi’s neck, then at the other.
Chase whirled. “Was he left-handed?”
Walter Quince, standing uneasily in the doorway, swallowed audibly. “I – I think so. He, ah, remarked something about it, I recall.”
Abel Chase placed the heels of his hands on the sides of Hunyadi’s head and moved it carefully to an upright position. He made a self-satisfied sound. “There is some stiffness here, but as yet very little. He is recently dead. Delacroix, look at this. Clel, you also.”
As they obeyed he lowered Hunyadi’s head carefully to his right shoulder, exposing the left side of his neck to view above the high, stiff collar of his costume shirt.
“What do you see?” Chase demanded.
“Two red marks.” Captain Cleland Baxter, having moved forward in his rolling, uneven gait, now leaned over to study the unmoving Hunyadi’s neck. “He played a vampire,” the police captain muttered, “and he carries the marks of the vampire. Good God! In this Year of Our Lord 1931 – it’s impossible.”
“No, my friend. Not impossible,” Chase responded. “Supernatural? That I doubt. But impossible? No.” He shook his head.
Claire Delacroix scanned the dressing room, her dark, intelligent eyes flashing from object to object. Sensing that the attention of the theatre manager was concentrated on her, she turned her gaze on him. “Mr Quince, the programme for tonight’s performance includes a biography of each actor, is that not correct?” When Quince nodded in the affirmative, she requested a copy and received it.
She scanned the pages, touching Abel Chase lightly on the elbow and bringing to his attention several items in the glossy booklet. Chase’s dark head and Claire Delacroix’s platinum tresses nearly touched as they conferred.
Chase frowned at Walter Quince. “This biography of Mr Hunyadi makes no mention of a wife.”
“Imre Hunyadi is – was – unmarried at the time of . . .” He inclined his own head toward the body.
“Yes, his demise,” Chase furnished.
Quince resumed. “Theatrical biographies seldom mention former spouses.”
“But gossip is common within the theatrical community, is it not?”
“Yes.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Quince added, “I believe he was married twice. The first time in his native Hungary. To one Elena Kadar.”
“Yes, I have heard of her,” Chase furnished. “A brilliant woman, sometimes called the Hungarian Madame Curie. She was engaged for some years in medical research, in the field of anesthesiology. I’ve read several of her papers. Apparently she treated Habsburg soldiers who had been wounded in the Great War and was greatly moved by their suffering. Hence the direction of her experiments. She ended her life a suicide. A tragic loss.”
“Ach, Major, Major, you know everything, don’t you?” Captain Baxter exclaimed.
“Not quite,” Chase demurred. Then, “Under what circumstances, Quince, was the Hunyadi marriage dissolved?”
The theatre manager reddened, indicating with a minute nod of his head toward Claire Delacroix that he was reluctant to speak of the matter in the presence of a female.
“Really,” Claire Delacroix said, “I know something of the world, Mr Quince. Speak freely, please.”
“Very well.” The manager took a moment to compose himself. Then he said, “Some years before the Great War, Mr Hunyadi travelled to America as a member of a theatrical troupe. Magyar Arte, I believe they were called. They performed plays in their native language for audiences of immigrants. While touring, Hunyadi took up with his Hungarian leading lady. A few years later they moved to Hollywood to pursue careers in motion pictures. The woman’s name was—” He looked around furtively, then mentioned the name of a popular film actress.
“They had one of those glittering Hollywood weddings,” he added.
“With no thought of a wife still in Hungary?” Claire Delacroix inquired.
Quince shook his head. “None. Count Hunyadi made several successful silents, but when talkies came in, well, his accent, you see . . . There are just so many roles for European noblemen. Word within our community was that he had become a dope fiend for a time. He was hospitalized, then released, and was hoping to revive his career with a successful stage tour.”
“Yes, there were rumours of his drug habit,” Captain Baxter put in. “We were alerted down at the Hall of Justice.”
Abel Chase looked around. “What of—” He named the actress who had been Imre Hunyadi’s second wife.
“When her earnings exceeded his own, Count Hunyadi spent her fortune on high living, fast companions and powerful motor cars. When she cut him off and demanded that he look for other work, he brought a lawsuit against her, which failed, but which led to a nasty divorce.”
“Tell me about the other members of the cast.”
“You’re thinking that his understudy might have done him in?” Baxter asked. “That Winkle fellow?”
“Entirely possible,” Chase admitted. “But a premature inference, Clel. Who are the others?”
“Timothy Rodgers, Philo Jenkins,” Quince supplied. “Estelle Miller and Jeanette Stallings, the two female leads – Lucy and Mina. And of course Samuel Pollard – Van Helsing.”
“Yes.” Abel Chase stroked his moustache thoughtfully as he examined the printed programme. “Captain Baxter, I noticed that Sergeant Costello is here tonight. A good man. Have him conduct a search of this room. And have Officer Murray assist him. And see to it that the rest of the theatre is searched as well. I shall require a thorough examination of the premises. While your men perform those tasks I shall question the male cast members. Miss Delacroix will examine the females.”
Baxter said, “Yes, Major. And – is it all right to phone for the dead wagon? Count Hunyadi has to get to the morgue, don’t you know, sir.”
“Not yet, Clel. Miss Delacroix is the possessor of a medical education. Although she seldom uses the honourific, she is entitled to be called doctor. I wish her to examine the remains before they are removed.”
“As you wish, Major.”
Chase nodded, pursing his lips. “Delacroix, have a look before you question the women of the cast, will you. And, Quince, gather these persons, Rodgers, Pollard, Winkle, and Jennings for me. And you’d better include the director, as well, Garrison.”
Claire Delacroix conscientiously checked Hunyadi for tell-tale signs, seeking to determine the cause of the Hungarian’s death. She conducted herself with a professional calm. At length she looked up from the remains and nodded. “It is clear that the immediate cause of Count Hunyadi’s death is heart failure.” She looked from one to another of the men in the dressing room. “The puzzle is, for what reason did his heart fail? I can find no overt cause. The death might have been natural, of course. But I will wish to examine the marks on his neck. Definitely, I will wish to examine those marks.”
“I think they’re a mere theatrical affectation,” Walter Quince offered.
“That may be the case,” Claire Delacroix conceded, “but I would not take that for granted. Then –” she addressed herself to Captain Baxter “– I would urge you to summon the coroner’s ambulance and have the remains removed for an autopsy at the earliest possible moment.”
“You can rest assured of that,” Captain Baxter promised. “Nolan Young, the county coroner, is an old comrade of mine.”
Shortly the men Chase had named found themselves back on the stage of the Salamanca Theatre. The setting held ever the ominous, musty gloom of a darkened Tra
nsylvanian crypt. All had changed from their costumes to street outfits, their dark suits blending with the dull grey of canvas flats painted to simulate funereal stone.
A further macabre note was struck by their posture, as they were seated on the prop caskets that added atmosphere to the sepulchral stage setting.
Rather than a dearth, Abel Chase found that he was confronted by a surfeit of suspects. Each actor had spent part of the evening on-stage; that was not unexpected. As the hapless Jonathan Harker, Timothy Rodgers had won the sympathy of the audience, and Abel Chase found him a pleasant enough young man, albeit shaken and withdrawn as a result of this night’s tragedy.
Joseph Winkle, accustomed to playing the depraved madman Renfield, tonight had transformed himself into the elegant monster for the play’s final act. Philo Jenkins, the shuffling, blustering orderly, had stepped into Winkle’s shoes as Renfield. It had been a promotion for each.
Yet, Abel Chase meditated, despite Captain Baxter’s earlier suggestion that Winkle might be a suspect, he would in all likelihood be too clever to place himself under suspicion by committing so obvious a crime. Philo Jenkins was the more interesting possibility. He would have known that by murdering Hunyadi he would set in motion the sequence of events that led to his own advancement into Winkle’s part as Renfield. At the bottom of the evening’s billing, he had the most to gain by his promotion.
And Rodgers, it was revealed, was a local youth, an aspiring thespian in his first significant role. It appeared unlikely that he would imperil the production with no discernible advantage to himself.
The director, Garrison, would have had the best opportunity to commit the crime. Unlike the other cast members, who would be in their own dressing rooms – or, for such lesser lights as Rodgers, Winkle and Jenkins, a common dressing room – between the acts of the play, Garrison might well be anywhere, conferring with cast members or the theatre staff, giving performance notes, keeping tabs, in particular, on a star known to have had a problem with drugs.
“Garrison.” Abel Chase whirled on the director. “Had Hunyadi relapsed into his old ways?”
The director, sandy-haired and tanned, wearing a brown suit and hand-painted necktie, moaned. “I was trying to keep him off the dope, but he always managed to find something. But I think he was off it tonight. I’ve seen plenty of dope fiends in my time. Too many, Doctor Chase. Haven’t you come across them in your own practice?”
“My degree is not in medicine,” Chase informed him. “While Miss Delacroix holds such a degree, my own fields of expertise are by nature far more esoteric than the mundane study of organs and bones.”
“My mistake,” Garrison apologized. “For some reason, powder bouncers seem to gravitate to the acting profession as vipers do to music. Or maybe there’s something about being an actor that makes ’em take wing. They start off sniffing gin and graduate to the needle. I could tell, Mister Chase, and I think Hunyadi was OK tonight.”
Chase fixed Garrison with a calculatedly bland expression. Unlike the actors Winkle and Jenkins, the director lacked any obvious motive for wishing Hunyadi dead. In fact, to keep the production running successfully he would want Hunyadi functional. Still, what motive unconnected to the production might Garrison have had?
And there was Samuel Pollard. As Van Helsing, Chase knew, Pollard would have appeared with the lined face and grey locks of an aged savant, a man of five decades or even six. To Chase’s surprise, the actor appeared every bit as old as the character he portrayed. His face showed the crags and scars of a sexagenarian, and his thin fringe of hair was the colour of old iron.
In response to Chase’s questions, Pollard revealed that he had spent the second intermission in the company of the young actress who had appeared as the character Mina, Jeanette Stallings.
“Is that so?” Chase asked blandly.
“We have – a relationship,” Pollard muttered.
Chase stared at the grizzled actor, pensively fingering his moustache. He restrained himself from echoing John Heywood’s dictum that there is no fool like an old fool, instead inquiring neutrally as to the nature of the relationship between Pollard and the actress.
“It is of a personal nature.” Pollard’s tone was grudging.
“Mr Pollard, as you are probably aware, I am not a police officer, nor am I affiliated with the municipal authorities in any formal capacity. Captain Baxter merely calls upon me from time to time, when faced with a puzzle of special complexity. If you choose to withhold information from me, I cannot compel you to do otherwise – but if you decline to assist me, you will shortly be obliged to answer to the police or the district attorney. Now I ask you again, what is the nature of your relationship with Miss Stallings?”
Pollard clasped and unclasped his age-gnarled hands as he debated with himself. Finally he bowed his head in surrender and said, “Very well. Doctor Chase, you are obviously too young to remember the great era of the theatre, when Samuel Pollard was a name to conjure with. You never saw me as Laertes, I am certain, nor as Macbeth. I was as famous as a Barrymore or a Booth in my day. Now I am reduced to playing a European vampire hunter.”
He blew out his breath as if to dispel the mischievous imps of age.
“Like many another player in such circumstances, I have been willing to share my knowledge of the trade with eager young talents. That is the nature of my relationship with Miss Stallings.”
“In exchange for which services you received what, Mister Pollard?”
“The satisfaction of aiding a promising young performer, Doctor Chase.” And, after a period of silence, “Plus an honorarium of very modest proportions. Even an artist, I am sure you will understand, must meet his obligations.”
Chase pondered, then asked his final question of Pollard. “What, specifically, have you and Miss Stallings worked upon?”
“Her diction, Doctor Chase. There is none like the Bard to develop one’s proper enunciation. Miss Stallings is of European origin, and it was in the subtle rhythms and emphases of the English language that I instructed her.”
With this exchange Abel Chase completed his interrogation of Rodgers, Winkle, Jenkins, Pollard, and Garrison. He dismissed them, first warning them that none was absolved of suspicion, and that all were to remain in readiness to provide further assistance should it be demanded of them.
He then sought out Claire Delacroix. She was found in the office of the theatre manager, Walter Quince. With her were Estelle Miller and Jeanette Stallings. Chase rapped sharply on the somewhat grimy door and admitted himself to Quince’s sanctum.
The room, he noted, was cluttered with the kipple of a typical business establishment. The dominant item was a huge desk. Its scarred wooden surface was all but invisible beneath an array of folders, envelopes, scraps and piles of paper. A heavy black telephone stood near at hand. A wooden filing cabinet, obviously a stranger to the cleaner’s cloth no less than to oil or polish, stood in one corner. An upright typewriter of uncertain age and origin rested upon a rickety stand of suspect condition.
Claire Delacroix sat perched on the edge of the desk, occupying one of the few spots not covered by Quince’s belongings. One knee was crossed over the other, offering a glimpse of silk through a slit in the silvery material of her skirt.
She looked up as Abel Chase entered the room. Chase nodded. Claire introduced him to her companions. “Miss Miller, Miss Stallings, Doctor Akhenaton Beelzebub Chase.”
Chase nodded to the actresses. Before another word was uttered the atmosphere of the room was pierced by the shrill clatter of the telephone on Walter Quince’s desk. Claire Delacroix lifted the receiver to her ear and held the mouthpiece before her lips, murmuring into it. She listened briefly, then spoke again. At length she thanked the caller and lowered the receiver to its cradle.
“That was Nolan Young, the coroner,” she said to Chase. “I think we had best speak in private, Abel.”
Chase dismissed the two actresses, asking them to remain on the premises for the ti
me being. He then asked Claire Delacroix what she had learned from the county coroner.
Claire clasped her hands over her knee and studied Abel Chase’s countenance before responding. Perhaps she sought a sign there of his success – or lack thereof – in his own interrogations. When she spoke, it was to paraphrase closely what Nolan Young had told her.
“The coroner’s office has performed a quick and cursory postmortem examination of Imre Hunyadi. There was no visible cause of death. Nolan Young sustains my preliminary attribution of heart failure. But of course, that tells us nothing. There was no damage to the heart itself, no sign of embolism, thrombosis, or abrasion. What, then, caused Hunyadi’s heart to stop beating?”
Abel Chase waited for her to continue.
“The condition of Hunyadi’s irises suggests that he was using some narcotic drug, most likely cocaine.”
“Such was his history.” Chase put in. “Nevertheless, Elbert Garrison observed Hunyadi closely and believes that he was not under the influence.”
“Perhaps not,” Claire acceded. “An analysis of his bloodstream will tell us that. But the two marks on his neck suggest otherwise, Abel.”
Chase glanced at her sharply. He was a man of typical stature, and she a woman of more than average height. As he stood facing her and she sat perched on the edge of Walter Quince’s desk, they were eye to eye.
“Study of the two marks with an enlarging glass shows each as the locus of a series of needle-pricks. I had observed as much, myself, during my own examination of the body. Most of them are old and well healed, but the most recent, Nolan Young informs, is fresh. It had apparently been inflicted only moments before Hunyadi’s death. If those marks were the sign of a vampire’s teeth, then the creature more likely administered cocaine to his victims than extracted blood from them.”
“You are aware, Delacroix, I do not believe in the supernatural.”
“Not all vampires are of the supernatural variety,” she replied.