He had placed the dynamite just before the Spanish-American War broke out. Fearful of another takeover attempt by the military, he’d vowed to destroy his beloved castle rather than see it in the hands of the brutal soldiery. The military governor of New York at that time was a Bible-reading, one-armed retired general who had been recalled to active duty. A less bribable man did not exist in the entire United States Army; he was more likely to have a go-between shot than he was to listen to his blandishments.
As it turned out, the dynamite need not have been placed; Gen. Hardy hadn’t had the faintest interest in the castle. The war had ended, but the dynamite stayed. Van Diemen liked the idea of having it there. Dynamite wasn’t especially dangerous if it was replaced periodically. If you left it there too long it sweated, and the slightest jolt could cause it to explode.
The sticks of dynamite in place now had been there for less than six months. Van Diemen really didn’t know why he kept replacing the explosive. The military hadn’t bothered him during the First and Second World Wars. So why was it there? The answer was it was there because it was there. Van Diemen never knew when some threatening situation—like this Landau-Simonelli business—might arise. But it wasn’t there to blow himself and the castle to bits: that would be too passive, too fatalistic, perhaps even cowardly. His thought now was to take the fight to his enemies. He had made a good start with the three thugs in the pickup and the killer he had dropped on the spikes.
There had been a follow-up story on the killer the day after Maggie Connors’s pictures appeared in the News. It wasn’t much of a story, just the fact that the dead man had been identified through his fingerprints. His name was Esteban Soto; he had been deported to Colombia two years earlier after he was arrested on a murder charge and was found to be an illegal alien. He had beaten the murder rap, but he’d still been sent home.
Van Diemen hadn’t fed yet, but that could wait. He was too wired up to do any writing; so there was no need to get back early. Fretting at his writing table, he thought about the two hundred pounds of dynamite. There must be something he could do with the explosives. He could drop a charge on the old Simonelli’s pink house on Arthur Avenue, and he could do the same for the son who lived on City Island. But the two Simonellis might not be there when he did it. What he hungered to do was to get them all together—Landau, the two Simonellis, Benitez, the Colombian—and blow them all to kingdom come.
It was a fine idea, but how was he going to do it? Was he going to call up and say the fighting had gone far enough and they should have a meeting and see if they could settle their differences? Surely, that strategy wouldn’t work. All of a sudden, the mobsters had gone legal; the accommodating judge would do for them what the hired killer had failed to do.
For the moment, though, Van Diemen would let Wilcox try to succeed his way. But Wilcox wasn’t going to succeed. The lawyer might be old-line Wall Street, but arrayed against him were men with no respect for tradition, men so corrupt that to them decency seemed a perversion, men so morally twisted that only death could put an end to their villainies.
Van Diemen grew so agitated that he wanted to kill Judge Camacho too. And why exclude the city attorney, the mayor, the chief editor of the New York Times, and Wilfred Pendleton, skeletal leader of the Black Devils Party? And the Latin Kings must not be left out on any account.
Van Diemen found himself laughing; his predicament was so bloody awful, he had to laugh.
Forget the mayor and the city attorney, he’d settle for Landau, the fount of all evil, and the Simonellis. Maybe it could be done the way he wanted to do it; if he could just work out a plan, wouldn’t that be something?
In a better mood, Van Diemen decided to call Maggie Connors. Once again he didn’t know why, but he was going to. Perhaps it was because she was the only human who knew he was a vampire and still talked to him without fear in her voice.
“Connors here,” she said when answered the phone.
“This is your flying friend,” Van Diemen said. “Stop that, Anton. There’s no use trying to scare me.”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you, Maggie.”
“That’s the first time you’ve used my name. “Is it? I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Of course you were. Anyway, I’m glad you called. What have you been doing?”
“Resting. A vampire rests by day and goes out by night. He doesn’t have to stay out all night if he doesn’t want to. Recently I’ve been coming home early. I’m writing my life story.”
“Your life as a vampire?”
“What else? I’m two hundred-eighteen years old, and, I have seen a great deal of life.” Maggie Connors laughed. “You’re kidding me. You can’t be that old. You sure don’t look it.”
Tm well preserved/’ Van Diemen said, laughing.
“You’re funny, Anton. Tell me something please: Is your name really Anton?”
“No, it’s William.”
“William what? Come on, tell me. I trust you and you trust me. So tell me.”
That was the trouble with this woman: She never knew when to leave well enough alone. She was always pushing past the limits. It was her most annoying personality quirk.
“Don’t be so nosy,” he told her. “I don’t ask you personal questions about your life.”
“Oh, come on. What’s so personal about asking someone’s last name. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
Van Diemen smiled; she just wouldn’t give up. “Don’t be coy,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you. What have you been doing tonight?”
“I just got through taking a nice long hot bubble bath,” Maggie Connors said. “I like to lie there and dream. Too bad you weren’t here. We could have taken one together. Why don’t you come over, William?” Come over soon as you can. I can always use another bath.”
Van Diemen knew she was kidding him, but she meant what she said. She always seemed to mean what she said, which was one of the things he liked about her.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” he said. “I’ll try.”
“Try hard,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”
The phone rang as soon as Van Diemen had hung it up. It was Vincent, and he sounded worried. “Landau’s back in town. I ran into him early this evening on Foley Square. He gave me a funny look and walked right on. I called after him, but he didn’t answer. You think he knows something?”
“I doubt it. You should have followed him, Vincent.”
“I tried to, Mr. Van Diemen, but he got into a limousine and I couldn’t get a cab quick enough. It was raining. It’s hard to get cabs in the rain. I’m sorry, Mr. Van Diemen.”
“It’s not your fault, Vincent. Try to find out where he’s living. I know you can do it.”
Mara didn’t seem to be too sure of anything. “I didn’t like that look he gave me. I’ll be honest. It scared me. Landau knows a lot of bad people. I hope he isn’t on to me. If he knows I’m working for you, I’ll be up shit creek.”
Van Diemen was thinking of Maggie Connors; compared to her, Vincent’s tale of woe wasn’t too interesting. Still, the fellow deserved some cheering up.
“Keep after Landau, but be careful. I doubt he’ll do anything. His mobster friends might, if he gives them the word. But it won’t happen right now.”
“I don’t want it to happen anytime,” Mara said, sounding not at all well. “Maybe I should leave town for a while. I have an aunt in Newark. I can stay .up there for a couple of weeks and think about what I’m going to do.”
“Get hold of yourself, Vincent. I’m surprised to see you acting this way. Where’s the tough army cop who broke up the noncom gang in ‘Nam? Snap out of it, soldier. You’ve got a job to do and you’re going to do it. Besides, you’ve been paid in advance.”
Mara did some heavy coughing before he answered. “Money won’t do me much good if the Simonelli people come after me. Hey, I have an idea. Instead of running to Newark, why don’t I come up and stay with you. With your fierce guard dogs, they�
�d have to be crazy to come after me there.”
Van Diemen was still thinking about Maggie Connors. Maybe he’d go over there and maybe he wouldn’t, but how could he think with Vincent whining on the line?
“The answer is no, Vincent. You cannot stay here. How many times do I have to tell you? Do your job. Find Landau’s hotel—he’s probably at a hotel—but be careful. There’s no danger if you use your head. Call me as soon as you find Landau, not before.”
Going up to the tower, Van Diemen knew he’d been hard on Vincent, but how else should he have spoken to the clod? Finding Landau in the Foley Square area would be easy enough—everybody knew him—but nailing him at his hotel would be a lot easier. He damned Vincent for losing Landau, though he knew it wasn’t the other man’s fault.
Van Diemen threw himself from the tower, and he was hovering above Maggie Connors’s building in less than a minute. It was raining, but that didn’t bother him. Flying low, he landed on the narrow little terrace outside Maggie Connors’s apartment, and through the rain-streaked window, he saw her sitting naked on a thick, white, fluffy carpet, brushing her close-cut hair with vigorous strokes. Rain or cold or sleet didn’t affect vampires. The sight of Maggie Connors aroused Van Diemen, and it was all he could do to keep himself from breaking through the window and taking her immediately.
But he knew he wasn’t going to do it; he was afraid he’d lose control and kill her. Since he didn’t want to kill her, he flew away before he changed his mind. It was damnable, his flirtation with Maggie Connors. It was threatening to unhinge him, which was all he needed at this particular time. He had warned Vincent to pull himself together. It was good advice, and he should take some of it himself.
A man crossing a street near Riverside Drive was Van Diemen’s victim for the night. He seized the hapless pedestrian with his beak and swept him into the bushes in Riverside Park and fed quickly, taking no great pleasure in it. Something was wrong: A feeding was meant to be enjoyed. But not tonight.
Although morning was hours away, Van Diemen retired early. His withdrawal into rest was not a good sign by any means, but he couldn’t worry about it, with sill the worries he had. He arose at nightfall and descended the stairs to his library. All the city newspapers were neatly arranged on his desk. Van Diemen started with the Post. There was nothing of interest on the front page, and he was leafing through to the editorial page when he spotted the name Vincent Mara in small print. It was just a few inches of type and there was no picture. It read:
Private detective Vincent D. Mara was found dead early this morning in an alley behind the St. George Hotel on East Twenty-eighth Street. The body was severely burned, and police say Mara was already dead when he was thrown from his tenth-floor room. Mara was last seen alive by a hotel clerk when he came in about midnight carrying a paper bag. Detective Donal Murphy declined comment on the case. “We are looking into it,” was all he would say.
So there it was: Vincent was dead. The bastards had caught up with him and tortured him, probably with burning cigars. Severe burns, the paper said. A vampire would say he had been killed by fire. Poor old Vincent—-he would lap up the booze no more. With cold anger, Van Diemen realized Landau had ordered Vincent’s death. How much had Vincent told his torturers? Perhaps the fat man had turned hero in the end. If he’d talked, why had the killers gone on torturing him?
Vincent had been a clod, but he was Van Diemen’s clod, and one of his kind. No more law talk; it was time to do something more than talk. First, Van Diemen had to make a plan. When that was done, wrongs would be righted. Vincent would be avenged.
Van Diemen turned to the editorial page.
Seventeen
Landau’s city council supporters hadn’t wasted any time. Just before the close of business on the previous day, Councilman Lucas Mellick opened discussion on the matter of the seizure by right of eminent domain of the lands and buildings of William Van Diemen, the property being situated in northern Riverdale in the Borough of the Bronx.
So on and so forth, Van Diemen thought as he read the Post editorial, which favored the passage of this measure. Affordable housing was not open to long-winded argument; it was needed immediately. All good citizens had to make sacrifices for the greater good of all. It was their duty and their responsibility.
No one was above the law, and there were no exceptions. Mr. Van Diemen was known to be a scholar, and it was hoped that he was also a gentleman. Let him submit gracefully to the law of the land. Future generations would bless his memory.
Van Diemen looked at all the editorials. All but Newsday were in favor of the proposal. The editorial in the Times was as sanctimonious as Wilcox had foretold. It dug up the old Hudson River patroons and the great community spirit that had flourished in the sixteenth century. The writer urged William Van Diemen not to slumber his life away like a latter-day Rip Van Winkle, but to come forth from his castle and partake of the life of the great city. The finest gesture he could make would be to abandon all thought of a costly and acrimonious lawsuit.
The editorials all said more or less the same thing. The language of the Times was not the language of the Post, but it didn’t matter. Both favored kicking Van Diemen out of his castle if he refused to go with grace. He threw the newspapers in the wastebasket. The callous, careless, unthinking thieves! As far as Van Diemen was concerned, there was nothing more to consider. The wheels were in motion and the powers-that-be figured they’d run right over him, squash him like a blind old dog on a railroad track.
Van Diemen could see it all coming: more editorials, Wilfred Pendleton and his Black Devils pounding on his gate, a deluge of poison pen letters. Let Wilcox do what he liked; he’d get paid anyway. But something had to be done, and done fast, and it had nothing to do with the law. Damn the law! What were courts but talking shops where thieves like Landau cheated honest citizens?
The plunger box, with its wires running to all parts of the castle, was under Van Diemen’s writing table, the top covered by a cushion. Sometimes at night he used the box as a footrest. It always amused him to think what was under that cushion. One quick up-and-down movement of the plunger and tweo hundred pounds of dynamite would go off.
Van Diemen uncovered the lethal box and disconnected the wires. A plan was forming in his mind, and the box had no part in it. In order to get his enemies all together, he would have to have them meet at one of their own houses. They would feel safe in their vulgar homes, with all the guards and bulletproof glass, their dogs and their photoelectric eyes. What could happen to them in such a secure place? Marcus Simonelli’s sprawling ranch-style house on City Island would be the best setting for what Van Diemen had in mind. A powerful charge placed on the roof of the low one-story house would kill everybody inside or close to it. Such a charge wouldn’t just kill them; it would turn them into a red mist. After the firemen put out the blaze, there would be no human remains left to pick up. If a more powerful charge were placed, the house itself would disappear.
Van Diemen was no sociopath; he didn’t want to blow up all of City Island. Why blow up humans he might feed on someday? When it came to the blood supply, he was a true conservationist. Actually, there was no danger of blowing up innocent bystanders. Marcus Simonelli’s house stood on a narrow point far removed from the closest house. Van Diemen had hovered over the house in the gray light of dawn, and he knew what the setup was. The entire property, about half an acre, was protected by a high steel fence. The fence wasn’t spiked, nor did it have razor wire at the top. But Van Diemen was fairly sure it could be electrified in an emergency. Outside the fence and down by the water was a boatyard; a sign over the door listed Marcus Simonelli as a partner in the business. It was a perfect location for a devastating explosion.
But how could he get his enemies there? And he had to get them there, or the wretched business would drag on until the Second Coming of Christ.
Van Diemen picked up the phone and asked Information for Marcus Simonelli’s number on City Island. Sur
prisingly, Simonelli was listed. There would be other phones in the house: This one was to show that he was no snob, just a regular guy like his neighbors.
A woman with an Italian accent answered, probably a maid. Van Diemen told her he would like to speak to Mr. Simonelli.
“Tell him it’s William Van Diemen calling,” he said. “The one with the castle.”
“Wait please,” she said. “I’ll see if he’s here.”
Simonelli came to the phone. “Am I talking to Mr. Van Diemen?”
Van Diemen liked the mister, the formal address showed a little class. He didn’t know Marcus Simonelli, but if the man ran true to form, he would have stiff graying hair, a terrific tan, white shoes, and a white belt.
“This is Van Diemen, Mr. Simonelli. I was wondering if you know where I can reach Jack Landau, the attorney. I’d like to talk to him about some real estate I have for sale.”
Simonelli got cagey, but remained polite. “What makes you think I might know this— what’s the name—Landau?”
“Somehow I had the impression that you two were acquainted. I must have heard it somewhere. Sorry to bother you.”
“Not at all. Let me think for a minute. Hey, maybe I do know him. Haven’t seen him lately, though. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll look through my files and see if I have his number. If I have it, I’ll call him and he can call you. Okay?”
“Thank you,” Van Diemen said. “Here’s my phone number. I’ll be at home all evening. Thank you for going to so much trouble.”
“My pleasure.”
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