by P. N. Elrod
“Great. What else?”
“Nothing more to concern us, I’m afraid. Aside from the expected traffic of tradesmen, the only other visitors of note were the demolition men charged with the task of tearing down the burned shell of the old house.”
“Can we try tracing the local cab?”
“I’ll have a go at it first thing tomorrow,” he promised. “Now about tonight . . .”
“What about it?”
“Our interview was fascinating, but I felt a bit shortchanged on actual facts about the household. I want to ask if you would mind returning to the house tonight.”
“What? Pull a peeping-tom act?”
“Engage in further investigation,” he corrected mildly. “I also cannot believe the trail stops here and would like to know more about the place and the people in it. I’m interested in the cars they possess and who actually owns them. How many servants do they employ? Do any of them actually live in the house? Barrett mentioned he had a secure resting place; where is it?”
“Oh, is that all?”
He chose to overlook the touch of sarcasm. “Any piece of information, no matter how trivial, may be of value.”
“And if Barrett catches me?”
“See that he doesn’t.”
5
IT was easy for him to say, he didn’t have to go over the brick wall up the road and bumble through the woods to reach the house—not that that was too much trouble. Most of the time I was incorporeal, and passed over the terrain the way Escott’s pipe smoke drifted out the car window. In a bodiless state the wall was no problem, and my clothes were spared the rigors of a hike through the wilderness. I just didn’t like my errand or anything to do with it; I was looking for things to complain about.
I had to pause and re-form often to get my bearings, but I made good speed, swiftly flowing between the solid bulk of the tree trunks until I was within spitting distance of the garage. After that I took my time. Barrett’s night vision was equal to my own, and unlike normal humans he could spot me in my invisible state.
Creeping into the garage, I checked each of the cars: an early Ford on blocks, a Rolls, a Caddy, and a brand-new white Studebaker. I dutifully wrote their plate numbers in my notebook and looked over their paperwork. All of them were owned by Emily Francher.
The floor above the garage was occupied by two women, both comfortably asleep. They had separate rooms, but shared a bath and had black uniforms hanging in the closets that identified them as regular staff. I picked gingerly through their purses to get their names, and ghosted outside again without disturbing them. As a vampire hell-bent on finding slumbering maidens to drain into terminal anemia, I was a total washout.
The stables were next, and were just as quiet. The horses may have been used to late-night visits. Two stood in stalls and six more wandered loose in the adjoining corral. None of them did more than cock an interested ear in my direction.
Upstairs, a section had been converted to living quarters, and I found a young man happily snoring away in his bed. His place was cluttered with horsey-smelling clothes, riding boots in both English and Western styles, and other related junk. He had a modest collection of Zane Grey novels on a shelf and below them was a pile of magazines whose pictured contents were anything but modest. Again, I quietly raided a wallet for identification.
The easy stuff out of the way, I oozed through the back door of the main house and solidified in the kitchen. A small light over one of the electric stoves kept it from being totally dark. Various doors opened to a hall, the dining room, pantry, and the basement. I picked the basement, changed to a semi-transparent state for silence and speed, and sailed down the stairs.
The walls were very solid concrete and the massive house above was well supported by a forest of thick pillars. I went solid for a moment and listened, but caught only the irregular drip of water from the laundry room. A slightly musty smell hung in the still air, coming from some odd pieces of old furniture stacked against a brick wall opposite the stairs. It was only a basement and a waste of my time.
I was halfway back to the kitchen when it hit me: the place was much too small. I went down again and checked the brickwork. Not being an expert, I couldn’t tell if it was part of the original building or not, but my curiosity was up. I disappeared and pushed forward through the bricks.
It was slow work, like walking through sticky oatmeal. I didn’t like the feeling at all and the wall was nearly a foot thick. It seemed like forever before I tumbled into free and open space again, to re-form for a look around.
On this side the bricks were hidden by fine oak paneling, and the utilitarian presence of the support pillars had been softened by similar decoration. Some of them had been converted into four-sided bookshelves, each loaded with hundreds of titles. A thick rug covered most of the parquet flooring and several lamps held back the darkness. The chairs and sofas looked comfortable and the air was fresh.
Barrett had done very well for himself.
He’d said his room was fireproof and secure, qualities which struck me as wise precautions. It was no wonder vampires had a reputation for hanging around graveyards; few things are more fireproof or private than a stone mausoleum. But this basement location was a real luxury and far better than anything I might have planned for myself. I was frankly envious.
The entrance to his sanctum was a heavy industrial-type metal door covered in more wood paneling. It led to a carpeted hall and a flight of steps going up to a door with access to the ground floor. Both were locked, which was sensible. I went back down again and got nosy.
His quarters consisted of a large living area, bedroom, bath, and a good-sized closet. The bed was unusually large, with a fancy embroidered canopy. It was for use, not for show, since the nightstand held some personal clutter. His carpet slippers lay tumbled on the floor next to it.
I cautiously looked under the brocaded blue bedspread and plain white sheets and found a doubled thickness of oilcloth stretched over the mattress. It was sewn shut at the edges, but I could tell by the weight and feel that it contained his home earth. It was a very neat arrangement, one that I intended to adapt for myself, now that I had the idea.
Beyond the bedroom was a spotless white-tiled bath, supplied with the usual appointments, except that the cabinet over the sink lacked a mirror. It was an easily understandable omission.
His closet was stocked with a number of suits. He favored dark blues and grays for his business wear, had two tuxedos, and some riding gear. One long rack contained a rainbow of shirts, ties, and handkerchiefs. Almost everything was silk.
At the back of the closet was a big antique trunk. It was banged up, but in good, solid condition. It was also locked, but I could guess he had a spare supply of earth inside in case he felt a need to travel.
I heard a footfall just outside the room and damn near panicked.
Stupidly, I had an idea he’d use a key, but he no more needed a key than I did. He had slipped inside the same silent way. I froze absolutely still, afraid he’d hear my eyelids blinking. I could certainly hear his every movement. Two soft thumps indicated he’d removed his shoes and other, less distinct sounds I interpreted as him undressing. I had a wild hope he wouldn’t bother with the closet and abruptly discarded it as he padded my way.
Abject fear can be inspiring; I made a fast and wild-eyed search for a hiding place and spotted a ventilation grate in the ceiling. In the time it took for him to grasp the knob of the closet door and swing it open, I’d vanished and swept up into the narrow shaft.
Even in a disembodied state it was uncomfortable, and I had some very unpleasant thoughts that it might lead to the furnace. I’m not usually claustrophobic, but a few minutes of such close confinement was more than enough for my rattled brain. I couldn’t go back to the closet, but if I didn’t get out soon, my attack of mental sweats would send me solid again. Since the shaft seemed to be only ten inches square, that was the last thing I wanted to happen.
I flo
wed along the metal tunnel, felt an upward turning, and took it, hoping for the best and trying not to think about furnaces. After that I got lost; in this non-physical state it’s almost impossible to avoid. It’s like turning somersaults underwater with your eyes shut. Before too long you lose all sense of direction and can surface for air only to bump against the bottom of the pond.
I streamed along, just barely maintaining control, and suddenly sieved into open space again, which was a great improvement. By extended touch I made out the shapes of large unyielding surfaces and guessed them to be furnishings. I slowly re-formed and found my guess to be correct. The room was unoccupied; I sank into a chair and spent awhile pulling my nerves together. The next time Escott wanted information he could damn well get it himself. Playing the rabbit in a tunnel was not my idea of fun.
After a few minutes of quiet, I was settled down enough to move on and find out where I’d ended up. A look out a window confirmed that I was on the second floor overlooking the front lawn, though I wasn’t close to any inhabited areas. The rooms I checked were dark and very much under-furnished. It didn’t seem to be from any lack of money, simply lack of interest. The house had been built for socializing and entertaining lots of guests, something Emily Francher actively avoided. I wondered why her mother had turned down such a gift.
Down one long hall I discovered Emily’s suite of rooms, and like Barrett, she’d indulged in every comfort and convenience. More French windows opened onto the back veranda and were so heavily curtained as to be lightproof. If she stayed up to keep Barrett company at night, she was likely to be a very late sleeper, but just to be sure I checked under the bedclothes. No oilcloth flats of earth lurked beneath the sheets. Emily was quite human and during the day she slept alone.
Her favorite colors were red, gold, and white; the decor was expensive, of course, but not overpowering. I poked through drawers and found clothes and vanity items, but nothing useful like a soul-revealing diary. The bedside table contained a Bible, several used-up crossword-puzzle books, pencils, a copy of Anthony Adverse, and a big, nearly full bottle of sleeping pills.
Her walk-in closet was larger than Barrett’s, held enough clothes to open a store, but even my uneducated male eye could tell many of them were years out of style. Two heavy-looking cases in one corner caught my attention. One was open and contained those few pieces of jewelry she hadn’t worn tonight: a couple of gold bracelets, some rings, and a pearl necklace. The other case was locked and wouldn’t budge. On closer look both proved to be made of thick metal covered with wood veneer and welded to a huge metal plate bolted to the floor. Emily was careless, but not stupid.
Leaving her room, I moved down the hall and invaded Barrett’s private office. The roll top part of the desk was locked and I couldn’t open it without making a lot of noise and leaving traces. The drawers were open, but only contained the usual supplies. If neatness counted for anything, Barrett earned his keep well enough.
I was starting down the central stairs to the front hall and nearly blundered into him again. A door below opened and shut, followed by swift, decisive footsteps. Backing up the stairs, I crouched behind the railings, keeping very still. He emerged into view, his boot heels making a clatter against the marble floor as he crossed the hall to the parlor. As for the rest of his clothes . . . I felt my jaw sag open.
The hall was too open and dangerous; I opted to slip outside again and moved around to the front to peer in through the parlor window. The curtains were thin enough; I very much wanted to get a second look at the man.
The lamp was off and the only light now came from the fireplace. Emily Francher had moved from her chair to a long settee, where she reclined, still clad in her diamonds and red velvet. For the first time I noticed the high waist on her garment, and it made me think of something from the Napoleonic era. The soft glow from the fire added to the illusion of the far past.
Barrett was leaning against the mantel. My initial glimpse hadn’t been any hallucination; he’d changed his business suit for a costume from a long-lost century. He wore a flowing, open-necked white shirt with loose, full sleeves, some form-fitting riding pants, and a supple pair of boots. All he needed now was a fancy coat and sword, or maybe a brace of dueling pistols to complete the effect. With his thick hair now carelessly tumbling over his forehead, he looked like a friendlier version of Brontë’s Heathcliff.
The intervening glass muffled things a little, but I had no trouble making out their voices.
“I don’t think they’ll be back,” he was saying to her. “They just had a few questions about someone I once knew.”
“What about her?” she asked. “That young man seemed very anxious to find her.”
He shook his head. “I think they’ll look elsewhere now.”
“You’re still troubled.”
“Only because I don’t want them to come back. I don’t want them bothering you.”
“My protector,” she said, and broke into a sudden smile. It transformed her face and I could see strong evidence of the pretty young woman she had once been. He smiled as well and came to kneel on one knee next to her, taking one of her hands in both of his. Her eyes clouded with doubt. “Will it be different for us, do you think?”
He kissed her hand quickly, reassuringly. “I certainly hope so, dearest. I will do everything possible to make it so for you.” He caressed her face tenderly and kissed her forehead. “I promise.”
“Really?” The playfulness was back in her expression.
“I’ll show you.”
He undid her choker necklace and kissed her forehead again, then her eyes, then her mouth. His arms half lifted her from the settee, pulling her body close to his own. Her head tilted back and he moved lower, his lips closing possessively over the two faint marks on her throat that the choker had concealed.
Her own arms were wrapped tightly around him, one hand pressing on the back of his neck to help guide him to that special spot. His jaw worked and a tremor ran through her whole body in response. He stayed there, drinking from her, for what seemed a very long time.
My conscience was working a blue streak. How do you know where to draw the line between curiosity and voyeurism? I went transparent, pushed away into the darkness beyond the window, and floated around the corner of the house.
That they were lovers was no stunning surprise. Their style of going about it was much more sedate than some of the wild tumbles that Bobbi and I had shared, but to each his own. Despite their quiet method, the passion was there, and I could sympathize with it enough to get stirred up myself, but Bobbi was nearly eight hundred miles away. As for the horses in the backyard—they were for food, not sex. There is a very decided difference between the two, at least for me. I’d just have to hike around in the woods until the pleasant frustration wore off, and try to make up for it when I got back to Chicago. Bobbi wouldn’t mind.
The other thing bothering me was Barrett’s wish for us to stay away. Maybe he was afraid we’d be rocking the sweet little boat he’d gotten for himself as Emily Francher’s secretary. On the other hand, he’d have to be a better actor than Escott if that love scene I’d just watched had been a fake. If he genuinely loved her, then he’d want to protect her from his past indiscretions and present troubles. Put in his place, I’d be doing the same.
Then there was Emily Francher wondering if things would be different for them. Was she talking about a better relationship than he’d had with Maureen or whether Barrett’s attentions would bring her back when she died? I was inclined to think it was the latter, since she didn’t seem to know all that much about Maureen.
Note that word—seem. Being lousy at lying myself often made me vulnerable to the lies of others. But right now I was too interested in finding Maureen to want to give anyone the benefit of a doubt.
The sound of radio music eventually tugged me out of my thoughts. It came from some open French windows on the second floor and reminded me that there was at least one other member of the
household.
I drifted up and steadied myself with a ghostly hand on the veranda railing just outside the fan of light filtering through the lacy white curtains.
Laura Francher, the lithe blond I’d seen swimming in the pool below, was before a large mirror that nearly covered one wall of her bedroom. A balance bar ran in front of it at waist height, but she wasn’t bothering with any ballet practice at the moment. Instead, she was swaying to the music of Rudy Vallee; her eyes shut as she danced with a pretend partner. Her feet were bare, but then so was the rest of her.
I hung back in the shadows and settled into solidity again. I only wanted to be able to hear the radio better. Honest.
I noted with quick interest that she was a natural blond. It was certainly fascinating, but I didn’t think Escott would find that particular detail of much use in our investigation. My conscience was trying to kick up again, though at times I could be selectively deaf to it. What a pretty girl did to occupy herself alone in her room was her business—but the view was very absorbing. I reflected that this kind of detecting could easily become addictive. I’d give myself just one more minute and then move on.
When the minute ran out, Rudy was still singing and by then I was speculating what she’d look like performing a fast rumba when she abruptly stopped and scampered to a closet. She emerged a second later, hastily belting up a bright yellow bathrobe. Smoothing down her long hair, she opened the door.
It was Barrett and she let him in.
He was still in his poet’s costume and looking less relaxed than he’d been with Emily. The whites of his eyes were solid red, still suffused with her blood. Their condition didn’t seem to bother Laura, who shut the door behind him readily enough. The radio continued to blare, which was bad for me since I couldn’t hear a word of their conversation. It was like watching a play through a telescope.
Barrett was obviously uncomfortable, but Laura appeared not to notice and settled in at her dressing table to brush out her thick, straight hair. Her loosely tied bathrobe was starting to come apart with the activity. She didn’t bother to correct things. Barrett had called her a child, and so she must have been five years ago—not anymore. Her every movement indicated the confident maturity of a young woman who knows she is desirable.