Pulp Fiction | The Vampire Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  "What about right around the body?" asked Illya.

  "None that I could see. The ground was scuffed up close to the base of the tree, and I couldn't read many signs. I could see where he had tripped over the tree root and dragged himself to where his back was protected, but I couldn't tell whether there were any footprints close to him. There were certainly none approaching."

  "Could they have stepped in his footprints?" Napoleon suggested hesitantly, half afraid it would sound foolish.

  It did. Hilda regarded him scornfully. "Really, Mr. Solo," she said. "Even if they had been wearing the same type and size of shoes, it is practically impossible to step exactly in an existing footprint. Try it with a print of your own. There will almost always be a double impression of some kind. And while you might match one or even two, ten or twelve consecutive prints would be most unlikely. Especially since they must have rushed him as he was shooting."

  "Oh yes," said Illya. "Shooting. Have you checked the trees for slugs? If he emptied his gun, they must have gone somewhere."

  "I've made a cursory examination of the nearer trees," she said, "but haven't had the time for a careful and detailed search. Why?"

  "A relatively undamaged bullet may give us an indication of where it has been," said Illya. "Whether it bounced off something, hit nothing but the tree in which it stopped, or passed through something, and whether that something was flesh and blood or not. It could be most interesting."

  * * *

  They returned to the village shortly past mid-day, for lunch and rest. Several dozen trees had been examined, and two possible bullet holes found. In both cases the slugs, if slugs there were, were buried too deep for casual extraction with a pocket knife, and would have to be dug out by stronger methods. There was a small hand-axe in one of their boxes of equipment which should prove itself equal to the task, and with which they planned to return after refreshing themselves.

  They were seated on the porch of the inn awaiting their ciorba, and sipping at a local white wine, when the sound of voices raised in anger came along the street to them.

  "I wonder what that is," said Napoleon with slight interest.

  "Sounds like a small riot," Illya suggested.

  Hilda looked doubtful. "A riot? In Pokol? I don't believe it."

  "We shall soon see," said Illya. "It sounds as if it's coming this way."

  And a few seconds later a tall slender man, dressed in a black suit of formal and slightly old-fashioned cut, hurried around the corner, casting glances over his shoulder. As he approached the inn, he slowed and looked up. It took Napoleon a few seconds to recognize him as Zoltan, whom they had helped in a similar situation in Budapest some five days ago. He poked Illya.

  "It's Zoltan," he said. "Our friend from Budapest. Looks like whatever he does, he did it again. Should we wade in and help him out, or figure if it happens this often maybe he deserves it?"

  "We can accomplish little here without the coöperation and trust of the people of the village," said Illya. "Let us see what happens if we don't take a hand."

  There was a larger crowd after Zoltan this time—some twenty men and women were following him, many of them waving scythes or brooms. Zoltan was still a good thirty feet ahead of them as he gained the steps of the inn, mounted half-way up them, and turned to face the crowd. He raised his arms, and they stopped.

  "My countrymen," he addressed them in Rumanian, "your suspicions of me are understandable. You know the old stories and you have seen the old spirits walking in the forests. But I am one of God's children, like you. And if there is any man among you who questions my true nature, let him come with his friends to the church this afternoon when the bell tolls the hour of one, and let him apologize before the altar to me and my family."

  There was a mutter from the crowd, and some of them moved a step forward, but Zoltan stood firm.

  "The church, within the hour," he repeated. "I wish to remain in this village for some time, and I want no one here to consider me an enemy or to walk in fear."

  Without waiting for a response, he turned and went up onto the porch. He seemed about to walk past them into the inn, so Napoleon greeted him quietly:

  "Good afternoon. I believe we met in Budapest a few days ago."

  The thin aristocratic features turned in their direction, and then softened into a smile of recognition. "Ah, yes," he said in English. "Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, of New York, America. I had half expected to find you here. I don't believe I know your charming female companion."

  Hilda smiled up at him prettily, and Illya performed the introductions. "Hilda Eclary, this is Zoltan...ah..." He looked up at their guest. "I don't believe you ever gave us your last name."

  A brief smile flickered across his thin face. "I'm certain I didn't. It is not given lightly."

  Napoleon hooked a fourth chair with an outstretched leg and dragged it to the table. "Well, why not sit down and have a glass of wine, and tell us your life story."

  "I cannot partake of wine or any other food for an hour or more, my friend, but at half past the hour of one I will be more than pleased to accept your invitation. You see, at one o'clock I must take holy communion in the church, or I cannot rest in this town."

  Napoleon and Hilda looked at each other, and then they looked at Zoltan. Before they could phrase the questions that were bubbling in their minds, Zoltan raised a slim, well-manicured hand. "My name will answer all your questions," he said. "I am the heir to a no-longer existent title, and the last son of a noble and aristocratic family. But my name is a curse which has followed me around the world." He looked them over, and said in a perfectly level voice, "I am Count Zoltan Dracula."

  * * *

  At twenty minutes past one, Napoleon and Illya stood outside the little Orthodox church where they had just watched, with most of the population of the village, as Zoltan Dracula said the words of prayer, kissed the silver cross of the priest, and took communion. No man in Pokol could have been found willing to admit he had thought it impossible, but several had stayed behind to shake Zoltan's hand and apologize, though they didn't say for what.

  "Well," said Illya as they started for the door, "there's one we don't have to worry about."

  Napoleon looked oddly at his partner. "Worry about what?"

  "Never mind, Napoleon. There's just one we don't have to worry about, that's all."

  Colonel Hanevitch was one of the few absent from the ceremony, but he met Napoleon and Illya as they came out of the cool darkness of the church into the bright mountain sunlight. Illya greeted him.

  "Good afternoon, Colonel. Did you miss the mass?"

  "Of course not. I am a good atheistic Communist, and I have no time to spare for these peasant superstitions." He paused. "I presume nothing...untoward happened?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The ceremony was unmarred by any...unusual occurrences, and was completed properly?"

  "Of course," said Illya with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Did you expect anything to happen?"

  "Oh, certainly not, certainly not," said the Colonel hastily. "I was simply inquiring of politeness. And I came only to speak to Domn Dracula about his plans while here. He has no legal standing, you understand, except as an expatriate visitor; his title is meaningless."

  "And his name?" asked Illya softly.

  "Is merely a name," said the Colonel definitely. "If the people choose to attach meanings to it, my only duty is to protect our visitor from the results of their misinterpretations."

  "I don't think there is much danger of that," said Napoleon, as Zoltan came out between the tall wooden doors, surrounded by well-wishers, and with Hilda right behind him.

  He raised a hand to hail the U.N.C.L.E. agents as he approached, then turned to the crowd. "My people," he said. "I hold no ill-will. I ask only that in the future you remember this—a name alone holds no evil. Now my blessing on you all. Return to your work." And obediently they were gone.

  Zoltan turned to Colonel Hanevitch. "Yo
u wished to speak with me, I believe? Food has not passed my lips today, and while my soul is strengthened, my body is weak. Could we speak at the inn, over ciorba and mititei?"

  They did. Napoleon had remembered something though, and opened the conversation before the Colonel had a chance to speak.

  "I seem to remember the Dracula family actually died out in 1658," he said without preamble.

  "Yes," said Illya. "But not in the south."

  "Quite correct," said Zoltan. "There were originally two brothers, Dan and Dragul, who founded rival lines in the 13th Century; lines which were not to merge until almost 1600. But when Constantine Sherban died childless in 1658, the title devolved to a distant relative, my seven-times-great grandfather, Petru. The family name was Stobolzny, but the title Voivode Drakula became part of the family heritage. At the time, it was not politically expedient to have this known, and the documents were hidden. Then they were lost, and not found again until the castle was rebuilt in 1897. We were ready to reëstablish our title when that accursed Englishman, Stoker, chose to make the name of Dracula known to the world as the name of a demon.

  "My grandfather thought it beneath his dignity to sue, and besides, the damage had been done. But in this modern and rational age, I thought, there would be no real belief in the terrors of the darker parts of our past. So, proud of the true heritage of my family title, I took the name which was rightfully mine. And since then I have defended its honor in every country in Europe. Now I have returned to the home of my people. The castle where I played as a child has been taken over by strangers; my title is meaningless. But the people still know me, and I know the land. I have money—perhaps I can ransom my castle from those who now hold it, and live in my home again."

  He took a large bite of sausage and followed it with a hearty swallow of wine. "And there you have my story," he said. "Colonel Hanevitch, have you any questions?"

  There was silence for perhaps a count of ten, and then the Colonel rose stiffly to his feet. "I remember your father well. You know the present situation, and I feel you can be trusted not to infringe upon it." His face softened as the trace of a smile rose under his discipline. "And may I say, welcome home, Voivode Drakula." And he turned on his heel and marched away.

  Illya looked after him with mild surprise, and murmured, "You know, I may have been wrong about the Colonel. Perhaps he is human, after all."

  * * *

  The afternoon was more than half gone when Napoleon and Illya returned to the spot in the woods where Carl's bloodless body had been found. A radio check with Geneva had established Zoltan's bona fides, and Hilda had stayed behind to enlist his aid in their investigation. Meanwhile, they had field work to occupy their time.

  They carried with them small hand-axes and large hunting knives, and after parking the car just off the road and walking to the scene of the crime they set about attacking a group of nearby trees with these weapons.

  Careful examination had revealed bullet scars in these trees, and there was a chance that the jacketed slugs could have been left relatively undamaged by their flight, and that something might be learned from them.

  But the trees were hardwood, and the job was slow and tiring. The first slug retrieved had apparently glanced off another tree and then lodged against a knot; little identifiable remained of it.

  It took almost an hour to find another bullet hole. By this time the second slug had been extracted and was found to be in reasonably good shape. Both men went to work on the third tree.

  Gradually Napoleon became aware that it was growing increasingly hard to see. The sun had dropped behind the mountain peak to the west some time ago, but now the light was fading rapidly. In a few more minutes it would be dark. As he looked up from his work, a sound like a chiming clock directly over his head made him start.

  Illya looked up for a moment, then bent to his work again. "A dwarf owl," he said. "A startling sound if you don't expect it." He straightened and rubbed his eyes. "I seem to remember a flashlight in the car. We can have this out in another fifteen minutes, if we can see what we're doing."

  He slipped his knife back into its sheath and started off. "Come on," he said to Napoleon. "In these woods at night, it takes two people to carry a flashlight."

  "Is that an old folk saying?"

  "No, I just made it up. But do you deny its truth?"

  Napoleon laughed briefly, but he came along.

  At the road, they looked up and down in the deepening twilight. "It must be some other part of the road," Napoleon suggested doubtfully.

  "We left it right over there," said Illya, pointing. "See the stump by the wide place? That's where we parked. I remember it clearly because I put the front fender right next to it."

  Napoleon followed him over to the stump, and held a cigarette lighter while he examined the ground closely. "The road is too hard to hold tracks," said the Russian to himself. "But here's the wheel-mark next to the stump. It ends here, too."

  Solo bent and looked where Illya's finger pointed. There was a depression the size and shape of the tire-tread running in from the road and ending by the stump—the car could have been backed out by someone, but they had not heard the motor, and the Poboda was not well-muffled.

  He straightened and shrugged. "It's been stolen," he said. "Looks like we hike back to the village and tell the Colonel we've been the victims of a simple old-fashioned car theft."

  "I hope it's that simple," said Illya. "I've long ago learned that true coincidence is a very rare thing. There may be some sort of trouble tonight before we get back to Pokol."

  Napoleon was about to ask a foolish question, when the darkness was shaken by a long anguished wail which seem to come from somewhere up the road. He stopped with his mouth open as the silence softly flooded back in upon them. Then he almost whispered, "Good Lord, Illya. What was that?"

  A moment later the howl was repeated—this time in the woods directly behind them, sounding less than a hundred feet away.

  In the silence that followed, Illya's voice said quietly, "I'd hate to guess, since wolves are supposed to be rare in these mountains. But I think I can definitely say that is not a dwarf owl."

  Chapter 6: "My Pets Seem To Be Restive Tonight."

  They started slowly along the road towards town, keeping in the center of the road, and had gone a hundred paces before each realized he was holding his U.N.C.L.E. Special automatic loosely in his hand. It was quite dark now, and a fog had blown down from the mountains above them. The temperature was dropping too—Napoleon was glad for the heavy overcoat he had thought to bring along.

  Neither one of them spoke. Both were aware it was about two miles to the village, and they were equally aware that if they stayed on the road it would take them about half an hour. If they wandered off the road they would be lost, probably for the whole night.

  They had gone almost a quarter mile in absolute silence. Not even the sound of a night bird penetrated the fog. And then both stopped and raised their guns instantly as another howl came out of the darkness ahead of them. And as they stopped, they heard a soft sound behind them—a padding of soft feet and the heavy breathing of a large animal.

  Napoleon spun around, but could see nothing. He said so. Illya did not answer, but pointed. The shapes of the trees were dimly visible on either side of the road, and as they looked, something large and gray moved across a space and disappeared again.

  "We seem to be cut off," he murmured. "A pack is hunting tonight."

  "Would it help to climb a tree?" asked Napoleon uncertainly.

  "It might. But if you will notice, the pines large enough to support your weight do not branch until some twelve feet above the ground. My athletic skills do not include the high jump."

  They looked about them for a moment. The sounds behind them on the road stopped, then came cautiously closer. Another blood-chilling howl sounded in front of them, and another to their left.

  "Let's go this way," said Napoleon impetuously, pointing right.<
br />
  "Leave the road?" said Illya doubtfully.

  "I'd rather be lost for the night than permanently," said Napoleon. "We have eight rounds each in these rods, and I wouldn't want to count on them being enough to discourage our furry friends out there."

  "I think I see your point," said Illya, and they stepped off the road.

  Almost at once they were surrounded by pitch blackness. Napoleon could avoid bumping into trees by walking cautiously and keeping his hands extended. He could usually spot a tree a few feet away as a lump of darker black, but it was a risky business. City-bred eyes do not adjust to absolute darkness easily.

  Then there was a dim yellow glow near him. Illya was holding a small pen-light, and directing its feeble beam on the ground ahead of them. His voice came softly from behind it. "I just remembered I had this clipped in my inside pocket. The battery is low, but it may help."

  "It does. I think we've lost the..."

  There was a whine and a snuffling sound a short distance behind them, followed by two howls, almost simultaneous, from either side. "Don't look now," said Illya, "but I think we're being followed."

  They used the pen-light sparingly from then on, and communicated as little as possible. Once Napoleon tripped over a tree-root and fell sprawling, and it took thirty seconds or more for them to find his gun, which had flown from his hand and landed in a pile of leaves.

  But every time they stopped to listen, there were sounds behind them in the night. Once or twice they heard soft sounds of dried leaves being crushed beneath the feet of some heavy animal, and once, while they were searching for a way through a tangle of brush, Illya's light caught a pair of slitted green eyes no more than twenty feet away—eyes which faded back into the darkness among the trees even as they looked, and were gone before Napoleon could bring his automatic to bear.

  Then, after an unguessable length of time, he felt something solid under his feet. He was just about to comment on it when Illya's light flicked on, and then off again. In the brief moment of illumination, they saw it was a path—bare, brown and winding. As they looked at each other in the dark, something snuffled in the brush just ahead of them and to the right. Illya whispered, "Let's go left—and stay on the path."