Department 19

by William Hill

  “I couldn’t have known that,” replied Frankenstein, walking back to the boy.

  “I’m not blaming you,” said Jamie, his face full of pain. “I was just saying.”

  “All right,” said Frankenstein.

  “Help me up?” asked the teenager, and the huge man reached down a misshapen hand. Jamie gripped it and pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he did so.

  He hesitantly touched the bandage on his neck, then looked up at Frankenstein. “I want you to let me do the talking,” he said. “In the house. OK?”

  The monster looked down at him. “Fine,” he said, after a pause. “Do whatever you think is best.”

  The back door was open when they reached it, and they stepped through into a warm, ramshackle kitchen. A kettle was boiling on a huge Aga, and the Chemist was sitting at a wooden table in the middle of the room, looking uneasily at the two men.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t tasted human blood in more than a decade, but I can’t control my reaction to it.”

  “It’s all right,” said Jamie. He looked down at an empty chair opposite the vampire’s, and the Chemist quickly invited him to sit down, then told Frankenstein to do the same.

  “I’ll stand,” rumbled the monster.

  “As you wish,” replied the Chemist.

  Jamie carefully took his seat and looked at the Chemist, who was eyeing the teenager nervously. “I know you were going to turn the gas off,” said Jamie, and the vampire breathed out a long sigh of relief.

  “I was,” he said, eagerly. “I could see it was going to boil over, but then your partner told me to stay still, and I didn’t want to provoke the situation, and . . .” He trailed off.

  Frankenstein rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  “I know,” said Jamie. The Chemist seemed to him to be genuinely shaken up by what had happened in the lab, and he pressed forward. “How did you end up here, doing this work?” he asked.

  The vampire looked at him and then laughed. “You want to hear how I was reduced to this, is that it?” he replied. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Carpenter, but it really isn’t much of a story. I was a biochemist for a pharmaceutical firm, I was turned, and I carried on with my job. I just make a different product now.”

  Jamie’s face fell. He had thought that taking an interest in the Chemist might open him up a little and make him more willing to talk about Alexandru.

  “However,” continued the Chemist, casting a pointed look in Frankenstein’s direction. “It is refreshing to be asked a polite question. Especially when said question isn’t posed behind the point of stake. You have manners, young man. Your mother must be proud.”

  Jamie saw his opening, and leapt for it. “I think she is, yes,” he replied. “I can’t ask her though, because Alexandru has her. That’s why we’re looking for him.”

  The Chemist looked at the teenager with naked sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that,” said the vampire. “Truly I am. You must be going through hell.”

  Jamie nodded.

  “But I don’t know where he is,” said the Chemist. “You can choose to believe me, or not to. I can’t make that decision for you. But I will tell you one thing that I do know, which is less than prudent on my part.”

  “Anything,” said Jamie. “Anything that might help.”

  “He is still in the country. How I know that, I will not tell you. But he is still here. Which makes it extremely likely your mother is, too.”

  Frankenstein snorted. “That’s it?” the monster asked. “He’s still in the country? So that means we only have to search about 160,000 square miles to find him.”

  The Chemist stared at Frankenstein, his face twisted with open loathing. “You leave my house knowing more than you did when you arrived,” he said. “I doubt that will be the case anywhere else you choose to conduct your search. The brothers have eyes and ears everywhere, and no one else will be willing to tell you anything.”

  Jamie stood up from the table, clenching his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out as the muscles below his burns moved. He shot Frankenstein a look of pure anger, warning him to say nothing more. “Thank you for your help,” he said to the Chemist, who nodded politely. “We’ll leave you to your work.”

  They followed the path back to the road in silence. Private Hollis was leaning against the door of the van.

  “Where to next?” he asked, as they stopped beside the vehicle.

  Jamie kicked the metal side of the van as hard as he could, the clang echoing through the silent night air. He kicked it again, and again, then rounded on Frankenstein, his face red with rage.

  “You’re so stupid!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “He obviously knew more than he told us, much more! And he would have told me if you hadn’t been such a dick to him! Why did you do that? Don’t you want to find my mom? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Frankenstein was too shocked to reply. The boy’s anger was steaming off him in waves.

  “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Jamie bellowed, punctuating each word with a thunderous kick to the van’s side. Then as quickly as it had come, the anger was gone, and he slumped to his knees on the bumpy road.

  There was silence.

  Tentatively, the driver reached toward him, but Jamie shoved his hand away.

  “Don’t touch me!” he yelled, rising back to his feet. “Just leave me alone!”

  He ran, stumbling into the forest, leaving the two men by the van.

  Jamie sat at the base of a wide oak tree. He could see the van’s headlights through the black maze of the forest and could hear the driver’s and the monster’s low voices.

  Let them look for me. They won’t find me in here. Let them think they’ve lost me.

  His head rushed with frustration, anger, and guilt. The chemist would have told him more about Alexandru, he was sure of it, if the stupid monster hadn’t opened his big, stupid mouth. They could be on their way to rescue her right now, could be hot on her heels, but instead they were no further along the path that led to her than they had been before they arrived. It had never even occurred to him that Alexandru would have taken his mother out of the country, not after the message that had been carved into the man’s chest and left for him to find, so that information was useless—Frankenstein had been right about that. But it was what was going to come next, what he was sure the Chemist was going to go on to say that might have helped them. Because Jamie was convinced one thing the vampire had said was true: No one else would be willing to risk Alexandru’s wrath to help them.

  Then he realized that was wrong. There was one person.

  He pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the howl of pain from his injured neck and crashed blindly back through the trees toward the headlights. He emerged to find the driver and Frankenstein leaning against the van. The look on the monster’s face suggested he had not been overly concerned.

  “Got that out of your system, did you?” asked Frankenstein, his voice containing a hint of laughter, and Jamie scowled at him.

  “Take me back to the Loop,” he said. “I want to talk to her again.”

  Frankenstein’s mouth narrowed.

  “Talk to whom?” he asked.

  “You know who,” said Jamie, and smiled.

  22

  THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART II

  New York, USA

  December 31, 1928

  John Carpenter was roused from sleep by a loud knocking on the door of his room. He awoke instantly, his hand reaching for the wooden stake he had placed on his bedside table. He slipped from beneath his bedding and padded softly across the carpeted floor to the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Henry Victor,” a low voice boomed from the other side of the wooden panels.

  Carpenter put the hand containing the stake behind his back and opened the door six inches, the length of the sturdy chain he had left fastened. Henry Victor stood in the hallway, his vast frame reaching to within an inch or
two of the ceiling. He looked down at Carpenter with a look of anger on his face.

  “You know who I am,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I believe I do,” answered Carpenter.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “I told nobody.”

  “Your partner. Willis. Not even him?”

  “Not even him.”

  Victor reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a thick white envelope.

  “Then perhaps you will be able to explain this to me,” he said, handing the envelope to Carpenter.

  Carpenter took it, noting as he did so the enormous size of the man’s hand, and slipped the chain off its latch. He opened the door wide.

  “Come in,” he said, walking over to the small desk beneath his window and placing the envelope on the wooden top. Victor did so, shutting the door behind him. Carpenter pulled three sheets of stiff card from the envelope. The first two were invitations, gold-edged rectangles of board with three lines of ornate printing on them.

  CENTRAL PARK WEST AND WEST EIGHTY-FIFTH STREET

  DECEMBER 31, 1928

  11 P.M.

  He set these aside and looked at the third card. It was a note, handwritten in beautiful copperplate script.

  Dear Mr. Frankenstein:

  Please do me the honor of gracing me with your presence evening. And do with your presence this evening. And do bring your new British friend—he has taken a room at the Hotel Chelsea on West Twenty-Third Street, in case you need to find him. Masks are mandatory, black tie is preferred.

  Yours,

  V

  “I haven’t used that name since I arrived in America,” Frankenstein’s voice said from above Carpenter’s head. “More than a year ago.”

  “Do you know anyone whose name starts with a V?” Carpenter asked.

  “No.”

  V for Valentin, thought Carpenter and a shiver ran up his spine. The youngest of the three brothers turned by Dracula himself. Could it be him?

  “What about Haslett? Jeremiah Haslett?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Frankenstein took a deep breath that sounded very much to Carpenter like an attempt at keeping his temper. “Mr. Carpenter, I keep myself to myself. Especially where vampires are concerned.”

  Carpenter snapped his head round. “What did you say?”

  Frankenstein laughed. “I’m sorry. Did you assume that you and your friends were the only ones who knew?” He laughed again, this time at the look of surprise on John’s face. “I am a creature of the night, Mr. Carpenter, for reasons that should be obvious to you. I have traveled widely and seen and heard a great many things. I knew the sorry tale of Dracula before the Irishman wrote it down. I heard the rumors about Crowley and others like him. I have heard about your little organization. I have even heard of you, Mr. Carpenter. Or your father, at least.”

  Carpenter stared at the monster, stunned. “Then you know why I am here,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

  “I presume you are here to make sure that Mr. Haslett does not return to England’s green and pleasant land?”

  Carpenter nodded.

  “And I would imagine that this evening’s gathering strikes you as your best opportunity to carry out your task?”

  “I am certainly hoping so. Will you let me have both invitations?”

  Frankenstein laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carpenter. I want to ask this V certain questions of my own. But I will accompany you, and if the opportunity to assist you in your mission presents itself, then I will certainly consider doing so. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds fine.” Carpenter hesitated for a moment. “One of the oldest vampires in the world is believed to live in this city. His name is Valentin Rusmanov. Have you heard of him?”

  “The youngest of the three brothers.”

  “Indeed. I wonder if he could be the V who sent the invitations.”

  “If that turns out to be the case,” said Frankenstein, “we will be well-advised to be extremely careful.”

  Carpenter showered and dressed quickly after Frankenstein had left but was still ten minutes late meeting Willis in the diner on Broadway that the American had selected as they said their farewells the previous evening. He slid into a red leather booth opposite Willis, ordered coffee and eggs, and quickly filled his partner in on the morning’s developments. Willis listened intently, then asked the question Carpenter had been waiting for.

  “Surely you realize that this invitation is a trap of some kind?”

  “Of course I do,” replied Carpenter. “But it still represents the best opportunity for me to carry out my mission. Surely you realize that?”

  Willis sipped his coffee.

  “I do, John,” he said. “I just felt it necessary to draw your attention to the fact that this V’s motives for inviting you and the monster are unlikely to be honorable. I meant no offense.”

  Carpenter felt his anger dissipate.

  Control yourself. This man is not your enemy.

  “Needless to say, I will take up position outside the building and will be ready to assist in any way that is required,” Willis continued. “Unless that does not sit well with you?”

  “That sits fine,” replied Carpenter. “I will be grateful for your presence.”

  “That settles it then,” said Willis, and he forced a smile. “Now, let us turn our attention to breakfast. It promises to be a long day.”

  John Carpenter stood at the corner of Central Park West and West Eighty-Third Street, waiting for Frankenstein. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, and the night was cold and dark.

  He had left Willis in the diner and caught a carriage uptown to take care of some errands. He purchased a dinner suit from a tailor that Willis had recommended on Madison Avenue, continued north into Harlem to pay a short visit to a builder’s merchant before returning to his hotel to prepare himself for the ball, eating a light dinner in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue and making his way toward the wide expanse of Central Park.

  “Cold night,” said a deep voice from behind him.

  Carpenter started and spun around. Frankenstein towered above him, a beautiful dinner suit covering his huge frame. He was looking down at Carpenter with a faint smile on his face.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” he said, and the smile widened a fraction.

  “Apology accepted,” Carpenter managed in reply.

  You bloody fool. Concentrate on the matter in hand, for God’s sake. To be so easily surprised is unacceptable.

  Frankenstein nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Shall we?” He gestured along Central Park West, to the corner of the Upper West Side that was their destination.

  The two men walked quickly to the address the invitations had specified. On the corner before them was a vast Gothic town house, dominated by a tall circular tower that rose high above the slanted roof. The many windows of the building blazed with light, and even from their position across the road, the sounds of laughter and music could be heard. Standing by the large wooden door was an equally large figure in a dark gray overcoat and an expressionless Venetian mask, and it was to this apparition that the two men presented their invitations.

  The figure studied them carefully. “Masks,” it said, in a flat voice.

  Carpenter pulled a black eye mask from his pocket and set it in place. Frankenstein carefully looped the ribbons of a white mask with a long, narrow nose over his ears, and the doorman stood aside.

  The hallway was wide and grandly appointed, mirrors and paintings hanging at intervals along the walls, vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface. A black-and-white tiled marble floor gleamed beneath their feet. An elderly waiter clad in immaculate white tie appeared beside them, proffering a tray of delicate crystal champagne flutes. The two men accepted and walked down the corridor toward a pair of double doors, from behind which came the sounds of a ball in full swing.

&nb
sp; Carpenter opened one of the doors, and they walked inside. There were at least two hundred people in the cavernous ballroom, some on the wide marble dance floor, others standing in groups around the edges of the room, or sitting at round tables, laughing and conversing. At the back of the room, a low stage held a jazz quartet who were thumping out a furious rhythm of bass and drums, over which the pianist was rattling out a ragtime melody. The air was full of cigarette smoke, the pungent scents of opium and incense, shrill peals of laughter, and the hum of a great many voices mingled together.

  “Look how big you are!” shrieked a voice to their left, and the two men turned.

  A young woman with a feathered mask hiding her face and her figure wrapped in a dark red ball gown that brushed the floor was staring openly at Frankenstein, a look of wonder on her face as she swayed ever so slightly on towering stiletto heels.

  “It’s considered rude to stare,” said Carpenter.

  “Don’t be so silly,” the woman replied, turning her face toward him. Through the holes in the mask Carpenter could see that the woman’s eyes were struggling to focus, and he relaxed.

  “I believe you may have had too much to drink,” he said to her. “Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good. I’m sure you don’t wish to embarrass yourself.”

  He stepped back and opened the door to the corridor, holding it for her. She looked at him for a moment, as if she were trying to construct a riposte, then lifted her nose high into the air and strode unsteadily into the hallway without giving them a second look.

  “Thank you,” Frankenstein said as soon as the door was again closed. “I would have surely lost my temper had you not removed her.”

  “You’re welcome,” Carpenter replied. “I suggest we part company and search for our respective targets.”

  Frankenstein agreed, turned away, and disappeared into the crowd. Carpenter went in the other direction, skirting the edge of the dance floor, looking for Jeremiah Haslett.