by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Coming down the grand staircase, topped with its wonderful glass dome radiant in the early sunshine, Art met John Jacob Astor and his new wife coming up, most likely to sun on the boat deck.
“Lord Godalming!” Astor said happily and stopped. They shook hands over the railing separating them. “I trust that you are well.” He leaned in and added, “After the other night.”
“Oh, I’m just fine, thank you. It was only a little tiff, really.”
“Who was he?” Astor went on in hushed tones, his wife standing by smilingly.
“Just a fellow that I owed a bit of money to, it’s all taken care of now,” Art replied.
“How much?” Astor whispered, his eyes touchingly concerned.
“Oh, not much at all, just a few pounds; he’s in second class, and you know how much money means to those types.”
Astor nodded stiffly, perhaps surprised by Lord Godalming’s reference to “those types.”
Like Art, he disdained snobbery.
“Yes. Well. Have you met my wife, Madeleine?”
Art had not, for Astor had recently married her. From what he had heard, she was but eighteen, and very pregnant.
The woman came forward with a smile, and Astor wrapped one tuxedoed arm around her shoulder. Art took her frail hand and pecked it; it was as cold as ice, they must have already been on deck.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Astor, I’ve heard so much about you,” Art said with a smile.
“And I you, Lord,” Madeleine Astor replied. “From what JJ tells me, you’re an explorer.”
Lord Godalming chuckled. “A long time ago I traveled the world, I never explored, except for adventure. And that was all I found.”
“Very impressive,” she said, “I’ve always wanted to see the world. And now, I suppose, I am getting my chance.”
“Yes, with Mr. Astor you’ll see plenty. Now forgive me, but I must be going. I have urgent matters to see to.”
“You take care of yourself, Lord, make sure that that dreadful man doesn’t sneak up on you again,” she said, and from the way John Astor’s face fell, Art ascertained that he had told her…after she pledged secrecy.
“No, that shan’t happen again,” Lord Godalming replied with a genuine smile. “Charmed to have met you, Mrs. Astor.”
Without further word, anxious to get to Dracula, Art descended the stairs, and hastened to the smoking room. Of course Dracula wasn’t there.
Back at the grand staircase, Art stopped and put his hands on his hips. “Where are you, you bastard?” he muttered under his breath.
***
After a light search conducted by each man in their three respective classes, they met in the sun washed Café Parisian for lunch. Already, the café had become the favorite establishment of the younger passengers. Groups of young men and women sat around circular tables, chatting happily and eating the finest food on the sea.
Dr. Seward arrived first, and chose a table at the back of the gaily lit room. A steward came by to take his order, but he told him that he was waiting for his friends to arrive. He did, however, order a glass of red wine, which he currently sipped as he watched the younger crowd.
Though it didn’t feel like it, spring was on, and it was the time for young love to blossom. All of the girls he saw were pink blushing beauties, some coy, some not. All of the young boys were perfect gentlemen, rightly following the examples of their fathers.
Seward checked his pocket watch and found it half past noon. He was starting to worry about Van Helsing and Art: He feared that Dracula may have picked the others off one-by-one. It would be easy for him to wait until each man was in a quiet place and snap their necks. Seward was surprised that Dracula hadn’t done so already. Why had he let Art escape? John Jacob Astor’s presence? Indeed, JJ Astor presented as much a threat to Dracula as a cringing field mouse presented to a wild eyed hawk in flight.
After finishing his first glass of wine and ordering another one, not caring if the stewards, stewardesses, and spoiled rotten brats thought him an alcoholic, relief flooded him as he saw Art and Van Helsing, side-by-side, entering the restraint in the distance.
Seward raised a hand; Art saw him and pointed Van Helsing in the right direction. The two men slowly crossed the room, garnering stares and glances from the teenagers.
“Hello, John,” Van Helsing said happily and sank woodenly into a chair across from him.
Art pulled his chair out and sat down. “Have any of you found anything?”
“Nothing,” Art mumbled.
Seward nodded, “I found that Dracula was not in second-class. I also found that the fare there was equal to, if not better than, what most other liners feed their first-class passengers.”
“I suppose that I had the most success,” Van Helsing sighed.
“You did?” Art asked, perking up, “what have you found?”
Van Helsing smiled and held up a calming hand. “There is no reason for such exuberance, Art; it isn’t much. I talked with a young man who has seen Dracula several times. It just so happened that a friend of his is an artist.”
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. The others leaned in and he opened it, revealing a masterful pencil sketch of the Count’s Roman face: His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes boring, and his teeth slightly protruding over his lower lip. In the bottom right corner, the artist had written his name and the date: J. Dawson, 4-14-12.
“Too bad there is only one,” Art said, sinking back into his chair.
Van Helsing grinned. “There is more than one. I had him do three of them, one for each of us. That is what I did with most of my time down there.”
“So, it looks as through Dracula is a common sight in steerage.” Art took a sip of water. “How about we all search it at once? Splitting up is doing no good. Even if we find Dracula, we cannot fight him.”
“That is not true, Art,” Van Helsing said. “We each have the necessary tools at our disposal. It would be best if we were all there to fight him, but we most likely cannot be.”
A blanket of silence fell over the men, revealing the commonplace saloon sounds of scraping forks, clinking glasses, and the occasional crunch of teeth against hard food, here peppered with loud talking, giggling girls, and uproarious laughter. Scanning the room again, listening to the young speak, watching their mannerisms, seeing their damn youthfulness, Dr. Seward realized that he and Art were closer to Van Helsing in age and thought than they were to over half of the other passengers in the café. He could tell from the light in Art’s eyes and the wistful smile on his lips that he had long ago come to that conclusion, and was amused that it had taken his friend so long to follow suit.
Presently, a steward came along and took their orders. Seward took tea over wine, Van Helsing wanted only coffee, and Art ordered a light salad.
“What tools are those, Doctor?” Art asked when they were alone again. “The cross offends him, yes, but unless you back him into a corner, he’ll escape.”
“Holy water,” Van Helsing countered. “All you have to do is splash him with it. A cross, yes, is not really a weapon, but holy water is. And in his weakened state (if he is in a weakened state), any little thing can hurt him. A punch, a stab, a shot. It all adds up and…”
Before Van Helsing could finish speaking, Art jumped up from the table, rattling it in a clinking of china and glassware, and unceremoniously bolted from the café, dragging with him the stares of almost everyone present. He burst through the door to the deck, and Seward watched as he ran past the large open windows, his hair blowing in the breeze.
“What was that?” Seward asked slowly.
“I know that look,” Van Helsing said lowly, for the entire eatery was so silent that one could easily hear a pin drop across the room. “Do you know the
name of the look in Arthur’s eyes when he left?”
“I believe,” Seward said, and took a sip of his wine, “that they call it ‘eureka!’”
“Spot on.”
Anxious to see exactly what Art was on to, Van Helsing and Seward quitted the room, not noticing the man at the table closest to the door, for a menu covered his face. When the men left the room, and were safely on their way toward the smoking room or their cabins, the man sat the menu down and watched them as they ambled forward, all but holding hands like young lovers on a clandestine midnight stroll.
Bastards, he thought as they vanished from his line of sight, leaving behind an empty deck.
“Would you like anything else, sir?” a steward asked, having suddenly materialized at the table.
“No!” the man spat as he swung from the window and fixed him with a withering gaze.
Nodding, the steward rushed away.