The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  We went to the Shoe Box and Coldfield got busy arranging a doctor for his chauffeur. In the end one of his other men was summoned to drive him to the hospital, where the arm could be properly examined. He laid no blame on Escott for it, saying the car thieves would have been there anyway, and went off with his friend. As they walked down the hall I heard him giving a highly dramatic account of how he came by his injury and how the boss had stepped in and single-handedly saved the day. He’d probably get a lot of drinks out of that story, and Coldfield’s reputation wouldn’t suffer, either.

  Drinks were waiting for us when our host had finished his business. He drained his own and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. The radio was off and the club band apparently on break. The only noises now were the customers a few rooms away and someone banging around in a nearby kitchen.

  “Hey, Fleming.” He jerked me back from wherever I’d drifted.

  “Come on and have a drink. You deserve it after all that rumpus.”

  I joined them. Escott was perched on the edge of a couch, a sheet of paper in his hand and his forehead wrinkled.

  “What’s that?”

  “A list of the stuff Paco has been shipping in and keeping, but don’t ask me what they add up to; that’s Charles’s specialty.” He went to the bar and made another drink. Returning, he nodded at my untouched glass. “Don’t you like my booze?”

  “It’s fine, I’m just not much of a drinker.”

  “You’re more a fighter. I was busy, but saw some, and I’ve never seen anyone move that fast in my life.”

  “It’s amazing what you can do when you’re scared.”

  He snorted and raised his glass. “Here’s to being scared.”

  I was going to pretend to sip, but it was no good, he was watching me too closely. I braced myself and gulped. The stuff dropped down my throat and hit my guts like hot lead.

  Coldfield read my face all too clearly. “I guess you really aren’t much of a drinker.”

  “Bad stomach is all, always had it.” I kept gulping at nothing, trying to keep the stuff down, feeling like a balloon about to burst. Escott provided some distraction as he shook his head over the paper.

  “There is definitely something to this, but I need more information. Tomorrow I shall have to find out who actually ordered this and where it ends up after removal from the warehouse.”

  “All right, but just make sure you’re at the caterers by six, or they leave without you. I’ll let them know what you’re trying to pull and tell them not to make a fuss. You goin’ to do this act again?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What about Fleming? You said you wanted him in, too.”

  “Not exactly. I shall ask Mr. Fleming to remain nearby with the car. If things get too warm for me, I’ll slip out and he can drive us away.” He looked at me. “Are you all right?” He’d been too absorbed to pay attention earlier, but now his eyes darted from the empty glass to my face and he understood what had happened.

  I tried a weak smile, but kept my lips firmly together, telegraphing to him that I had an urgent problem.

  Escott thanked Coldfield, said that we had to get moving, and hustled me out of the Shoe Box and into the car in record time. After a short block I asked him to pull over. I couldn’t stand it any longer. He did, I opened the door and leaned out for the explosion. The booze shot into the gutter like a burst from a fire hose. I spat out the last drops, blinked at the dirty street below, and forgot to clutch the doorframe when the dizziness hit. Escott grabbed my arm to stop—

  “Mr. Fleming?”

  —me going over the rail into endless black water. A heavy hand on my neck forced my head down—

  “Fleming?”

  —retching, no air, blood pounding behind my eyes—

  “Fleming!”

  He yanked me upright and kept me from sliding under the dashboard. “What’s wrong? Fleming?”

  “A dream . . . on the boat.”

  “You remembered something—what?”

  He had to wait a long minute for the shaking to pass, and my left hand was still trembling while I told him what I could. He looked at it, then up a me.

  “Touched a nerve, has it?”

  “It’s almost over.”

  “Then you’ve had this kind of seizure before?”

  “Seizure?”

  “When I see someone going all boneless as you did, I call it a seizure, and you seem familiar with it.”

  “Yeah, I had one a few days ago when I tried to remember what happened before I woke up on the beach. It’s like I’m not here anymore. I don’t like that loss of control.”

  He made a sympathetic noise. “Was your last experience as dismaying as this one?”

  “Unfortunately. Except last time I was trying on purpose to remember. This time getting rid of that stuff—”

  “Spontaneously triggered the memory?”

  “Yeah, what you said.”

  He ah-hummed like a doctor and motioned for me to shut the door, then worked the gears and pointed the car in the general direction of my hotel.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  “Just an idea . . . I thought a reenactment of your final moments on the boat—”

  “I get it, but it’s kind of hard to reenact something if you don’t know how it was enacted in the first place.”

  “We know you were beaten and shot.”

  “You want to beat me up and shoot me?” I said cautiously.

  “It is only a suggestion, mind you.”

  “Let’s keep it that way until I can think it over.”

  “As you wish. After all, I could lose my license by assaulting a client, even if it is in his best interest.”

  I watched the streets glide past, waiting for the tingling in my left hand to subside. “You still want me along tomorrow?”

  He was surprised. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  I made a fist and opened it, stretching the fingers. “Because of this. I might conk out on you.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “And because I’ve met some private inves—agents before, and usually the last thing they want is their clients breathing down their necks while they work.”

  “That is usually true, but then you don’t breathe.”

  “Funny.”

  “Besides you are essential to our success. Surely you’re aware of the extreme usefulness of your abilities?”

  “For sneaking around unseen? Uh-huh, except I’m not too sure what I should be looking for.”

  “In this case, you might know it when you see it, like a half dozen crates marked as spare parts. You’ll have much more freedom of movement than I. You need only to avoid getting caught.”

  “I figured that much, but how do I get there? I’m not up and around at six.”

  “You can use my car. I’ll leave it at your hotel after I’ve finished my inquiries for the day. There will be a marked map on the seat showing you how to get to his place.”

  At a quarter to eight the next night I was out and following his neatly written and meticulous directions. In addition to the map was a sketch of the house and neighboring grounds, and an X marked a shrub-sheltered spot off the road where I could safely park. Paco took his privacy seriously. There were warnings about armed guards, high fences, and even watch dogs, all of which I intended to avoid.

  The place was just far enough from town to give the illusion it was in the country. The land around was brilliantly lit by star and moonlight. There was no darkness for my eyes to rest in; even the deepest shadows under the trees had been reduced to soft gray patches devoid of mystery and fear. Darkness had been ended forever for me. Perhaps tonight I would see the man who was responsible.

  Twenty careful minutes later I was crouched under the window Escott had designated, mentally keyed up but devoid of the usual physical signs of excitement. My lungs drew no quick gulps of air, my heart wasn’t hammering in anticipation of action, I wasn’t even sweating
. My hands were paper dry. The only evidence of inner turbulence was the iron-hard stiffness that seized my spine. It did help me to keep very still while I waited; that alone was enough to make me invisible to the occasional patrolling guard. I was just another shadow in the bushes.

  Escott softly called my name from the window. The coast was clear, inside and out. My body vanished, reappearing just behind him and still in a crouching position. I came out of it slowly, orienting. We were in a bathroom.

  He’d been peering out the small window and then whirled with a stifled yelp. “My God, but that’s unnerving,” he whispered, and I tried very hard not to smile at his reaction. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I stared in fascination at his makeup job—it was perfect. “How can you see through those glasses?”

  He pulled out a sheet of paper with a rough sketch on it. “Here’s the kitchen, where I’ll be.... They’ve set me to washing dishes for now and I’ve got the window over the sink open if we need to talk. This is the dining room, the guests are still there, about thirty of them, give or take the odd gunman. The caterers are only allowed into these areas, the rest is your territory. Paco’s office shouldn’t be difficult to identify, but in particular you might seek out the basement. There is a locked door to it in the kitchen, but I’m willing to guess there’s another entrance as well.”

  “You think the locked door is to protect more than just his liquor?”

  “I certainly hope so. I want to know where he put all the money he borrowed from Slick Morelli.”

  “Anything in particular I should look for?”

  “Whatever looks out of place in a normal house—or even this one for that matter. Perhaps even your list, if they’re careless enough to leave it lying around. In the last week they could have acquired it from Benny Galligar.”

  “O’Hara.”

  “Whatever.”

  I nodded in agreement because he looked nervous. “Okay, don’t worry about me. How long will you be here?”

  “My group is supposed to leave around twelve. I’ll have them drop me off near the car, and wait for you there. You should have as long as discretion allows.”

  It seemed like plenty of time and I said so. “You better get back to your dishes. If I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ve learned to be a patient man, Mr. Fleming. Good luck.”

  He slipped out the door and I was on my own, without even my reflection for company. I gave him time to get away, then floated out of the bathroom. Considering its proximity to the dining room and kitchen, it would have a regular parade of intruding patrons. Feeling my invisible way down the hall kept me safe, but I’d have to solidify soon to get some bearings. Two men walked past, their voices flat and muffled in my ears. I followed in their wake until they faded away. Pressing what would be my back against a wall, I tried a partial re-forming.

  The confusing buzz of background noise became the familiar tones of clear conversation coming from a large room on my right, with double doors leading in to dinner. There was a T intersection down the hall on the left. I picked the left branch of the T and began opening doors.

  There were plenty of closets, some small bedrooms apparently belonging to the permanent staff, and another bathroom. It was a water haul so I tried my luck with the other branch of the T and found more of the same, except for one encouragingly locked door. I ghosted through it and felt the floor drop away in a series of descending right angles. It was the other basement entrance. At the bottom landing was another locked door, which also proved useless for the owner.

  Inside, I partially materialized and discovered the jackpot. It was a brightly lit laboratory crammed with the kind of stuff I’d last seen at college, when I’d slept through the required chemistry courses. It was nearly as big as my old classroom, but neater and newer looking. The one thing it didn’t have in common with higher learning was the lantern-jawed mug sitting at his ease about five feet away from me. Only my lack of sudden movement and his complete absorption in a magazine kept him from spotting my intrusion. I vanished, got behind him, and reformed.

  His face was unfamiliar, but his flashy clothes and callused knuckles were enough to identify his probable line of work. On a table next to him was a half glass of milk with crumbs floating on top and a plate of cookies that he occasionally dipped into. His magazine caught my eye—he was also interested in the Shadow’s adventures and halfway through Terror Island. Someday I’d have to write Walter and tell him about his mobster fan.

  Without disturbing him, I very quietly checked out the rest of the joint. At the far end a door with a glass panel set in it led to a dark service area for the furnace, and eventually went on to the kitchen stairs. There was also a locked wine cellar, a laundry, old furniture, and a lot of dust. Going back by way of the lab, I returned upstairs to the T, down its base, and explored another hall. This area was not very promising, with only some socializing rooms; nothing like an office until I got to the last door. It was locked, but no problem.

  Paco liked to show off. The inside of his sanctum looked like a decorator’s idea for a president’s office. It was full of velvet and leather upholstery, black-stained wood, and gold-framed oil paintings of conservative landscapes. The only portrait was of a bullish-looking man with heavy features and pop-eyes. He looked enough like Sanderson to have been a close relative. It was hard to judge how tall he was, for the painting was done on a larger-than-life scale. No memories stirred for me and I wondered how good a likeness it really was.

  My training as a detective was limited to what I’d learned watching movies, so I started looking for a safe behind the paintings, but with no luck. The desk drawers were locked, and since Escott didn’t want any obvious signs of intrusion I left them alone and sorted through the papers left on top. Nothing important was on them, just some notes about the party and a few doodles.

  I tried upstairs and found only more bedrooms and baths, gave up, and snuck back to the kitchen. I could make little sense of the noise and muddle of voices there, and drifted outside to look through the windows. The curtains were open and the sashes raised to let in some breeze. The kitchen was steamy and filled with people busy with mountains of food. Peering through one window, I was face-to-face with Escott, who was bent over a pile of dishes and up to his elbows in soap suds. I softly tapped for his attention and told him to go to the cellar door. He nodded dully, as if to himself, staying in character so well I had some doubts whether he’d really heard and understood. But a few minutes later, when I unlocked the door from the inside, he was turning the knob one second and standing next to me on the small landing the next.

  I explained the problem with the laboratory: I could get in anywhere, but lacked his knowledge.

  He pocketed the fake glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I can absent myself from the dishes long enough to have a good look. Lead the way.”

  We went straight to the glass-paneled door and from the safety of the dark on our side, looked in. His eyes lit up at the sight of all that equipment. He stared at everything for nearly a minute, then grabbed my arm and backed us away.

  “What’s it about?” I whispered.

  He shook his head with a small, impatient movement. “I’ve got to get in there. Can you get rid of the guard?”

  “How permanently?”

  “Nothing fatal, if you don’t mind—wait, he’s moving.”

  We shrank deeper into the shadows, watching through the glass. The man left the magazine open on the table, massaged his back, stood, and stretched. He checked his watch, yawned, and unlocked the stairway door, then secured it again from the other side.

  I darted forward, sieved through our door, and let Escott in. “You’ve only got a few minutes.”

  “How do you know?”

  I pointed to the now-empty glass of milk. “He’s headed for the can to get rid of that, so he won’t take long.”

  “Excellent deduction,” he approved, and went to work, prowling the lengt
h of the room, inspecting the variety of glass tubes and flasks, and poking nosily into cabinets. In one of them he found a handwritten notebook of some kind and in another was a small safe. He suppressed a bark of triumph, dropped on his haunches, and tried the handle. We were both surprised when it turned and the door swung open.

  “What’s inside?”

  “Something odd,” he said more to himself than me. He opened the book, scanning page after page, visibly puzzled.

  “Anything wrong?”

  Too occupied to pay attention, he re-examined some sealed glass containers that seemed to be filled with liquid chrome. He tapped one and the convex surface vibrated like a molten mirror. Leaving them, he searched for and located a supply of chemicals in a walk-in closet. He read the labels but opened a container anyway to make sure of the contents. A smell like rotten eggs drifted into the air, and he looked like a kid who’d just gotten everything he ever wanted for Christmas.

  “Come on, what is it?”

  “No real heat source except those Bunsen burners,” he muttered thoughtfully, “but that could be talked around. Well, well! We can leave now.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He returned everything to its place except the book, and we got out about ten seconds before the guard returned. He got comfortable with his magazine again and began reading.

  “Why isn’t he at the party?” I whispered.

  “Probably shy. Come on.”

  Back at the kitchen stairs, he sat on the second lowest step, pulled out a small flashlight and studied the book. Five minutes later he was shaking so hard with silent laughter he had to close it up to get his breath back.

  He held it out to me. “If nothing else, this would be proof enough of Frank Paco’s criminal tendencies, for is it not well-known that you can’t cheat an honest man?”

  “What is it?”

  He rolled the Latin out slowly and with evident pleasure. “Magnum opus.”

  “What great work?”

  “Open the first page, read what is printed at the top.”

  “ ‘What is above is as that which is below, and what is below is as that which is above.’ What’s it about, burying people?”