The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “She was scared stiff, but more terrified of Endicott finding out. She told Brogan everything, showed her black eyes and bruises, and proposed a deal. If he would get back the forty thousand for her, he could keep ten for himself, and in exchange for the rest she would give him every last scrap of the evidence against him.”

  “What was to happen to Endicott?”

  “He was to continue on to Brazil with similar physical damage and the clothes he’d packed.”

  “Only he didn’t.”

  “No. He spotted her leaving their house and followed her to the garage.”

  “How do you know this? From Brogan?”

  “I was more energetic then. I’d been following Endicott, and, by default, his wife. I didn’t know it at the time. When Naomi returned home, he did too, and shortly afterward obtained a full confession from her. I was in my car at the end of this very driveway having a smoke while . . . while that bastard beat her half to death.”

  Clapsaddle finished his cigarette and scuffed the remains into the paving with the toe of his shoe. “Had I been a little more energetic, I could have crept up to the house to peer in the window and perhaps stopped it, but I didn’t. I sat in comfort and smoked and outlined my next column. When he was done, Endicott decided on a quiet exit, leaving his car behind. He went out the back door, cut across the golf course, and called a cab from the Pelham club house to get him to the docks. And just in time, because Brogan, keeping his end of the bargain with Naomi, drove up. Alone.”

  “Must have been a surprise to you.”

  “I thought I’d hit the jackpot for a scoop. Couldn’t miss that. Brogan left the front door wide open. I walked right in, thinking I could get a photograph of him and Endicott, then run.”

  “Chancy.”

  “I always keep a gun in my pocket. I walked in, and there was Brogan standing over Naomi. She was so battered and bloody I took her for a scattered bundle of washing someone left on the floor and splashed with red paint. Then the smell hit me, blood and urine—I thought she was dead. So did Brogan, you could see it in his face.”

  “You thought he did it?”

  “Never. He didn’t have the time and there was no blood on him. . . and he looked absolutely—he’s a hard man, Fleming, a killer, but that moment . . .I saw inside him. He was as horrified and furious as I, and we both knew who was responsible.

  “Then we realized she was still breathing, barely. Brogan called a doctor and set his dogs after Endicott. It didn’t take long, they picked him up before he reached the embarkation pier and took him some place. For all I know it was that same damned hotel. It’s quiet. Brogan was a very, very angry man. He got payback for poor Naomi.”

  That would account for the many broken bones on the remains.

  “He got the papers and the money. Gave the whole amount back to her, by the way. Not that it was much comfort. Endicott kicked her so badly . . . well, she can’t have children. It was days before she was even able to sit up, much less get out of bed. On Brogan’s advice she filed a missing person’s report through her lawyer. I played along, writing that column as though nothing was amiss. So far as she and the police know, Endicott is in Brazil, never to return.”

  “You both agreed to keep quiet.”

  “For her sake, yes. I have an old-fashioned streak in me about women.”

  “Brogan, too?” That seemed doubtful.

  “Brogan has a much more dangerous weakness than mere courtesy toward the fair sex. At least where this lady is concerned.”

  “You’re not saying—”

  “Indeed I am, my lad, and who would have thought it?”

  “Oh, jeeze.”

  “Brogan was a doomed man the moment Naomi walked into his garage. He fell head over heels at first sight, but don’t think he’s gone soft. He will do absolutely anything to protect her, up to and including murder to keep you quiet about her husband’s death. She is far more comfortable being a deserted wife than a widow. If she finds out he killed her husband, Brogan loses her.”

  “Swann must know that, why didn’t—”

  “It wasn’t useful to him. Swann’s goal is to take over the organization, not spoil Brogan’s romantic prospects.”

  “But he brought the body out here to be found so Brogan gets arrested.”

  “It wouldn’t go that far. He’ll see to it that Brogan and the lady disappear. It would look as though they’d eloped to avoid arrest. Then Swann steps into his boss’s office without a fuss.”

  Clapsaddle and Brogan must have done considerable talking on the drive out. That discussion would have included what to do about me and my friends. “Brogan consented to this, he wants me to know his dirt. Why?”

  “Because Swann’s no fool. He may have been routed for the moment, but he will reorganize. He’s a dead man unless he can remove Brogan first.”

  “What’s it to do with anything?”

  “I’m getting to it. Your activities in Chicago are not unknown to Brogan.”

  “I wish you’d talk plain.”

  “He knows you saw him in Chicago. He’s friends with Northside Gordy, who told him that you were someone worthy of respect.”

  I winced. The term was “stand up.” I’d earned it, at one hell of a cost.

  “He also said you were a better escape artist than Houdini.”

  Thanks a heap, Gordy.

  “Brogan wants you to know everything, then get you out of here before Swann comes back. If Brogan does not survive, you’re to be the one who makes sure Swann doesn’t get away with his coup d’etat.”

  “Hey, I’m no triggerman. . .”

  “You don’t have to be. Just tell the story to the right ears and they will take care of Swann.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Use that brain, my lad. What have I been doing for the last decade?”

  Oh. No love lost between a crime columnist and the criminals. He’d be the last person on earth they’d believe. “There’s more,” I said.

  “Yes. Come hell or high water you’re to get Naomi Endicott out of here in one piece.”

  “What? Because Gordy called me Houdini?”

  “Brogan can’t trust his own men. He isn’t sure how far Swann’s corruption’s gone.”

  “Why not you?”

  Clapsaddle fell into that withering glare again. “Are you an idiot? I’m a stumbling, out-of-shape, moderately clever drunkard. While that is in high demand at the Algonquin Round Table, it’s of no use here.”

  “Why can’t we all leave?”

  “You can get Barrett out, too, if it won’t endanger Naomi. I’m staying to look for Isabelle. Brogan has to make a stand, win or lose. This is a fairly isolated area; there’s less chance of an outsider getting shot or for anyone to notice and call the police.”

  “The cops are coming anyway once Izzy gets to a phone. If Swann’s smart he’ll disappear himself right now.”

  “He’s smart, but shown his hand. He will have to make a decisive strike tonight or be a hunted man for the rest of a very short life. Come along. We’ve been targets out here long enough.”

  I noticed the men ahead of us had drifted into the cover of the trees and were keeping us under watch. “What are we, tethered goats?”

  “Brain’s working again, I see. Very good. I’ll introduce you to the lady of the house. For God’s sake remember her husband is alive and in Brazil, not—”

  “Yeah, I get it. How does she feel about this invasion?”

  “Unworried. She trusts Brogan with her life.”

  “You mean it goes both ways with them?”

  “Yes. She’s in love with him. Deeply and sincerely, so listen hard: it’s as much as your neck is worth if you make a single wise-crack about ‘beauty and the beast.’ Got that?”

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  He sped up, and the two men on watch emerged and led the way in.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  The Endicott Place was homier than Bar
rett’s formal white mansion; warm brown bricks and a steeply pitched roof diminished its scale, but it looked every bit as big. No cars were in sight, probably parked in the back.

  Despite his admission about being out of shape, Clapsaddle’s long legs took him up the front steps three at a time. He bulled into the house as though he owned the joint. I kept pace.

  When we were framed on the threshold I felt vulnerable, as though someone had the back of my head squarely in their sights.

  A quartet of Brogan’s bullies were in the foyer, on guard against whatever was out there in the dark. Soon as I was in, they slammed the door and locked it. No lights were on in the entry, and two of the men peered out small side windows like lookouts at a speakeasy. They were tense and quiet.

  I paused, my gaze involuntarily drawn to the floor where it was too easy to imagine a blood-splashed body lying there. Of course, Naomi’s beating had been seven years ago; all signs of that violence were long gone. Clapsaddle’s story had gotten to me, though. He could have made the whole thing up to get me on his side, but his concern for Izzy was real enough. When I’d said she was gone he’d looked as though I’d punched him in the gut with a train.

  Brogan wasn’t the only “doomed” man at this party.

  “This way,” said Clapsaddle, proceeding down a central hall toward some closed double doors on the left. A thread of light showed between them, widening when he pushed through into a large parlor.

  I got an impression of dark wood beams, plank floors, and thick rugs. The furniture was substantial, meant for use, not display. Heavy dark red curtains covering large bay windows were drawn against the night, and lamps glowed reassuringly in every corner.

  Snug under a couple of blankets, Barrett lay stretched on his side on one of the long couches placed at right angles to a blazing fireplace. His eyes were open, and a woman tended him. She eased an ice bag onto the back of his head. He roused a dreamy smile and murmured a thanks to her. She turned to face the doorway, clearly recognizing Clapsaddle, and taking me in with a neutral glance.

  Not very tall, she made up for it with presence. Bobbi was like that on stage, all but throwing off electricity when performing. She tamped it down the rest of the time. This lady had another version of the same voltage, but it was part and parcel of her, not something to be switched on and off at will.

  She was almost too slender to be healthy or maybe it was the dark dress that added to the effect. She had black hair, and her otherwise well-defined aristocratic features were marred by a slightly crooked nose. It had been broken and not quite properly set. The latter was what threw me. I subtracted the crookedness, added half a dozen years to the yellowed picture in Clapsaddle’s clipping file, and felt the planet tilting back on its proper axis again. She was a mortal woman after all, ill-used, but not some Renaissance goddess who’d magically stepped out of a painting.

  Though I could have been wrong.

  “Desmond,” the lady said, gliding over to Clapsaddle. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You are much too kind and gracious, my dear,” he responded. He kissed her hand. I’d only ever seen Escott get away with that kind of thing, and then because he was English. “This rough-edged specimen is Mr. Jack Fleming of Chicago. He’s had some adventures tonight and isn’t at his best. Fleming, this is Mrs. Endicott.”

  I mumbled something. I was scruffy, my once-new suit now wet, torn, muddy, and stained with Thorp’s blood. I’d lost my hat somewhere back in the hotel. Next time I took a drive to town with Barrett I’d put on overalls, a bulletproof vest, and hiking boots.

  She smiled, making me feel as though none of that mattered. “Mr. Fleming, welcome. Please, come stand by the fire, you must be frozen.” She took my arm and led me to the fireplace.

  The lady could have dropped me directly into a burning furnace with a load of coal, and I wouldn’t have minded. No wonder Brogan had fallen for her on sight. A man could get lost forever in those melting brown eyes. Her home had been invaded by gangster toughs, wounded strangers, and somewhere outside more toughs prowled, ready to kill all of us, but if that bothered her, she wasn’t going to panic about it.

  “—hot to drink?” she was asking. “I have fresh coffee.”

  “Huh, uh, nothing, that is, no, thank you, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “HeRomas sure,” said Fleish Brogan decisively.

  Oh. He was here, too. I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t. She had that kind of effect.

  He stood by one panel of the curtains and twitched it back into place so no one could see in from the outside. He still wore his overcoat, but his hat was on a table, as were the hats of three of his torpedoes who stood ready to defend the place. Everyone was a gentleman in this room tonight.

  Naomi looked at him with absolute and enviable trust.

  Holy cow. It was true.

  He nodded back, the man in charge . . . and a quite bit more where she was concerned.

  Clapsaddle was right. You couldn’t fake that. However things turned out tonight, Naomi would be safe so long as Brogan had a breath in his body.

  I checked on Barrett. His pupils were dilated, and I didn’t know whether that was bad or not. The blankets were tucked up to his neck, and he shivered every few moments, but he’d made some progress toward recovery, looking better than he had out in the woods.

  “How’s the head?” I murmured.

  “Ask me tomorrow night,” he said, barely taking enough breath to speak. “Is that ministering angel not utterly lovely?”

  “Yeah, I get it, you’re undead, not dead.” Which adequately described me as well, but I wasn’t going to let on. “You gonna be ambulatory?”

  “What’s going on? Where’s Isabelle?”

  “Elsewhere and making tracks, I hope. Brogan’s in charge. Past that I can’t say. We might have to move, so rest while you can.”

  He wasted no time, closing his eyes and going still. Of course, that made him look dead. I’d have to keep people from noticing.

  The lady sat on the couch opposite Barrett, and poured herself a coffee from a silver service that was worth more than my car. Her hand was a little unsteady. She clearly had confidence in Brogan, but this was a terrifying situation.

  “Are there any servants in the house, ma’am?” I asked.

  “No, they’re only here during the day.”

  “Isn’t that kind of lonely? You by yourself in such a big place?”

  “The locks are more than adequate. The doors and windows are very sturdy. I enjoy my privacy.”

  It also made it easier for Brogan to drop over for a visit. No danger of a maid selling gossip about the deserted wife being on friendly terms with her absent husband’s worst enemy.

  That wasn’t why I’d asked, though. Other potential victims in the house would have been just one more thing to worry about.

  Clapsaddle had crossed the room for a muttered consultation with Brogan. I could guess the topic of their conversation and invited myself over. They stopped in mid-word.

  Brogan, carefully not looking at Naomi Endicott, asked in a muted voice, “What changed Swann’s mind about the hotel?”

  I matched his tone and explained the foundation problem, leaving out how I’d learned about it.

  That was the next thing he wanted to know. He had a healthy and understandable skepticism.

  “Mr. Brogan, I don’t think that matters now,” I said. “Clapsaddle told me you want to get Mrs. Endicott clear of this place—”

  “Not that simple or easy, my lad,” said Clapsaddle. “There are wolves at the gate and perhaps within the castle walls.”

  “I get you.” I looked at Brogan. “You want to know if I’m working with Swann. The answer is no. I never heard of the bastard before tonight. All I did was walk in and upset his applecart, but he recovered and pushed on with his plan. If Clapsaddle hadn’t called, you wouldn’t have known about any of this. You’re ahead.”

  He snorted. “Endicott�
�s out there, Swann’s missing, and so are his men.”

  “Not Thorp or Remke.”

  Brogan didn’t even blink. “They will be.”

  Oh.

  It’s an ugly thing to admit, but I couldn’t work up a sense of mercy for either of them.

  Clapsaddle spoke, hardly moving his lips. “Remke’s a hired thug, but Thorp was a trusted lieutenant. There may be others. We can put you in a car, and you can get away, but where will you go to avoid them all?”

  “How ’bout Long Island?” I suggested.