The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “What were they like?” Marie asked, meaning me and Escott.

  “Rough sorts, almost as bad as those criminals. They wear better clothes, but at heart . . . well, you’d not want to meet either of them in a dark alley. Thank goodness you won’t have to go back there again. I was worried you might come to harm.”

  “I saw Fleming at the club. He didn’t seem rough.”

  “Ah, but ‘the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.’ Fleming is the worst of the two. He has a particularly violent temper, keeps it hidden. Gave me some bruises.”

  Violent temper? He’d only seen me being mildly cranky. Wait ’til he saw when I really got pissed.

  “You’re hurt?” she sounded concerned.

  “Mostly my pride. I’ve had worse on the polo field, my dear. Escott calmed him down. He’s the brains of their unholy partnership. Once I got him to see reason, it sorted itself out.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “It’s not good news. He wants ten thousand. Cash.”

  “That’s an outrage! You’ve the threat of the letters to hang over him!”

  “One has to compromise on certain business dealings. He’s putting himself at risk on my behalf. He’s wants ‘a fair payment,’ to use his words. Yes, I can hold the threat over him, but he promised to be less acrimonious and considerably more cooperative about it with a nice fat bribe to sweeten things. He was the one to raise the topic, not I, but it’s a good thing we three talked about it beforehand, or I’d have been caught off guard.”

  “It’s too much,” she stated.

  For once Dugan kept his mouth shut. I was fascinated by all the smart dealings Escott had accomplished without being in the room. He’d pulled in a hell of a profit. I wished that I’d thought of asking Dugan for hush money.

  “This is Gilbert’s freedom,” Anthony ventured. “We can’t let him down, Marie.”

  She must have stewed a little; there was a pause before she spoke again. “Oh, very well, just stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to scrimp, but I thought the letters would be enough to control him.”

  “As did I,” said Dugan. “We had a long exchange about it, but he insisted he was willing to face whatever trouble came and the devil take me unless he got something advantageous out of it. It’s like bribing a maître d’ for a better table: bothersome, but we each get what we want. You’re lucky I managed to bargain it down from twenty thousand.”

  “My God! He wanted that much?”

  “Fleming did. I think he intended to pay off his club, but Escott was more reasonable. He could see I wasn’t going to go that far.”

  “Here’s a drugstore,” said Anthony, slowing. “They’ll have a phone booth.”

  “This will take a few minutes; it’s four calls.”

  “Have you enough nickels?”

  “I think so . . . Yes, thank you.”

  I heard the door open and slam shut. Dugan could look after himself without me.

  Anthony and Marie didn’t talk much until she asked him for a cigarette and then a light.

  “Ten thousand,” she grumbled. “How is he ever going to pay me back?”

  “You don’t have to loan it, you know,” said Anthony. “I could probably work out something with my family, but Father would be very difficult. He’s none too pleased with this mess.”

  “He can never raise that kind of money on his old railroad stock. Even if he does, the lawyers will probably take it. I’ll come to the rescue, but why, oh, why was Gilbert stupid enough to get entangled with those thieves? He might well have known it would turn out badly.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “This is a very costly one. I don’t see how this detective can help him.”

  “Gilbert explained it all to me. Escott will forget important evidence, remember certain details differently. When he gives a formal statement, it can be in such a way as to support Gilbert’s story. That’s what they were working out up there, exactly what to say.”

  “What slimy, horrid people detectives are. Peering through keyholes for money. Was that man up in the window Escott?”

  “I never met the fellow. It could have been Fleming for all I could see. As overdone as the club is, he obviously put a pretty penny into it; you’d think he’d have gotten better quality glass, not that murky warped stuff.”

  She agreed with him.

  Overdone? What the hell is he talking about? Lady Crymsyn’s perfect. Damned snobs. I should materialize now and scare the crap out of them.

  Dugan returned before I got too steamed, sparing his friends some well-deserved terrorizing. I wondered if Cousin Anthony was in on the scam being pulled on Marie or if both were dupes in Dugan’s game. Later I might find out. He seemed cold sober tonight.

  “All taken care of,” Dugan reported, apparently happy and relieved. “Let’s go celebrate.”

  “Let’s not,” said Marie. “I’m ready to faint I’m so tired. Just take me home.”

  “Of course, darling. See to it, Anthony; the lady needs her rest.”

  Anthony did his chauffeur work. I couldn’t tell how long it took to get to her place, though from a strong tug that went through me, we crossed water, probably the Chicago River. It seemed to take forever to get over the bridge, but my presence didn’t affect the car’s progress.

  Talk was at a minimum until Anthony finally slowed and stopped, cutting the motor. Dugan got out, apparently to accompany Marie to her door. If she was going to give him ten grand, he’d have to show her plenty of consideration. I hadn’t figured out the relationships between the three of them yet, but it looked like she might be Dugan’s girl rather than Anthony’s. He was gone awhile. When he returned, he got in the front seat. I moved down behind them to hear better but remained invisible.

  “You’ve a long face,” Anthony said, starting the car.

  “She’s upset about the money, but I let her know how grateful I am for her help. It’s just very hard. I can’t tell you how humiliating it is for a man to have to ask a woman for this sort of help.”

  “You’ve little other choice. I’d help if I could, but Father has everything tied up in trust and refuses to break it, even for family. I wager if I was in your place he’d still refuse.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have gotten into this stew at all. It’s my own fault, I own up to that. How could I—oh, never mind.”

  Dugan sounded convincingly upset. I speculated just how much lying he’d done during our talk.

  “It will be all right, Gil. You made a mistake, trusted the wrong sorts, got in over your head. Could have happened to anyone.”

  “No, only me. I don’t have many friends, you know. I’m not the sort people take to, so when those men invited me to have a drink, well, I was ripe for the picking. I had no idea they were going to use my connections to get to that girl, that they were going to use me. My God, they’d have killed me, too, if that mystery Samaritan hadn’t shown up. I’d like to thank him for saving my life.”

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “No. Certainly he mistook me for being part of the gang, else he’d not have knocked me cold. Can’t blame the man. Pity he’s not come forward; he might have valuable testimony.”

  “Nothing good for you, though, if he thought you were in on things.”

  Dugan gave a heavy sigh. “I suppose so. I just thank God for you, Marie, and your friends believing me, or this would be utterly unbearable.”

  I was ready to hand him a violin so he could squeeze out even more sympathy.

  “Are you going to marry her?” Anthony asked.

  “I don’t think she’d have me. Certainly I don’t deserve her.”

  “Well, brace yourself, but I’m fairly sure she expects you to at least propose.”

  “Why should she want a penniless scholar facing a jail sentence? I’ve nothing to offer her but a drafty old house with two mortgages on it.”

  “She can help you out of that.”

  “It’s askin
g too much.”

  “Ask her to marry you and find out if she thinks so.”

  Dugan seemed to mull it over. “All right, but only after this problem has been settled and sorted. Only then.”

  “Good man. You won’t regret it. She’s a wonderful girl. Well, here’s the old homestead, drafts and all. You’ll be all right? There’s a man out front.”

  “Probably a reporter. They’re terrible pests, always ready to believe the worst. I’ll go in the back way. Thank you, Anthony. You’re a godsend, you know.”

  “Don’t be silly. Go get some rest; you must be done in after all that.”

  “Indeed I am. I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.” He got out. The door thumped shut before I could get clear, forcing me to push through the window to escape. I hated how that felt.

  Anthony drove away. Dugan walked quickly. The wind was strong, wherever we were, pressing against me and probably chilling him right through. He was trotting, but I kept up easily, a silent companion.

  Through a gate, some steps, the snick of a lock, a door creaking open. I went high and gusted through near the top of the jamb. Once inside, I rose higher still to hover by the ceiling.

  He clicked on lights as he went through the place. It seemed to be pretty big and, so far as I could tell, was empty of company. After some moving about, he finally paused.

  “What a day,” he said to himself, then gusted out a pleasant laugh. “What a perfectly wonderful day!”

  I chose that moment to materialize right in front of him. God, but all the hoop-jumping crap I’d gone through was worth it to see the look on his mug. Appalled astonishment didn’t begin to cover it.

  “Glad you had such a good time,” I said, cheerful, too.

  Then I decked him, dead square in the jaw.

  9

  HE dropped straight back and down. No frills, no flourishes, and best of all, no talking. He sprawled on a worn-looking Persian rug, a lead brick in a nice blue suit. Slightly rumpled now.

  I rubbed my knuckles out of habit. My hand didn’t hurt. Hell, I could have used Dugan for punching bag practice the rest of the night and not felt anything but the warmth of righteous satisfaction.

  God, that had been good.

  Since he was out for an undetermined count, I took a look around what he called home. He must have felt very secure indeed about his control over me to have come here. Maybe he thought I couldn’t get inside a dwelling without an invitation, but he didn’t seem the type to swallow all the old folklore and superstitions whole. More likely he just couldn’t believe anyone would cross him once he’d decided things for them.

  The room we were in served as a parlor and study in one. It was crowded with old furniture, expensive a couple generations ago, gone shabby in the years between with moth holes in the musty upholstery. Stuff made of wood had aged better, but the varnish had gone black. He had one big table covered with books and papers, the latter mostly bills, the top layer was legal documents. A few mismatched chairs, lamps, and shelf clutter filled up the corners, with nothing new to relieve the drab except for a cheap radio.

  Scattered around were hundreds of his origami pieces. Literally hundreds. All kinds of animals, paper boats, planes, other objects not readily identifiable, they were everyplace. It was like I was being watched by them. A few quivered in unseen drafts as though they might start walking toward me any second. I quelled two urges: either to leave fast or smash the moving ones flat.

  The rest of the place was big and pretty thoroughly cobwebbed, and if not already haunted, then it should have been. I wasn’t much for figuring the date of a house, but this one seemed on a level with Escott’s old relic, only he took better care of his home. The modernization here must have stopped when Queen Victoria died.

  The other rooms were empty or down to a couple pieces that were too big to move. I got the impression he’d sold off stuff to pay the bills. He’d left the dust-coated curtains, probably to keep neighbors from seeing where the echoes originated. Faded wallpaper bubbled or peeled quietly in the damp. The floors creaked or crunched from dry rot. I could see why he’d tried kidnapping as a source of income. Of course, he could have cut his losses, moved out, and gotten a job like a normal person.

  Upstairs was more of the same: only one bedroom next to an aging bath was in use, the rest were gutted, their heating grates sealed up by rags and yellowed newspaper. He did have a nice clothing collection in his closet, enough to hold his head up at society events. So long as no one saw the inside of this dump, he could blend.

  Back where I left him I found his phone and noticed the first two letters shared the same exchange as Vivian Gladwell’s. Her house couldn’t have been far. I didn’t believe in coincidence. Going to the window, I checked the street. Big yards, posh homes, familiar neighborhood. A little more checking, and I found a second-floor room with binoculars on the sill. The window was on a straight line of sight through bare-branched trees to the Gladwells’ front gate. You could just see the house beyond.

  “You son of a bitch,” I said, then went to call Lady Crymsyn’s office, picking up the receiver using a handkerchief and dialing with the eraser end of my pocket pencil. I’d been careful not to touch anything, having left my gloves back at the club.

  Escott caught it before the first ring died. “Yes?”

  “I got him,” I reported with no small triumph.

  “Where are you?”

  “His house. Wait’ll you see this place. Talk about not very Great Expectations. Miss Havisham would feel at home.”

  “I look forward to it. You still wish to proceed as planned?”

  “Yeah. You got everything set?”

  “They’re waiting and ready for us.”

  “Great. Where’s Bobbi?”

  “Downstairs running things.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None of which I am aware.”

  “Great. Tell her I’m okay, then come over, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Immediately.”

  IT took him about half an hour with traffic. He used the back door, which opened into a badly kept kitchen. By then I’d found rope and other things and had Dugan trussed up tight, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He lay on the floor like forgotten laundry, still unconscious to judge by his heartbeat and utter immobility.

  “You’re not taking any chances, are you?” Escott observed.

  “You heard him talk. Wanna listen to more?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “He didn’t seem to be expecting any visitors after his cousin dropped him off. We have the whole night to go through everything.”

  “It may take longer than that. This place is enormous.”

  “He doesn’t live in all of it.”

  I took him into the living room zoo. He paused, staring at the countless paper animals populating every horizontal surface.

  “Good God.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Must be a couple of reams’ worth here.”

  “Are the other rooms . . . ?”

  “No, just here.”

  He looked relieved.

  Taking off his regular gloves, he pulled out a pair made of thin rubber, the kind used by surgeons, then gave me an identical set. Neither of us wanted to leave any sign we’d been near this place. “Tell me what happened after you left.”

  It was my pleasure. While listening, Escott poked, pried, sifted papers, rummaged drawers and cabinets, and generally turned the house inside out for information about Dugan. We found it impossible not to knock over or displace the origami pieces, but there were so many, chances are even anyone familiar with the place wouldn’t notice the added disorder.

  “No personal journal,” he said a couple dusty hours later. “A pity. He seems the sort who would want a record of his accomplishments.”

  “Not that he’s done much. He called himself a scholar, but I don’t see many books.” We did find a stack of old Police Gazettes and crime magazines, all with articles o
n famous kidnapping cases. “He should have gotten rid of these.”

  “He’ll probably claim the gang brought them in for him to study.”

  “No doubt. Still, it’s a damned fool thing to have those lying around.”

  I dropped a magazine with a torn cover onto the pile. Its lead was about the Lindbergh baby. “Yeah, of course only an innocent man would keep them. ‘See what they forced me to read, Judge?’ What a crock.”

  “To be expected. He’s obviously a chronic liar.”

  “Only when his lips are moving. He should be on the stage, but I don’t think too many people would believe him; he just expects them to.”

  “That expectation is a weakness. Let’s hope he keeps it. You’ll dissuade his friends from helping him further?”

  “So long as they’re not crazy.”

  “There’s nothing to prevent him writing more letters, though.”

  “Won’t matter if he’s in jail. Look at this.” I held up a letter. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow. Ain’t that too bad?”

  Escott chuckled. “How convenient. And now you’ve an address for his lawyer.”

  “Yeah. By tomorrow night, Dugan won’t have anyone on his side, and the law will be after him. Life is sweet.”

  “Still, it’s a bit of chance we’re taking.”

  “Safer than having him run loose. He can do with a dose of poetic justice.”

  “You’re certain hypnosis won’t work on him?”

  I let the letter fall and picked up one of the origami animals, fiddling with it. “I did my best. It had no effect on him except give him a laugh and me a hell of a headache. We’ll do it this way, then when the time comes, let him twist in the wind.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Something’s missing,” I said. “You find a typewriter here? Carbon sheets? Typing paper?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Then he wrote the letters someplace else, or got one of his friends to do them for him.”

  “Where are those letter copies?”

  I patted my inside coat pocket.

  “But we’ve not found the originals. Perhaps one of his friends has them.”

  “His fingerprints are all over these. If it ever comes to it, they can make a good case against him for blackmail by intimidation. It shouldn’t get that far . . . oh, hell.” Something about the paper animal caught my eye, got my brain to working.