The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Then Harpo straightened to look directly at me. “Yeah, you’re right. You are nicer than some people I could name.”

  Life’s tough, but every now and then it hands you something you want more than anything else, even if you didn’t know you wanted it. Harpo Marx gave me what I’d hoped for, wanted, needed.

  Acceptance.

  Just like that. No fanfare, no conditions.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked, cautiously pointing to my chest.

  I shook my head, too full to talk just yet.

  “What are you going to do with him?” He pointed at Thompson.

  I coughed to clear my clogged throat. “Damned if I know. Got any ideas?”

  Harpo’s face relaxed into more normal lines as the tension melted, and I saw a ghost of his character’s elfin mischief flit past. He walked over to Thompson and studied him, then stepped to one of the sinks, turning on the tap. Cupping his hands like Higgs before him, he slopped water onto Thompson, who jerked and jumped and rumbled an obscene protest.

  Harpo stooped and solicitously helped Thompson to his feet.

  Thompson was awake just enough to see and vaguely understand something was wrong. He was to the point of snarling at his benefactor, but Harpo cut him off by landing as neat and as forceful a gut punch as had ever been my privilege to see. He all but buried his arm to the elbow in Thompson’s middle, and the man immediately folded. His breath whooshed out.

  Harpo stood over him, waiting. After a minute, Thompson, being fairly tough, recovered enough to straighten again. The second he was up, though, Harpo let him have it once more. Thompson grunted and dropped to his knees. It took awhile before he could breathe regularly, and even longer for him to find his feet.

  Harpo helped him.

  Thompson should have known better.

  This time Harpo’s gut punch was followed up by a hard, crisp left with just enough force in it to finish the job. No gasping for air for Thompson. He simply dropped. Next Christmas was about ten months away. Maybe he’d wake up by then.

  Harpo shook his hand, blowing on it, then returned to the sink to let the cold water run over his bruised knuckles.

  He grinned. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any more and I couldn’t play the harp for our show. We’re touring, you know, trying out gags we’re going to use in a new movie.” he explained.

  “We? Your brothers?”

  “They’re back at the hotel.”

  “Where’d you learn to sock like that?” I asked.

  “Benny Leonard.” he answered, dropping the name of the lightweight champion of the world. “We did a tour with him once, used to take turns sparring with him. Great guy. Taught me a lot.” Harpo cut the water and toweled off. “Wish he could have seen this. He’d a been proud of me.”

  I picked up Thompson’s .45 which had fallen when I’d hit him. It probably wouldn’t hurt to call up a homicide cop I knew and ask if he was interested in an easy collar. Lieutenant Blair didn’t like or trust me much, but he wasn’t above accepting a favor when it was offered. Putting the gun in my overcoat pocket to give to him later, I buttoned the front together to hide the bullet hole in my bloodied shirt. I’d have to remember to keep my back to the walls to hide the corresponding entry hole there.

  The first cold tickle of hunger plucked at my belly and throat. It wasn’t critical, but I’d have to make time tonight to stop at the Stockyards to feed, to replace what had been lost. Some of it still smeared the floor. Frowning. I went to a stall, ripped away toilet paper, and swabbed my blood from the tiles, tossing the waste and flushing it away.

  Harpo watched without comment, his face solemn.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot,” I said, “but would you mind doing me a favor?”

  “Anything you want.”

  I got out my notebook and scribbled a name and number on a page and gave it to him. “Could you call this guy for me? Tell him Jack Fleming is babysitting Guns Thompson here and for him to come over right away.”

  He looked dubious. “This a cop?”

  “Yeah, but you can leave your name out of it if you want.” That made him happy.

  “What about his friends?”

  Higgs and Rinky. The ones in the car outside. “Wait back in the theater office until it’s over. They’ll clear out the moment a patrol car pulls up. They’re dumb, but not that dumb.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Let’s call it even if I can have an autograph.”

  Harpo shook his head and laughed in a big way. “How ’bout I take you to meet my brothers?”

  This was almost as much of a shock as catching that bullet, but without the pain. “Really? You mean it?”

  “Yeah. I’d want them to meet the guy who saved my life.”

  I sagged a little. “You won’t tell ’em how, will you?”

  He pulled in his lower lip, considering. “Noooo, I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’ll talk around it somehow.”

  “That’d be great, then. Just great.” I was suddenly grinning.

  He grinned back. “Grouch’ll be there and he might know where Chico is. I think,” he added darkly, “I have to talk with Chico. When we were kids we were always being mistaken for one another, like twins. I never imagined anything like this would happen because of it, though.”

  “Maybe you should wear the wig and raincoat—at least while you’re still in Chicago.”

  He nodded. “There’s an idea. I’ll go make that call. Will the cops take long?”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t.” I promised. “One more thing—”

  He paused at the door.

  “That stuff you were giving me about selling money—is that part of your stage show?”

  His eyes twinkled—they really did. “Nah, that’s just a gag Chico and I do for the hell of it. People try to figure out the catch, only there isn’t one. It drives ’em crazy.”

  “Was I crazy enough for you?”

  He flashed another broad grin. “Brother, you were a pip!”

  I looked at the gently closing door and decided that I’d been handed the privilege of a lifetime. The Marxes worked their butts off to give people like me a good laugh, and the chance had fallen my way to give one back in return.

  And that felt pretty damned good.

  * * * * * * *

  _____________

  THE BREATH OF BAST

  Author’s Note: I’m not cat owner (allergies) but am fond of the beasts. My vampire PI’s human partner was an easy choice to deliver a wholly non-supernatural case for KITTENS CATS AND CRIME from Five Star. My thanks to author, editor, and friend Carole Nelson Douglas for inviting me to write this one!

  Chicago, 1937

  Charles Escott smiled across his uncluttered desk at a potential client. “May I inquire as to who referred you to me, Miss Selk?”

  Cassandra Selk was what his part-time partner in the Escott Agency would have called “a knockout in heels.” Possessed of raven-black hair and expressive eyes so brown as to be black as well, Escott’s first thought when he ushered her into his office was that she was an artist’s model. As it turned out, she was herself an artist, a famous one. He was chagrinned that he’d never heard of her, but she didn’t seem to mind; apparently few outside of certain rarified circles were familiar with her name. Her area of expertise was sculpture; her favorite subject was cats, and she sold them all over the world.

  Miss Selk’s remarkable eyes seemed to shimmer. “Mrs. Wasserman spoke highly of your efficiency and attention to detail—and your sympathy toward animals.”

  Mrs. Wasserman’s business was still fresh in Escott’s mind. He’d agreed to kidnap her dog from her estranged husband. Hardly a case to test one’s intellectual talents, but that sort of mundane job paid the bills. Besides, Escott liked dogs. “Yes, the little canine was a most agreeable travel-companion. Have you a similar task in mind?”

  Miss Selk shook her head. “I require a dropp
ing-off, not a picking-up.”

  “May I have more details?” He hoped she would take her time; he wanted to extend his enjoyment of her altogether entrancing face.

  “Hm?” She blinked. “Yes, of course. I’ve completed a commission for a local collector. I need you to deliver it, then return to tell me her reaction to my work.”

  His smile faltered. “Why not employ a regular delivery service?”

  “I want someone with an eye for detail and a good memory to make a full and complete report.”

  “Of the collector’s reaction? I see.” He didn’t, but would never admit it aloud. “Why not go yourself?”

  Her bewitching smile melted into one of rueful sadness. “It’s impossible because of my severe allergy to cats. This collector has at least a dozen running about her house, and I dare not set foot to the threshold. It’s terrible for me because I absolutely adore them. They’re such beautiful, graceful, noble creatures, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve always thought so. You say they are your specialty? What do you do for models?”

  “I rely on photographs; many artists do so. The difference for me is making a three-dimensional creation from a two-dimensional image. The dynamics are fascinating.”

  “Is it not frustrating being unable to work from a live model?”

  Her eyes shimmered again, as though she’d heard that question many times. “Not really. From conversations I’ve had with photographers, it’s very difficult to get a cat to hold still for anything. On the other hand, I’ve been compared to Beethoven. I’m unable to be in the same room with my favorite animal just as he was unable to hear his own music.”

  “That is ironic.”

  “I’ve had years to consider the irony and concluded that if I did not have this allergy, then I would have a house full of cats and not one piece of sculpture. Without what some would call a defect, I should be leading quite a bit different life, perhaps not as fulfilling.”

  Escott found himself warming nicely to her turn of mind, which he found as interesting as her looks. However, this was a business transaction, so he gently asked a few more questions and said he would be delighted to take on the errand. Miss Selk—she asked him to please call her Cassandra—signed his standard contract and they shook hands.

  “The sculpture is in my car,” she said. “It’s not large, if you. . .”

  He assured her he would be happy to fetch it.

  On this humble Chicago street close to the Stockyards there was no question about which car was hers. The 1937 Cadillacs were barely off the assembly line, but she had one. That, combined with Cassandra’s expensive fur coat and silk dress, belied any doubt Escott harbored about whether she could afford his standard fee. He retrieved a small, heavy wooden box and carried it up to his second floor office, placing it carefully on his desk.

  “Would you like to see it?” she asked, eyes bright with pride.

  “Very much.” After she left he’d planned to open it to answer his own curiosity and as a precaution. In his line of business, which required that he undertake odd and frequently unpleasant errands between parties in disagreement, it was only prudent. So far he’d not been employed to deliver a bomb for some crazed anarchist, but there was a first time for everything.

  The box was just over a foot tall, the top not nailed in place, but fitting snugly like a humidor lid. Cassandra lifted it off, revealing a tangled nest of excelsior.

  “I’m afraid it will make a mess,” she said.

  “Easily cleaned.” He pulled out handfuls of the stuff until encountering something hard. Cold metal, with dulled points, he thought.

  “Just take it out by the head. It won’t break.”

  He did so, brushing away more excelsior. “My heavens.”

  He reverently set the object on his desk. He was no expert in the field, but possessed an instinct for genius, and that was what shone before him. The metal statue was of a proudly seated feline done in the Egyptian style. For all he could tell, it might have come right from some ancient temple. Hieroglyphs were incised into the cat’s body and along the base upon which it rested.

  “Is it silver?” he asked, eyeing its regal head. The points he’d felt had been the ears.

  “Yes.” She seemed pleased with his obvious awe of her work. “I normally cast in other metals when I use them as my medium, but this was a special commission, and I’m sure you’re aware that the client is always right.”

  “Indeed.” On visits to Chicago’s museums Escott often found himself mesmerized by certain pieces. He was aware of his own artistic streak, expressed, once upon a time, by being on the stage in his youth. In those early years of knocking around with a traveling repertory company he learned how to create a realistic illusion out of next to nothing. Those illusions lasted only for the duration of the performance, though. Such work gave him a sharp appreciation for individuals whose talent could make a lasting creation. “This is exquisite. Perhaps sometime you could let me see more of—”

  “Yes, of course. Tonight, if you’d like—after you make the delivery.”

  He looked at her, slightly startled at this display of repressed eagerness. Certainly he found her attractive, but was this a reciprocation of a like feeling on her part or merely a desire to show off to an appreciative audience? He was not inexperienced when it came to artists and their egos. The fact that she wanted a full description of her client’s reaction indicated that Cassandra possessed a sizable vanity concerning her work. But then this cat sculpture was evidence enough that its creator had earned the right to indulge.

  Well, he would find out later tonight.

  * * *

  The delivery went smoothly. A somber butler took Escott into the depths of an enormous house where he met the client and several of her cats in a lush drawing room. With a flourish—for he understood the importance of a proper presentation—Escott placed the Egyptian-style work on a central table and duly observed every nuance of reaction. The woman waxed long in her praise for Cassandra Selk.

  “It’s perfect, exactly what I wanted,” she said. “I’ve commissioned similar works from others, but only Cassandra truly understands. The hieroglyphs are all real, you know. I wrote them out for her to copy, and she got them right! Every last one of them. I think I shall get rid of the others, now. I shan’t allow lesser works to share the same room with this piece.”

  “Indeed,” he said. Three of her cats busily wound themselves in a friendly way around Escott’s legs, their tails straight up with a small crook at the end.

  “Goodness, they do seem to like you.”

  He smiled good-naturedly down at his furry worshippers. “I like them.”

  The client turned back to her acquisition, a dreamy look on her soft features. “Cassandra has a remarkable perception about this period, though that’s hardly a surprise, as you know.”

  Escott realized she did not understand he was a hired agent, and had taken him for one of Cassandra’s friends. Curiosity led him to encourage the misapprehension. “I’m amazed by it,” he said agreeably.

  “Her past life during that time must have been marvelous. She retains so much memory of it. Such a strong soul.”

  “Indeed?” This was an odd turn.

  “But then one would have to be for the gods to choose her for one of their high priestesses. It’s a great responsibility. What a pity she wavered in her vows by falling in love with a priest of Ra and he with her. Such a punishment to live this life allergic to these dear ones.” She stroked the silver cat as though it were one of the live specimens loafing and prowling about the room.

  Escott read a lot, including a certain amount on esoteric topics, so he wasn’t wholly at sea but he did not know what sort of response was expected to this revelation. He settled for making a sympathetic noise.

  “Yes,” she continued with a sigh. “We ordinary mortals are allowed our little mistakes and can obtain forgiveness, but those chosen by the gods are not let off so easily. I think Cassa
ndra has dealt marvelously with her punishment, though. Surely by such an outpouring of work in this life she will have proved to them her sincere atonement, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he said, with much confidence. He wondered if this was the client’s own fancy or if Cassandra also shared it. He suspected this lady had seen that film—what was it?—The Mummy, one too many times.

  A cat of the Abyssinian breed leapt lightly up on the table, nosed the sculpture, then jumped on Escott, who was just quick enough to catch the lithe animal in his arms.

  His hostess gaped. “I’m sorry. That’s Ma’at. She’s usually very reserved with guests.”

  He managed to keep Ma’at from mauling his suit in her endeavor to burrow inside his coat. She purred like an idling car. “How flattering. I hope she doesn’t expect to go home with me.”

  “Oh, you won’t budge her from the house, but I’ve never seen her take to anyone so quickly before. It’s quite astonishing.”

  Escott noted that Ma’at’s claws were dug deep into his nearly new single-breasted coat. He refrained from pulling her off since forcing a cat to do something was always unwise; she would let go when she was ready. It seemed prudent to continue holding her for the rest of his brief visit. And anyway, the purring was pleasant.

  * * *

  Miss Cassandra Selk lived in another large house halfway across Chicago. Escott knew he had the right place; a dozen identical terracotta lions in the Egyptian style guarded the walkway from the street, and two uncannily realistic life-sized ceramic leopards crouched on either side of the entry.

  Cassandra had changed from her furs and silk dress into a pearl gray silk lounging outfit. It was diaphanous, but cunningly pleated so the many layers concealed everything, yet at the same time revealed much. Rather too much for a formal interview, he thought. As the sole owner of his agency Escott could dictate whether or not fraternization with clients was appropriate on any given case. This commission was all but completed, though. Escott thought he knew what she was doing, and composed himself to agree with everything. After all, the client was always right.