The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (85 page)

The squeak was drowned in a scream.

I turned.

Something black scuttled around the corner of the passageway. Something swooped down on Lorna, engulfed her in a sable cloud. I saw glaring eyes, red lips – Igor Petroff was here!

I made a dive for him. Petroff didn’t dodge. He stood there, and as I came on, his arm lashed out. The blow caught me off balance and as I wavered, his hand moved out. Something flashed down, and then I fell.

There was a blurred impression of movement, screaming, and scuffling. Petroff had dragged Lorna through the grille, down into the vaults.

I lurched to my feet as another figure raced around the bend. More blamed traffic down here, I thought, dazedly.

It was Hammond King.

He didn’t see me. He stared, glassy-eyed, as he ran past into the gloom of the corridor beyond. He was carrying a gun. Silver bullets!

I dashed after him. As we took another flight of stairs, I gazed over his shoulder at the family vaults beyond.

Lorna stood in a corner, crouching against a wall. The cloaked figure of Igor Petroff glided towards her, and I thought of Dracula, and of childhood terrors, and of nightmares men still whisper about.

Hammond King didn’t think. He began pumping shots from his gun, firing in maniac fury.

Petroff turned, across the room. And then, he smiled. He didn’t fall down. He smiled. He smiled, and started to run toward Hammond King with his arms extended, and Hammond King gave a little choking gurgle and fell down.

I didn’t fall. As Petroff advanced, I ran to meet him. This time I was not off balance. I let him have one right on the point of his white chin. He grunted, but his arms swept up and then I felt the cold embrace as he clawed at me. I hammered into his ribs, but he was hard, rigid. Rigor mortis is like that, I thought madly.

He smelled of dampness and mold and ancient earth. His arms were strong and he was squeezing me. I dropped to the floor and he began to reach for my throat. He chuckled, then, deep in his throat, an animal growl. A growl of hunger, the growl of a carnivore that scents blood.

He had me by the neck, and I reached out with one hand and scrabbled frantically against the floor until I felt the cold steel of the gun Hammond King had dropped.

Petroff wrenched my arm back, trying to tear the gun from my fingers. I wanted to fight him off, but his other hand was at my neck, squeezing. I felt myself falling back, and I pulled my arm free and brought the gun-butt up against his head, once, twice, three times.

Igor Petroff wobbled like a rundown mechanical doll and dropped with a dull thud.

I got up and slapped Lorna’s face. She came out of her trance, crying. Then I went over to Hammond King and slapped him around. Just a one-man rescue squad.

“Go upstairs, you two,” I said. “The cab driver’s waiting outside. Tell him to go into Centerville and bring back Sheriff Shea. I’ll meet you in a moment.”

They left.

I went through the vault until I came to what I wanted to find. When I was quite finished with my inspection I went back upstairs.

Lorna and Hammond King were waiting in the parlor. She had fixed her hair again, and he looked well enough to smoke a cigarette.

“The police should be here in five minutes,” King said.

“Good.”

“Perhaps I’d better look outside,” he suggested. “I’m expecting Dr Kelring.”

“Kelring isn’t coming,” I said, gently. “He’s dead.”

“But I talked to him over the phone.”

I told him who he’d talked to. And then I decided to tell him a few other things.

“You should have gone to the police the night you saw Mrs Petroff here,” I said. “Then all this wouldn’t have happened.”

“But I saw her. She was alive.”

“Right. But she wasn’t a vampire. Too bad you believed that crazy story Petroff concocted. When you stumbled onto her existence, he had to think of something and the vampire story just popped out. After you half swallowed it, he planned the rest. He had to convince you completely, and he was good at planning.”

“What do you mean?”

“It all started, I think, when Petroff and Dr Kelring decided to fake Mrs Petroff’s death. They were in on it together, to split the inheritance. They didn’t have the nerve to kill her outright but drugged her, held a private funeral, and faked the death certificate. Then Petroff kept her a prisoner down here in the vaults. That’s why he had dogs and a guard. She was alive until about three days ago.”

“How do you know?”

“I just found her body in the vault,” I explained. “And I’ve seen her living quarters – a room beyond. She’s dead now, all right, and I’d say she died of starvation.”

“I don’t understand,” Lorna sighed.

“Simple. When her fake death was accepted, Petroff and Dr Kelring were all set to divide the spoils. But there were no spoils – not for a year, according to the terms of her will. They hadn’t counted on that. So Petroff was trying to get King, here, to advance money against the inheritance.

“King, being a smart attorney, would do no such thing. But after he saw Mrs Petroff alive and heard this vampire line, he began to weaken. Petroff took advantage of it, showing him books on demonology, and telling wild stories about secret cults.”

Hammond King nodded miserably. “He was wearing me down,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t release any money. I couldn’t, legally.”

I took over again. “Then, three days ago, Mrs Petroff actually died. Perhaps he deliberately starved her, perhaps not. In any event, she was dead, and his extortion plot and fake death was now actually murder. He wanted that money at once, needed it desperately.

“So he phoned you, King, and asked you to come out today, planning to show himself lying on the floor as the victim of a vampire attack. He had it figured that you’d be too shocked to call the police at once. Then, after dark, he would call upon you as a supposed vampire, threaten you with his bite, and get you to advance personal funds against the estate.”

King was looking bewildered.

“But I’d never do that,” he protested. “He must have been mad!”

“He was – and desperate, too.” I grinned. “Here’s where I come into the story. Dave Kirby, the Boy Reporter. I got here today just after you left in the afternoon. I blundered in before Petroff could escape, so he lay there on the floor, hoping to fool me. When I left for the sheriff, he took a powder.

“Now the jig was up, but Petroff decided to carry the plan through. If he worked fast, he might still succeed. He’d called Lorna, asked her to come to town. He had only one idea – to appear before her as a supposed vampire and thus further bolster his story when he saw King and demanded money. This he was doing as I arrived at Lorna’s room. He fled, and undertook his next step in the plan – the murder of Dr Kelring.”

“But why would he murder Kelring?” King asked.

I shrugged. “There were several reasons. The first is the one that led me to the scene. You remember, I came out to the house for an interview on the Petroff estate art treasures, an interview Petroff had already refused to grant.”

“Yes?”

“There was a reason for my coming and a reason for his refusal. You see, my editor had a tip that several valuable vases recognized as part of the Petroff collection had been offered for sale at private auction. Get it?

“Petroff was already raising money by illegally disposing of art treasures belonging to the estate. Kelring must have just discovered this and demanded his cut. Otherwise, he would squeal about the fake death certificate. So Petroff had to kill him. Just as an added touch, he left a little souvenir after strangling him in his office.”

I handed King his spectacle case.

“You nearly had credit for that piece of work,” I said. “I’m sure he would have threatened to turn you in had you refused him money when he demanded it this evening. So it’s lucky I had you on the phone and can support an alibi.”

King blinked.

“After killing Dr Kelring he scooted out here to wait for you. He knew you’d be out to check up. He hadn’t counted on Lorna and me arriving, but when we showed up first, he was ready. After that you dashed in, made your bang-bang with the silver bullets, and passed out. You aren’t a good shot, King. Those bullets are in the walls, not in his body. But it wouldn’t have mattered much. He wore a bullet-proof vest under the cloak. Felt it when I tackled him.”

Lorna looked at me.

“You tackled him,” she whispered. “That was wonderful. Even if he might be a vampire, you took the chance.”

“But he wasn’t a vampire. I knew that.”

“Didn’t you find him with holes in his throat?”

“Right. But he made them himself. Shallow cuts with a paper-knife, no doubt. You see, a vampire’s bite will drain all blood. And there was blood. I know something about superstitions myself, Lorna.”

Sirens punctuated my sentence. The law was arriving in full force.

Suddenly I was very tired and very contented. Lenehan would get a story after all. And I’d get some sleep.

Lorna kissed me.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“For being brave. I don’t care what you say, he might have been a vampire.”

“Not a chance.” I grinned. “I knew that from the beginning. When I looked at him on the floor this afternoon, his mouth was open. That was the tip-off.”

“What do you mean?”

“He couldn’t be a vampire because he couldn’t bite anyone. After all, darling, who ever heard of a big, bad vampire with false teeth?”

In a silver flood of moonlight, a group of people laughed and talked together on a terrace in a high-walled garden. The occasion was a happy one – a betrothal party. The soft June air, still fresh from a sundown shower, was heavy with the scent of roses. A mockingbird, perched high atop a chimney, trilled a liquid melody.

The bride-to-be, radiant with happiness, sat in a cane garden chair, watching the familiar scene. Her eyes lingered over each precious beauty, the playing fountain, the full moon. They rested on the face of the man she loved, Michael Collins.

Mike, toying with the dials of a portable radio, paused as the familiar hum of a station fried in the loud-speaker. He smiled at his fiancée, and absent-mindedly turned up the volume.

A mighty roar rolled over the terrace as a brassy swing band crashed into a hot tune. Guests and host, jolted by the discordant notes, stiffened and glared at the young man. Mike mumbled apologies, and snapped off the radio.

The guests sank back in their chairs with a sigh of relief, all but the bride-to-be. She stiffened, slumped forward in her chair, and tumbled forward to the flagstone flooring.

A silver bullet had pierced her heart.

There had been no sound, no outcry, no flash of gunfire. Stupidly, the members of the party looked from one to the other. The spell of inactivity was broken only when one of the woman screamed.

A year later, there was a bulging file at police headquarters, titled:

“Corinne Bogart – Homicide (Unsolved)”

The long, sun-bronzed young man, wearing an impeccable dark-blue tropical worsted suit, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied his name lettered in reverse on the ground-glass door of his office – Jefferson Hunter. Just that, nothing more.

There is no trade term, unless, perhaps, “Confidential Commercial Agent”, that could be applied to him. That, too, would be a misnomer, for Jefferson Hunter, home again after solving a foreign reconstruction problem, looked into anything that intrigued him, with or without permission. The fees he demanded and received from corporations were known to have made boards of directors shudder. Yet his services were in immediate demand as soon as he reopened his office.

“Anything exciting in the morning mail, Smitty?” he asked Z. Z. Smith, his small, wiry assistant.

“Yes.” Smitty slid a small pile of letters across his boss’s desk. “The top note has me stumped.”

Jeff’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting?”

“Could be. It’s from a guy named Bogart.”

“What?” Jeff sat up. “What did you say?”

“I said it’s from a guy named Bogart. Wendell A. Best clubs and so on. Director of this and that. Smells of do-re-mi. He wants you to come to see him about something personal and confidential. He says Wagner, the man you helped on the oil deal in Iran, recommended you.”

Jeff leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes hardening. “It’s foolish,” he told himself, “to keep avoiding Pamela Bogart.” Sooner or later, he was bound to meet her. Why postpone the inevitable?

“OK, Smitty, make an appointment.”

“I have. Bogart is waiting for us at his home.”

“Um-m-m! Didn’t give me a chance to refuse, did you?”

Smitty, like all valuable assistants, knew his boss like a book. He anticipated his wishes, needled him into action, and restrained his enthusiasms. Smitty, in short, was invaluable.

The sleek yellow convertible, carrying Jeff and his Man Friday, purred into the Valley, the town’s exclusive suburb.

“There’s the house, Jeff!” Smitty pointed. “Nice dive! There’s a ten-foot brick wall around the back garden. Cripes, the house is built of white marble.”

“I hate to disillusion you, Smitty,” Jeff said, as they stopped under an ornate porte-cochere, “but this pile has only a one-inch marble face, probably over cinder block or tile. It’s typical of the late twenties. Built for show. Two bits says Bogart’s a pain in the neck.”

“No takers, Jeff. You’re too often right.”

Wendell Bogart did not look up when the butler showed them into the library. He was examining six gayly feathered darts spread out on the desk before him. He gathered them into his hands, turned in his chair and smiled at the thin, bespectacled young man standing beside him. Effortlessly, one of the darts flew from his hand and thudded into a target across the room. The other five followed in rapid succession.

Jeff’s eyes widened when the darts came to rest. One, double one, triple one. Two, double two, triple two.

“I wouldn’t want to play you for more than a beer,” Jeff said.

Wendell Bogart didn’t answer. The studious-looking young man beside him smiled, nodded to Jeff and left the room. Bogart spun in his chair, raising his dark-brown eyes to meet Jeff’s level gray ones. For a moment, neither spoke, each studying, measuring the other. It was the older man who broke the silence.