“Sounds terrific,” I said. “You called me?”
“Right,” he said. “I thought I’d try to help on the Faulkner business. If I hadn’t driven him up the wall he wouldn’t have gone out the door, and either he’d have an alibi or he wouldn’t have done Shatzkin in.”
“I prefer the alibi option,” I said.
“I tried to find a bartender who remembered seeing him,” Vernoff said. “No luck. Tried for a housemaid or something in the hotel, but nothing doing. There’s an elevator operator who thinks he saw Faulkner around nine, but he can’t be sure. I’ll keep at him, and maybe he’ll get more sure unless you want to talk to him.”
“No,” I said, testing my knee to be sure I was able to move with some show of normal animal ability. “You keep at it.” It didn’t sound like much of a lead. Even if the elevator operator started to grow more sure, he’d be cut down in a trial if it ever came to one.
“Great plot material,” Vernoff said. “Hey, I don’t want to be morbid or anything, but a man can’t help thinking professionally. You know what I mean?”
I knew what he meant. Most people had long since stopped being people to me. They were potential victims or victimizers. That’s all there was in the world except for the bedazzled and bemused semiguilty who wandered through life. The world wasn’t a place with a few dark corners, but a place with countless numbers of places to hide.
“I know,” I said. “Give me a call if you find anything. I appreciate any help I can get, and I’ll let Faulkner know.”
“Right,” he said. “And if you come up with anything, I’d really appreciate talking. I can’t help feeling a little guilty about what happened to Faulkner.”
“I know,” I said.
“I better get off the phone now,” Vernoff laughed. “Zugsmith may be trying to get through.”
I hung up so Vernoff could spend a few minutes or hours or forever waiting for that call. Vernoff had probably spent years of his life waiting for that phone to ring so he could pitch plots.
CHAPTER SIX
The list was short with no phone numbers and no home addresses, only businesses:
Bedelia Sue Frye, Personality Plus Beauty School, in Tarzana.
Wilson Wong, New Moon Cantonese Restaurant, on Seventh Street in Los Angeles.
Simon Derrida, The Red Herring, in Glendale.
Clinton Hill, Hill and Haley Contractors, Beverly Hills.
It was a pretty broad geographical and social spread. Since it was Sunday, there was a good chance I’d catch none of them at work. On the other hand, I had three and a half hours before I picked up Nate and Dave. Wilson Wong was the closest and, since restaurants are open on Sunday, the most likely to be at his address. The sun had warmed up the day and my disposition. Doing my Alan Ladd act on Billings had also done wonders for my ego. It’s not everyone who can threaten a short, fat, helpless would-be vampire in a dental chair.
The New Moon had its own parking lot, with eight cars in it. The restaurant itself had a wooden faзade painted red and designed in late Charlie Chan. The inside was dark and filled with whispering customers having a late lunch.
A skinny Chinese guy with a small, polite smile came up to me.
“How many in your party?” he said.
“None,” I answered, trying to look tough. The image of Alan Ladd was still with me. “I want to see Wilson Wong. Business. Private.”
“Certainly,” said the waiter, who motioned me to follow and made his way between tables. I followed him to a door down a corridor past the men’s and women’s rooms. He knocked and paused.
“You like football?” said the waiter while we waited and he knocked again.
I told him I did. “That’s a trouble living in California,” he confided. “No good pro football. You think the Bears will clobber the All-Stars?”
“No,” I said, “with Baugh at quarterback, the Bears will be lucky to win.”
“Maybe so,” he said doubtfully as the door opened to reveal Wilson Wong, who wore a dark business suit and tie and a surprised look.
The two men exchanged words in Chinese and Wong turned to me as the waiter left.
“Please come in, Mr. Peters,” he said. “It is Peters, isn’t it?”
“Right,” I said as he closed the door behind us.
It was less an office than a library. Three walls were filled with books. If there was a window, it was covered by books. A firm reading chair stood in one corner with a light over it, and a desk stood off to the right with neat piles of notes. Wong offered me a chair and I sat down. He joined me, passing up the reading chair so we’d be at the same level of comfort or lack of it.
In the basement of the theater two nights earlier, Wilson Wong had appeared the energetic gadfly. In his office, he looked anything but. “It was my belief that our real names were to be kept secret,” he said, “but I am not surprised. Mr. Billings is not the most discreet of souls. Can I offer you some coffee, tea?”
“Tea,” I said, thinking it appropriate for the setting.
Wong went to his telephone, pressed a button, and said something in Chinese. I assumed he was ordering tea or my assassination, depending on whether I had come to the right or wrong suspect. He settled himself back in his chair and looked at me with curiosity.
“Now,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“The easiest thing is for me to tell you the story and you to give me some answers,” I said. He thought that would be fine so I got comfortable, meaning I let my sore leg hang free, and told him the Lugosi tale and my part in it. He listened, nodded, and paused only to answer the knock at his door and the delivery of tea on a dark tray. He put the tray on the desk and poured us both cups of tea.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you greatly, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Unless your visit convinces you to eliminate me from your list of suspects, thus simplifying your task.”
“That’s one way,” I said. “Now can you convince me that you have no reason to give Lugosi a bad time?” “Rather easily, I think,” said Wong with a smile. “I have almost no interest at all in Mr. Lugosi If you look around at my shelves, you will discover two kinds of books in both English and Chinese. Many of my books are sociological in nature. Some are historical and quite a few are on the occult. Although this business is mine through inheritance and is one in which I take deep familial pride, my primary interest is in the exploration of social groups, cults if you will, that use the occult as a focal point. While I do not display it prominently as a matter of pride, I hold a Ph.D. degree in sociology from the University of Southern California and I do some teaching at the university. I have also written two books on the subject we have been discussing for the University of California Press.”
“Then you have no real interest in…”
“No,” he finished for me. “The group itself is somewhat interesting but I’ve gathered about as much from them as I care to, and I have been contemplating removing myself from their midst, though it is difficult, considering the small membership. One develops a certain affection and understanding.”
“Los Angeles must be a pretty good area for your work,” I said, draining my tea cup and getting a refill. “It is, indeed,” said Wong. “I think that is one of the reasons I concentrated on this specialization. I would be foolish to attempt to study the social life of the Eskimo with a base in Los Angeles.”
“I see your point,” I said. “Can you give me any suggestions or ideas about who might be the one in this group I’m looking for? What I know of vampires comes from some movies and reading Dracula when I was about twenty.”
Wong got up and walked to his desk with a sigh, looking for something.
“Like so many of the lower-California groups,” he said, “this one consists of individuals who are particularly ignorant of that in which they profess to be most interested, leading one to conclude that they are committed not to a belief in vampires and vampire lore but to role-playing and dressing-up. For example, no member of the Dark Knights is at all aware of the Aztec rituals that took place in this very area hundreds of years ago, rituals that are more closely allied to vampirism and its meaning than that of Dracula. The Aztecs regularly sacrificed young women and children and consumed their blood and bodies in the belief that this would prolong their own lives. “The Chinese vampire,” he continued, still searching for something on his desk, “is far more frightening than the Transylvanian vampire or Oupire. The body of the vampire in China is said to be covered with greenish white hair and to have long claws and glowing eyes. Chinese vampires can fly without turning into animals. To prevent a corpse from becoming a vampire, animals-particularly cats-must be kept away from the body, and the rays of the sun or moon must not touch it or the corpse may receive Yang Cor and be able to rise and prey on others.”