“Mr. Peters,” he had said, fishing a cigar from the pocket of his sweater, “the world is at war and I am not a wealthy man. The war will someday end, and the fool who sends dead bats will grow tired and move on to tormenting alley cats.”
“Who opened the hat box with the bat?” I tried.
“I did,” he said, lighting the cigar. “But I see what you are doing.” His smile broadened as he got the cigar going and worked a gray foul cloud into the air over his head. “You are trying to frighten me. But that is my business, frightening people. Both my friend with the bat and you could be much more effective if you hired me.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“They thought it was a publicity trick.”
I nodded knowingly. The odds were that I had Lugosi hooked. He had already invested time talking to me and listening to my pitch, and he hadn’t made up some reason to kiss me off and fade indoors. He might be saying “no,” but “maybe” was in view and “yes” only a length behind. I pushed on. I needed the job. The few hundred I had picked up in a case I worked for Howard Hughes had gone for minimal repairs on my 1934 Buick and to my sister-in-law Ruth. The Buick still needed a paint job. It was-or once had been-a dark green but had taken some scars of its own that I’d patched up with green house paint five shades too light that I’d picked up in the basement of my morning house. Now the car looked like an ad for moldy pigeon eggs. Children pointed to it in the street and it wasn’t worth a damn for following anyone. A blind man could spot the old bomb in a blackout. The money to Ruth had been a secret from my brother Phil, a Los Angeles cop who wouldn’t have taken it in spite of his mortgage, his three kids, and a salary that wouldn’t keep a Tenth Avenue rummy in Cresta Blanca. If Phil found out about the money, he’d probably show his gratitude by tearing me apart and shoving me up his unpaid-for chimney the way Lugosi’s ape had done to the old lady in Murders in the Rue Morgue.
After I spent ten more minutes on nonstop talking and watching Lugosi pollute the San Fernando Valley with his cigar, the boy next door came out to announce that he was going to sit on Lugosi’s head. “Mr. Peters,” Lugosi said, clamping the cigar between his teeth and stooping slowly on one knee to accept the leap of the child, “you are hired for one week.”
The kid clambered up Lugosi’s back, and I reached out to give Lugosi a hand up. He rose with a pant and spoke around his cigar.
“Reach into my back pocket,” he said. “Take thirty dollars advance out.”
I did and returned the wallet.
“Call me tomorrow,” he said, turning with the kid clinging to him.
“You have any gum?” the boy said as I turned my back.
“Perhaps,” came back Lugosi’s Hungarian accent, which answer both the kid and I knew could easily be turned into a yes.
The next day while I was sitting at my desk listening to the dental drill in the outer office and trying to think of where to start and what to have for lunch, Lugosi had called to report another letter in blood. This one said: “Do not attend the Dark Knights of Transylvania or your next.”
Aside from lousy spelling, it was a place to start. Lugosi said he had, in fact, received an invitation in the same mail to attend a “sabbath” ceremony of the Dark Knights on the following night. The invitation had been on a small white card with a black bat embossed at the top.
“So?” he said.
“So, we go to the sabbath and I try to figure out which Dark Knight has been sending you mail.”
And that was how I came to be seated on a coffin, trying to listen to a conversation ten feet away while a pudgy vampire sipped, slurped, and crunched in my face.
“Why don’t you take your fangs out?” I suggested.
The vampire stopped sipping and put a finger from his right hand up to his mouth to keep the fangs from falling out as he spoke.
“I wouldn’t look like a vampire if I took the fangs out,” he answered reasonably.
“Right,” I said, without adding that at best he looked like Elmer Fudd doing a vampire act.
“The fangs do throw my bite off,” he confessed confidentially, leaning toward me.
“I know a dentist who might be able to help you,” I said. “Name’s Shelly Minck. We share an office downtown in the Farraday Building over on Hoover near Ninth.”
Elmer Fudd said he thought he might look Shelly up and proved his good intentions by groping under his cape for a pencil to get the address. Shelly would like this. How many dentists could say they treated a vampire for fang overbite?
“My name is Count Sforzni,” Elmer Fudd said, shifting his left hand to his mouth so he could extend his little balloon hand to shake mine. “We didn’t meet when you came in because I was upstairs preparing the refreshments.”
He nodded at the refreshments at the end of his coffin. They included a dish of straight Saltines, a pitcher of water, a few bottles of tepid soda pop, and a quart of cheap wine.
“We don’t usually prepare much,” he confided. “Most of the Knights won’t eat or drink at meetings. Vampire purists.”
“My name’s Peters. Your name is really Count Sforzni?”
“Well,” he said, between rattling his fangs above the hub-bub of conversation nearby. “I’m Count Sforzni here. You know, honorary title. My name upstairs is Sam Billings. This is my theater.” He let his eyes float upward to indicate the space over us.
Although the lights had been out in the theater when we came in, I had been able to make out the lobby posters for the current triple feature, Host to a Ghost, Revolt of the Zombies, and Murder in the Red Barn.
“Nice theater,” I said, shifting my weight on the hard coffin. I reached back to see whether I had picked up a splinter and tried to catch a bit more of the Lugosi conversation.
“They’re real,” Billings-Sforzni whispered with what I took for pride.
“The fangs?” I whispered back.
“No,” he said, pointing to my rear. “Coffins. I bought them at a funeral supply place. Read about them in Casket and Sunnyside, the undertakers’ trade journal. Real bargains. Add to the atmosphere.”
The atmosphere of the basement could be described as storefront funeral parlor with pieces of old theater lobby thrown in. Besides three coffins there was a small table with a black cloth over it and six candles burning on it. Three walls were gray and bare with a few movie posters, Dracula, White Zombie, and The Black Cat, covering holes or looking like they were pasted up by a drunk. The fourth wall, the one against which Lugosi had been trapped, was covered by heavy, blood-red, and very worn velvetlike drapes.
“Nice place,” I told Billings, whose bald pate was doubly red from shyness or heat in the weird light and the air rapidly turning to atmospheric fog from Lugosi’s cigar.
Lugosi caught my eye, a massive false smile on his face, and nodded toward the door in a way that would make it clear even to the Frankenstein monster that he wanted out.
“How many members are there in the Dark Knights?” I asked as innocently as I could, which was not very innocently, considering that I look like the pug who stands behind Edward G. Robinson in Warners gangster movies. You know the guy I mean, the one who never talks, looks like an ex-welterweight, and sticks his chin out every once in a while to show he’s earning his living.
“We’re a secret, very exclusive organization,” Billings said, defensively reaching for a handful of crackers.
“You mean there’s just the five of you?” I said with a friendly smile. He fanged some crackers and gave a small nod to show I had calculated correctly.
One of the four vampires around Lugosi looked over at me. He was tall and dark, the most formidable-looking member of the group. I looked back at him with my innocent brown eyes and a mouth full of warm Pepsi. He turned slowly away.