“That’s enough,” he said.
But I was going now. Survival was important, and I might get Vernoff angry now that I was running out of tales to swap with him, but I was angry too. I didn’t want to be lost in the list of victims in a plot right out of Vernoff’s card file.
“Jerry, you didn’t do anything right,” I said.
“Well, we’ll just have to see if I can learn from my mistakes from this point on,” he said, raising the gun in my direction. There was just about no chance that I could make it to the door without his getting a shot off, but he might miss, or he might not hit me someplace that would slow me down, or he might not… the time for guessing and thinking was over.
There was a creaking, something like the hinges of the front door. The sound came from behind the red-draped wall. Both Vernoff and I looked at the billowing drapes as the candle flickered. Vernoff’s gun turned toward the drapes, which parted. Dracula stepped out. He was in his familiar tuxedo and cape. He pulled the cape over his face to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes burned into Vernoff, and his long right hand rose and pointed a pale finger at the man holding the gun.
“Put down the gun,” he commanded. “Put it down.”
Vernoff fired wildly, his eyes wide. The shot went somewhere into the ceiling, and I scrambled forward at him before he could recover. I got him around the waist but couldn’t bring him down. He was a big man, but I was holding on for my life. He hit my back with the gun, and I punched at his groin. He let out a groan and doubled over. The gun clattered into a dark corner. On my back with a burning shoulder, I saw Vernoff looking at the figure of Dracula moving slowly toward him. In spite of his pain, Vernoff went for the door. He wasn’t moving fast, but I was having trouble moving at all. My gun was out there somewhere and he might find it, pull himself together, and realize he had to finish what he’d started.
I followed him out the door, moving past Dracula, who stood motionless. Vernoff was at the top few steps with his hand to his groin, where I had hit him. It was dark, but I could see him hunched over like Quasimodo. I went over the rail and onto his back, and we tumbled down the narrow stairs. It had happened to me before and I knew what to do. My arms held him tightly, and I curled my head in. He took most of the bumps. When we hit the landing on the second floor, I let go and Vernoff hit the wall with a thud.
He seemed to be through, but I wasn’t in the mood for much more. That would have been the end if my eye hadn’t caught my gun no more than a short reach from his hand. He started to rise, and I tried but wasn’t sure I could. Then the crack of lightning hit close, sending flashbulb brightness. Vernoff saw the gun and started to bend for it, but he paused to turn to the creak on the stairs above. Dracula was bathed in another lightning flash, and his voice rose above it in a warning, “STOP.”
Vernoff backed away, caught himself, and went for the gun. I pushed myself forward, and my head drove into his head. The crack sent a shock from my skull through the big toe on my right foot. Vernoff, his skull less experienced in pain, staggered back with a groan. He hit something in the dark that creaked and cracked, and then his outline disappeared.
My hand was on the wall to steady me, and another hand held me up.
“Where did he go?” I asked, my head dancing colors before my eyes.
“He fell through the railing on the balcony,” Lugosi’s voice came at my side.
He helped me to the railing, which had a gap where Vernoff had gone through. Looking down, we could see his shape in the living room. He wasn’t moving.
“It was an effective performance?” Lugosi asked.
“It saved my life,” I said.
In the next crack of lightning I could see a small smile of satisfaction on the actor’s face.
My rest was brief. There was a definite movement above us, and it wasn’t rats. It was footsteps, and I remembered the figure that had bumped into me when the shooting started.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My gun was in my hand, and my senses were returning to near normal, which meant that I could see, hear, and feel about as well as the average living Civil War veteran.
I went back up the stairs with Lugosi following. This time I went slowly, not because of fear, but because of an aching body.
“Go downstairs, call the cops. Get the Wilshire District. Ask for Lieutenant Pevsner or Sergent Seidman,” I said. “If Vernoff’s not dead, get an ambulance. And see if you can find the fuse box and get the lights on.”
“Yes,” said Lugosi, and he swept down the stairs with his cape billowing. I went up, not trying to be quiet. The candle was still on. It guided me. I went into the room, picked it up, and found Vernoff’s gun.
“Billings,” I shouted. “I’m in no mood for this. Get your ass out here. If I have to find you…”
Something scrambled above my head. I went into the hall and found a wooden ladder to what looked like a loft.
“Billings,” I shouted up into the darkness. “I don’t want to climb this thing. I’ve got a game knee. Stop sucking your thumb and get down here.”
Something shuffled and moved above and stopped.
“Would a couple of bullets up there help make up your mind?” I asked.
The trap door opened. I could hear it, but I couldn’t see anything. Billings’s voice came down in a high quaver.
“What do you want?”
“There’s a corpse in your living room,” I said sweetly. “And we have some things to talk about.”
“How do I know you won’t hurt me?” he said.
“Cross my heart,” I said. “I promise. Will you just get down here before the cops come? If I have to climb up there in my present condition and state of mind, our conversation will be far less pleasant than…”
The lights went on. The place was not exactly lit like a sound stage, but it was lit, and I could see Billings’s pale face. He started to draw back into his hole and I shouted, “Oh no, ease your belly down here, Count.”
He came down slowly, sheepishly, heavily. He was wearing his vampire costume, and he looked frightened. He had reason to be.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I said, letting him lead the way. I blew out the candle and put it on the landing.
“I didn’t…” he began on the second floor when he saw his broken railing.
“Yes, you did,” I said, prodding him gently with my hand. The point on my back where Vernoff had hit me was throbbing violently.
On the main floor, Billings tried to turn toward the rear of the house, but I guided him into the living room. Vernoff was lying there, his eyes open, staring at his hand, which would type no more of the plots his smashed skull could not deliver. Billings tried not to look at the corpse, but he was fascinated and finally fixed his eyes on it.
“That’s what a real dead one looks like, Count,” I said. “Does it get you all excited? Ah, ah, no running for the toilet. You’re a great big vampire, aren’t you? You were going to put the fear of heaven and hell into Bela Lugosi with your threats.”
“How did you know it was me?” he said, his eyes still fixed on Vernoff’s body.
“Sam,” I said. “I’ve got a blow for you. You are the only member of the Dark Knights who takes the thing seriously. The others have their own hobby horses. Riding Lugosi was yours. I’d like to know why.”
Billings forced his eyes away from Vernoff and roamed the room. I followed him and realized that I had seen the place somewhere before. I was getting that feeling a lot.
“This is Dr. Seward’s living room.” he said softly. “His office is next door.”
Lugosi appeared at the door behind Billings. He was about to speak, but his eyes too scanned the room in recognition.
“It’s exactly like the rooms in Dracula,” Billings said. “That was more than a movie for me. It was a possibility, a possibility that couldn’t be betrayed. Don’t you see? I couldn’t let Lugosi, the real Count, sink to ridicule.” Billings still did not see Lugosi, who watched from the door and listened.