“You see,” continued Billings, “he is not a real vampire, but an inspiration to those of us who are.”
“You’re a real vampire?” I said.
Billings nodded in confession.
“You have a coffin you sleep in and the whole works?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes,” said Billings. “In the cellar.”
“Have you ever…” I began. “I mean blood.”
“Not yet,” he said seriously. “But soon.”
Lugosi took a step into the room, and Billings turned toward him with a gasp.
“Mr. Billings,” Lugosi said gently. “Neither you nor I are vampires. We are simply men with dreams that do not come true and with which we must learn to live.”
“No,” said Billings defiantly. His next no was less defiant and more to a voice within him than to Lugosi or to me. Finally, he looked at Vernoff’s corpse and sank into a chair with his eyes closed.
“The police will be here momentarily,” Lugosi said. “I fear your Mr. Wernhoff is dead.”
I looked at Lugosi with curiosity through my pain, and he looked down at his costume and gave a smile of understanding.
“Tonight I am to appear at a screening of Dracula at an Army benefit performance. I have a little act taken from my stage role as Dracula which I can do. It’s not much, but it goes nicely with the picture. You told me you were coming here, and you sounded troubled, so I came in a cab. I found the theater closed and came to the house. The door was opened, and I heard your voice and Mr. Wernhoff’s above. I came up and saw him with the gun on you, so I moved into the next room, where I found the door leading to the room you were in. I listened and tried to time my entrance so that it would be most effective and beneficial.”
“So,” I said, “you heard some of what he said?”
“Enough to know he killed some people,” sighed Lugosi. “And this poor fellow,” he said looking at Billings, “is the one who sent me those notes and the dead bat?”
“All except that last call, the death threat; that was the work of our friend on the floor. It was just to get me going in the wrong direction.”
“Yes,” sighed Lugosi. “Again I have been the red herring.” “In a way,” I said, wobbling.
“Forgive me,” said Lugosi, helping me to a chair and fishing out a cigar.
The three of us sat in silence, watching Vernoff’s corpse, for about twenty minutes. Lugosi, his cape draped over the back of his chair, smoked and threw an occasional look of pity or concern at Billings, who couldn’t bring himself to meet Lugosi’s eyes.
When Phil came in followed by Seidman, we probably looked like a quartet of corpses.
“What the hell is this?” Phil said in that combination of amazement and anger that was his alone. It meant, What has the force of evil come up with this time to make my life a walking hell.
“Guy on the floor is Vernoff,” I said.
The name rang a bell.
“The one who couldn’t give Faulkner an alibi?” said Phil.
“He didn’t want to,” I said. “He killed Shatzkin, Newcomb, and Haliburton. He was in it with Mrs. Shatzkin. He told me, and I have a reliable witness, Mr. Lugosi.”
Lugosi looked up and waved his cigar in greeting.
Phil didn’t know what to say to the familiar figure dressed like a vampire. I also realized that Phil had recognized the room but couldn’t place it. Seidman simply looked tired.
“This isn’t our jurisdiction,” said Seidman.
“It’s your case,” I said.
“Who’s that?” said Phil, pointing at Billings.
“It’s his house,” I explained.
“What has he got to do with this and why is he dressed like that?” Phil bubbled, his rage and confusion ready to burst red.
“It’s a long story,” I said, and I began to tell it while Seidman took my statement. I talked slowly but didn’t have to. Seidman knew shorthand. The slow tale was for the benefit of the rest of us.
Lugosi followed with his part, playing it with flourishes and enjoyment.
We all looked at the corpse some more while Seidman found the phone and called for someone to take care of Vernoff and Billings. Phil looked as if he wanted to throw a couple of kicks at Vernoff and might have done it if the rest of us weren’t there. I was clearly in agony from the blow to my back, my knee, and my roll down the stairs, and Lugosi was too old and well known to be hit. That left Billings, and I could see Phil savoring the possibility of a hard right to the soft figure. I watched desire rise in my brother’s eyes, the wish to hit something solid, but Billings wasn’t solid, and Phil gave up the desire and sat boiling.
Cawelti was the next one through the door. He spotted me and Phil and hesitated. He looked at Vernoff and Billings and didn’t know what to do. Seidman handed him his notebook as two uniformed police came in behind him.
“My notes will explain,” he said to Cawelti. “Get Mr. Lugosi wherever he wants to go and get this cleaned up.”
Cawelti considered a question or protest, but Phil, looking for a victim, caught his eye, and he shut up.
“Come on,” Phil said to me, pushing himself from the chair.
I got up and so did Lugosi. I took Lugosi’s frail hand and shook it.
“Thanks for saving my life,” I said.
“And thank you for a most interesting interlude,” he said. “Please send me your bill for services.”
“Right,” I said and followed Seidman and Phil into the night. The rain had turned to drizzle. I knew where we were going. “Can you drive?” Seidman asked.
I told him I could and went to my own car. We drove in tandem through Los Angeles. I caught part of a boxing match on the radio to keep me company, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it long enough to know who was fighting or winning. The patter of the announcer and his false rise in excitement as he described the blows was like a friend at your side who jabbers on and you don’t listen to, but you like having him there.
When we got to Bel Air, no one tried to stop us. The move up Chalon was getting routine for me, so I pulled ahead of Phil and Seidman and led the way.
The Shatzkin house was dark except for an upstairs light.
Phil was about to ham-hand the door when I put out my hand to stop him. He wheeled, ready to take my head, and then waited. I knocked gently. Then I knocked a little louder. In a while footsteps came down the stairs inside.
“Who is it?” came Camile Shatzkin’s voice.
“Jerry,” I said.
“Jerry?”
She fumbled with the door and kept talking. There was a touch of shrewish anger seething in her tone that Jerry Vernoff would never have the chance to be disillusioned by.
“I thought you were going to stay away from here,” she hissed. “What happened? Did Peters…”
And the door flew open on the bright trio of Peters, Pevsner, and Seidman, a group that could have wilted an innocent person, let alone one as guilty as Camile Shatzkin.
“Trick or treat,” I said.
She almost fainted, but Seidman moved forward to keep her from falling.
“I thought it was a delivery I was expecting,” she said, pulling herself together.
“Do you usually faint when the delivery man comes?” I said.
Phil grabbed my arm and squeezed hard enough to let me know he wanted me to shut up.
Camile Shatzkin, in glimmering red robe, her dark hair down, looked every inch the opera star in her big moment.
“I’ve been under a great strain,” she explained, pulling herself away from Seidman’s support.
“That ‘great strain’ business might carry you about a week,” I said. “Then you’ll have to think up another line.”
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
“Do you want to invite us in, or do you want to get dressed right now and come with us?” Phil asked wearily.
Camile Shatzkin flushed in indignation. We all expected her to say, “How dare you talk to me like that?” but she disappointed us by letting her nostrils flare in anger and stepping back to usher us into the living room. We’d been there before. We weren’t impressed.