He pulled himself free and admired the gleaming red sleeve coating his arm. Then he knelt by the fallen animal and, as was his right, lapped delicately at the gouting wound in its neck. He took little; this hunt was for sport, not lifeblood. When finished, the Baron stood and let his fellows fall upon the boar, tearing it to pieces. He stood over them, a master watching his dogs take their reward. Caligari, recovered from shock but still trembling, glanced at the feeding frenzy and waddled away, tutting to himself that the hunters were out of control.
In the melee, Stalhein fought for and won a ragged pig's ear. To gain such a mighty prize, he had to tear his arm open slamming against Udet's antlers and wrench his shoulder shoving Emmelman out of the way. He turned his back to the other vampires, protecting his morsel, and sucked the torn edge. Around him, fliers chewed and swallowed and retched and supped. The taste was vile but sparkling joys burst in his brain.
9
La Morte Parisienne
As the sun went down, he idled at a Montmartre pavement café. Even in the pit of this dreadful winter, habitués, not all undead, sat at street tables. They gossiped and flirted, read and drank. Doomed snowflakes melted on faces, hands and hats. Winthrop took a table inside, near the stove, and asked the patron for a pot of English tea. Experienced enough with British officers to know what was required, the Frenchman sadly turned from spices and coffees and liqueurs to fetch a shameful package of plain old Lipton's from a secret shelf.
In the minutes it took for the tea to cool to drinkability, he was propositioned by two filles de joie and a curly-haired youth; a fanged dwarf offered to sketch his portrait for the price of a loaf of bread; news swept through that the daring thief Fantomas had relieved a dowager of an emerald necklace in a nearby street; another struggling artist tried to sell caricatures of the Kaiser and Graf von Dracula; a naive Australian was asked to pay for a ten- centime anis with ten francs; and a knife-fight erupted between an apache vampire and a one-armed warm veteran who unexpectedly trounced the whole man. He supposed this was the famed vie parisienne, it struck him as mostly rather silly. Children pretending to be wicked.
When it was fully dark, he settled his bill and worked his way out of the estaminet, weaving between heavily populated tables. Americans, new to the war and Europe, were especially well-represented. Gawping and gazing at everything, they were most beloved by Parisian pickpockets. James Gatz, a 'lootenant' Winthrop knew slightly, hailed him with a reedy 'old sport'. Winthrop hurried off before he could be caught; now it was night, he was on duty. He wished Gatz well with a wave and hoped the young man would survive the evening with neck, wallet and heart whole.
In the Place Pigalle, children surrounded him, imploring cadeaux. On close examination, most of the creatures were vampires, probably his seniors. A golden boy made hooks of fingers and hung on to Winthrop's coat. The old-souled child cooed and hissed, attempting mesmerism.
Sergeant Dravot, Winthrop's inevitable shadow, appeared from a spot beyond the corner of his eye and detached the persistent parasite, tossing him back to his comrades. The savage children ran off, streaming about the legs of startled soldiers and their ladies of the moment.
Nodding thanks to Dravot, he checked that his buttons were all accounted for. He still felt the finger-points of the wild child on his chest. The sergeant slipped back into the crowd, prepared to see off Fantomas himself if the need arose. Though it was comforting to have a guardian angel, Winthrop was a little nettled that he was not entirely trusted out on his own. At times, Dravot was a nannyish presence.
He strolled with theatre crowds, studied in his air of aimlessness. The Grand Guignol offered Andre de Lorde's notorious Maldureve, while the Theatre des Vampires presented Offenbach's operetta La Morteamoureuse, featuring the celebrated can-can 'Clarimonde'. At the Robert-Houdin, the warm illusionist Georges Melies presented feats of presdigitation which he defied any vampire to duplicate by supernatural means. Bernhardt was giving her blood-boltered Macbeth in one of many all-female productions currently gracing the Paris stage. With most actors gone to the war, the situation of Shakespeare's day was reversed and many masculine roles were taken by women en travestie. If the war ever ended, a second Revolution would be required to force the Divine Sarah back into frocks.
Squeezed into an unremarked side street away from the famous houses, the Theatre Raoul Privache was neither magnificent nor celebrated. He had never heard of the place before receiving, in the note signed 'Diogenes', details of this appointment. A poster depicted a huge-eyed, gaunt woman in a leotard. The marquee announced, simply, 'Isolde - les frissons des vampires'. A small press of devotees clamoured for entrance. Almost exclusively male and warm and mainly in uniform, they had a greedy, hollow-eyed look that matched that of the poster woman.
Joining the audience funelling into the foyer, Winthrop looked about for Dravot. It was a game, sometimes, to locate the sergeant. Broad-shouldered and a head taller than most, the vampire did not exactly take pains to conceal himself but had the ability to fit in with any background.
An arrangement had been made at the kiosk. Winthrop was ushered down a narrow, unlit corridor to a private box. Dravot followed and took up a post at the door. He would not be able to see the performance. From the decayed state of the wallpaper and the faint smell of damp mould, Winthrop assumed the sergeant would not miss much.
Winthrop opened the door and stepped into the box. A man sat comfortably, puffing on a cigar.
'Edwin, you are remarkably punctual. Do sit down.'
Winthrop shook a firm hand and sat. Charles Beauregard had a full head of white hair and a clipped grey moustache. His face was unlined and he gave the impression of agility. Winthrop understood Beauregard had distinguished himself during the Terror, and once refused a knighthood.
Beyond the balcony, a muttering audience settled hastily into seats. A pianist tried to wring melodies from an ailing instrument.
Beauregard offered his cigar case but Winthrop preferred to smoke his own. He lit a cigarette and shook out the match-flame.
'I've read your report,' said Beauregard. 'A bad business, the other night. You mustn't blame yourself.'
'I picked Albright, the man who died.'
'And I picked you and someone picked me. No one of us is more responsible than any other. From Albright's record, I should say you couldn't have made a better choice for the show.'
A dark, winged shape flitted across Winthrop's mind.
'The Germans have awarded the victory to Manfred von Richthofen,' said Beauregard. 'If any of Condor Squadron had a chance against the Bloody Red Baron, it would have been Captain Albright.'
So the shape had been the Bloody Red Baron himself. Winthrop wondered what kind of kite Richthofen was piloting. Something new and deadly.
'German High Command are fond of building up their man- killers for the newspapers. We have no monopoly of jingo. If twenty Fokkers shoot at and down an Allied aeroplane, credit tends to be awarded where it will make the best propaganda.'