P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 03, page 4
"That's a Long Island exchange," I said. "What was she doing out there? Did she say?"
"No, I don't think so, presumably she was getting help. It was a very short call, we didn't want to tie up my line in case the asylum had to get through to me."
"So she didn't give this number to the asylum?"
"Obviously not," she sniffed, "or she wouldn't have bothered giving it to me. Besides, Mr. Escott would have gotten it from them during his visit there."
Escott acknowledged her deduction and returned her out-of-practice smile with another of his own. She responded with a near-wiggle. "Did the asylum ever call you?"
"The next day, but nothing had changed."
"Did you try the Long Island number?"
"Of course I did. Some man answered, I asked for Maureen, but his manner was very off-putting, as though he were surprised. He asked how I'd gotten his number and I told him, then he wanted to know who I was, but I only gave him my first name and asked for Maureen again. He said she had left and wanted to know who I was, but I said Maureen would know and hung up."
"You have a very clear recollection of that conversation," said Escott.
"Yes, I do, don't I?" She considered it a moment. "I think it was because he was so insistent. It made me uneasy. I never called back."
"Uneasy?"
"Silly, isn't it? After all, he was only a voice on the phone; an ordinary voice, except for his accent."
"What kind of accent?"
"Almost like yours, but not quite."
"An English accent?"
"Not quite."
"Perhaps from another region there?"
"No… I think that it was more American than English, but I couldn't place it now. I just noticed at the time that it was unusual."
"And you heard nothing more from Miss Dumont?"
"No, and the asylum called only one more time. They'd notified the local police, of course, but they wanted to talk to Maureen, and by then I didn't know what had happened to her. I expect they were waiting for her to call them."
"Didn't you think it odd?"
"I most certainly did, but what could I do about it? I went by her apartment to see her, but she was gone. The landlord said he thought she'd moved out. She'd left behind most of her clothes and books and other things, so it seemed likely she might return. The landlord wasn't too concerned. She'd paid her rent, but he was planning to put her things into storage in the basement if she wasn't back by the end of the month."
"Did he have any theories?"
"No."
"And you didn't contact the police?"
"I thought about it, but didn't see how they could help. Besides, from what I heard, someone else was looking for her, and he'd have done all that. The landlord said that Maureen's boyfriend was always pestering him for news of her return."
I had trouble finding my voice, but just managed. "And you never thought to contact him?"
" 'Yes, I did, but for all I knew he might have been the unpleasant man on the phone." She sniffed again. "If she wanted to cut things off with him, that was her business, not mine."
I had no choice: I could walk out or strangle her.
I walked out.
Escott came down a few minutes later and found me hunched against a street lamp trying to light up a smoke. My hands were shaking so much I couldn't even fire the damned match. I finally threw it and the cigarette into the gutter.
"That stupid, idiotic bitch!"
Escott listened patiently while I raved along similar and much more obscene lines for some time until I wound down into coherency again. We walked for several blocks and the movement and damp night air helped to cool down my frustration.
"I am in total agreement with you," he said in a mild tone when it was over. "She might have saved you a lot of anguish had she spoken to you then, but we've yet to see if her information is of any value."
"Then let's find out."
We went back to our hotel and Escott started out with a phone call. First he checked with the operator to make sure the number was still in service, and then he got an address and name to go with it.
"Emily Francher?" I said, echoing his inquiry. "No, I've never heard of her."
"You don't sound too certain."
"I'm not. I don't think I've met her personally, but maybe I saw her name in the paper or heard it on the radio…"
"Perhaps it was an advertisement," he suggested, his eye falling on the newspaper he'd bought in the lobby stand when we'd returned. He tilted his head, considering his own thought, and noisily attacked the paper, tearing open the pages in a sudden fit of energy. "There." His long finger stabbed at a name.
I stared at it awhile. "Naw, it couldn't be, not the shipping line Franchers, that's just too big. Maureen never mentioned she knew anyone like that."
"You've also stated she never talked about her past," he pointed out.
"Well, yeah…"
"It may only prove to be a coincidence of names, as it was rather easy to trace the number, but first thing tomorrow I shall check it out thoroughly."
"Tomorrow?"
"Indeed. The sources I intend to exploit are all closed by now—"
"But we could rent a car and drive out there."
"I plan to do just that, but only after I find out all I can about this Emily Francher first—and about the man who answered the phone."
"The one who made little Edith uneasy?"
"The same. Granted, the woman is certainly a touch paranoid as far as men are concerned—"
"You can say that again."
"—but for her, the form it takes is that of bossiness and a general hostility."
"I get you. Her normal reaction should have been to tell him off when he got nosy?"
"That or ignore him. But I'm getting ahead of my research. It is Miss Emily Francher I shall concentrate on in the morning."
I idly flipped the pages of the paper. "Then that's it for tonight as far as the investigation goes, huh?"
"Regrettably, it would appear so."
Disadvantages abound with my physical condition, and spending the day locked up in a lightproof trunk is the one that irks me the most. I miss out on a lot of life, and once awake and free, I try to make up for the lost time.
"The last thing I feel like doing now is to sit around in this fancy box the rest of the evening," I told him. "What about you?"
"I hadn't really thought of it. I was going to unpack and perhaps listen to the March of Time, but if you feel restless—"
"Yeah, I'm restless, but it's no fun trying to cure it alone. I want to find some entertainment."
"It does sound somewhat more distracting." He glanced at his watch. "A pity, but it's past curtain time by now."
"A play?" I rustled the amusement page around, folding it to the outside. "This is New York, Charles, they've got more than plays going on. Here we go, Swingtime is playing at Radio City and a new place just opened called The Paradise-"
"Well…"
"Here, this is the one, Foliesd'Amour, three shows a night and dinner thrown in with the jokes and dancing girls."
He looked a bit shocked as he scanned the details of their ad. "Good heavens. Have you noticed the two-fifty cover charge?"
"You get what you pay for. Besides, this is my idea and my treat. You know as well as I do that I don't spend any money on food, so how 'bout it? I know I could do with some high kicking."
He chuckled suddenly. "It sounds most educational."
We took a cab and got there in time for the last half of the second show and stayed on for the third. Escott enjoyed his late supper and didn't seem too put out when he had to imbibe drinks enough for two in order to cover for me with the waiter. They had little visible effect on him other than a slight glazing of the eyes, but then he looked the same way when driving his Nash.
Outwardly he seemed more interested in the mechanics of the production than the show itself, and his conversation was limited to comments on the efficiency of the crew involved.
It was hard to tell, but I eventually concluded that he was indeed enjoying himself. The glazing disappeared from his eyes at intervals, usually when the girls in their spangled costumes were strutting their stuff to the brassy music.
The wee hours were upon us when the place finally closed down. The air was a humid mixture of exhaust, oil, and hot tires… and something else, very faint and distant. In response, there was a familiar and insistent stirring in my belly and throat. I lifted my head to catch the scent again, but it was gone.
"Like the show?" I asked between my efforts to whistle up a cab.
Escott put a lot of thought to the question before coming up with an answer. "Very much. Next time it shall be my turn. I hope that you will then have no objections to seeing a play?"
"None at all. I wanted to see a show like this just to get the taste of Edith Sedlock out of my mind."
"It was an excellent idea," he said, enunciating carefully. "I must admit I do prefer a stage production of any kind to a film, though I've nothing against film as a medium for entertainment."
"Your acting background has nothing to do with it, huh?"
"It has everything to do with it, my dear fellow."
"Why'd you leave it for this business?"
"Why, indeed?" he asked the general air, looking just a shade wistful.
"I mean it, Charles. From what I've seen, you're a born actor. Why'd you switch to being a private inves—private agent?"
"Because taking up acting as a profession is a good way to starve to death. The company I was in folded for lack of funds—that is to say, the manager stranded us. I made it my business to find him. It was my first case."
"Did you find him?"
"Yes, after a time. I even recovered the money he'd stolen and divided it with the rest of the company. This, of course, after I'd indulged myself and thumped the miscreant a few times so he wouldn't object to things. It was interesting work, so I decided to go into it."
"Thumping managers?"
"Finding things; doing things for others." He waved his hand vaguely.
"Wouldn't acting be safer, though? I mean, since you took up with me, it's been—"
He laughed a little. "You've obviously never tried staging the battle of Bosworth Field in a barn full of drunken lumberjacks. When King Richard started calling for a horse, they were more than happy to oblige him with one. No, I much prefer to do what I'm doing now, there is a certain exhilaration to this kind of business that I never found on the stage." He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly.
Perhaps he'd realized he was talking about himself and his attitudes rather than about things he'd done, which was his usual run of conversation. On certain levels, he was a very private man. I pretended not to notice and waved unsuccessfully at another occupied cab.
"I think it is long past my bedtime," he concluded after a long moment. "If I begin quoting Shakespeare to no good purpose, please bring it to my attention and I shall cease immediately."
A cab finally pulled up and I got the door for him and shut it. He gave me a questioning look.
"I've still got a lot of night left to me. Thought I'd take a walk in the park."
He nodded, perhaps guessing the real purpose of my walk. "Right. Then I'll see you tomorrow evening."
The cab grumbled away into the night, its exhaust swirling around my ankles. When it had grown small and its lights had merged with dozens of others, I abruptly turned in the opposite direction. I walked quickly, my head raised to catch that tantalizing scent once more.
Chapter Three
IT WAS NINE long blocks along Seventh to Central Park. I covered it quickly, my mind focused upon what lay ahead. This sort of careless behavior can lead to a mugging or worse, but no one bothered me, not even to bum a cigarette.
There are stockyards of a kind in New York, but nothing that could be fairly compared to the huge landmark in Chicago. Cattle are shipped in by rail each day to be slaughtered, many of them to support the large Jewish population and their kosher requirements. Maureen had taken me there once, but I had no need to travel so far tonight in search of livestock; not as long as Central Park had pony rides and horse-drawn carriages.
I knew more or less where the animals were kept, and in due time my nose led me to some stables. It was the same smell that had caught my attention outside the club, carried to me by some freak of the faint wind. Maybe it was an unpleasant odor to some, to me it meant food. I slipped inside and quietly got acquainted with its half dozen four-legged tenants, picking out a healthy-looking gelding with a calm eye.
Having spent some formative years on a farm, I knew how to talk to horses; I almost didn't have to soothe him to quiescence. I did so anyway, just to be on the safe side. The animal stood placidly while I opened a vein in his leg and slowly drank my fill.
The hollow, near-cramp in my stomach vanished. The almost-ache in my throat eased to nothing. Most of the time, the symptoms of my hunger were negligible and could be ignored if I were busy, but I was careful never to let it go too far. It wasn't that I'd lose control and be tempted to drag someone into an alley to feed off them, I just disliked the physical discomfort that resulted from waiting too long.
It was my first taste of horse's blood and I liked it better than the stuff I'd taken from cattle. There was a difference to it; not so much in the subtleties of flavor and texture, but in the surroundings. This was a neat, straw-cushioned stable, not a soggy, stinking pen. The animal was clean and the hair on his hide short. When you have to get to your food by using your own teeth, that counts for a lot.
Afterward, he politely accepted being patted down in lieu of a more material show of thanks. Next time around I'd remember to bring an apple or some sugar cubes. It seemed only fair.
When I crawled out of my trunk the next evening I found Escott at his ease on his bed, showing no ill effects from his sedate debauch, and up to his neck in the papers.
"Good evening," he said cheerfully, hardly looking up.
"How'd it go today?" I asked, stretching.
" "The London Times has finally dropped its pro-Hitler policy in favor of the Russians, who seem to be the lesser of two evils at the moment. It was that speech he made last Sunday at Nuremberg that did the trick."
"I meant with the—"
"Oh, yes, sorry." He folded the paper away. "Emily Francher, daughter to the late Roger and Violet Francher—"
"The shipping-line Franchers?" I interrupted.
"The same."
"I'll be damned."
He continued. "Emily was one of the better-dowered debutantes in 1913, and was sole heiress to the estate when her mother died in 1931."
The coincidence of the date wasn't lost on me. "When, in 1931?"
"I've a lot to tell you, but I'd rather tell it on the drive out."
"Out to—"
"Yes, the Franc her house on Long Island. I've a map and hired some transportation, having assumed you would want to interview Miss Francher personally about that phone call. The sooner you are ready…"
"Okay, okay, I'm moving!"
I did all the usual stuff, and shaved with my eyes closed so I wouldn't have to look at the gaping emptiness in the mirror. It takes a little practice and a good memory so as not to miss any spots, but I was in a hurry and nicked myself this time. Vampires bleed red like anyone else, it just doesn't last as long from a metal cut.
"If they made safety razors out of wood, you'd need stitches," said Escott from the other room.
"How the hell did you know I'd cut myself?"
"By the timbre, volume, and quality of your language. Far be it from me to laugh at another's pain, but you are most entertaining when you choose to express yourself."
"Next time I'll charge admission," I grumbled.
Our rented Ford eventually got us free of the congestion of Manhattan and Queens, but it seemed to take forever. Escott had to concentrate on driving, while I kept us on course with the map, so we didn't talk much. Once past the worst of it and safely rolling on State 25A, I was ready to hear more about our destination.
"You said this Emily Francher was quite the dish in 1913?"
"I said she was well dowered. I don't know what she looks like. The money and her mother helped her to land a socially acceptable husband. In this case, he was an impoverished gentleman with a title from my own sceptered homeland."
"So maybe his was the nearly English accent Edith Sedlock heard on the phone."
"I think not. The marriage was at her mother's forceful instigation and short-lived. The blissful couple parted company a month after the ceremony, the bride taking up residence in London and the groom in the north to be near the races."
"Gambler?"
"Gentleman jockey. He broke his neck in a steeplechase later that same year and much to the disgust of his mother-in-law, the family title passed on to an obscure and fertile cousin with a surplus of sons. Daughter Emily was ordered back to New York and resumed the use of her maiden name."
"Where'd you dig all that up?"
"It was in the papers. The society gossips had a fine time then, but it was only a foretaste of what was to come. Roger Francher died in 1915 and wife Violet took over the shipping business and proved herself most capable. She also set about looking for a suitable replacement for her inconveniently deceased son-in-law. By this time, young Emily had suffered what we would now call a nervous breakdown and was sent off to 'rest' with relatives in Newport, who reported her every utterance to the mother. Efforts to locate another title were thwarted by the war, but in 1920 the lady managed to befriend a French marquis and whisked him across the Atlantic to meet Emily."
"Did Emily have anything to say about this?"
"If she did, her mother was quite uninterested."
"And the Newport relatives?"
"Dependent upon Violet's generosity for their support. Another wedding date was set, but it all fell through when the groom was arrested. It seems he was not a marquis or even French, but an American with three other wives."
"Three?"
"And a number of children. They tried to suppress the scandal, but were unsuccessful with some of the less discriminating papers. Officially, the wedding was postponed for an indefinite period while he returned to France to 'settle his business interests.' In reality, I'd say he was lucky to only have to face the French courts and his several families and not Mrs. Francher. He might have gotten away with having a fourth wife had the lady been less publicity minded and not issued his picture to every society editor in the Western Hemisphere."
