Never Cross A Vampire Part 17

The dank smell of the house caught me with a touch of nausea as I put my foot on the first step. Above, in the flashes of lightning, I could make out the top of the stairway. I went up slowly, my back sliding against the wall, my knee counting each step in pain.

It only took me four or five days to get to the landing where I was sure Billings would leap out at me with artificial fangs and either go for my neck or offer me a Hires Root Beer. He didn't, and I resigned myself to hide and seek. I remembered a "Suspense" episode with Ralph Edwards in which he played a scoffing radio reporter who spends a night in a haunted house and goes crazy.

It was not a good thing to remember, but one has little control over such things. I tried to think that MacArthur had it worse on Bataan, but that didn't help. I couldn't believe in Bataan. It didn't really exist. What did exist was this matchstick house and my fear.

"Billings," I shouted. "I'm getting angry."

The hall light switch didn't work either.

The storm had knocked off the power, or maybe the place just didn't have any power. Or maybe someone had pulled some fuses.

Bedrooms lined the hall wall, and each one seemed to be empty when I opened the door. None of them looked lived in.

At the end of the hall was a balcony looking down on the living room. I stepped on the balcony and waited till the lightning cut cold light and showed me nothing. I heard another movement, higher above. I turned and found the stairway in front of me going up to what I a.s.sumed was the last floor of Billings's manor.

"Sam," I said, "this is aggravating a sore knee, and you have nowhere to go.

Sooner or later, this game will be over."

I moved up. These stairs were even narrower than the ones below. When I got to the landing, I thought I could hear someone breathing. The three doors on the floor looked as if they were closed. I moved to the first one, kicking it open.

Nothing.

Below I thought I heard something, a slight creak, and then I was sure.

Someone was opening the front door and being announced by the musical hinges.

"Who's down there?" I yelled, stepping back into the hall. No one answered. I stopped, trying not to breathe, but that proved to be too much to ask of a sorely tried soul.

I thought I heard the creak of stairs. I moved to the stairwell and leaned over. I couldn't see anything. The lightning chose that moment to penetrate the house with a crack of light, and my eyes caught a shadow on the stairs.

"Far enough," I said. "I've got a gun."

The answer to my threat was a pinging near my head. The shot had missed me by what seemed not at all. I pulled out my .38 and aimed down the stairs.

It was a good time to break my record of never having shot anyone. I leaned forward, took aim, and fired. Something moved out of the room behind me, and I turned to meet it. Whatever it was jostled me, and I tried to keep from tumbling head first over the railing and down the stairs. I could hear the figure who b.u.mped into me scrambling for a dark hole, and I could feel the gun fly out of my hand while I desperately grabbed for something to hold onto. The stairway had been narrow enough so my hand caught the far side, and I pushed myself back.

My .38 hit the wooden stairs and thumped six or seven steps.

Silence. I was breathing hard and licking sweat from my upper lip, trying to see below, to see whether I had a chance at my gun before whoever was coming up and shooting at me got to it first. I didn't even worry about who or what had been behind me.

There was no lightning, and I could see no gun below, but I could hear the footsteps coming slowly, carefully upward. In a few seconds, maybe thirty or forty at most, whoever was on the way up would probably find my gun and know I was unarmed. Even if they didn't find it, they'd figure out that I had stopped firing back. What I needed was a weapon. Since this was Sam Billings's house, I doubted that I'd even find a heavy crucifix to throw, but what choice did I have? Don't bother to answer. It's always easier to find options when the knife is at someone else's throat. I slipped off my shoes and carried them into the first room. There was a table in the corner and something that looked like a bench. I groped my way to the table, and my hand touched something erect and smooth. It was a candle. I moved to the wall, running my hand across it. Nothing. Below me the footsteps were moving upward. I hadn't counted the steps, but I knew they weren't infinite. A chair could be a weapon, but that would be a last resort against someone with a gun. The footsteps were moving up rapidly. It was time for last resorts. I grabbed a chair, almost losing it in my sweating hands, and placed my shoes on the table. I moved behind the door and waited and waited and waited. The stairs creaked, and the wind blew, and the rain fell, and I thought I was going to be sick.

The trick would be to swing the chair just when the person with the gun stepped in. The chair was getting heavy and I was fighting an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle in fright.

My sensitivity sh.e.l.l was alive with nerve s. I could hear a thousand aches and sighs in the building. My brain tried to sort them out, determine which was the right one. I thought I caught a creak on the floor outside and tried to tighten my grip, but I didn't want to make noise.

Now, I thought, but another voice inside said, wait. I waited, waited, waited, and when I couldn't take another surge of my pulse, I stepped out and swung the chair.

I hit something and heard a pained "Urrgg."

Dropping the chair, I took a step into the hall to throw a kick, which would not have been devastating in my bare feet, but it beat trying to run or hide. The barrel of a gun jabbed my chest, and I stopped suddenly. My stockinged feet slid, and I was on my back in the room, which saved me from getting the bullet in the chest. I rolled back and kicked the door closed, but another bullet came through the wood close enough to make my right ear ring.

What could I do? I backed away. The door opened slowly, and I could see enough to know that I was in a room with the murderer I had been looking for.

My idea had been to set the scene, but the murderer had decided not to wait.

The gun picked me out but didn't fire. I watched while the murderer kept me in sight and groped to the table. I was motioned away by the dark outline, and I moved away. The sounds told me that there was something being pulled out of a pocket, and the striking of a match told me what it was. The murderer lit the candle and turned to face me.

CHAPTER TEN.

The light from the single candle revealed a small room. I was near the door. To my right was a blank wall with three old gla.s.s-covered oval photographs on it, all of women about fifty. The wall to my left was covered from ceiling to floor with heavy, blood-red drapes. I had seen curtains like this before, in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the theater a few dozen yards away where the Dark Knights had met. That seemed a long time ago. But it had been only five days. On the wall opposite me was a single window, small, dirty, and crying with rain. There were a few chairs, and the one table with a cloth. On the table was a statue of some kind with a bunch of arms. Oh, in front of the table stood Jerry Vernoff, aiming a gun in my general direction.

"I know we were supposed to meet at my place later," he said, leaning back against the table. He was dripping with rain and his yellow hair was plastered forward on his brow. "But I started to think that you had no reason to see me and maybe, just maybe you were putting things together. I can tell by your eyes that you're not surprised to see me, so I can also conclude that I was right. Pretty good, huh?"

"Third rate," I said, slumped back against the wall. His face sagged, and his grip tightened on the gun. I had hit home. He wanted to shoot, but he wanted to hear more. I hoped I had read this whole thing and him right and that Vernoff would want to talk about it.

"Third rate?" he said irritably. "Come on. The plotting was . . ."

". . . too complicated." I finished. He reached over and threw me my shoes. I figured he wouldn't shoot until I got them on, and by that time we'd be deep in debate, and I might get to do something. He was about ten feet away, so there wasn't much chance to go for him. My best bet would probably be to catch him off guard in the middle of a sentence and try to go out the door and down the stairs. I didn't know how well my knee would do with that option, and a fleeting sense of morbid satisfaction took me. If Vernoff shot me in the back before I made it down the stairs, it would be Phil's fault for mashing my knee.

Then he wouldn't be singing, "I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you."

"What do you mean, too complicated?"

Vernoff pressed.

I stood up and looked around as if I had the duration of the war to while away.

"The Shatzkin murder," I said. "Why not just shoot him and say a burglar did it?

That's what started me thinking about you. Each murder, Shatzkin's, Newcomb's, Haliburton's, had a gimmick, a B-movie plot gimmick, your specialty."

Vernoff was hurting, and my words were giving him head troubles.

"We handed the police a wrapped-up murderer for Shatzkin," Vernoff said.

"We? You mean you and Mrs. Shatzkin?

How about Newcomb and Haliburton?"

"Camile and I and Newcomb, but not Haliburton," Vernoff explained. "He never knew what was going on. He was just a big puppy dog who found out too much." "A very active puppy dog," I said. Vernoff flared with jealousy.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Jerry," I said. "You've got the plot in your files. Good-looking hulk like Haliburton. You think your roving Camile never dallied in the garden?"

"She was just stringing him along, using him," Vernoff explained.

"You're giving me B dialogue again, Jerry," I said.

"And I can blow a hole right through . . ." he stopped.

"More B dialogue," I said, pointing out what he had already noticed. "That's your problem."

"I can write," Vernoff said. "Now that Camile and I are going to have money, control of a big agency, I'll get the ins, the breaks. That's all you need, good connections. Talent isn't enough."

"I think Warner Baxter said that in 42nd Street," I pushed.

"That's enough, Peters," he shouted, and I could see it was enough. I went in another direction. "You met Camile Shatzkin while you were her husband's client?"

"Right," he said, calming down a bit. "A party at his place. I talked to her for a while. She was interested in my work, my career. One thing led to another, and she said she wanted to read some of my material. I invited her to drop by whenever she wanted to. Then it started."

"You think she was already planning to use you to get rid of her husband?" I said.

"That was my idea. It was all my idea."

He pointed to himself with his left thumb, and I could see that Jerry Vernoff was losing control. He didn't want to be told he was a character and Camile Shatzkin was the author.

"I got the idea for getting rid of Shatzkin right out of my files," he said proudly.

"Thayer Newcomb was an old acquaintance who, like me, had never had a break. He was a good actor, but he had a reputation for doing wild things, violence. He called Shatzkin, said he was Faulkner, and made a lunch appointment for 1:30 on Wednesday. Then he called Faulkner, said he was Shatzkin, and made an appointment for noon on Wednesday. When Faulkner showed up in front of Shatzkin's office, Thayer was on the stairway, waiting. He came down and b.u.mped into Faulkner as if he were on the way out of his office. He got Faulkner in a cab and over to Bernstein's restaurant. He did a good job." "More B- picture stuff," I couldn't resist saying.

"Newcomb didn't study his part. He played Shatzkin as a loud, fast-talking agent right out of Ned Sparks. That was one of the first things that made me suspicious. Shatzkin's secretary, a solid type, said her boss was anything but what Newcomb played for Faulkner."

"Well . . ." Vernoff said, off-balance.

"Let me go on," I said, inching, or quarter-inching, toward the door as I pretended to shift my weight. "He dumped Faulkner, promised to get back to him, and then went to the restaurant where he had made a reservation and date to meet Shatzkin. He put on a false mustache and played Faulkner, obviously doing a better job than he did as Shatzkin because he got a dinner invitation.

Right?"

"Right," Vernoff beamed, remembering his triumph as author-director of the crime.

"Then," I continued, "Newcomb showed up at the Shatzkins' and shot innocent victim Jacques. Luckily for your plot, Shatzkin lived long enough to actually identify his a.s.sailant as Faulkner, the man he had invited to dinner and had lunch with. Camile was happy to support his identification. You forgot to account for how Camile could identify Faulkner, whom she never met. She positively identified a photo of Harry James as Faulkner."

"A slight error," Vernoff agreed, "but I took care of that."

"Sure you did," I said, doing some more inching. "She panicked and ran to meet you at your Culver City love nest, and when I found out about the place, she tried to protect you by saying Newcomb was her lover. More complications."

"I didn't panic," said Vernoff with self-approval.

"Not right away," I went on. "Instead you decided to try to buy some time. I had told you about my Bela Lugosi case, and you decided with Newcomb to try to get me to work on that, to throw a few scares into me to head me in the wrong direction. Newcomb's best acting jobs in this whole thing were his attacks on me."

"He wasn't just acting," Vernoff said, "I told you he was a violent man."

I said, "Why did you involve Faulkner in all this?"

"He was handy," Vernoff said defensively.

"And you didn't like him having the reputation you wanted," I pushed. "He was the big man, the famous writer." "Maybe a little of that," Vernoff agreed.

The candle sputtered from a breeze somewhere, and I tensed, ready to go for the door, but it stayed on, and I let my weight fall back against the wall.

"Faulkner is a self-satisfied, superior . . .

he didn't like me, made it clear that he thought I was a hack. I'll tell you, he needed me. He stinks with plots."

"So," I went on, "on Friday night when you were working with him, you played into his feelings, made yourself . . ."

"Obnoxious," Vernoff finished.

"Easy acting job," I said. Vernoff shook his head in mock pity at my lack of understanding. "You suggested the break just before nine, and Faulkner jumped at it and ran for a drink. That way you couldn't provide him with an alibi. But what if someone else did remember him?"

"I followed him, made sure. He came back to his room when he was sure I was gone. It was perfect."

The rain eased slightly, went to calm, and then exploded in anger with the biggest torrent of all.

"Okay, we jump back ahead," I said.

"Newcomb is attacking me in parking lots and libraries. He calls Lugosi with a big threat-by the way, did he actually have to read that one line of telephone dialogue? He couldn't even remember it?

I found it in his wallet."

"I wanted to be sure he delivered the exact line," Vernoff explained.

"Mistakes, mistakes, Jerry," I sighed.

"Finding that card in his pocket, just like all the other cards in your apartment, gave me ideas. Why did you kill Newcomb?"

"It doesn't take much to figure it out," he said, shifting the gun in his hand to get a better grip. "Thayer and I followed you to that nightclub in Glendale and agreed simply to run you down and make it look like an accident. The police weren't after us. You were. With you gone, we'd be in the clear."

"Wrong," I said. "The police would have started going over the same steps, especially if I coincidentally got hit by a car."

"That's your opinion," he said testily. It was, but my opinion was based on experience, not daydreams.

"So you didn't kill me, and I came chasing you."

"Yes," said Vernoff, "and while I drove I started to think. Camile had suggested that Thayer was her lover. If Thayer died, you might be at a dead end, especially if his death looked like it was tied in to the Lugosi case. Besides, who knows when or whether Thayer might someday start thinking of blackmail or might get caught and say things I wouldn't like? I headed for the Culver City apartment. I parked near the apartment and shot him. Then I pushed the wooden stake into him to cover the bullet."

"Got rid of a lot with one blow," I said.

"No need to give him a kickback and no need to worry about blackmail in the future." "I knew what I was doing," he said proudly.