The Vampire Files - The Dark Sleep Part 13

"England's closer to what's going on. If that war in Spain spreads out, they'll feel it sooner than we would."

"Maybe I should write the king of England instead. Whoever the h.e.l.l it is now," he said.

In summing up '36, the press had called it the "year of three kings" because of the old king's death, that business with the abdication, and the crown going to the next brother in the line. Escott had been singularly uninterested in any of it beyond a comment that the so-called scandal was nothing compared to those the previous generation of royalty had been embroiled in. To prove his point he related a few juicy stories that never made it to the history books, then went back to reading the papers without revealing his sources.

My driver got very detailed about his handicapping system, enough to keep me entertained on the trip back. I gave him a good tip when we arrived and checked the area on the off chance that McCallen had changed his mind and returned. The street was clear except for my Buick and the cars that had been there before. No Escott yet, so I let myself into Mary Sommerfeld's house and straightened books and paintings while waiting for him.

She had quite a collection of reading material, and just to be nosy I studied spine t.i.tles. She seemed to have a little of everything, from cla.s.sics to the new stuff being touted as the next batch of cla.s.sic literature. I had my doubts on that since I couldn't recall the name of last year's critically acclaimed opus. The fact that I'd not bothered to read it may have had something to do with the lapse of memory. My tastes ran to more lurid stuff. At least it could be relied upon to have a plot.

Once I tried to get through Anthony Adverse and finally gave up when I found myself pa.s.sing over whole pages at a time to find plot developments. I didn't much like the ending either when I skipped ahead to read it. I fared better with Gone with the Wind because all the detail on the Civil War was pretty interesting. Bobbi had liked the book, so I read it to talk about it with her. She thought Scarlett should have wised up faster about Ashley and told Rhett Butler to jump in the lake at the end. I thought she should have picked up stakes and moved west right after Gettysburg and to h.e.l.l with Tara. For that I got a pillow thrown in my face.

Mary Sommerfeld was also quite a theatergoer, to judge by her collection of old program books, many from New York. With her money she probably wouldn't think anything of hopping a train east to take in the Broadway season.

She read plays as well, and had several books containing scripts of everything from Shakespeare to George S. Kaufman.

Before I got too far in my cultural education I heard a car door slam. Escott was coming up the walk. I let him in and asked about our client.

"She's presently checked in under an a.s.sumed name in one of the upper floors of a hotel in the Loop, hopefully enjoying a room-service drink and a fine view of the lake. The more time she had to think about things the more agitated she got. I was wishing I possessed your powers of enforced persuasion by the time I had her settled in. She is not at all pleased at this turn of events."

"It's her own fault. You warned her, and tonight I told her she should burn the stuff, but it put her nose all out of joint. I've got a new turn for you, too."

"Indeed?" He dropped into a chair and stretched out his legs.

I told him about my hitching a ride with McCallen and his conversation with the new man, Paterno. "He sounded pretty thick with this bird. The impression I got was that Paterno was a go-between for some other players. McCallen's apparently trying to get the papers so either he or Paterno can sell them to an unknown party with plenty of cash."

"He did say it was worth ten times more than the two hundred I offered him," Escott recalled.

"Which is a lot of dough in anyone's bakery. Maybe it's a news outfit. 'Cracker Heiress Slums with Scotch Madman' would make a catchy headline for the seamier rags, especially if they had some purple-pa.s.sion love letters to print with it."

He looked pained. "That's 'Scots.' Scotch is a drink."

"You catch my drift, though. McCallen's hurt feelings for her might translate into that kind of vindictiveness."

"For a mere two thousand dollars?"

"That's enough for anyone to start over anywhere and have plenty of fun along the way."

"I suppose, but it's just one possibility."

"You got others?"

"Suppose the family of her fiance, Prince Ravellia, objects to Miss Sommerfeld as hers objected to McCallen? They might be trying to find a way of discrediting her in order to call off the marriage."

"I thought poor princes marrying American heiresses was still in fashion."

"Except that his family is not poor. Their objections could be based on the young lady's commoner bloodline." "You're kidding. That's crazy."

"So speaks a man born in a democracy. But there are cla.s.s issues to consider, and his family might think Miss Sommerfeld too inferior no matter how rich she is or will be."

I remembered about all the shock over the divorced American Mrs. Simpson marrying a king, and figured Escott had a point. We talked back and forth for a while, but came to the same conclusion in the end-I'd have to see McCallen.

"Fine," I said. "Invite him over to the office for a meeting. I'll deal with him there."

"Very well."

"Hey, Charles, I meant it as a joke!"

"Oh, yes, of course, but it is a most sensible suggestion."

" 'Sensible' is not the word. He was ready to break me in two tonight and would just as cheerfully fold you in half the wrong way if he got the chance. You're not inviting him over there unless I'm along to keep him in line."

"My dear fellow, I wouldn't think of depriving you of the opportunity. I'm well aware that he might be feeling a touch annoyed at your invasion of his house, but have no doubt you'll be able to sort him out."

"Good."

"And if I've not ascertained by then the ident.i.ty of this Paterno fellow and his comrades, you can make inquiries directly with Mr. McCallen."

I was going to advise Escott to be careful, but bit it back. He knew his business, and actually looked interested in it for a change. The case had some ups and downs, but it wasn't exactly riveting for him. Now that things had gotten more complicated, he'd have something to do tomorrow besides turn away divorce work.

We shut most of the lights off and hauled ourselves out of there. Escott locked up while I headed on to my car. I thought about going back Moe's to see if Jim Waters was still playing, but decided to leave well enough alone for the moment. I'd already made a h.e.l.l of a first impression on him, anything more on top of it might make things worse.

Better to try again another night, preferably after my talk with McCallen.

Remembering Waters sparked something else in my brain, though, and I trotted back to Escott just before he drove off. "I saw Shoe last night," I said.

"Really? How is he?"

"Doing fine. He wants us to come over to his club this week for dinner, maybe listen to the act he's got playing."

"A most generous invitation, but I-"

"He told me to say he's got a French-trained chef up from New Orleans."

That stopped him cold. "Well, I could hardly turn away from such a gastronomic opportunity. I'll phone tonight and see what can be arranged."

"Just not on Tuesday, okay? That's the night of Bobbi's broadcast and I'm gonna be busy with her."

"Right, I'll remember. It's a very exacting art, you know. French cooking. A matter of bringing out the taste and presenting it well."

"Even frogs and snails? What about that Cajun guy who eats things Shoe wouldn't step on?"

"The idea," Escott continued, nonplused, "is to eat slowly and enjoy your meal in the company of friends. What a pity you can't join us for that. You miss so much good food because of your condition."

"Don't start that talk; I'm happy with what I've got." I'd tried frog legs once on a Paris furlough during the war and decided there was more meat to be had on a chicken. The taste was about the same, anyway.

Escott favored me with one of those piercing looks. "But the same thing, night after night after night?"

I shrugged. "I've tried to explain it, but it won't explain. To me the stuff always tastes just-"

He held up a quick hand. "No. Please. I'd rather you spared me the details." Escott was on the squeamish side.

"You two eat; I'll watch the show," I said.

"Another good reason to clear this case as quickly as possible." "You said it, brother."

Going into the Nightcrawler lobby, I briefly wondered what I'd have done with my evening hours if there were no clubs. What did cavemen vampires do for entertainment while everyone else went to bed with the dinosaurs? Explore the caves? Had there even been such things as cavemen vampires? I sure as h.e.l.l didn't know. Maybe one of these nights some guy with a low brow and knuckles dragging on the floor would materialize in front of me and explain the whole business. In fact, such a specimen did walk past, but he was one of the club bouncers.

The show was going strong, playing to a slightly smaller audience than the previous few nights. The bottom two tiers were crowded, but the population was more spa.r.s.e in the third. Still, it was a good crowd for a Sunday.

Tomorrow the place would be closed and dark, with only the cleaning crew making noise while everyone else took some time off.

The intermission was about ten minutes away. I strolled into the gambling room and looked around for Gordy, but he was elsewhere. Just to keep in practice, I played a couple of hands of blackjack with my favorite dealer. He thought I had one amazing gift for luck, as I won more often than not. The luck had to do with my excellent hearing and his inability to control the beating of his heart when he had a good hand. It was a small edge for me, though a lot of it did depend on the fall of the cards and my own judgment. I won two hands and lost two, tipped him, and continued on to the backstage area just as the teacup number came to an end. Not long now. Soon I'd be seeing my best girl again.

Pushing open the door to Bobbi's dressing room, I discovered Archy Grant sitting on her couch flipping through a magazine with a drink in hand, looking like he owned the place.

7

His gaze hit mine and there was a definite air of mutual disconcertment and annoyance hanging in the s.p.a.ce between us. His quickly vanished behind his signature grin, and he put aside the magazine to stand and walk over, hand out.

"Well, if it ain't young Mr. Fleming!" He really sounded sincere in his delight. "How y'doing?"

"Fine, thank you." I wondered if Gordy had had that word with Ike LaCelle and if it had filtered down to Grant yet.

He pumped my hand, apparently pleased to see me. The room seemed to get smaller with his presence suddenly filling the s.p.a.ce. It was the same kind of thing Bobbi did when she tapped into her personal voltage in front of a crowd, and maybe Grant was doing it for the same reason; he wanted to be liked, and it didn't matter by whom. For him it must have been as automatic as breathing. Bobbi knew when it was appropriate, though, and when to switch it off and just be herself.

"I'd heard that you were working tonight," he said. "Glad you got finished in time to come by. I was going to take Bobbi to a late dinner, but now I can bow out-reluctantly, I will add-and turn things over to you."

"It's good of you to be looking after her interests," I said, determined to be gracious even if it choked me.

"My own interests, you mean. That girl is one talented ball of fire and it'll be a feather in my cap to have her on my show. I only want to keep her happy."

"That's good." Over by her closet stood a fresh bouquet of a couple dozen long-stemmed roses, and on the table in front of the couch was a huge open box of chocolates. He wasn't missing any of the traditional courtship gifts. In spite of my resolution not to give in to jealousy I couldn't help feeling a sharp warning stab. There was no reason for it; Grant's behavior wasn't Bobbi's fault. I knew that in my head, but it was harder to convince my gut.

He bounced cheerfully on his heels. "I'll stay long enough to tell her good night and be on my way. Have a seat."

"Thanks, I will in a minute. I want the leg stretch." And to avoid the dressing-room mirror.

He went back to sit on the couch and picked up his drink again. "What you been up to? If you don't mind my asking."

"A little interviewing."

"Bobbi told me you're a writer." The almost-but-not-quite-patronizing tone and the look in his eyes said that he remembered my errand-boy story from last night. "You doing an article on someone?"

"Different kind of interview. I write, but I also work for a private agent." That's the name my partner preferred over "gumshoe" to describe the job.

Grant let his forehead furrow, a comic exaggeration.

"What's that? Insurance?"

"More like investigations."

"Detective work?"

"Something like that. The Escott Agency."

"Really?" He paused a moment, lips pursed. Maybe I didn't fit his idea of a detective. "The Escott Agency. Sounds...

interesting."

"Yeah, sometimes it's a real riot."

He finished his drink, putting it on the table, and helped himself to a chocolate, chewing it slowly. Before he could continue his questioning, Bobbi came in, a noisy crowd at her heels.

"Jack!" Nothing false in her reaction of pleasure at seeing me. She gave me a light kiss, careful of her makeup.

"I got away from Charles sooner than I thought." "Good! Look, Archy invited me to dinner, so why don't we all go out together? That is, if you don't mind, Archy."

He'd risen from the couch as soon as she'd come in and seemed nonplussed. "Well... ah..."

"Is there a problem?" she asked. "It's been a long day, maybe you're too tired?" Having quickly figured there was something wrong, she was trying to give him a graceful exit.

"Ix-nay on the inner-day," said Grant, abruptly switching on a rueful face and holding his palms out. "For now at least. After all, I was just pinch-hitting for the real thing. Your boyfriend's here to take charge, so I will diplomatically toddle off."

"But, Archy-"

"Three's one too many. Just be on time for tomorrow's rehearsal, little teacup." As before, he bowed to kiss her hand, then swung past, wishing me good night with a quick nod and a forced smile. Even its pretense didn't quite reach his eyes.

The crowd of chorus girls hanging outside, attracted by Archy's brighter light and his loud, broad greeting to them all, went with him, and I shut the door.

"What happened?" Bobbi asked in the silence.

"Absolutely nothing. I came in to wait for you and found I had to get in line."

Her mouth sagged. "I hope you didn't mean that as some kind of crack." Her voice was oddly thin.

I realized just too late what I'd sounded like. "For G.o.d's sake, no. It's nothing against you, it's just him. He gets under my skin. I didn't expect him to be here."

"No need to worry, I'd have left the door open," she said, going to her dressing table and taking off the black wig.

Her movements were alarmingly fast and jerky.