Chapter Three

 

Of course, by Count Dracula, Barry meant Bela Lugosi. The actor.

Barry did not believe there was, or had ever been, any such person as Count Dracula.

He said, “Say, don’t I know you?”

Which was not at all what he’d meant to open with, but the sight of the butler decked out like a ritzy undertaker had thrown him for a second.

The Count snapped back in accents reminiscent of the Bowery Boys, “Can I help you?”

That was a relief. Barry’s nerves would have been further unsettled by an unctuous Gooood evening…

He began, “Miss O’Flaherty is expecting me,” but was cut off by the sudden appearance of his client. Margaret Mary came flying across the marble entry hall like she’d been shot out of a cannon, and practically shoved the butler out of the way.

“That’s all right, Collins!” she said breathlessly. “Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you for coming!”

Collins withdrew into the shadows, or so it seemed to Barry, and Margaret Mary joined Barry on the front step, firmly closing the door behind her.

She put a finger to her lips and led the way down the steps. When they reached the bottom of the brick stairs, she said softly, “I thought you should see the-the scene of the crime first.”

Plus, she didn’t want the servants to overhear their conversation. Barry could understand that. He nodded and followed her down a flagstone path that led through more bougainvillea and various tropical-looking plants, appearing faded and frayed in the starlight. The flagstone path turned into brick steps which led past a couple of brick terraces. Then the bricks disappeared into deep clover.

“Can I ask about the terms of your father’s will?” Barry ventured. “Was your brother aware—”

Margaret Mary didn’t hear him. “Down here is where it happened,” she threw over her shoulder, her gray shadow moving swiftly through the shade and silhouettes. “In the marble garden. I found the note on the bench where he liked to sit.”

Liked. Past tense.

A sense of misgiving crawled over Barry’s scalp. Something about this place gave him the creeps. Maybe it was the occasional pale glimmer of a statue staring sightlessly his way. Maybe it was the damp smell of moldering decay that smothered the ordinary October smells of fresh cut firewood, cinnamon and spice, and autumn leaves. Or maybe it was the instinct that made you turn in time to keep someone from bashing you over the head with a handy rock.

Barry spun quickly, but there was no one behind him.

“This way,” Margaret Mary called. She was now more than a yard ahead of him, disappearing down a stairway built into the wall of what turned out to be a sunken garden.

Feeling slightly foolish, Barry followed her down to a small garden room. A square marble slab provided the patio for four narrow marble benches. In the center of the patio was a rectangular fish pond. Not that Barry could see any fish beneath the dead leaves and blossoms that floated like snakeskin across the surface.

Margaret Mary pointed at one of the benches. “That’s where I found the note. It was in an envelope with my name printed across the front.”

“I hope you kept the envelope as well as the n—” Barry broke off as she thrust her hand into the pocket of her coat and handed him a crumpled letter. He gasped, “Lady, didn’t you ever hear of fingerprints?”

“Vampires don’t leave fingerprints.”

Barry muttered, “For the love of Mike.” He’d meant to say, For Pete’s sake! But somehow it came out the other way. Whichever. It didn’t matter. She was a screwball. He smoothed out the note and held it up to read by moonlight.

Macushla,

If you wish to see your brother alive again, honor the terms of the covenant entered into by your father. You have until the start of Samhain.

A.

“What the hell?”

“You see?”

“What are the terms of this covenant?”

“That I pledge my troth to the creature who now calls himself Darragh Avartaugh.”

Barry stared at her. And then…he laughed.

Sure, she was a little melodramatic, but he shouldn’t have. Mike was always telling him his sense of humor was going to get him into trouble one day. Sure enough.

She said in a high, dangerous voice, “You think that’s funny?”

“More like highly unlikely. I guess he hasn’t he heard about what happened to your other fiancés.”

She slapped him good and hard.

He probably had it coming.

“Oww!” Barry said, putting a hand to his jaw. She had a right like Joe Louis.

“How dare you!” Her eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. It was a little uncanny.

Even so, he said impatiently, “Come on, lady. Cut the baloney. You think I don’t know a gag when I see one? Among other things, you just happen to have a butler who could double for Bela Lugosi? Right. And I’m supposed to believe this set-up is on the level?”

She gaped at him. “Are you… Are you out of your mind? Collins looks like a double for Bela Lugosi because that’s exactly what he was! He used to work in movies. He was Bela Lugosi’s double in over thirty films.”

“Oh. Well, okay.” That was only the beginning of his objections, but he belatedly tried to soften his approach. “Look, I only meant that this is not exactly normal behavior.” He held out the note. “Not for kidnappers and not for would-be suitors.”

She snatched the note from his hand. “I should have known a man as pretty as you would be absolutely useless!”

“Hey,” Barry said, stung. “I’m perfectly useful. It just strikes me that this is a very scr-unlikely set-up. Kidnapping is one thing. Vampires, pledging of troths—”

“You’re fired!”

“Now hold on,” Barry said quickly. The size of her retainer check made a comfortable weight in his breast pocket. Belatedly, he remembered he did not want to have to hand back that check. “It’s clear to me that screwy or not, you need help, and I want to help you—”

“Leave!” she commanded, and pointed to the deep, marble steps leading out of the sunken garden. “Be gone!”

Be gone?

Be gone?

Bedamned to that. But okay. Never argue with a dame when her eyes were glowing. He’d let Miss Flaherty cool down a little and then give her a call in the morning. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to hire any other gumshoe that night, and the police would laugh her right out of the penal code.

“Suit yourself,” Barry said. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He turned and headed back through the jungle. He thought he could hear her crying in the distance—or maybe that was the castle cat—but it was up to her to make the first move. He wasn’t absolutely sure this wasn’t for the best. What was she trying to pull? Did she think he was born yesterday?

Maybe she’d forget about the retainer check. Or, if she didn’t remember until he’d deposited it, maybe he could pay it back to her in installments.

He got slightly lost finding his way back to his car. As a matter of fact, the haunted forest at the base of Mt. Fuji wasn’t as dark and spooky as the garden surrounding the House of the Seven Moons, but at last he located the drive leading to the house and slowly walked back to where he’d parked.

It was too late to con his way into Mrs. Rothman’s Halloween party, but he could always drop by his sister’s and maybe pick up some more information on the O’Flahertys. He was annoyed he’d let his sense of humor get the better of him. There was something very wrong here. He hadn’t imagined the fear he’d seen in Margaret Mary’s eyes the first time they’d met. He should have insisted on talking to the household staff right off the bat. More often than not in kidnappings, someone on the inside played a part in the crime. Sometimes inadvertently, sometimes vertently.

Also, the more he thought about it, the more worried he was by the deadline in the kidnapper’s note.

Until the start of Samhain.

A deadline was one indication of serious intent.

Was Samhain Halloween? Because in about three hours it was going to be Halloween, and if the kidnappers meant business…

Barry was still mulling that over when he reached his car. He opened the door, heard something, and glanced around. He jumped. Probably it was a trick of the moonlight, but for a crazy split second, he thought he saw something very large and winged drop right out of the sky.

Next instant, he realized he was looking at a big bald man in black duffel coat picking himself off the grass.

“What are you supposed to be?” Barry inquired, thinking the bald man must have tripped while sneaking along the drive after him.

Realizing the jig was up, the guy lunged forward, grabbing for Barry.

Barry punched him in the face. It was a good punch and Barry delivered it with enthusiastic ferocity, but it didn’t seem to slow his attacker down much. Barry felt like he’d broken his hand on this bruiser’s formidable kisser. The heel of his palm stung, like he’d scraped skin on teeth.

He swore and swung again, this time connecting with the sweet spot under the chin. His assailant’s eyes turned red—yeah, red—and he barred his teeth…which turned out to be fangs. Long, white, pointy fangs.

Barry froze. First time in his life. It just didn’t…compute. The guy had dental work that would make a saber-tooth tiger smile. And a grip like a vise.

Dracula hauled Barry forward and breathed, in foul-scented syllables, “Lay off the O’Flaherty case, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Go to hell,” Barry replied and head-butted him.

He nearly knocked himself out.

“You…first.”

Through a haze, he saw those teeth, bigger and whiter than ever, coming his way. He felt a flash of real fear and began to struggle, but it was like swimming through mud. Maybe the guy was just smiling, maybe he was going to whisper more sweet nothings in Barry’s dazed face, maybe—well, who knows?

Another even bigger figure loomed up behind White Fang.

The newcomer hauled Barry’s assailant back. The vam—whatever it—he—was, whirled in snarling fury, trying to wriggle free. Something sharp and pale swung high overhead and lanced down, piercing the vampire’s massive chest. The sound was kind of horrifying. The vampire burst into flames right before Barry’s astonished eyes.

Burst. Into. Flames.

The flames instantly cooled to bits of red-edged ash which floated away into the night. A ring of gray powder circled the place he had stood.

Slack-jawed, Barry gazed up at his savior.

“That makes four,” Mike said.