Blood Will Have Blood

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Blood Will Have Blood

A Michael Spraggue Mystery

Linda Barnes

In memory of Peter

Chapter One

“So what's the big deal?” Spraggue said. “Nobody's ever quit on you before?”

“Not one week before goddam opening night!” Arthur Darien shook his balding head vigorously. “It must have been the Bloody Marys. That really got to him.”

Spraggue nodded, said nothing. Darien had requested—
demanded
—the conference. As soon as he tired of his own ranting, the story would spill over.

“Listen, Michael,” Darien said abruptly, “the Bloody Marys, all the damned pranks, have some connection to the Dracula legend—like the garlic the bastard put in Mina's sewing basket.”

“Chases away the vampires,” said Spraggue.

“Right.” Darien beamed approvingly. “And when you kill a vampire you have to cut off his head and stuff it with garlic.”

“Pleasant task.”

“Prevents him from rising.”

“The severed head alone might do that,” said Spraggue.

“So goes the legend.”

“Right. Who got the snootful of garlic, Arthur? Who plays Mina?”

“Caroline Ambrose. Remember her? Tony Award. Great actress. But then, I've got a terrific cast; an all-around dynamite company—”

“Arthur,” Spraggue interrupted. He couldn't blame Darien for moving past the subject of Ambrose as quickly as possible. Caroline Ambrose: almost enough right there to make an actor quit a paying job. “You know, garlic in sewing baskets doesn't seem very apocalyptic to me.”

“Michael, that's the tip of the iceberg. Lights flicker onstage. Someone hums this haunting, eerie tune, enough to make your blood freeze. Actors see strange figures in the darkness.…”

As Darien spoke, he stared. Spraggue sat motionless, relaxed under the scrutiny. At least the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art taught that much. Spraggue controlled a smile. Had he stood up under Darien's famous glare as well at their first meeting? He doubted it. He'd been—what?—nine, ten years younger. Just twenty-one, a Harvard dropout, a mere apprentice in a British repertory company come up to London to audition for the great American director, Arthur Darien.

“Why don't you tell me exactly why Frank quit?” said Spraggue.

Darien took a deep breath, bulging out his pink baby cheeks. He searched for a way to avoid answering the question, gave it up, shrugged, and began. “Frank Hodges had a passion for vodka. He'd make a pitcher of drinks at home, fill a thermos, and leave it in his dressing room. During breaks he'd visit his cache. He never really overdid it. I won't work with an alcoholic.…” Darien's voice threatened to trail off, then regained strength. “He handled it, like I said. Then two days ago, he nips downstairs, pours himself a quick one, and gulps it down—” Darien paused dramatically.

He can't help it, thought Spraggue. He's been around actors so long. He stole Darien's punch line with a grin. “And somebody'd switched Frank's Bloody Marys with the weekly Red Cross donation.”

“You didn't have to speak to the guy! You didn't have to
look
at him. He'd thrown up. There were still flecks at the corners of his mouth—”

“I get the idea.”

“Frank quit. He wouldn't even talk it over. Said there was a lunatic in the company. I couldn't keep him.”

“Arthur,” Spraggue said, “are you offering me a part in your play?”

Darien relaxed into a smile. “I always said you were an abrupt bastard. I'm giving you background, Michael. This is a tough business to explain and it's going to take me a little while.”

“Then it's not a part,” Spraggue said flatly. Time for the old financial touch.

“Dammit! Sit down! Yes, it's a part, but there's something else, something more.”

“Money?”

“No.”

Spraggue sat. Darien fumbled with a pipe, lit it.

“Smoke doesn't bother you, does it?” he asked.

“I'll open the window.” Spraggue was glad of the chance.

“Nothing but exhaust fumes out there.”

Window open, pipe lit, Darien focused his eyes on a space over Spraggue's head and resumed speaking. “Remember that trouble we had in London?” he said. “That girl—”

That incredible woman. Spraggue was no longer sitting in a cramped office, breathing stale smoke. He was riding on top of a red double-decker bus, laughing at the rain while—

“You helped the company out then.” Darien's voice brought him back. “It was hushed up, but I found out.”

“It was nothing. Petty thievery.”

“The situation could have gotten out of hand. Tempers were frayed—”

“Did you invite me here to reminisce, Arthur? After all these years?”

“You're not making this any easier, Michael. I know you were a private investigator for a while—”

“I don't do it anymore. It didn't work out.”

Arthur Darien folded his plump hands on his desk. “With Frank gone, I do have a cast opening: Dr. John Seward. Not a lead, but not a support, either. An odd role, a young character part. Seward's an alienist. Brainy. Runs an asylum. One of his patients is in Dracula's power.”

“Renfield,” said Spraggue.

“You
do
remember the book.”

“The movie. Bela Lugosi was one of my heroes.”

“Read the book. It's an amazing work. Dark and hypnotic, frightening and real. Stoker tapped some source of primal horror, some phenomenon I doubt even he understood. You'll feel the power.” Darien inhaled, coughed pipe smoke. “The play it could be,
should
be, hasn't hit the stage yet. That old Deane-Balderston melodrama barely caught the flavor of the book. There was so much those guys couldn't say, couldn't even hint at in the twenties. Hell, back then, the word stomach wasn't mentioned in polite society! Sex scenes were taboo! And, God, the technical advances alone! New fog machines! Projected scenery! Deane and Balderston had to set their show totally in England. We can go from Transylvania to England and back to Transylvania again, really follow the three-part structure of the novel! And,
I've got a cast
, an incredible cast! For Dracula: John Langford. Is that inspired?”

Spraggue whistled under his breath. Langford. He'd make up for Ambrose and then some.

“And there's romance,” Darien said teasingly. “Seward's in love with Dracula's first English victim, Lucy. Emma Healey plays Lucy.”

At least he wouldn't have to make love to Caroline Ambrose. “The name's not familiar, Arthur. Should it be?”

“No, but the body should. Glorious redhead. Advertises suntan muck on the tube. You've seen her. Deep tan, tiny white bikini. A credit to lewdness in advertising. Your love scenes should be spectacular.”

“Strictly Victorian, I'll bet.”

“If I were your age,
I'd
grab the part. Even if I didn't get to ball Emma on stage! There's always an occasional afternoon off! And Seward's a fascinating guy. Introspective, but not passive. More Horatio than Hamlet. Very active at the climax of the play.”

“And what's your other offer—”

“And you could play him, Michael.” Darien rode over the interruption. “You're an
actor
. The years away from the profession don't matter. You're back now. God, I envy you that face, that adaptability. Your nose is a nose, your mouth is a mouth. Nothing outstanding but those cat's eyes. You've got that wonderful variety. You remind me of Laurence Olivier when he was young.”

Spraggue lifted one eyebrow. The very best butter, he thought. The hidden half of the deal must be pretty raw.

He waited. It was hard to rush Arthur Darien. He studied the room, made an actor's exercise of memorizing the contents.

Darien's office in the old Fens Theater was small and musty, stuffed with old theatrical props. The little director was dwarfed by the mahogany throne he sat in. A bishop's chair, probably salvaged from some long-forgotten run of
Murder in the Cathedral
. At least it looked comfortable. Spraggue's own rickety chair must have seen service in a French drawing-room farce. Fake plants almost blocked the single window: the conservatory scene from
The Importance of Being Earnest
. The room had more doors than windows, two heavy wooden ones besides the entry from the hallway. A huge boarded-up fireplace filled the far wall. Over it: crossed swords.
Cyrano de Bergerac
. The daggers beneath were Macbeth's. Or would Macbeth have used knives with that curious cross motif etched into the brass handles?

No decanters decorated the top of the sideboard. No bottles on the windowsill. No smell of whiskey. Darien's hands were nervous, but steady. Very different from the last time they'd met.

“We're doing vital work here, Michael,” Darien said finally.

Spraggue nodded dutifully. Off on another tangent.

“All New York wants is gimmicks, musicals, glitter, and flash! Here, away from that madness, we can rebuild. This theater was due for the wreckers when I found it. Can you believe that? An exquisite relic like this? And historic! The last legit playhouse built in Boston. Home of the glorious Boston Rep, the best damn resident stock company in America. Their director poured his entire family fortune into this theater. No scrimping. The very finest equipment: turntables, fly space, wonderful lighting positions—”

“Did he make his money back?”

“You kidding?” Darien laughed, a full rich roar, and the London days came flooding back. “Theater's always been a lousy investment. The talkies came in, theater bombed. The old guy went broke. Samuel Borgmann Phelps, his name was. Ever heard of him?”