TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (20 page)

"Why to me and not to Grayson?" said Doyle.

"Well, frankly, because I know that you have already predisposed him not to consider certain possibilities inherent in this case I thought we should discuss the matter further."

"Precisely what are you suggesting?"

"I am suggesting that perhaps the reason you have not been able to find a rational explanation for these events is that there
is
no rational
explanation."

Doyle set down his glass and sighed, shaking his head "Really, Stoker! Are you seriously suggesting that there is sonic sort of supernatural manifestation behind all of this? That we are dealing with a werewolf or a vampire?"

"Perhaps both." said Stoker. "According to legend. vampires often have servants, familiars of a sort, to protect them during their periods of' vulnerability."

"Oh, come now, Stoker!" Doyle said. "What utter nonsense! Do you honestly expect me to believe that a 15th century Wallachian
voivode
has been resurrected from the dead and is now among us as a vampire? With some sort of lycanathropic manservant, no less? I fear you have become carried away by your own imagination."

"What was it your detective was so fond of saying." Stoker said, "that if you eliminate all the probable explanations, what remains, no matter how improbable, MUST be the answer? Something like that, wasn't it'?"

"Something like that, yes," said Doyle irritably. "However, we are still a long way from eliminating all the probable explanations. For example, has it occurred to you that what we are dealing with may be a madman who, in his perverse dementia, believes himself to be a vampire?"

"No, quite honestly, that had not occurred to me," said Stoker. He grimaced, wryly. "I must admit, it makes more sense than my own theory."

"Well, don't feel too badly about it old fellow." Doyle said. "That was not something that just came to me. In the course of racking my brain over these murders, I considered a number of seemingly outrageous theories. One was that the murders were accomplished with the aid of a trained gorilla. Another was the possibility that we could be faced with a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf. Interestingly enough, those werewolf killings, as Holcombe and I have started to refer to them, took place during the time of the full moon and they have apparently stopped now. But in their stead. we now have these vampire- style murders. As if . . ."

"What is it?" Stoker said.

"I am not certain," Doyle said. "Perhaps I've been infected by your active imagination. Stoker, but what if, indeed, the killer were a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf? According to legend, werewolves are active only during the time of the full moon, so if his delusion were associated with the lunar phases, then it would follow that the killings would correspond accordingly. And the werewolf murders have stopped now. However, what if our madman's compulsion to murder were so strong that he could not bring himself to stop until the next full moon? He would have to find some sort of justification that would allow him to continue killing and since he already believes himself to be a werewolf, could he not also convince himself that he was a vampire, as well?"

"And you say my imagination is overactive?" Stoker said. "Still. I must admit that it is a fascinating hypothesis. One that certainly sounds more rational than my own."

"Well, in any event," said Doyle, "I would say that, all things considered, our first order of business must be to speak with this Count Dracula of yours."

"Our
first order of business?" Stoker said. "You mean I am to join you in this investigation?"

"You have already met this Count Dracula, whereas
I
have not," said Doyle. "And surely you wish to get to the
bottom of this matter."

"Indeed, I do!" said Stoker.

"Then we must seek out Count Dracula and confront him to see what we can learn. Do you have any idea where he may be found?"

"He has a box at the Lyceum," Stoker said. "he attends our performances with regularity. I expect that we may find him there tonight. The curtain should be going up on this evening's performance within the half hour."

"Then there's no time to lose," said Doyle. "Come, Stoker! The game's afoot! We must make haste to the Lyceum "theatre!"

Scott Neilson had left the crime lab early, much to the disgust of Ian Holcombe, who was rapidly coming to the end of his rope as a result of all these killings.

Neilson had begged off on a pretext, anxious to get back to the command post at the Hotel Metropole and report the latest developments, so he was no longer there when Linda Craven arrived with Dick Larson to warn him that their cover had been blown and that they were moving the command post.

Neilson had wanted to waste no time. There had been another murder, but this time Neilson had no doubt as to who the killer must have been. The corpse had been that of a young male, about nineteen years old, found nude in the bedroom of his boarding house. From the state of the body on the bed when it was found and the subsequent examination in the crime lab, it was obvious that the dead man was killed during a
sexual encounter and the autopsy left no doubt as to what sort of sexual encounter it had been. It seemed certain now that Tony Hesketh had become a vampire and he had claimed his first victim.

A gay vampire, thought Neilson. What a diabolical creature to release upon Victorian London! Hesketh would be able to prey upon the male homosexual population of London with relative impunity. In Victorian England, with homosexuality still largely locked up in the closet, it would be almost impossible for the police to gather evidence about such murders. And those Hesketh victimized but did not kill would not be very likely to report the assaults. Given the sexually repressed Victorian morality, a young man trying to make his way up in society would hardly admit to having been bitten in the neck and had his blood sucked by another young male. So he would doubtless hide the wound, and soon he would sicken as the infection spread within his body and a new craving began to manifest itself—an insatiable appetite for human blood.

Neilson also wanted to report that Conan Doyle had received an urgent message from Bram Stoker and had rushed off to meet with him. Doyle had crumpled up the note he had received from Stoker and thrown it into a wastebasket. Neilson had retrieved it at the first opportunity. From the message, it seemed that Stoker had stumbled upon something and was very anxious to discuss the case with Conan Doyle. The significance of these two meeting and discussing the murders could not be overlooked. Neilson felt that Steiger had to know at once. Only Steiger was
not
at the command post. No one was.

Neilson stood inside the empty suite in the Metropole Hotel, puzzled, uncertain what to do. The team had not checked out of the hotel, but the suite was abandoned.

He could make no sense of it. Something must have happened, but what'? The arms locker had been opened and it was empty. There were no signs of violence, nothing had been
disturbed, there simply wasn't anybody there. Neilson started to feel apprehensive. Something told him he should get out of there, fast. Just as he turned to leave, there came a knock at the door.

Neilson quickly reached inside his jacket and removed the Colt Model 1873 from its specially made leather shoulder rig. It was similar to the gun carried by the other members of the mission support team, a single action .45 with a 7 1/2 inch barrel. a primitive weapon by the standards of the 27th century, but Neilson was deadly with it. Trick shooting with antique firearms was his hobby, something he had learned from his father during his childhood in Arizona. and he felt far more comfortable with the heavy Colt than he would have with a laser. His "fast draw" had been clocked at over a hundred miles per hour and, in one smooth motion, he could cock and tire a single-action revolver like the Colt faster than most people could fire a more modern double-action handgun. For safety's sake, the revolver's cylinder held only five rounds, so
that the hammer could rest over an empty chamber. Otherwise, a dropped gun could easily go off. Having only five shots did not worry Neilson. If he could not get the job done with five rounds, he had no business carrying a gun.

He stood just to one side of the closed door, just in case anyone fired at him through it. The knock was repeated. "Who is it?" Neilson said cautiously.

"H. G. Wells."

Wells!
It could be a trap.

"Just a moment," Neilson said, and at the same time, he yanked open the door, grabbed Wells with his free hand and pulled him hard into the room, ready to fire at anyone who stood behind him. But there was
no one there and Neilson immediately shifted his aim to Wells, who had fallen sprawling on the carpet.

"Don't shoot.'"
said Wells. Remaining motionless upon the floor, he raised his hands up in the air, his posture comical and awkward.

Neilson checked the hallway quickly, then closed and locked the door. He glanced at Wells and put away his gun.

"Really, you Americans!" said Wells, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "I see you've brought some of your Wild West with you to London. Loaded for bear, I see. Or perhaps for werewolf? I have come seeking your three compatriots or whichever of you is in charge."

"Mr. Wells, my name is Scott Neilson. You obviously know a great deal already, but I have a feeling that we may be in danger here. Everyone else seems to be missing and it's not like Colonel Steiger to leave the command post unmanned. It is imperative that we go somewhere where we can speak safely."

"Have you a place in mind?" said Wells.

"For the moment," Neilson said, "the best solution seems to be to keep in motion, at least until I can figure out what's happening."

They left the hotel and hailed a coach. Neilson held the door for Wells as he got in, looked around quickly, then got in after Wells and told the coachman to drive them to Trafalgar Square.

The coach headed down Northumberland Avenue towards the intersection of Strand and Charing Cross Road, the central point of London, at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square, where the monument to Lord Nelson stood. The coachman drove slowly, sitting atop his seat and smoking a bent Dublin pipe. Inside the coach, Neilson leaned back against the scat and drew a deep breath.

"I hardly expected to see you, of all people," he
said to Wells. "How did you escape from Moreau?"

"Escape?" said Wells. "There was no need of escaping. I was never a prisoner of Phillipe Moreau. He is my friend."

"I wonder how much you know about your new friend," said Neilson wryly.

"I know that he is from another time," said Wells. "More specifically, from another time
line,
as I believe you people put it, a universe which exists alongside this one. I know that he had developed the techniques to create the creatures that you seek as part of a wartime laboratory effort known as Project Infiltrator and I know that he abandoned that project to work with Nikolai Drakov, whom you people from the future are pursuing. I have met three of you before, you are the fourth, but I do not know for certain how many of you there are. In any event, I have come to offer you my help and that of Phillipe Moreau."

"Jesus “ Neilson said, "he told you everything!"

"And I am satisfied that he was telling me the truth," said Wells. He had decided not to mention his trip into the future. "Your reaction merely confirms it."

"Only you don't realize that Moreau is the one behind all this."

"Apparently. Mr. Neilson," said Wells, "it is you and your compatriots who do not realize that Phillipe Moreau had nothing to do with these killings. He blames himself for having taught Nikolai Drakov the art of creating these creatures, but they were solely Drakov's work and not Moreau's. Moreau had tried to stop him when he realized what Drakov had done, how he had used him, and they fought. Drakov left him for dead, but Moreau survived and has been on his trail ever since. We met utterly by accident, when he came to the offices of the
Pall Mall
Gazette,
in search of more detailed information about one of the murders. He had tracked Drakov to London and he was convinced that a hominoid had been responsible for the murder! He had no idea that he would find me there and, in fact, he did not know who I was at first. When I became suspicious, he tried to leave, but I would not let him. Then he found out who I was and decided to take me into his confidence. When I mentioned to him that I had heard the name of Nikolai Drakov before, and the circumstances in which I had heard it, he immediately realized who my three visitors had been and he told me that they were law enforcement agents from the future and that there might be more of you than just the three I met. He also told me that he was enormously relieved to hear that you were on the scene, because it meant that the chances of stopping Nikolai Drakov and his creatures were increased."

"And you
believed
all this?"

"Implicitly," said Wells. "Moreau warned me that you would be incredulous and I see it as my responsibility to convince you that what he told me was the truth."

Neilson exhaled heavily. "If all that's true, then why didn't Moreau come to us himself?"

"Would you have listened to him?" Wells said.

Neilson recalled Steiger's order to shoot Moreau on sight and shook his head.

"No, probably not. We would have killed him. And chances are it would probably have been the right thing to do."

"Chances?" Wells said. "You would take a man's life merely on the
chance
that it was the right thing to do? I see Moreau was right in not coming to you himself. What sort of people are you?”

"Not very noble ones, apparently," said Neilson. "And not very trusting, either, I don't think you fully understand just what it is you've become involved in, Mr. Wells. Liberal principles are something we just plain can't afford. There's far too much at stake. Even if what Moreau told you was the truth, and he has obviously convinced you, we simply could not afford to trust him. As reprehensible as it may seem, we could take the chance that killing him would be the right thing to do, but we could not afford to take the chance that trusting him would be. In the case of the former, if we were wrong, only one life would be affected and it would be a life that does not belong in this timestream. In the latter case, it could affect billions of lives and I am not exaggerating. We are at war and Moreau is the enemy. Given such a choice, what would
you
do?"