TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (8 page)

It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was taking too much time. Brant and Craven were now on full-time surveillance duty, watching H. G. Wells, but he was going on about his normal routine and nothing unusual had happened. For all they knew, nothing would. It could be simple coincidence that Wells had foreseen so many future developments, coincidence that he had written about a scientist named Moreau who was engaged in biological experimentation, coincidence that he had written about time travel. And there had been nothing unusual in Conan Doyle's behavior. either. He kept consulting with Inspector Grayson, but otherwise, he did not seem to he involved in any temporally anomalous events. Only Neilson had come up with any significant information as a result of his cover position at the crime lab. What he had come up with wasn't much, but it was cause for worry.

"I think we've got at least two of them." Neilson was saying. "The Crewe murder was different from the other two. She fits the classic profile of a vampire's victim in fiction. Whatever happened to her, she apparently went along with it willingly, or at least willingly in the sense that she wasn't assaulted with the same physical force as the other victims. There may have been some other form of duress, perhaps psychological, maybe even biochemical, because she apparently never complained about what happened to her."

"What do we know about her?" Steiger said.

"From what Grayson told Conan Doyle in my presence." Neilson said, "all I know is that she had recently arrived in London from Richmond Hill. Her family is very well off. They weren't very pleased about her wanting to become an actress. She was seeing a young man named Tony Hesketh, who has apparently disappeared. Hesketh may have been bisexual. Ile was close to some of the young men in Oscar Wilde's circle and he was last seen at the Lyceum Theatre in the company of a dark, foreign looking man dressed in elegant evening clothes and an opera cape, described as a Mediterranean type, a gentleman, elegant and striking looking, with a title."

"Sounds like Count Dracula." said Finn Delaney. Steiger gave him a sharp look. "You don't think . . ."

"I was only kidding." said Delaney. An anxious expression crossed his face. "I think."

"Let me see those lists," said Andre. She grabbed the lists of recent bank depositors and real estate leasehold transactions and started scanning them.

"Oh, come on," said Steiger. "Drakov would never be that obvious."

"I don't know," said Delaney. "It could be just the sort of thing that would amuse him, throwing down the gauntlet that way. Jesus, a genetically engineered vampire. And if such a creature's genetic makeup was also contagious—"

"It would be, knowing Drakov," Steiger said.

"How about that for temporal terrorism?" said Delaney. "Unleashing a plague of vampires and werewolves on Victorian London. And the timing is positively macabre. Just one year before Brain Stoker started work on
Dracula.
One year before
The Time Machine
was published."

"And it was always believed that Stoker based his character on the historical Dracula from the 15th century," said Andre, still scanning the lists. "Drakov might just have decided to make the character
truly
historical. And the similarity of their names, that would only be one more thing that would make the idea appeal to him."

"Anything?" said Steiger, watching her scan the lists. She shook her head.

"You know, we may be overlooking something, sir." said Neilson. "What about rentals?"

"Jesus, rentals!•• Steiger said. "How the hell would we ever track down rentals? There's just no way!"

"Possibly not, sir," Neilson said, "but on the other hand, would Drakov really go in for a bed-and-breakfast sort of deal? I mean, it doesn't seem very likely that he'd rent ordinary moms like your average London boarder. He'd want something bigger, probably, more private. An unused estate, maybe, or a warehouse—"

"A warehouse!" said Delaney. "And
all
the killings so
far
occurred within the same general area, the East End of London, within easy access of the docks on the Thames."

"Neilson, you seem to be the only one who's doing any thinking around here." Steiger said. "Start checking the warehouse district on the docks during your off-duty hours from the crime lab. I'll try to get you some help. There can't be that many warehouses standing empty, so you can automatically eliminate the ones in active use. Maybe we're finally getting somewhere. Christ, it's like looking for a goddamn needle in a haystack. Somehow, we've got to get a break on this."

"What about the newspaper reports?" said Andre.

"Not much we can do about them now," said Steiger. "I'd rather have them writing about a new series of Ripper murders than vampires and werewolves loose in London."

"There's one more thing, sir,•" Neilson said. "The man who's missing, Tony Hesketh. It may not be a bad idea to stake out his apartments. If he returns, he may no longer be the same if you know what I mean. He's been missing for about three weeks. I don't know how long it would take for the viral genome to bring about a mutation, but if he's not dead, he may provide us with our first real lead."

"Good idea," said Steiger. "I'll pull Rizzo off the estate search and assign him to watch Hesketh's rooms. Have we got an address on him?"

"Not yet, sir," Neilson said, "but I might be able to sneak a look at Grayson's files and get it."

"All right, do it. But be careful. Don't get caught. We can't afford to have you sacked from your job at the lab. It's been our only source of information so far."

"I'll be careful, sir.–

"Okay. get going." Steiger checked his watch. "Who's watching Conan Doyle now? Craven?"

"Yes. I had her relieve me for about an hour so I could make the briefing," Andre said.

"All right, get back there. She'll have to relieve Brant at Wells' house in several hours and I want her to be fresh."

"How are you holding up?" said Delaney.

"I'm not getting much sleep, if that's what you mean," said Steiger. "But then holding down the fort has never
been
my style. I'll be glad when something breaks and we can stop stretching ourselves so thin. But until then, it's got to he a waiting game." He tossed back another drink. "I only hope we won't have to
wait
too long."

The small, slightly built man with the prematurely grey hair and beard stood in the entrance to the offices of the
Pall Mall Gazette,
holding a folded copy of the paper in his hand and glancing around nervously.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping a young man walking past him "are you on the staff here at the newspaper?"

"Well, after a fashion. I suppose,” said the young man. "How may I help you, sir?"

"My name is Moreau. Dr. Phillipe Moreau. The gentleman who wrote this story, about the killing in Whitechapel—”

"The murder of the prostitute, you mean?"

"Yes. I was wondering if I could speak with him."

"Well. I am afraid he is not in the office at the moment. Dr. Moreau, and I have no idea when he will return. I was just leaving myself. I am not actually on staff here: I write occasional articles, but perhaps I can assist you?"

"Oh, I see. Well, I don't know. Mr.—"

"Wells."

"Thank you, Mr. Wells, but I don't think that will be necessary” said Moreau. "Perhaps I should not even have come. I just thought, perhaps—"

"Why don't we sit down?" said Wells. "There is obviously something troubling you. If there is anything that I can do to help, I will certainly try."

"Yes, all right," said Moreau, taking the seat Wells indicated. They sat down at a desk.

"Now then." said Wells, "what about this murder?"

"Well, I have a daughter, you see," Moreau said hesitantly. "That is, I had a daughter. I have not seen her for quite some time. She came to London and, well. I have been searching for her—"

"And you thought perhaps this dead girl could be your daughter?" said Wells. "You wanted to satisfy yourself as to her identity?"

"Yes, precisely." said Moreau. "The newspaper gave her name as Gordon. I know, but it is possible that she had taken another name...."

"I understand," said Wells. "However, if that had been the case, we would really have no way of knowing, you understand. You realize that the odds of this poor murdered girl being your missing daughter are really quite small."

"Yes, yes, highly unlikely, I know," said Moreau, "but something told me—I just simply had to know, you see. Perhaps if I could speak to someone who had an opportunity to view the remains . ."

"I do not know if that would help you. Doctor," Wells said. "As I understand it, the body was . . . well, the poor girl's face was damaged beyond all recognition. Her neighbors identified her mainly by her clothing and a few personal possessions. The murder was quite savage. Considering the odds, why subject yourself needlessly to such an ordeal?"

"You don't understand," said Moreau, "I
must
know. The nature of the wounds, the manner in which—" He suddenly caught himself and stopped.

"What about the nature of the wounds, Doctor?" Wells said. watching him carefully. "Why should that happen to interest you?"

"Nothing, you misunderstood me." said Moreau. "I am merely distraught. I should not have come here. Forgive me for taking up your valuable time . . ."

"One moment, Doctor," Wells said, catching him by the arm.

"Please," said Moreau. “Let me go."

"Not just yet, Doctor," said Wells. "I do not think that I misunderstood you. And something tells me that you are not being entirely truthful with me. Why come to the newspaper? Why not go to the police?"

"Yes, undoubtedly that is what I should have done," Moreau said, “I merely thought that —"

"Why don't we go see the police together?" Wells said. "We can go right now."

"No, really, thank you, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. It's really quite—"

"You really do not want to go to the police, do you?" said Wells. "Why is that? What are you afraid of"

Moreau looked at him with alarm. "I see what you are thinking," he said. "You think perhaps I may have had something to do with this crime."

"I am merely wondering why you seem reluctant to go to the police." Wells said. "Why are you so interested in this murder? What is it about the nature of the wounds? What do you mean? You are not really seeking a missing daughter. are you?"

“Yes, of course I am,” Moreau said. "Why else would I be so concerned?"

"That is what I would like to know. Dr. Moreau," Wells said. "You are obviously an educated man, and yet the newspaper reports clearly stated that the dead girl was a Cockney. strictly working class. Moreover, your accent is slight. but definitely French, I think, as is your name. I suppose it is possible that an educated French gentleman could have a daughter by a Cockney mother. but then if that were so, why would you be reluctant to go to the police? That would be the natural avenue of inquiry for a man seeking a missing daughter, would it not?"

A number of the people in the office had become interested in the conversation. "What is it?" one of them said. "Some sort of problem?"

"Please," said Moreau in a low voice. "I cannot discuss this here."

"I think we had best get to the bottom of this, Dr. Moreau," Wells said.

“No, let me go," Moreau said, pulling away, but Wells would not let go.

Moreau's sleeve was pulled back, exposing a strange-looking bracelet. It caught Wells' attention. It was made from an unusual black material, with small, numbered studs arranged upon it in a pattern.

"What's this?" said Wells, looking down at it.

"Don't touch it!” Moreau said, jerking his arm back violently.

"I think perhaps we had better speak with the police," said Wells.

Moreau looked around frantically, seeing himself being hemmed in.

"Please," he said, "I beg you no police. They would not understand. I swear to you. I am no criminal."

"Who is this chap, Bertie?" one of the other reporters said. "What's he on about?"

"Have we got some kind of trouble here?" another said.

"Please," Moreau said softly. And then his eyes grew wide. "Bertie?" he said. "Herbert Wells?"

"Yes,” said Wells, looking at him strangely.

"Herbert George Wells?"

"How is it that you happen to know my full name, Doctor'?" Wells said. "I did not give it to you and I do not use it professionally… I am certain we have never met."

"Please, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "I promise to answer all your questions, but we must speak somewhere in private. I assure you that I have no personal involvement in this killing but I believe I know who was responsible."

"Very well." said Wells, "but I promise you that if you do not adequately explain yourself. I will summon the police."

Moreau nodded. "Very well, I shall accept that. But please let us speak in private."

"There is a small teashop just down the street," said Wells. "Come, we can talk there. Give me your arm."

“You think I will try to run away?" Moreau said.

"I think you are a desperate man. Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "There is an edge of hysteria in your voice and panic in your eyes. Very well, we shall simply walk together, but if you run off, rest assured that I am quite capable of giving the police a completely accurate and detailed description of you."

Moreau nodded. They left the building together and started walking down the street towards one of the teashops operated by the Aerated Bread Company.

"What is that curious bracelet on your wrist?" said Wells.

"If I told you the truth" Moreau said "you would not believe me. You would think me mad."

"I never leap to uninformed conclusions, Doctor," Wells said.

"No. you wouldn't," said Moreau, smiling. "Not you.”

Wells frowned. "I find your remarks most puzzling. You behave as if you knew me."