The Dracula Caper

10

"I shall ask you one more time, madame," Grayson said, pacing back and forth across his office at Scotland Yard, "what is your real name and what is your purpose here in London?"

"I've already told you," Linda Craven said. She was sitting in a straight- backed wooden chair placed against the wall. A uniformed policeman stood beside her. "My name is Craven, Linda Craven, and I am an American citizen. I am part of a research group preparing a series of texts-•

"You're lying," Grayson said, stopping directly in front of her. He did not raise his voice.

"Inspector, I resent your accusation," she said stiffly. "Why am I being treated like this? I have been assaulted and the gentleman I was with was murdered in a horrible manner, yet you are questioning me as if I were the criminal! What possible reason' would I have for lying to you'?"

"That is precisely what I am attempting to discover, madame," Grayson said. "I have been in touch with the American consulate and they have no knowledge whatsoever of any research project such as you describe. I would think that if there really were such a project, the American embassy would be aware of it. Additionally, there is the matter of your passport. It is an extremely clever forgery. And let us not forget that singularly unacademic revolver of yours. Quite a large revolver, too, especially for a woman. Mr. Larson also had such a revolver. A Colt. 45 Peacemaker, as I believe it's called. Hardly the sort of item one might expect to find among the personal effects of an American research scholar or a British newspaperman. A British newspaperman who seems to have no past. I might add. It seems that prior to his being hired on at the Police Gazette. Mr. Larson appears not to have existed. I find that very curious. But it becomes still more so. "Members of the hotel staff report having seen the late Mr. Larson at the Metropole on numerous occasions, visiting that very suite where you were found unconscious, pinned beneath the body of your assailant. Now why would a British newspaper reporter investigating a series of brutal murders in Whitechapel be paying frequent visits to a group of young American scholars engaged in writing a textbook concerning the social history of England?"

As it happens, we were seeing each other socially," said Linda.

"Entirely possible,” said Grayson, "but. I think not very likely. I have here a list, kindly supplied by the hotel, of the names of individuals who were part of this supposed 'research group' of yours. The name Richard Larson does not appear on this list, but interestingly enough, the name Richard Locker does and several members of the hotel staff have positively identified the remains of the unfortunate Mr. Larson as those of Mr. Locker. Remembering that Mr. Larson had been working very closely with the late Mr. Thomas Davis of The Daily Telegraph, it occurred to me to show a photograph of the remains of Mr. Davis to the hotel staff and, lo and behold, we discover that Mr. Thomas Davis was apparently also Mr. Thomas Daniels, whose name appears right here on our list of members of this 'research group.' Further inquiries lead us to the realization that prior to being taken on by The Daily Telegraph. Mr. Davis also appears not to have existed. We begin to uncover a tissue of lies and misrepresentation, forged credentials, faked references, all pointing to sonic sort of ambitious and illegal undertaking.

"Now," continued Grayson, "I find it very fascinating that two British newspapermen are also apparently members of an American research group, headed by two so-called 'professors' named Steiger and Delaney, whom the American consulate has never heard of and who are nowhere to be found. I also find it fascinating that both you and Mr. Larson visited the crime lab here at Scotland Yard earlier today, asking after Mr. Scott Neilson, and when you learned that Mr. Neilson had left early, you apparently went directly to the Metropole Hotel. Now, having an inordinately suspicious nature, I decided to question some of the hotel staff about our Mr. Neilson. It seems they had never heard of anyone by that name. But when I described him, lo and behold once more, comes the reply, 'Why, that sounds like Mr. Nelson, one of those nice young American scholars!' The plot, it seems, grows thicker. Mysteries abound and the trail keeps leading us back to the Hotel Metropole, all roads leading to Rome, as it were. That it was a headquarters of some sort I have no doubt, but a headquarters for what, specifically? An academic project? No. madame, I think not."

He went around to his desk and opened one of the drawers. He took out the plastic dart pistol Volkov had used and a pair of black bracelets Craven and

Larson's warp discs.

He picked up the plastic pistol. "I have never seen anything even remotely like this weapon before," he said. "I cannot even identify the material it's made from. Lightweight, yet incredibly strong. It dot; not appear to be metal, at least none such as I have ever seen. What is it?" She shrugged. He put it down and then picked up the warp discs. "And would you mind telling me what these peculiar items are?"

"They are only bracelets," she said. "Jewelry, nothing more."

"Indeed?" said Grayson. "And what, then, is the purpose of all these little numbered knobs? Mere decoration?"

"Here," she said, reaching for the warp disc. "I'll show you." Grayson handed her the bracelet. "It's merely part of the catch, that's all. There's a little trick to opening it…" As she spoke, she tried to activate the disc, but she quickly realized that Grayson must have already played with it, because the failsafe designed into the disc had fused it, melting the particle level chronocircuitry and rendering it useless. Her spirits sank.

"Yes?" said Grayson.

She shook her head. "It seems to be broken now," she said.

He reached out his hand for it and she returned the useless warp disc to him. "I was examining it earlier and it suddenly became quite warm," he said, watching her carefully. "How do you account for that?"

She shook her head, staring at him as if he were speaking Greek. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Inspector."

"Don't you? Apparently, there is no way to disassemble it or to break it open. You still maintain that it is merely a piece of jewelry and nothing more?"

She nodded.

"And this peculiar little pistol, which tires some sort of strange, envenomed darts'?"

"It isn't mine." she said. "I have no idea what it is." "You are lying again, Miss Craven, or whatever your name really is," said Grayson. "Who was that man who attacked you and murdered Mr. Larson?"

"I don't know."

"Why did he attack you?"

"I don't know."

"What is your connection with Mr. Scott Neilson?"

"Mr. Larson wanted to question him on some point concerning a story he was writing for his newspaper."

"Mr. Larson? I thought his name was Locker."

"It was Larson." she said. "I never knew him by any other name."

"And he was a member of your research group?" "He was a reporter for the Police Gazette."

"Then why is it that several members of the hotel staff have identified him as Richard Locker. a member of your research group?"

"I have no idea. I never really noticed any particular resemblance."

"I see. So if Mr. Larson isn't Mr. Locker, then where is Mr. Locker?"

"I don't know."

"Is it merely a coincidence that they had such similar names?" said Grayson.

"I suppose it must be," she said. "I had never really thought about it."

"And is it also a coincidence that they happened to resemble one another?"

"I suppose it must have been. I never thought of them as resembling one another."

"What about Mr. Thomas Davis and Mr. Thomas Daniels? Does the same coincidence apply to them?" "What do you mean?"

"The names are similar."

"Yes. I suppose they are."

"And the photograph of Mr. Davis was identified by members of the hotel staff as that of Mr. Daniels."

"Well, I suppose they were similar types, but I personally don't think they looked very much alike."

"Yours appears to be the minority opinion. You've met Mr. Davis, then?"

"I met him once in the company of Mr. Larson. I didn't really know him very well, which is to say, not at all, actually. He was Mr. Larson's friend."

“Then where is Mr. Thomas Daniels?"

"I don't know."

"Were they not, in fact, the same person?"

"Of course not, Inspector, I really do not see what you are driving at." she said. "You are browbeating me as if I were a common criminal. I am guilty of no offense! I have done nothing! I was in the company of a gentleman friend and we were brutally attacked. My poor friend was killed. I might have been killed myself, and set you are interrogating me as if I were the one who had committed the assault. I don't understand you! Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because. madame. I intend to get at the truth." said Grayson. "And we shall remain here until I start to hear some of it."

There was a knock at the door of his office.

"Yes?"

A policeman came in and handed him a wire. Grayson read it, nodded to himself, then held it up so that she could read it.

"This is a wire I have just received from the Boston Police Department in answer to my inquiry." he said. "There is no record of the existence of a Foundation for Educational Research in Boston, Massachusetts. You still maintain that you were employed by this fictional organization?"

"I don't understand," she said. "There must be some mistake."

"You maintain that there is such an organization?"

"Yes, of course! I am employed by them. What else would I be doing here?"

"Where are their offices?"

"I don't know," she said. "I was taken on by Dr. Steiger. I was hired through the mail, in response to a newspaper advertisement."

"Indeed? And where is Dr. Steiger?"

"I don't know.”

"Where is Professor Delaney?"

"I don't know that, either."

"Where is Mr. Nelson?"

"I don't know."

"But you expected to find him at the crime lab?"

"No. that was Mr. Neilson we were looking for," she said, not falling for the trap. "I don't know where Mr. Nelson is."

"Another coincidence, I suppose, the similarity of names? And the fact that they both answer to the same description?"

"I have no idea what you are implying, Inspector. You seem to think that everyone resembles someone else. Am I being accused of something?" "Where is Mr. Neilson?"

"I have no idea, Inspector. I don't even know the man! He was Mr. Larson's acquaintance. Why am I being kept here? Why are you hounding me like this? What am I being accused of?

"Of being an accomplished liar, madame." Grayson said. "And a very clever actress. Of those facts, I have no doubt whatsoever. We are here to determine precisely what else you are.

Grayson kept hammering away at her, but she stubbornly stuck to her story. She was an American citizen, employed by a research foundation based in Boston, in London to participate in a research project aimed at producing a series of textbooks. She had been attacked by an unknown assailant, whom Larson had shot before being killed himself. She had no idea where the other members of the research group had disappeared to. They were supposed to be at the Hotel

Metropole. The fact that they weren't there coupled with the fact of the assault on her obviously suggested that there was some sort of foul play involved in their disappearance. Why wasn't Grayson investigating that instead of hounding her? She maintained that she had no idea why her passport had turned out to be a forgery. It was a complete surprise to her. She didn't understand it at all. It had been obtained for her by the foundation and she had assumed that it was all in order. Nor did she have any idea why the Boston Police Department had reported that there was no such organization. There had to be, she insisted. How else could she have been able to afford coming to London?

No matter what Grayson said to her, she played the innocent, sticking to the same story, refusing to change it in spite of the fact that it was obviously lame. She knew that the moment she changed so much as one small detail of her story, all hope of deceiving Grayson would vanish utterly. It was precisely what Grayson was trying to get her to do. He wanted to trap her in an inconsistency and then batter away at her with it until her entire story fell apart. She could not afford to make the least little slip. Grayson was far too good a cop. He had almost completely unraveled it all; it was a war of nerves, a battle of psychology. If she slipped, Grayson would come at her like a hungry shark and it would be all over. But if she was careful, if she maintained her innocence and stuck to the same story. if she answered as many questions as possible with "I don't know" instead of inventing things off the top of her head, she might avoid being trapped and Grayson might start to believe that she actually was an innocent victim, duped by this mysterious foundation and used in some sort of criminal plot of which she knew absolutely nothing. It was a question of who would wear whom down first.

She pretended to be growing more and more tired, more and more confused, all the while staying on the alert, wary of being trapped in a contradiction. She cried: she complained of ill treatment: she called Grayson a heartless brute. Grayson fought to keep his temper under control, keeping his voice level, never raising it, not abusing her verbally so much as addressing her in the tone of a strict, paternal disciplinarian. He was certain she was keeping something back from him, but he could not trick her into deviating from her story. He couldn't understand it. No woman could hold up to such determined questioning for so long. Was it possible that she really was telling the truth?

There was a knock at the door.

"Not now," Grayson said.

"Thought you'd want to hear this right away," said Holcombe, coming in without being invited.

"For God's sake, what is it. Ian?"

Simon Hawke

The Dracula Caper

"You must have a guardian angel whispering in your ear." said Holcombe. "You were right. I compared those hair samples of Dr. Doyle's with some samples of hair from the man killed in the Hotel Metropole. Identical. No question about it. Whoever that chap was, we've got our Whitechapel killer right here in the morgue. Thought you could use some good news for a change."

"You're absolutely certain?" Grayson said. "There can be no mistake?"

"Feel free to confirm my findings with Dr. Doyle if you like," said Holcombe. "I can understand your wanting to be certain, but he'll tell you the same thing. I guarantee it. This one's our man, all right. No doubt about it."

"Thank you. Ian." Grayson said.

"Pleasure to be of service." Holcombe said. "If you feel like celebrating, I'll buy you a drink."

"Sorry. Ian, I'd like to, but I still have a great deal more to do and I simply cannot spare the time. Thank you just the same,"

"Right. Another time, then."

"Another time."

Holcombe left with a casual "Evening, miss" to Linda. Grayson stared at her, frustrated, his stride broken. He was getting nowhere and he had no real grounds on which to hold her except for the forged passport, but if he detained her on that basis, that might be the end of it and he was certain that she knew more than she was telling hint. Somehow, all these things were interconnected and he felt that if he could only locate the main thread, he could unravel the tangled web.

"Very well, madame," he said wearily, "I see no point in detaining you any longer. Perhaps you really are innocent of any wrongdoing, but I would be far easier to convince if you were to contact me the moment you saw any of your fellow 'research associates' again. I would very much like to speak with them. I am afraid that I shall have to hold on to your forged passport. I suggest that you contact the American consulate in regards to obtaining a genuine one. Might I inquire as to where you will be staying?''

"I–I don't know yet," she said, looking relieved and confused at the same time. "I shall have to make other arrangements. I really don't understand any of this. Right now, all I wish to do is rest, then see about my passport and return home as quickly as possible. I think I have had about enough of England!”

”Try not to think too harshly of us, madame." Grayson said. "And do please let me know where you will be staying the moment you make your new arrangements.”

"Yes, Iwill. I don't want any more trouble. Am I free to go now?"

Grayson indicated the door. "One of my men will escort you out."

The moment she left. Grayson went to the door. "Thorpe!" Constable

Thorpe came rushing over. "Sir!"

"That young woman who just left, follow her. Don't let her see you. Let me know where she goes and everything she does. And if you lose her, I'll have your guts for garters, understand?"

"Yes, sir. You can count on me."

"Right, Go to it."

He watched Thorpe hurry off, wondering what the young American woman's connection was to the horrible events in Whitechapel. It wasn't over yet. There were still linkages to follow. Little by little, he was collecting the pieces of the puzzle. There were many more than he had thought. The difficulty was in making them all fit together. The dead man had no name as yet, but Grayson had an excellent memory for faces and he felt certain that he had seen that face before.

There were already vampires and werewolves abroad in Whitechapel, so Finn Delaney was not greatly surprised to see a ghost. He was searching the warehouse district when Dr. Darkness materialized in the fog-shrouded street before him, his body not quite substantial. The lamppost across the street was visible right through him. Dressed in a long grey wool Inverness, carrying a blackthorn walking stick and wearing a shapeless felt hat with a wide brim, he seemed to be a creature of the mist.

With a loud clatter of horses hooves upon the street. a coach suddenly came careening through the fog. The man who was faster than light stood motionless upon the cobblestones. The driver of the coach suddenly saw a man standing before him in the street and shouted, trying to rein in. Too late, The horses, blindered and unable to see well directly ahead of them even under conditions of good visibility, barreled right through him.

Darkness tached. translating into tachyons and disappearing, reappearing beside Delaney even before his image several yards away had vanished from Delaney's sight. The horses reared and the coachman fought to get them back under control, but the animals bolted, panic-stricken, running away with the coach, the clatter of their hoofbeats receding quickly in the fog.

"Where did that idiot learn to drive?" said Darkness irritably.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite deus ex machina," Delaney said. "Evening. Doc. Come to lend a hand? We sure could use the help."

"You're beyond help, if you ask me," said Darkness. "Why on earth would anyone wish to wander around in the middle of the night in this godforsaken slum?"

"Well, if it were up to me, I'd rather be in the Caribbean," Delaney said, huddling in his coat against the chill, "but as it happens. I've got a job to do. I'm looking for a needle in a haystack, only in this case the needle happens to be a werewolf. A werewolf and a vampire, to be exact. At least two vampires, at last count."

"I knew it," Darkness said. "It was bound to happen. You've lost your mind at last."

"No, I haven't, but the man who's responsible for this mess has." Delaney said.

"Our old friend Drakov has teamed up with the former head of S.O.G.'s Project Infiltrator and he's whipped up some monsters to release on Victorian London. A werewolf created by genetic engineering. If you survive an attack, you come down with a case of lycanthropy you just wouldn't believe. And he's created a genetically engineered vampire, as well, don't ask me how, whose bite is equally contagious. They've been killing people in this area and half the city believes they've got another Jack the Ripper on their hands. There'll be mass hysteria if they discover the truth. We're supposed to get the whole thing hack under control somehow and Drakov knows we're here. We've already lost several members of our team. We're getting nowhere. Steiger's clocked ahead to ask the Old Man for some reinforcements. We've had some bad ones, Doc, but this mission is particularly nasty."

"I see," said Darkness. "Well, that explains why Forrester has clocked out to the Minus Side."

"He's done what?' Delaney said.

"He's here, somewhere," Darkness said. "I tached in to headquarters to see him and he was nowhere to be found. Lieutenant Cary informed me that he had clocked out to Minus Time with Steiger, leaving her with instructions that if he had not returned within five minutes, Plus Relative Time, she was to report him Absent Without Leave to Director General Vargas. She was beside herself with worry and begged me to go after him. Unfortunately, the reason for my visit was that I had discovered a problem with the symbiotracers I gave you. Apparently, they are not quite perfected. Their cellular chronocircuitry is subject to organic degeneration. Steiger received his before any of you did and I can no longer home in on him. I was able to track you down, but I have no way of telling how long your symbiotracer will remain active. I shall have to issue new ones to you periodically until I can solve the problem of the degeneration. In the meantime, I have no way of finding Forrester and Steiger."

"They'll be clocking back to the command post we've established at H. G. Wells' house," said Delaney. "Don't ask, it's too complicated to explain now. We'd better get back there right away. If the Old Man's clocked back, disregarding wartime regulations, it can only mean one thing. He had a chance to kill Drakov during the Zenda mission and he couldn't do it. He's been blaming himself for it ever since. It looks like he's determined to make up for it. Only if Vargas discovers that he's left his post, he'll have no choice but to break him and I'm not about to let that happen."

"You think Forrester will go back just because you insist upon it?" Darkness said. He shook his head. "Not the Moses Forrester I know. There is only one solution. Drakov and his creations must be terminated."

"Sure," Delaney said. "But first we've got to find them." "Can you see anything?" said Neilson, glancing briefly towards Christine Brant before turning back to the window. She was keeping watch at the window on the other side of the room, her weapon held ready.

"Nothing." she said. "I wish to hell Steiger would-"

Paul Ransoms suddenly materialized in the middle of the living room. "Christine…" he said, sagging down to his knees and clutching at his stomach, "help me.."

She rushed over to him as Neilson turned around. The window behind him suddenly shattered in a rain of glass and a dark shape came flying through.

Neilson was hit from behind and was brought down to the floor. His revolver was ripped from his hand and thrown across the room and he Ibund himself flat on his back, staring up into the slathering face of a werewolf. Christine Brant cried out as Ransome grabbed her and threw her to the floor. She screamed as he fastened his teeth in the soft flesh of her throat.

Neilson fought against the creature with a strength born of desperation as they wrestled on the floor, knocking over furniture, but the werewolf's strength was greater and within seconds, Neilson was pinned. And then a shot cracked out.

The. 45 slug took Ransome in the back. Wells cocked the hammer of Neilson's revolver and aimed it at the werewolf. The creature leapt off Neilson and launched itself at Wells. Wells fired. With a doglike squeal, the werewolf fell to the floor. Wells cocked the hammer and fired again.

At that moment, Steiger clocked in with Forrester and Wells quickly recocked the weapon and aimed it at them, but Steiger shoved Forrester aside and yelled, "It's me, don't shoot!"

Wells almost shot him, but the revolver was suddenly plucked out of his hand as if by an unseen force and Wells gaped at the ghostly figure that suddenly materialized before him.

"Jesus Christr Delaney said as he clocked in. "What happened?"

Amy Robbins, who had been watching thunderstruck from the doorway to the study, fell to the floor in a faint. Wells rushed to her side.

Christine sat up slowly, her hand pressed to the wound in her throat. "Oh, damn," she said, wincing with pain. "I've had itnow. He got me."

"Ransome?" said Delaney.

"Rizzo," Steiger said.

"What?" said Delaney.

"Look." said Steiger. Neilson and Delaney joined him where he stood over the body of the werewolf. Before their eyes. it was slowly changing. reverting in death to human form. "It's Rizzo."

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” Forrester said.

"We've been hit," said Steiger. "He's turned our own people against us."

"Christine, no!" shouted Neilson.

She had picked up her disruptor pistol and before any of them could move, she stuck the barrel in her mouth and squeezed the trigger. For a brief moment, she was enveloped in the blue aura of Cherenkov radiation and then she was gone.