The Dracula Caper

6

They met in the rooms of the Beefsteak Society. The Sublime Society of Beef- Steaks was not in session at the moment. The tradition dated back to 1735, when John Rich, manager of the Covent Garden Theatre, founded the club for "men of noble or gentle birth," which net for a beefsteak dinner every Saturday from November to June. The badge of the society was a gridiron and its members wore blue coats and huff waistcoats, buff being a light yellow napped leather properly made from buffalo skin, though other skins were sometimes used. The motto of the club was "Beef and Liberty" and it met at the Lyceum Theatre. Grayson thought the whole thing was rather juvenile, but then there had always been a ritualistic fervor among the upper classes that he had never fully understood. If you want to meet once a week for a steak dinner, he thought, why not simply meet once a week for a steak dinner? Why make a bloody boys' club formality of the whole thing? In any case, it was a question that was never liable to concern him personally, as it was highly unlikely that he would ever he invited to join a gentleman's club. He was just a simple working class sod, happy with his station in life and if he wanted a steak dinner, he could bloody well just go down to the pub and get one.

Bram Stoker beckoned him to one of the chairs placed around the table. "Please sit down. Inspector. May I offer you something to drink?"

"No, thank you very kindly. Mr. Stoker, not while I'm on duty."

"Are you making any progress with your inquiries, Inspector'?" Stoker said. "I take it that is what you wanted to speak to me about?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, it was," said Grayson. " Itrust, Mr. Stoker, that we may speak in confidence?"

"Certainly, Inspector," Stoker said. "However, I should tell you that if what you have to discuss with me should happen to concern Henry Irving, I would be both honor and duty bound to take the matter up with him. He is both my employer and my closest friend."

Grayson nodded. "I quite understand. However, I don't think we will need to concern ourselves with Mr. Irving. There is certainly nothing to suggest that he is in any way involved."

"Involved in what. Inspector?" Stoker said.

"Well, frankly Mr. Stoker. at the moment Iam not quite sure, but I suspect it may be murder."

Grayson watched Stoker carefully. The man suddenly became silent, but he did not avoid Grayson's steady gaze. He pressed his lips together and gave a couple of curt nods.

"I see," said Stoker. "Then if I understand you correctly, Inspector Grayson, you believe that Angeline Crewe was murdered, but you have no proof."

"No proof that I would feel comfortable presenting at the Old Bailey," Grayson said. "At least, not yet. However, there is no question but that Miss Crewe was subjected to at least one violent assault shortly prior to her death and it appears possible that she may even have cooperated in it."

Stoker frowned. "Exactly what are you implying, Inspector?"

"Those wounds on her throat were made by teeth. Mr. Stoker," Grayson said, watching the man for a reaction. "Human teeth."

"You're certain of this?" Stoker said.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt," said Grayson.

"You are telling me that she was bitten in the neck by someone and, as a result, she died?" said Stoker.

"She died from loss of blood," said Grayson.

Stoker took a deep breath. "Is each of us wondering who will say it first?" he said. "Wry well, then. I will say it. Her killer bit her in the neck and drank her blood. In other words, a vampire?"

Grayson pursed his lips. "I sec that the thought had already crossed your mind," he said. "Tell me, are you a superstitious man, Mr. Stoker?"

"People in the theatre are always superstitious." Stoker said. "But let's speak plainly, shall we? If you're asking me if I believe in the existence of such creatures, 1 can only answer by saying that I would be disinclined to, but to my certain knowledge, I don't know. There are many things in this world which we cannot explain to our satisfaction. Frankly, when I saw those marks upon Angeline's throat, it was the first thing that crossed my mind, but then I had only recently read a novel by Sheridan Le Fanu about a woman who was a vampire. Are you familiar with the work?"

"You mean Camillo?" Grayson said.

"Yes, that's the one. You've read it then?"

Grayson nodded.

"So what do you think?" Stoker said.

"I found it entertaining, but to borrow your own words," said Grayson. "I am disinclined to believe in the existence of such creatures. "You would prefer to seek a more rational explanation." Stoker said, nodding. "Has it occurred to you that there are legends about vampires dating all the way back to ancient times, to Greece and Rome? And that there have been many apparently reliable reports concerning vampirism scattered throughout history since then'? Even up to and including recent times?"

"Yes, I am aware of that,” said Grayson. "In fact, I recently had an interesting conversation concerning that very topic with Dr. Conan Doyle and he was able to explain to me convincingly how such stories might have been sustained as a result of ignorance and improper observation."

Stoker smiled. "Yes, that sounds like Arthur. There's a man with both feet planted firmly on the ground, just like his detective. Sherlock Holmes. He claims the character was based upon an old professor of his, but the truth is that there's a lot of Arthur in old Sherlock. No, I don't imagine he would sit still for a moment to listen to any farfetched notions about vampires. And yet there is the tragic, albeit fascinating case of Angeline Crewe. Did Arthur offer any theories about that'?"

"As a matter of fact, he did," said Grayson. "And I am inclined to accept them. One of the things that he suggested was that… well, how can I put this delicately?"

"Please don't bother," Stoker said. "We have agreed to speak plainly, if you'll recall."

"Yes, well, meaning no offense," said Grayson, "but people associated with the theatre have a certain reputation for rather irregular behavior. And one of the things that Dr. Conan Doyle suggested is that we may be dealing with a case of sadistic perversion here. This theory seems to be supported by the fact that Miss Crewe apparently never made any mention of having been bitten in the throat and one would think that if she had been assaulted forcibly in such a manner, she would certainly have said something about it to someone. And it she had actually permitted such an act to be committed upon her person, and actually allowed the drinking of her blood, then what other conclusion could there be except that she was a willing participant in an act of such depravity?"

"I see," said Stoker. "It is an interesting speculation, to be sure. And, purely in terms of degree, certainly more rational than the vampire theory. However, has it occurred to you that the reason Angeline Crewe never said anything about having been so cruelly used might have been that she was frightened and humiliated?"

"I should think that if she had been frightened," Grayson said, "she would have been all the more anxious to speak out and have the blackguard who did it brought to justice, so that he would never be able to menace her or any other young woman again."

"One might well think so," Stoker said, "if one is a man. However, try to consider the situation from a woman's point of view, Inspector. A woman who is an actress and, unfortunately, as you have already pointed out, suffers from an entirely undeserved reputation for irregular behavior, as you put it. Just because a woman is an actress, Inspector, that doesn't mean she is immoral. And in this particular case, we have a young woman who comes from a good family, a family which has already suffered a certain amount of distress due to her chosen vocation. If the matter were to come to court, it would be purely her word against that of her assailant and you can be sure that the man's counsel would do everything in his power to discredit her testimony by attacking her reputation. I personally know of no woman who would not flinch from such an ordeal."

"Your point is well taken." Grayson said, nodding. "I had not thought of that. It is the sort of thing that might give some comfort to her family when all of this eventually conies to light-as it shall, rest assured on that account-but for the moment, let us leave the question of Miss Crewe's reputation aside and concentrate upon the fact of her demise. Whether she was a willing participant in depravity or whether she was forcibly imposed upon, it seems obvious that whoever was responsible cannot possibly be sane. Which brings us back to Dr. Doyle's observations upon this matter. And again. I remind you that we speak in confidence."

"Of course," said Stoker.

"I have been attempting to reconstruct something of Miss Crewe's recent past." said Grayson. "I know, for example, that she was seen frequently in the company of a young man named Tony Hesketh. You yourself confirmed this in our last discussion. Hesketh is missing, disappeared without a trace. I find this highly suspect. I have also managed to learn that Mr. Hesketh's character is not altogether what one might consider proper. I have established to my satisfaction that he was intimately associated with at least one young man of questionable moral character, if you get my meaning."

"You're saying that Tony Hesketh was a homosexual." said Stoker. He shrugged. "Frankly, that does not surprise me. I always thought that young Hesketh was a bit overly flamboyant and rather effeminate. I did try to dissuade Angeline from fraternizing with him. He seemed like a bad sort to me. You're suggesting that one mode of abnormality might breed another?"

"It is certainly possible." said Grayson. "I have the impression that young Hesketh straddled the fence, as it were. A jaded appetite that is already immoral and decadent to begin with could easily turn to more depraved pleasures. Hesketh may not be sane. Dr. Doyle cited a number of historical examples of so-called vampirism, but vampirism practiced by insane living persons rather than satanic dead ones. A form of perversion, if you will. And if this sounds farfetched, you should hear the details of some of these cases. Dr. Doyle mentioned one that comes vividly to mind, the case of a 15th century warlord named Dracula who murdered thousands of people in the most grisly manner-"

Stoker started. "What did you say that name was?" he said.

Grayson was surprised at the reaction. "Dracula," he said. "A prince of some sort. Vlad Dracula, known for his cruelties as the Impaler. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have met a man named Dracula," said Stoker. "And quite recently. too. A wealthy Balkan aristocrat. I remember the name because I liked the sound of it. It rolled rather ominously off the tongue. Count Dracula. He came to the theatre on a number of occasions. And he was a friend of Tony Hesketh's."

Wells stood at the hotel window, clutching Moreau's arm as if terrified of letting go. Below them, people surged past in a ceaseless wave of humanity, moving quickly and purposefully across pedestrian spanways high above the ground. The skyscrapers towered above them on all sides and far below, Wells could see other spanways, both vehicular and pedestrian. crisscrossing in a webwork of suspended roads and walkways. Just below them was a vehicular spanway that snaked among the buildings and tiny vehicles which were completely enclosed and shaped like sleek teardrops in a wide and dazzling array of colors traveled at amazing speeds just above the surface of the suspended roadway. Above them, machines flew through the air, small craft with stubby, swept back delta wings, occasionally diving down like kingfishers into the steel, glass and concrete jungle. often passing so close to one another that Wells could not see how it was possible for them to avoid collision.

"I cannot believe my eyes," he said. "Where are we?"

"London," said Moreau.

"London!"

"It would be safer to remain here," said Moreau.

"What is this place?" said Wells. "Is this your home?"

"Not exactly," said Moreau. "It is a hotel room. I pay for it by bringing certain coins and stamps from the 19th century and selling them privately to collectors in this time period. In this way, I have managed to establish accounts here, as well as a false identity. If my true identity were known, it is almost a certainty that I would be arrested. I am telling you this because I want you to understand that I am being completely honest with

"It is all so overwhelming; I do not know where to turn! Such astonishing growth! I would never have thought it possible that buildings of such amazing height could be constructed! And all those flying machines buzzing about like bees around a hive, how do they keep from colliding'?"

"They are equipped with guidance systems," said Moreau. "Far too complicated to explain, just think of them as devices which are capable of sensing everything around them and communicating with each other as they navigate."

"Amazing!" said Wells. “Moreau, can't we go outside for just a moment? Please'?"

"Well, all right," Moreau said, "but only for a moment or two. However, you had best change into some different clothing first."

Moreau went to a closet and opened it.

"What manner of clothing is this?" said Wells, touching the sleek, shiny material and feeling it stretch. "It is made from materials such as I have never seen!"

"Synthetics," said Moreau.

"Synthetic materials'?" said Wells, touching the futuristic garments hanging in the closet.

"A blend of synthetics, created in a laboratory," said Moreau. "Form fitting, easily cared for. They will stretch to accommodate your size."

"But… it is all of one piece. Is this all there is to the costume?" Wells said.

"It will serve," Moreau said.

They changed and moments later, Wells stood before a mirror, examining himself in the black clingsuit. "I cannot say it flatters me.” he said. "It seems terribly revealing. And what makes it shine so? It looks as though it is soaking wet."

"It is the nature of the material," Moreau said somewhat impatiently. "And rest assured, in this time period, it is considered a conservative fashion. I should warn you that we are liable to see people, women in particular wearing costumes that are far more revealing. Customs are very different here. Try not to be shocked."

They went outside into the hallway and took a drop tube to the lobby. Wells could barely contain himself. He wanted to know how the lighting in the hallway operated, how the drop tube functioned, what made the indicator lights work and where the cool air was coming from. Moreau made no attempt to reply to his torrent of questions, saying merely that it was impossible to explain hundreds of years of scientific development to someone who could not even comprehend most of the terms and Wells had to satisfy himself with brief explanations of what the function of various things was, rather than how they functioned.

They came out into the lobby and Wells gasped at the immensity of it, at the height of the ceiling, which was several dozen stories over their heads at the huge colored fountain playing in the lobby's atrium and the strange music, coming from nowhere and created by instruments he could not even identify. As they walked across it and approached the large ornate glass doors leading outside, Wells was stunned to see them open by themselves and Moreau was unable to restrain him from repeatedly stepping on and off the sensor panels, making the doors open and close repeatedly, as a small child might do.

"Please. Herbert," Moreau said, finally dragging him away. "We must try not to attract attention to ourselves."

They went outside into the street and walked for a short distance, Wells craning his neck backward, looking up above them at the impossibly tall buildings and the traffic overhead. He stopped in the center of the sidewalk, gazing up with rapture and in moments there were a number of people around them, likewise looking up, wondering what he was looking at.

"Herbert, for God's sake, please!" Moreau said, dragging him on.

They hadn't walked a block before an adolescent girl with varicolored hair cut in a geometric style and wearing high black boots, scarlet clingpanties and a see-through halter sidled up to them and propositioned Wells. Moreau grimaced and waved her off.

Wells grinned. "Well, in some respects at least, things have not changed very much at all."

"If you had accepted her proposition," Moreau said sourly, "I think you'd have found that things have changed more than you might think. Come, let us go back to the hotel. I do not wish to expose you to so much that your mind will be shocked by overstimulation. We have much to talk about."

"Please, can't we stay a little while longer?" Wells said. "Can't we walk about? There is so much to see! I have a thousand questions bursting from my brain!"

"Later, perhaps," Moreau said. "Regrettably, we cannot remain here for long. Bringing you here was a great risk and Iam still not certain that it was the right decision. However, perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps now you will possess enough perspective to fully appreciate what I have to tell you. It would take hours to even begin to answer some of those questions you have, but I needed to eliminate your doubts."

"And that you have," said Wells, glancing all around him. "To think that I have traveled hundreds of years into the future! What a world awaits us! What astonishing accomplishments! Please, Moreau, can't we stay awhile longer?"

Moreau smiled, "Very well. But keep close to me. If we were to become separated, you would become truly lost, forever. -

"I do not know that I would mind that very much, — said Wells.

"Don't even joke about it," said Moreau.

"What would happen if we did not go back?" said Wells. "Purely for the sake of argument, of course."

"There is no way of knowing exactly what would happen.” said Moreau, "but you can be certain that history would be changed. The results could be disastrous on an unimaginable scale. By the act of bringing you here, I have already altered history, but the risk is slight if we follow proper precautions. It is nothing compared to the risk we all face hack in your own time. And now that you have seen all this, perhaps you might begin to understand. Come, I will tell you about myself, about who and what I am and where I came from, and about the crowning achievement of my career, which has now turned into a nightmare that threatens all humanity. And it all began when a device known as a chronoplate was invented and man achieved the capability of traveling through time…"

"Count Dracula?"

The tall dark man in the black opera cape paused as he was about to get into his coach outside the Lyceum Theatre. "I am Dracula.” he said, turning around.

"Inspector William Grayson, Scotland Yard. Might I ask you to give me a moment of your time?"

"Certainly. Inspector. How may I help you?"

"I should like to ask you a few questions. I understand that you were one of the last people to see Miss Angeline Crewe alive. "

"Yes," said Dracula, " I suppose I must have been. I had heard about her collapse during rehearsal. Poor girl, a tragedy to die so young. But why should the police be interested? It was an illness, no?"

"We have reason to suspect that it may not have been.” said Grayson. "Why, did she seem ill to you?"

"I thought she seemed a trifle pale," said Dracula.

"You had dinner with her and another young woman from the company, a Miss Violet Anderson?"

"Yes, that is correct.”

"And there was another gentleman present, a Mr. Anthony Hesketh?"

"Yes, it was Mr. Hesketh who introduced me to Miss Crewe."

"Isee. When was the last time you saw Mr. Hesketh?"

"I believe it was that evening, when we all had dinner together."

"And you have not seen him since?"

"No, I think he said something about going abroad on business.”

"How well do you know him?"

"We occasionally take in a play together. We met here, at the Lyceum. He was kind enough to share my box with me and assist me with the language. English is not my native tongue, you know."

"You seem to speak it very well," said Grayson.

"Thank you, but my fluency is not all that I would like it to be. The theatre is an excellent place to hear it spoken properly. I never tire of listening to Mr. Irving."

"So you and Mr. Hesketh are not very close, then? You see each other only at the theatre?"

"And sometimes for dinner, afterward." said Dracula. "I am a very private person, Inspector. I generally keep to myself and only go out at night. Mr. Hesketh seemed like a very pleasant and well-educated young man, but he is only an acquaintance, nothing more. I could not even say what business he is in. I do not recall ever discussing it with hint. Such matters bore me. We spoke mainly about music, literature and the theatre. I fear that I am not being of much help to you." "On the contrary," Grayson said, "every little bit of information helps. Might I ask what brings you to London?"

Dracula smiled. "I am a very wealthy man, Inspector Grayson, thanks to the fortunes of my family. I devote most of my time to travel. There is not a great deal to occupy one's time in my native country. The night life of London is so much more fascinating.

"

"I see, May I ask where you are staying'?"

"For the present, I am taking rooms at the Grosvenor. But I enjoy sampling your hotels as much as I enjoy sampling your theatre. In fact, I am enjoying England so much that I am considering purchasing a home here. Perhaps nothing quite so grand as my family castle in Transylvania, but on the other hand, nothing quite so old and drafty, either."

"Speaking of your family." said Grayson, "I once heard a fascinating story about a prince from your country whose name was the same as yours. He was also known as Vlad the Impaler. I believe."

"Yes, I am descended from him," said Dracula. "Not many people outside my country know of him and those that do, such as yourself, invariably ask me if it is true that my ancestor was as bloodthirsty as the legend has it. He was, indeed. However, he is a national hero in my country for having driven out the Turks, who were quite savage in their own right. It is fortunate for all of us that we live in times that are so much more civilized. I fear that my ancestor would not have approved of me. He was a merciless warlord, a voivode. and I am merely an extravagantly wealthy vagabond. No one shall ever tell stories about me. But now I have forgotten what we were discussing. Ah, yes. Miss Crewe and Mr. Hesketh, was it not? They seemed quite taken with each other. Such a pity. They made such a delightful couple. Have I answered your question, Inspector… Grayson, was it'?"

"Yes, thank you, Count," said Grayson, "I will not be taking up any more of your time. Sorry to trouble you." "No trouble at all. Good night to you, Inspector." "And good night to you, Count."

Grayson held the door for him as he climbed in. then he shut it and waved up at the coachman. For a moment, he froze, startled at the sight of the coachman's face staring down at him. The lower half of the man's face was covered by a muffler. He had long grey hair and he wore a high-collared tweed coat and a bowler hat, but it was the eyes that startled Grayson. They were looking down at him with an absolutely feral gaze. For a brief moment, they almost seemed to glow in the dark and then the coachman cricked the whip and the horses took off at a trot. Grayson stared after the coach until it disappeared into the fog.

Private Paul Ransome woke up strapped to a bed in a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom. He had been drugged and he did not know how long he had been unconscious. The restraints would not allow him any motion beyond some slight movements of his head and neck. He felt ill, disoriented, and there was a maddening itch at a spot on his throat which he could not scratch. He felt nauseous and he had a fever. The sheets were damp with his sweat.

The bedroom door opened and a man dressed in a dark butler's suit entered, the same man who had answered the door of the sprawling Richmond Hill estate that Ransome had come to investigate. He had long, steel grey hair that hung down to his shoulders and he was powerfully built. He was swarthy looking, with sunken eyes, a high forehead and a prominent jaw. The mouth was wide, thin- lipped and cruel. He saw that Ransome was awake, turned and left the room before Ransome could say anything.

Ransome desperately tried to remember what had happened, but his mind was a complete blank. He could not seem to concentrate. He knew he was in trouble. Bad trouble. And that knowledge was confirmed when the door opened once again several moments later and a tall, dark, well-built, striking looking man with emerald green eyes and a long scar down the side of his face came in and stood over his bed, looking down at him.

"Drakov!" Ransome said.

"Good morning, Private Ransome," Nikolai Drakov said in a deep voice. He smiled. "How do you feel?"

"Sick as a dog,” said Ransome. "What did you do to me?" "A number of things," said Drakov pleasantly, as if they were merely discussing the weather.

"Nothing fatal, however,"

"But I assume that's coming, right?"

"Oh, on the contrary, I want you alive. I have some very special plans for you."

"What happened?" Ransome said. "How did I blow my cover? I don't remember anything. "You remember what happened before you came here, don't you?" Drakov said.

"Yes, but after that it's all a blank."

"Good."

"What did you do, damn you?"

"Well, you might say I've influenced you somewhat, in more ways than one," said Drakov. "You see. I was prepared for you people this time. I no longer take any chances. You were scanned when you approached this house and your cybernetic implants were detected. I'm really very well protected here. Just the same, it now appears that I shall have to leave this comfortable house. A pity, but if you found me, the other members of your team cannot be far behind."

"It won't work, Drakov," Ransome said. "I'm not going to tell you anything."

Drakov chuckled. "Spare me the esprit de corps heroics. Ransome. You may not know it, but you have already told me everything I wished to know. I am quite looking forward to another confrontation with my father's first string team. You were just an appetizer. It's Delaney, Cross and Steiger that I want. And you are going to help me. "The hell I will,” said Ransome. "I'll die first."

Drakov grinned. "In a manner of speaking, yes, you will," he said. "But never fear, you shall be reborn. Your rebirth is in progress even as we speak."

Ransome felt a knot forming in his stomach. "What have you done to me?"

"How does your throat feel, Ransome?"

"My-" Involuntarily, Ransome tried to raise his hand to his throat, but the restraints wouldn't let him move. "Jesus," he said. "Oh, Jesus.”

His eyes went to the butler standing by the door, watching him silently.

Drakov followed his gaze. "No, it wasn't Janos," he said. Drakov beckoned the butler forward. "However, Janos is someone you've been looking for. I thought you might like to be properly introduced. Pvt. Paul Ransome, Janos Volkov. Janos is, in a manner of speaking, one of my children. I'm really very proud of him. Janos is the very first of his kind, a triumph of genetic engineering and biomodification. He is the werewolf you've been seeking. I'm sorry to say that you will not be able to see Janos in all his hirsute splendor, as he has reached the end of his monthly cycle, but take my word for it, it is an impressive sight."

He nodded to the butler, who turned and left without a word.

"My plans for you, however," Drakov said, "do not call for infection by lycanthmpic genes. No, for you, Ransome, I have something infinitely more interesting in mind.”

Ransome was breaking out in a fresh sweat and he started to shiver. He fought to keep his teeth from chattering. "Whatever you've infected me with, Drakov, it'll never work, I promise you. I'll kill myself. "Yes, I'm sure you would," said Drakov, "which is why I have conditioned you with a number of programmed imperatives. A relatively simple matter of neutralizing your cybernetic implants and installing some of my own in a minor surgical procedure. When I have completed your programming, you will no more be able to commit suicide than you will be able to discuss what's happened to you with the other members of your team. I had hoped that it would be Finn Delaney who fell into my hands; he would make a splendid werewolf, don't you think? Or Andre Cross, what a wonderfully seductive vampire she would make. But you'll do for the moment."

The door to the bedroom opened once again and a tall, slim, middle-aged man with a drooping moustache and jet black hair combed into a widow's peak entered. He was sharp featured, with an aquiline nose, a high forehead, sunken cheeks and thin red lips. He was dressed in dark evening clothes and a long black opera cape with a high collar. His dark eyes were those of a psychotic.

Drakov smiled. "I could never resist a touch of melodrama." he said. "Allow me to present Count Dracula."