That stopped him.
“I’ll be right over,” I said. “So long.”
He didn’t answer. I whistled my way out of the phone booth, ordered a ham sandwich and a malted milk, disposed of same, and took a cab downtown.
The night elevator brought me to Hammond King’s office. The door was open and I walked into one of those lavish layouts so typical of wealthy attorneys and impecunious booking agents.
I ignored the outer office and made for the big door marked “Private”.
King was examining a bottle of Scotch with phony nonchalance.
My nonchalance was just as phony as I examined him.
He was a short, stocky man of about fifty-five. Gray hair and mustache to match. His eyes slanted behind unusually thick bifocals. He wore an expensive gray suit, and I admired his taste in ties. He looked like a hundred other guys, but he sent books on vampirism to his friends. You never know these days.
“Mr Kirby?” he inquired, getting up and extending his hand. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I told you over the phone,” I said. “I’d like to have a little chat with you about vampires.”
“Oh.”
The phony nonchalance faded away and the hand dropped to his side.
“I’d rather have talked to Mr Petroff about it,” I continued. “Matter of fact, I dropped in on him this afternoon. But he wasn’t there. That is, he was there, and then he wasn’t. You know how vampires get restless about twilight.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, King,” I said. “I just thought I’d warn you. In case anybody tries to bite you in the throat, it’s your old client, Igor Petroff.”
“How’d you know he was my client?”
“I know a lot of things,” I told him, wishing it were true. “And what I don’t know you’d better tell me, but fast. Unless, of course, you want it splashed all over the front page of the Leader.”
“Let’s be reasonable,” Hammond King pleaded. “I’ll be glad to help you all I can. Anything involving my client—”
The phone rang. King reached for the receiver, then drew his hand back.
“Pardon me, please,” he said.
He got up and went into the outer office and shut the door.
3. The Bat’s Kiss
I would have given my left arm to know who King was talking to. But I didn’t have to give my left arm. All I needed to do was reach out with it and gently pick up the receiver. Call it eavesdropping, if you wish. You do a lot of things in this business.
“Mr King?” a girl’s voice came over the wire. “This is Lorna Colby. I’m at the Eastmore Hotel, Room Nine-nineteen . . . No, Igor sent for me. He wanted to talk about a settlement on the will.”
“Have you seen Petroff?” Hammond King barked into the phone at this end.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, I’ll be around in the morning, at ten. We’ve got to work fast, you understand? Something’s happening that I don’t like.”
“What is it?” asked Lorna Colby.
“I can’t talk now. See you tomorrow. Good night.”
He hung up. I hung up. It was my turn to look at the Scotch bottle as he came in.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“You were just going to spill the beans,” I said.
Hammond King smiled. “Was I? Lucky for me I got called away. I’m afraid I can’t talk this matter over with you just at present. That call was from a client in Pasadena. I’ve got to take the train tonight.”
I rose. One of his desk drawers was half opened. I reached in and scooped up a handful of garlic leaves.
“You had these left over from decorating the Petroff house, I presume,” I told him. “Too bad you didn’t think to put these on the French windows.”
I slipped the garlic wreath into his hand and left the room. He stood there with his mouth open, giving a poor imitation of a stuffed moose.
I rode downstairs and walked around the corner and across the block to the Eastmore Hotel. I didn’t bother to send my name up, but rode in person to the ninth floor. Nine-nineteen was down the hall to my left. I found the room and knocked on Lorna Colby’s door.
There was no answer – except a sudden, ear-shattering scream.
I jerked the doorknob. The door opened on a tableau of frozen horror.
A blonde girl lay slumped on the bed. Crouching above her was a shadowy figure out of a nightmare. Its head was bending toward her neck. I saw lean, outstretched fingers claw down, saw the mouth descend – then the shadow straightened, turned, swooped across the room and out through the open window.
Lorna Colby lay there, clutching her throat and staring in wide-eyed terror. I stared, too. For the intruder had been Igor Petroff.
When I reached the window, the fire-escape outside was empty. Perhaps it had never held a figure. Perhaps I’d have done better to look for something flying in the sky.
I turned back to the bed. Lorna Colby was sitting up. There was still fear in her hazel eyes as she looked at me.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
I introduced myself. “Dave Kirby, of the Leader. You’re Lorna Colby, of course?”
She nodded. “Yes. But how did you know? And what made you come here?”
“Hammond King sent me,” I lied.
It was the right hunch.
“Then maybe you can tell me,” she said, “what’s wrong with my uncle? He sent me a wire to come down and talk about the estate. I waited to hear from him tonight. I was getting sleepy and lay down on the bed. When I opened my eyes again, he was in the room.”
“Petroff?”
“Yes. You recognized him, too?”
I nodded.
“He must have come through the window some way. He just crouched over me, staring, and there was something wrong with his face. It was so white, but his eyes glared, and I couldn’t look away. Then I felt his hands come down toward my neck, and I screamed, and then—”
I shook her, not gently. It was fun, but this was no time for amusement.
“Stop it!” I snapped. “Relax.”
She cried a little. Then she sat up and fished around for her make up. I took the opportunity to study her more closely.
Lorna Colby was tall, blonde, and about twenty-two. She had a good face and a better figure. All in all, the kind of a girl worth whistling after.
That noise like a ton of bricks was me, falling. She didn’t notice it. After a while she patted her hair back and smiled.
“Your uncle is – ill,” I said. “That’s what Hammond King asked me to tell you. We’re trying to keep things quiet until we can take him away for a rest.”
“You mean he’s crazy?”
I shrugged.
“I’ve always thought so,” Lorna declared. “Even when Aunt Irene was alive, I knew there was something wrong with him. He led her an awful life.”
She halted, bit her lower lip, and continued.
“After she died, he got worse. He kept dogs at the house, guarding it. He wanted to guard her tomb, he said. I haven’t seen him now for almost a year. Nobody has seen him since the day she died. She had a heart attack, you know. He buried her in the private vaults on the estate. He wouldn’t even let me see her or come to the funeral.
“I knew he hated me, and it came as a surprise when I got his wire yesterday, asking me to come down from Frisco to talk about the will. That didn’t make sense, either. After all, Aunt Irene left him the whole estate, even though he can’t touch the money for a year.”
Something clicked into place. I decided to follow it up.
“By the way, who was your aunt’s physician?” I asked.
“Dr Kelring.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” I told her. “It’s important.”