Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

“Medusa?”

“Skip it,” I said, and drove away. Like the last time, I watched Haliburton dwindle in my rearview mirror, but this time he was a slumped and defeated monster. There was no vengeance in those shoulders, only confusion.

I found a phone and reached Martin Leib, who told me to keep after the Thayer Newcomb lead though he had no great faith in it. He also asked me to stop by and brief Faulkner, who would be having bail set late in the afternoon, which meant that keeping his arrest for murder quiet would become more difficult.

“Even with county cooperation,” Leib said, “I doubt if we can keep this from the press for more than a day, possibly two at most. If so, William Faulkner will simply have to live with the publicity.”

“And Warner Brothers?” I asked.

“They will have to consider their options,” he said like a good lawyer. “Meaning, old Billy Faulkner will be dumped.”

“He is not a charity commitment for the studio,” Leib reminded me and hung up.

Faulkner was looking out his cell window when I got to the lock-up. The turnkey said I couldn’t go in. I reminded him I represented the accused’s lawyer. The turnkey said he didn’t care if I represented a rat’s ass.

“A Snopes,” Faulkner said with a dismissive glance at the turnkey.

“I’ve got a fair lead,” I told Faulkner. “You know a guy named Thayer Newcomb?”

Faulkner touched his mustache with his thumb and thought for a few seconds before saying, “I’m afraid the name has no meaning to me.”

“There’s a chance,” I said, “that he set you up or helped set you up.”

“Why on earth would a stranger go through all this trouble to try to make it look as if I had murdered Shatzkin?” Faulkner asked.

“Beats me,” I said.

“Let’s hope it does not,” he added. “I’ve been passing my time here working out my own mystery tale, which will be as orderly and logical as life is not, as orderly as a game of chess.” “Full of knights gambiting around,” I said, remembering the days of dodging my brother more than half my lifetime ago.

“Yes,” said Faulkner, “a knight’s gambit. Do you see yourself as a knight, Mr. Peters?” he said with a look that might be sadness or sarcasm, a protected look.

“No,” I said, “I see myself in the mirror as little as I can. What about you?”

“Ah,” sighed Faulkner, “I see myself in a hotel room alone with several bottles of Old Crow, and then I see myself with a small group of friends sitting up all night on a small island back home in Sardis Reservoir, turning spits, basting beef and pork, and singing ‘Water Boy.’ ”

From looking in mirrors, he had turned to looking into the wishful future.

“I’ll work on it,” I said, but Faulkner had already turned to head back to the window.

The turnkey led me out, complaining of his sore feet. I could have told him some tales of sore feet and knees, but he wouldn’t have listened. He was a talker. I was a listener.

With a stack of nickels in hand, I found a pay phone in a bar and called Shatzkin’s office. I got Mrs. Summerland and found that Thayer Newcomb was not a client. She had never heard the name. The information operator didn’t help either. I tried the large talent agencies and got nowhere. I was down to the last of my once-large stack of nickels and looking over my shoulder to see whether someone was pressuring me for the phone, when I got lucky. The Panorama Talent Agency did handle Newcomb. I said I was his brother James, a priest, in for a few hours from Dallas. The woman gave me an address, the Augusta Hotel. I blessed her and hung up. There was no answer in his room at the Augusta.

My Faulkner leads were running low. I could try Newcomb later or camp in the hotel lobby till he got there. Meanwhile, I could do a little work for Lugosi. I drank a Ballantine beer at the bar and listened to Vic ‘n’ Sade with the bartender. It was a little before one, and business was slow at that hour. I asked whether he had anything to eat, and he said he could slice up some cheese and slap it on a few pieces of bread with some mustard. I told him it sounded great. When he brought it back, it looked awful and carried a clear thumb indentation, but tasted fine, and I let myself sink into the amber afternoon darkness of the bar and beer, sharing a moment of repose with Sade, Uncle Fletcher, and Rush.

My next stop was Clinton Hill, the contractor who doubled as a Dark Knight, he of the falling wig and voyeuristic inclination, as Wilson Wong had said. I found the contracting firm in Inglewood just where it belonged, but I didn’t find Clinton Hill. His brother was the Hill in the firm title. My boy, according to the angelic-looking girl at the desk, was an assistant librarian at St. Bartholomew’s College a few miles away. He picked up his mail at the contracting office and, according to the girl, often let people believe it was his business.

The library was a few blocks down in a surprisingly large old stone building. It was surprising because the college itself consisted of a total of five decaying stone buildings enclosed by a rusting spiked fence and a couple of dozen acres of grass that could use mowing.

I found a space and spotted a dark Ford slowing down a block ahead of me. I watched for a few seconds while he hesitated and drove on. I decided to start taking down the license number of every dark Ford I saw and then checking to see whether there were any match-ups to prove I was either observant, scared, or both.

The library was impressive, like a chapel from another country. The lobby was marble and dark wood and the huge cathedral-size room with stained glass windows beyond was heavy, somber, and solid. The stained glass windows showed saints in various stages of torture or anguish. Saint Bart was the star of the show, and arrows abounded. I turned my head downward to more worldly things in the almost empty mausoleum. A few students were seated at the massive tables with books in front of them. Behind the wooden counter, which formed a protective circle, stood a librarian, a dry, tall man in a lint-catching dark suit. He actually wore pince-nez glasses.

“Yes,” he said as I advanced. He made it clear that I was a foreign presence.

“Chadwick,” I said “Professor Irwin Chadwick, UCLA, anthropology. I was talking to one of your librarians, a Mr. Hill, recently about your collection of works on the occult. I was wondering if he might be here to give me some assistance.”

The dry man let gastric reaction take place, which faintly resembled human response. “Mr. Hill,” he said, “is not actually a librarian. He does work in the library, restacking primarily. He does, however, have a genuine knowledge of and interest in the occult. If you wish to go into the stacks, I think you will find him reshelving on the second basement level, in the four hundreds.”

“Thank you,” I said, heading in the direction he had pointed.

“You are welcome, Dr. Chadwick,” he responded.

Behind us both the main door opened, but I didn’t turn to see who was coming in. I made my way down a narrow row of books on metal racks piled about seven feet high and found a spiral metal staircase going both up and down. I went down slowly, trying to clank as little as possible, At the first level down, light was provided by some naked overhead bulbs and a few dusty windows that were probably even with the ground. I looked down the rows of books in both directions and saw nothing. There was a remembered smell of crumbling paper about the place. I went down another level. The spiral staircase rattled a little at its bolts but held as it probably had for a generation.

At the second level down were a few more naked bulbs of low wattage but no windows. I went to the left and realized that the floor was made of metal grillwork. I looked up and saw the ceiling was the same grillwork. There was a hollow emptiness to the place I didn’t like. A level below held more books, but it was even darker and there may have been a level below that. I thought I heard a sound above and turned to look up. My turn caused an echo of my footsteps. I touched my gun. I was getting addicted to it. A few more encounters and I’d surely whip it out and accidentally shoot myself.