Simon Hawke - The Dracula Caper

"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."