Simon Hawke - The Dracula Caper

"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?''