Simon Hawke - The Dracula Caper

Somehow, she had imagined something much more spiritual and romantic. The sight of the man's unclothed body had repelled her. He had looked so much better in his clothes! Without them, his stomach had hung down like a buddha's and his chest had sagged. He had been covered with unattractive, thick, coarse, curling hair and his legs looked spindly, grotesquely out of proportion with the rest of him. Naked, he had looked ugly, comical, ungainly, and as for his manhood, it was all Jasmine could do to refrain from giggling at the sight of it. She could not believe that Dr. Morro would look so silly and pathetic with his clothes off, but at the same time, a telling blow had been delivered to her romantic fantasies. She was not embarrassed by what she had witnessed. She was merely surprised and disappointed.

She slipped out from behind the drapes and moved quickly to the door. She opened it a crack andpeeked out into the hallway. She could hear sounds coming from behind several of the closed doors, but for the moment, the hallway was clear.

However, she had no idea which way to go. She stepped out into the hall uncertainly and, at that moment, a door opened right in front of her and an old woman carrying a pile of bedclothing stepped out. Startled, Jasmine gasped.

The old woman smiled toothlessly. "I haven't seen you before," she said, speaking in Chinese. "You must be new."

"Yes, I… I am not sure which way to go," said Jasmine, forcing a smile.

The old woman looked at her questioningly. "Is there a gentleman wailing for you?"

"Yes, he has only just arrived,” said Jasmine. and she described Moreau.

"Ah, the important visitor who came with Master Tao," the old woman said, nodding. "Yes. he is to stay with us for a time. He is in the room at the far end of the corridor, but I was told he is not to be disturbed.

"I was sent to see if there is anything he wants," Jasmine said. "I am to bring him whatever he asks for."

"Ah well that is different," the old woman said. "It is good that there will be someone else to look after his needs. I have more than enough to do. There is no end to work around here. You are one of the new servant girls, then?"

Jasmine nodded.

The old woman shook her head. "You will find it harder work than pleasing gentlemen," she said. "You will see. You may soon prefer working on your back to scrubbing on your knees. There is time enough for that. You should not waste your youth. I was young and pretty once, like you. Now I wash floors and empty chamberpots." The old woman cackled and waddled off down the corridor, carrying her pile of bedclothes.

Quickly, before she ran into anybody else, Jasmine made her way down to the door at the far end of the hall. She hesitated when she reached it. Now that the moment had arrived, she was suddenly afraid of declaring herself. What would he say? Would he be angry? What if he rejected her? There was no turning back now. She bit her lower lip and knocked on the door.

"Yes? Who is it'?" she heard him say.

She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped inside.

"Jasmine!" Moreau said, astonished. "Dear God! What on earth are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"Do not be angry, Dr. Morro," she said. "I had to come! "It all came spilling out of her in a torrent of impassioned words, words that tumbled over one another in her rush to get them out, afraid that if she paused for breath, her fear would paralyze her or, worse yet, that he would stop her.

Moreau stood there in astonishment, unable to get a word in edgewise. She finally ran out of steam and stood before him, looking down at the floor, stripped hare in all but the literal sense, her face flushed, her lower lip trembling, her eyes ready to flood with tears.

Moreau started to say a dozen different things and realized that each one of them would have been wrong. What was he to tell her'? That he was old enough to be her father? It was a cliche and he was not her father and, in any case, the only time age made any real difference to a woman was if a man was too immature for her, a factor that was more often than not measured emotionally and not chronologically. And Jasmine was a woman, naive, perhaps, certainly inexperienced, but a woman none the less. And just as one did not treat a girl as if she were a woman, one did not treat a woman as if she were a girl. Was he to tell her that he did not love her? What purpose would that serve? Besides, she had not asked him if he loved her. She had opened up her heart to him, imposing no conditions, asking nothing, offering everything. A gift like that was not rejected out of hand. It was accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Whether or not it was reciprocated was another, much more complicated matter.

"Are you going to send me away?" she said, drawing herself up proudly, prepared to accept rejection with dignity.

"No," he said. "Please, sit down. It seems that we have much to talk about."

Andre was having a hard time keeping track of all the bodies. It was difficult enough, shadowing the indefatigable Conan Doyle, now she also had Bram Stoker to worry about and the man that they were following and the people who were following them.

She had picked up Conan Doyle as he left the crime lab at Scotland Yard, almost missing him as he came hurrying out of the building, heading for a nearby pub. She had followed him to the pub, where he met Bram Stoker. As the two men left the pub together, Andre became aware that they were being followed by someone other than herself. She kept her distance, so as not to give herself away, and watched as the other shadower hopped on a bicycle and followed the coach taken by Conan Doyle and Stoker. She quickly hailed a hansom and set off in pursuit as well, wondering who else besides herself would be following the two writers.

There should have been someone from their team assigned to cover Stoker, but this was someone she had never seen before. A young Chinese man, dressed all in black, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, effortlessly pedaling the bicycle, even over cobblestoned streets.

They drove to the Lyceum Theatre and went inside. Andre lost track of the Chinese bicyclist inside the theatre. She had caught quick glimpses of him darting through the streets, following the coach, but he seemed incredibly adept at disap- pearing into the fog and shadows. Now she had no idea where he was. Conan Doyle and Stoker were nowhere in sight. She moved stealthily through the darkened theatre as the play progressed, but she was not able to catch sight of them until she sneaked backstage and saw them standing in the wings. She found a place to hide among the backstage clutter and kept an eye on them. They, meanwhile, were apparently keeping an eye on someone else, out in the audience. They kept glancing up at the box seats, but from where she was hidden. Andre couldn't see whom they were looking at. And if the Chinese man was still around, she couldn't see him, either.

However, she spotted him in the crowd during the intermission. when Conan Doyle and Stoker went out through the lobby and upstairs, to the box seats. She was unable to follow them into the box, where they spoke with someone for a short time and she was unable to get close enough to hear what was being said, because the Chinese man had already beaten her to it. She spotted him skulking just outside the box, eavesdropping on their conversation. She pulled back quickly, before he could spot her.

In the crush that followed the conclusion of the play, she lost the Chinese man once again, but she was able to spot Conan Doyle and Stoker leaving in their coach. Without waiting to try and hail a hansom amidst the bustle of the audience dispersing and risk losing them. Andre took off after their coach on foot, jogging through the streets, cursing the Victorian clothing which made running difficult and interfered with her breathing.