Graham Masterton - Innocent Blood

He was just about to leave when the night manager appeared – a young man with a wispy black moustache and a jazzy pink and orange shirt, and shorts.

‘What’s going on here? What the hell happened to this door? I mean, look at it! What the hell happened to this door ?’

Lieutenant Chessman gave Frank a sympathetic slap on the back. ‘Like I said, maybe another hotel.’

He stayed that night with Carol and Smitty. He told Carol that his room at the Sunset Marquis had been double booked, and that a late-arriving guest had shown up from Japan. He didn’t want to frighten her. But when Carol had gone to bed and he and Smitty sat down to some late-night TV and a couple of beers, he explained to Smitty what had really happened.

‘Shit,’ said Smitty. ‘Who did the cops think they were?’

‘They think that they probably came from Dar Tariki Tariqat, and that they were trying to finish what they started.’

‘They didn’t see any connection with Charles Lasser?’

‘They said that it was probably coincidence, him using the word “vermin.” That’s all.’

‘And they didn’t offer you any protection?’

‘They suggested I change hotels, that’s all.’

Smitty put down his can of beer, stood up, and went through to his study. After a short while he came back with a folded chamois leather. He cleared aside the ashtray and the empty beer cans, and then he laid it down on the coffee table.

‘Here, I bought this in ninety-eight, when we had that burglary.’ He unfolded the leather, and revealed a .38 nickel-plated revolver in a belt holster. ‘Why don’t you borrow it – you know, just till this is all over? It’s loaded.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Frank. ‘I’m not at all happy about guns.’

‘I don’t care if you’re happy or not, so long as you’re alive. Here – no argument, take it. You won’t ever have to use it, now you’ve got it, but at least you’ve got it, in case you need it.’

Twenty-Four

The next morning he was on his way to Nevile’s house when his cellphone rang.

‘Frank. It’s Margot.’

‘Oh, yes? What do you want?’

She hesitated, deterred by his aggressive response. But then she said, ‘I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was about Lizzie and Mo. You must be devastated.’

‘Yes, well, thank you. It was a miracle they didn’t get me, too.’

‘If you want to meet me, Frank, and talk about it . . .’

‘No, thanks. But thanks.’

‘Frank . . . I don’t want things to come to the point where we’re not even speaking to each other.’

‘No, me neither. I’ll call you later, if I get the time, OK?’

‘All right, then.’

He was still thinking about Margot as he overshot the entrance to Nevile’s house. The truth was, he was beginning to miss her, in a way. She might have taken herself way too seriously, with her Eastern philosophy and her paintings and her macrobiotic diets, but that was one of the things that had first attracted him, because it had brought stability and order into his life, whereas he had always been susceptible to sudden enthusiasms, and to rush off and do things before he had thought them through – followed by deep depression because they hadn’t worked out.

Even her paintings didn’t seem so bad, in retrospect. They were calm; they were peaceful. And, as Mo had once remarked, they were no more objectionable than a blank wall, after all.

He U-turned outside the Earth Mother Juice Stand, his tires squealing, and doubled back. Further up the road a hitch-hiker, his thumb already half lifted, frowned at him in annoyance, as if his future had suddenly changed in front of his eyes.

Nevile was sitting in his study, laying out picture cards on his polished black marble table.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. His black shirt was buttoned up to the neck but he wasn’t wearing a necktie, so that he looked like an ascetic priest.

Frank eased himself down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I feel like I’ve been over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Twice nightly, with an extra performance on Saturday afternoons.’

Nevile looked up. ‘How about mentally?’

‘Sad. And very angry. Revenge? Jesus . . . if I could lay my hands on those bastards . . .’

‘When are the police going to talk to Charles Lasser?’

‘Today sometime, they told me. It probably won’t do any good.’

Nevile dealt more cards, then frowned.

‘What’s this?’ asked Frank. ‘Fortune-telling?’

‘No, it’s a game. Cats and Moons. It’s like solitaire except that you play it with a spirit.’

Frank couldn’t help looking around the room. ‘You mean you’re playing with somebody now?’

‘A very old spirit. He was one of the first who ever came to me when I moved to California. His name’s Erasmus and he used to own a fruit farm near Bakersfield. He died at the age of ninety-seven.’

Frank watched Nevile picking up cards and placing them one on top of the other. ‘How does Erasmus, like, play his hand?’

‘He gives me instructions,’ said Nevile, tapping his forehead with his fingertip. ‘And in no uncertain terms, too. “The Dog Star card next to the Siamese card, you moron!”’

Frank sat back. Now that he had seen spiritual manifestations for himself, he didn’t find it at all unbelievable that Nevile was playing a game with a man who was long dead. In fact, he wished that he had known about spirits years ago, especially how close they like to cluster to the living.

‘Do you think it was Charles Lasser who sent those men to kill you?’ asked Nevile.

‘I don’t have any proof apart from that news broadcast, but I’m pretty sure of it.’

‘Three cats!’ said Nevile, triumphantly. ‘Beat that!’

‘I’m just wondering how they knew that I was waiting for the cops to show up.’

Nevile began to gather up cards. ‘I hate to say this, but your prime suspect seems to be Astrid. You told her, didn’t you, that you suspected Charles Lasser of bombing your office, and you told her that you were going to call the police? Not only that, she made sure she left before they arrived.’

‘I don’t know. The police thing could have been a coincidence. I mean, if you want somebody to open up their hotel room door for you, then shouting “police!” is a pretty logical thing to do, isn’t it? You’re not going to say “hitmen!”, are you?’

‘There’s something very unusual about Astrid,’ Nevile mused. ‘It’s not just the fact that she won’t tell you what her name is, or where she lives. Do you think she’s still seeing Charles Lasser?’

‘I don’t have any idea. I can’t follow her everywhere. I don’t have the right.’

‘You have the right to protect yourself.’

‘What do you mean? You think she’s dangerous?’

‘If she called those two men last night, of course she is. But even if she didn’t call them, it seems to me that she’s getting you involved in something very complicated and very risky, although I can’t think what.’

‘Whatever you say, she’s given me comfort, she’s given me reassurance, she’s kept me from falling to pieces.’

‘Of course she has,’ said Nevile. ‘But at the same time, she could have been trying to win your trust, for the sake of her own agenda.’

‘What agenda? I mean, I’m a comedy writer. What else could I possibly do for her, except make her laugh?’

‘Maybe Danny knows.’

‘Danny?’

‘He’s appeared to you twice this week, to save your life. The chances are that he knows who’s trying to kill you. He may also know what Astrid wants from you, too.’

‘So that’s why you suggested another séance?’

Nevile lifted both hands. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’