“My mistake,” Garrison apologized. “For some reason, powder bouncers seem to gravitate to the acting profession as vipers do to music. Or maybe there’s something about being an actor that makes ’em take wing. They start off sniffing gin and graduate to the needle. I could tell, Mister Chase, and I think Hunyadi was OK tonight.”
Chase fixed Garrison with a calculatedly bland expression. Unlike the actors Winkle and Jenkins, the director lacked any obvious motive for wishing Hunyadi dead. In fact, to keep the production running successfully he would want Hunyadi functional. Still, what motive unconnected to the production might Garrison have had?
And there was Samuel Pollard. As Van Helsing, Chase knew, Pollard would have appeared with the lined face and grey locks of an aged savant, a man of five decades or even six. To Chase’s surprise, the actor appeared every bit as old as the character he portrayed. His face showed the crags and scars of a sexagenarian, and his thin fringe of hair was the colour of old iron.
In response to Chase’s questions, Pollard revealed that he had spent the second intermission in the company of the young actress who had appeared as the character Mina, Jeanette Stallings.
“Is that so?” Chase asked blandly.
“We have – a relationship,” Pollard muttered.
Chase stared at the grizzled actor, pensively fingering his moustache. He restrained himself from echoing John Heywood’s dictum that there is no fool like an old fool, instead inquiring neutrally as to the nature of the relationship between Pollard and the actress.
“It is of a personal nature.” Pollard’s tone was grudging.
“Mr Pollard, as you are probably aware, I am not a police officer, nor am I affiliated with the municipal authorities in any formal capacity. Captain Baxter merely calls upon me from time to time, when faced with a puzzle of special complexity. If you choose to withhold information from me, I cannot compel you to do otherwise – but if you decline to assist me, you will shortly be obliged to answer to the police or the district attorney. Now I ask you again, what is the nature of your relationship with Miss Stallings?”
Pollard clasped and unclasped his age-gnarled hands as he debated with himself. Finally he bowed his head in surrender and said, “Very well. Doctor Chase, you are obviously too young to remember the great era of the theatre, when Samuel Pollard was a name to conjure with. You never saw me as Laertes, I am certain, nor as Macbeth. I was as famous as a Barrymore or a Booth in my day. Now I am reduced to playing a European vampire hunter.”
He blew out his breath as if to dispel the mischievous imps of age.
“Like many another player in such circumstances, I have been willing to share my knowledge of the trade with eager young talents. That is the nature of my relationship with Miss Stallings.”
“In exchange for which services you received what, Mister Pollard?”
“The satisfaction of aiding a promising young performer, Doctor Chase.” And, after a period of silence, “Plus an honorarium of very modest proportions. Even an artist, I am sure you will understand, must meet his obligations.”
Chase pondered, then asked his final question of Pollard. “What, specifically, have you and Miss Stallings worked upon?”
“Her diction, Doctor Chase. There is none like the Bard to develop one’s proper enunciation. Miss Stallings is of European origin, and it was in the subtle rhythms and emphases of the English language that I instructed her.”
With this exchange Abel Chase completed his interrogation of Rodgers, Winkle, Jenkins, Pollard, and Garrison. He dismissed them, first warning them that none was absolved of suspicion, and that all were to remain in readiness to provide further assistance should it be demanded of them.
He then sought out Claire Delacroix. She was found in the office of the theatre manager, Walter Quince. With her were Estelle Miller and Jeanette Stallings. Chase rapped sharply on the somewhat grimy door and admitted himself to Quince’s sanctum.
The room, he noted, was cluttered with the kipple of a typical business establishment. The dominant item was a huge desk. Its scarred wooden surface was all but invisible beneath an array of folders, envelopes, scraps and piles of paper. A heavy black telephone stood near at hand. A wooden filing cabinet, obviously a stranger to the cleaner’s cloth no less than to oil or polish, stood in one corner. An upright typewriter of uncertain age and origin rested upon a rickety stand of suspect condition.
Claire Delacroix sat perched on the edge of the desk, occupying one of the few spots not covered by Quince’s belongings. One knee was crossed over the other, offering a glimpse of silk through a slit in the silvery material of her skirt.
She looked up as Abel Chase entered the room. Chase nodded. Claire introduced him to her companions. “Miss Miller, Miss Stallings, Doctor Akhenaton Beelzebub Chase.”
Chase nodded to the actresses. Before another word was uttered the atmosphere of the room was pierced by the shrill clatter of the telephone on Walter Quince’s desk. Claire Delacroix lifted the receiver to her ear and held the mouthpiece before her lips, murmuring into it. She listened briefly, then spoke again. At length she thanked the caller and lowered the receiver to its cradle.
“That was Nolan Young, the coroner,” she said to Chase. “I think we had best speak in private, Abel.”
Chase dismissed the two actresses, asking them to remain on the premises for the time being. He then asked Claire Delacroix what she had learned from the county coroner.
Claire clasped her hands over her knee and studied Abel Chase’s countenance before responding. Perhaps she sought a sign there of his success – or lack thereof – in his own interrogations. When she spoke, it was to paraphrase closely what Nolan Young had told her.
“The coroner’s office has performed a quick and cursory postmortem examination of Imre Hunyadi. There was no visible cause of death. Nolan Young sustains my preliminary attribution of heart failure. But of course, that tells us nothing. There was no damage to the heart itself, no sign of embolism, thrombosis, or abrasion. What, then, caused Hunyadi’s heart to stop beating?”
Abel Chase waited for her to continue.
“The condition of Hunyadi’s irises suggests that he was using some narcotic drug, most likely cocaine.”
“Such was his history.” Chase put in. “Nevertheless, Elbert Garrison observed Hunyadi closely and believes that he was not under the influence.”
“Perhaps not,” Claire acceded. “An analysis of his bloodstream will tell us that. But the two marks on his neck suggest otherwise, Abel.”
Chase glanced at her sharply. He was a man of typical stature, and she a woman of more than average height. As he stood facing her and she sat perched on the edge of Walter Quince’s desk, they were eye to eye.
“Study of the two marks with an enlarging glass shows each as the locus of a series of needle-pricks. I had observed as much, myself, during my own examination of the body. Most of them are old and well healed, but the most recent, Nolan Young informs, is fresh. It had apparently been inflicted only moments before Hunyadi’s death. If those marks were the sign of a vampire’s teeth, then the creature more likely administered cocaine to his victims than extracted blood from them.”
“You are aware, Delacroix, I do not believe in the supernatural.”
“Not all vampires are of the supernatural variety,” she replied.
Abel Chase ran a finger pensively beneath his moustache. “What is your professional opinion, then? Are you suggesting that Hunyadi died of erythroxylon alkaloid intoxication?”
“I think not,” frowned Claire Delacroix. “If that were the case, I would have expected Nolan Young to report damage to the heart, and none was apparent. Further, the condition of the needle-pricks is most intriguing. They suggest that Hunyadi had received no injections for some time, then resumed his destructive habit just tonight. I suspect that a second substance was added to the victim’s customary injection of cocaine. The first drug, while elevating his spirits to a momentarily euphoric state, would have, paradoxically, lulled him into a false sense of security while the second killed him.”
