I let myself sink into the amber afternoon darkness of the bar and beer, sharing a moment of repose with Sade, Uncle Fletcher, and Rush.
My next stop was Clinton Hill, the contractor who doubled as a Dark Knight, he of the falling wig and voyeuristic inclination, as Wilson Wong had said. I found the contracting firm in Inglewood just where it belonged, but I didn’t find Clinton Hill. His brother was the Hill in the firm title. My boy, according to the angelic-looking girl at the desk, was an assistant librarian at St. Bartholomew’s College a few miles away. He picked up his mail at the contracting office and, according to the girl, often let people believe it was his business.
The library was a few blocks down in a surprisingly large old stone building. It was surprising because the college itself consisted of a total of five decaying stone buildings enclosed by a rusting spiked fence and a couple of dozen acres of grass that could use mowing.
I found a space and spotted a dark Ford slowing down a block ahead of me. I watched for a few seconds while he hesitated and drove on. I decided to start taking down the license number of every dark Ford I saw and then checking to see whether there were any match-ups to prove I was either observant, scared, or both.
The library was impressive, like a chapel from another country. The lobby was marble and dark wood and the huge cathedral-size room with stained glass windows beyond was heavy, somber, and solid. The stained glass windows showed saints in various stages of torture or anguish. Saint Bart was the star of the show, and arrows abounded. I turned my head downward to more worldly things in the almost empty mausoleum. A few students were seated at the massive tables with books in front of them. Behind the wooden counter, which formed a protective circle, stood a librarian, a dry, tall man in a lint-catching dark suit. He actually wore pince-nez glasses.
“Yes,” he said as I advanced. He made it clear that I was a foreign presence.
“Chadwick,” I said “Professor Irwin Chadwick, UCLA, anthropology. I was talking to one of your librarians, a Mr. Hill, recently about your collection of works on the occult. I was wondering if he might be here to give me some assistance.”
The dry man let gastric reaction take place, which faintly resembled human response. “Mr. Hill,” he said, “is not actually a librarian. He does work in the library, restacking primarily. He does, however, have a genuine knowledge of and interest in the occult. If you wish to go into the stacks, I think you will find him reshelving on the second basement level, in the four hundreds.”
“Thank you,” I said, heading in the direction he had pointed.
“You are welcome, Dr. Chadwick,” he responded.
Behind us both the main door opened, but I didn’t turn to see who was coming in. I made my way down a narrow row of books on metal racks piled about seven feet high and found a spiral metal staircase going both up and down. I went down slowly, trying to clank as little as possible, At the first level down, light was provided by some naked overhead bulbs and a few dusty windows that were probably even with the ground. I looked down the rows of books in both directions and saw nothing. There was a remembered smell of crumbling paper about the place. I went down another level. The spiral staircase rattled a little at its bolts but held as it probably had for a generation.
At the second level down were a few more naked bulbs of low wattage but no windows. I went to the left and realized that the floor was made of metal grillwork. I looked up and saw the ceiling was the same grillwork. There was a hollow emptiness to the place I didn’t like. A level below held more books, but it was even darker and there may have been a level below that. I thought I heard a sound above and turned to look up. My turn caused an echo of my footsteps. I touched my gun. I was getting addicted to it. A few more encounters and I’d surely whip it out and accidentally shoot myself.
“Mr. Hill,” I whispered, hoarsely, moving deeper into the aisle between the stacks. I passed rows of books on each side, going back fifteen or twenty feet each. A few rows had lights on, but most had them off. Strings hung from each light, and to turn a light on, one had to grope in semidarkness halfway down the aisle.
I moved slowly, peering down each aisle of books, right and left, trying to penetrate the corners, keeping a look of confidence on my face in case someone was hidden in one of the recesses. Maybe he or it would think I could see him.
“Mr. Hill?” I repeated. I was almost at the solid wall at the end of the narrow corridor. I found another set of spiral stairs up and down. I was considering whether to go up or down or back when a rumbling sound came out of the darkness behind me. It was moving quickly and noisly out of a black aisle of oversized books. I reached for my gun and pulled it out, backing against the stairway.
“Stop,” I shouted, and my voice echoed below and above in shadows.
The sound stopped and I could make out a shape in the murk.
“You were calling me?” it said.
“Hill?”
“Yes,” he said, emerging into the light, pushing a book cart ahead of him that rattled noisily on the metal grill floor. He was the same man I had seen at the Dark Knights meeting, without the black hair. He had some hair, but it wasn’t enough to try to save. He looked at my gun in clear terror. I put it away.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a few scares in the past several days. You know who I am?”
A wave of bitterness crossed Hill’s face.
“You were at the Dark Knights meeting Friday. You are not a member. How did you find me?”
There was a sob in his voice.
“I…” “I’ll quit,” he said, near hysteria. “Billings promised, promised in blood not to disclose anyone’s identity.”
“Blood?” I said.
“Simulated human blood,” he explained. I looked incredulous, I guess. “Chicken blood,” he clarified.
“I’m a private detective,” I said. “My name’s Toby Peters. I’ll make it fast and easy, and I don’t care if you quit the Dark Knights or the Morning Tulips, but I want answers.”
Hill tried to push his cart past me, but I kicked it back with my good leg, trapping him in the narrow aisle he had come out of.
“Someone is trying to scare Bela Lugosi, maybe do more than scare him, and I’m damned sure it’s one of the Dark Knights, and I think I’ve got the suspects narrowed down to two. And you, old bat, are one of them.”
“No,” cried Hill. “I’m not one of those people. I just go to watch. I could never do any… I couldn’t do things. I just stand around and keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t even touch the chicken blood for the ceremony. You can ask the Count.”
“Billings.”
“Yes,” he cried. “I live here, in the library. I don’t even go out except to get some food, pick up my mail, and go to the meetings. I wouldn’t hurt anybody or anything. I’m a vegetarian.”
“You’re a vegetarian?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What has that… Forget it.” If he couldn’t stand the sight of blood he sure as hell hadn’t sent an impaled bat to Lugosi. I would check his story, but I had the feeling it would hold up, which left me with damn few members of the Dark Knights.
“I practically live on ice cream alone,” he went on.
“Okay,” I said. “Forget it. Forget I bothered you.”
I started down the aisle, leaving him behind.
“Are you going to tell them?” he pleaded. “Tell them what I really do, who I am?”
“No,” I shouted. “Forget it.”
He went silent with a small shell of a sob, and I hurried toward the stairway I had come down, but something stopped me. I stood still. Some of the side aisles had lights on when I had come down earlier. Now all the lights were off. It could have been a mass fatigue of ancient bulbs or my imagination. I considered going back to the far stairwell, but that meant dealing with Hill again. I couldn’t face his complete breakdown. I pulled out my gun and inched forward very slowly and very quietly, but I still made some noise. I could see no one moving above or below and could hear nothing behind.
I made it almost to the stairway, convincing myself that fear does strange things. Then fear appeared. It was almost noiseless and caught me in a near-dreamlike instant. It was a sound behind me, a movement of air. I turned in time to see the outline of a black-caped figure swooping down in a crouch from one of the stacks. I tripped
