BY BLOOD ALONE
By
Bernhardt J. Hurwood


Chapter One
  Even though he was not absolutely certain that he had ever seen her before, Haggerty, the midnight-to-eight elevator man, had a feeling that the braless young woman with the frizzy hair was going to Penthouse A. Her kind always went there—whores! junkies! pimps! That Mr. Garson, he was no good. He didn't belong in a respectable building like this. Haggerty sighed. There was no justice in this world, but that's the way things were. Mr. Garson was lazy and rich. He caroused all night and slept all day. Word had it that his father paid all the bills and took care of him when he got into trouble.
  Making a wager with himself that she would have her own key, Haggerty deliberately brought the elevator to a jerky stop on the twentieth floor, then waited and watched to see what would happen next. Sure enough, she reached into a shoulder bag that must have been made out of an old gunny sack and began rummaging around. Finally she found the key, stuck it in the lock and turned it. But as she pushed, instead of swinging all the way in, the door was stopped by a chain permitting an opening of about four inches. At that moment the sound of hard rock burst forth, followed seconds later by the cloying scent of sweet Indian incense.
  The young woman, furious at having been denied entrance and totally oblivious to the fact that the elevator man was still there began violently banging the door back and forth on the chain. "Jay!" she screeched. "It's me, Deedee! Lemme in for Christ's sake!"
  Haggerty, outraged at this raucous assault on the landlord's property, rushed from the elevator, seized the angry girl by the arm, and shouted, "Hey, you cut that out! Maybe Mr. Garson don't wanna see you now, besides—"
  But he never got a chance to finish. At that moment the chain gave way, the door flew open and seemed to suck the girl and Haggerty in its wake.
  "Jesus Christ!" Deedee cried, as Haggerty landed on top of her on the floor inside. Her voice was almost drowned out by the blaring boom and twang of the music.
  Haggerty extricated himself and clapped his hands over his ears. He felt as if he had fallen into a giant loudspeaker, for the entire room seemed to vibrate and tremble with every note. For a brief instant panic gripped the man. His senses were suddenly disoriented. The heavy fragrance of the incense reminded him of chloroform. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought then peered through the semidarkness which seemed to explode into stark, frozen images punctuated by irregularly spaced flashes of blinding light. Between them, shifting psychedelic rainbow patterns oozed along the walls and ceiling pulsating in uncanny time with the pounding music.
  Abruptly recognizing that the flashes and the changing colors were caused by a lightbox and an internally illuminated electric clock respectively, Haggerty pulled himself to his feet resolved to eject this trespassing, foul-mouthed bitch, who had disrupted the tranquility of his shift.
  Then he saw it. "Holy Mother of God!" he gasped, crossing himself and recoiling in horror.
  Looking first at the retreating Haggerty delayed Deedee's reaction. But at the next flash she clapped her hands to the sides of her face, uttered a strangled scream, then doubled up and began vomiting her guts out.
  The body lay on its back on a white fur rug between two love seats in the center of the room. The legs were slightly apart with the feet turned outward. The arms were outstretched by the sides, palms up. The head—its mouth gaping open, the eyes, glassy, wide and staring—was separated from the trunk by about six inches. A large French chefs knife lay about fifteen inches to the right of the gap. There was virtually no blood anywhere, save for a large smear on the gleaming blade.
* * *
  Although he was stunned at the news of his son's bizarre murder, Jason Everett Garson, Senior felt little emotion beyond annoyance. He had never really been able to communicate with his sole heir, so he had given up trying long ago. He did, however, have one passion, a compulsive need for privacy. This engendered a continuous campaign to avoid scandal insofar as his descendant's activities were concerned. Nothing would have pleased the elder Garson more than to turn his son into a classic remittance man and ship him off to the colonies; but alas, there were no colonies, and Jason, Junior was perfectly content with whatever horizons were visible from the terrace of a Manhattan apartment.
  Garson's principal irritation now stemmed from the fact that the police had no clues as to who might have killed his son or why. Privately he imagined that there were legions of potential suspects about, for if there was one thing he knew about his late offspring it was that from early childhood he had cultivated an exasperating ability to antagonize all comers. But that was beside the point. It was abundantly clear to Garson that the police were not working fast enough. As a man who was intolerant of inaction he made up his mind to hire a private detective and settle the matter permanently.
  Garson had only required the services of such a man once before. Five years earlier he had become exceedingly jealous of any outside attentions being paid to a certain young woman. Since he was paying all of her considerable living expenses this had seemed to him a reasonable attitude. The investigator who had been most highly recommended was a man named Russell Dorne who had an impressive record in the military CID. Dorne had refused to take the case on grounds that he was not a professional Peeping Tom, and that if he was ever faced with the possibility of being forced to earn his livlihood skulking around people's bedrooms, he would retire. This too had seemed reasonable to Garson.
  But he had no intention of letting Dorne refuse this case—for any reason.
* * *
  Dorne operated out of a spartan office in the financial district that could easily have been lifted intact from a government installation. They were functional quarters with no frills; a plain steel desk with a lamp, a dictaphone, a telephone answering machine, four steel filing cabinets and three chairs. Facing his desk was a framed World War I poster, a James Montgomery Flagg Uncle Sam pointing sternly out over the caption, "I WANT YOU." Behind the desk, mounted in a plain black frame, hung a page from Stars and Stripes bearing a 1944 dateline. In the upper right-hand corner was the picture of a younger Dorne wearing the uniform of an army lieutenant, shaking hands with General Eisenhower. Next to this was a framed citation signed by the allied supreme commander and a private investigator's license bearing the seal of the State of New York.
  An athletic six-footer in his mid-fifties, Dorne favored expensive, English-tailored tweeds, button down white Oxford cloth shirts and conservative striped ties. His rich, wavy, iron gray hair, tanned leathery complexion and neatly trimmed Dean Acheson moustache gave him the appearance of anything but a private detective. He looked more like an early afternoon shopper in the sporting goods department of the late-lamented Abercrombie and Fitch.
  When Garson walked in Dorne recognized him at once. The man had changed very little in five years, a trifle grayer at the temples perhaps, but still the same arrogant power broker for whom he had refused to work when they first met. Having read the morning papers, Dorne did not have to overtax his deductive powers to know why Garson had come to see him.
  "I suppose you want me to look into your son's murder," he said simply after offering Garson a chair.
  Garson nodded affirmatively. "I do," he answered. "How much do you want?"
  Giving the man a thoughtful look, Dorne leaned back in his chair and said, "Well, with inflation my fees have had to go up…"
  "That doesn't surprise me," interrupted Garson. "Whatever you're asking, I suspect that triple your old rate plus expenses ought to be satisfactory. Just find out who killed my son and keep a low profile."
  Dorne said nothing at first and fixed his visitor with a penetrating stare. "Have you any idea how long an investigation like this might take, Mr. Garson?"
  Garson leaned forward. "I don't give a damn if it takes you five years," he retorted. "I want a solution and I know if I wait for the police to find one—" His voice broke in mid-sentence. He detested outward displays of emotion. Leaning back again and assuming his former dispassionate façade he added, "You will take the case, won't you?"
  "I will. But you realize that there can be no guarantees, and as for my keeping a low profile, it happens to be one of my cardinal rules."
  "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough on that point," declared Garson. "I don't want anything more in the papers. There has been entirely too much of my son's dirty laundry exposed to the press as it is."
  Dorne frowned, pushed back his chair and stood up. "There's something you're going to have to understand right now, Mr. Garson. If you want me to take this case and attempt to find out who killed your son that's one thing. But if you expect me to assume the role of your private censor, forget it. That's a job for a public relations counsel. Now, it's not my style to make startling revelations to anyone but my clients. I make regular detailed progress reports and I stay on the right side of the law. Do I make myself clear?"
  Garson knew when to stop pushing his luck. It was one of the traits that had enabled him to amass a fortune. He held up one hand, closed his eyes, and nodded his head up and down impatiently. "All right, all right," he snapped. "How soon can you start?"
  Dorne glanced at his calendar and said, "This is Thursday. There are a few matters I'll have to wrap up between now and the weekend. That means I can begin on Monday. Now, about my retainer…"
  Garson reached for his checkbook and a pen. "I'll give you ten thousand now," he announced. "When you need more, provided you've got something to go on, just let me know. "
  "Fair enough," said Dorne, rising and extending his hand. "I'll send you a confirming letter of agreement before Monday. "
  "Don't worry about that," said Garson, tearing out the check and handing it to Dorne. "All I want is for you to get results."
  Dorne suppressed an urge to point out that in affairs of this sort results did not always coincide with wishes. He shook hands with his new client, bid him goodbye, and showed him out of the office.
* * *
  At ten o'clock on Monday morning Dorne was ushered into the office of Deputy Police Commissioner Carl Mariani. A huge, balding, bear of a man, Mariani was all smiles as he enthusiastically pumped the hand of his visitor. "My God, Russ!" he exclaimed. "How long has it been, seven, eight years?"
  "Closer to ten, Carl, if you want to get technical. You were still an inspector then, remember?"
  "Well, it's been too damned long if you ask me," declared Mariani, pulling a chair over to the side of his desk. "Sit down, Russ, have a cigar and tell me what you've been up to all these years."
  "I quit smoking among other things," said Dorne, declining the cigar. "Otherwise it's been mostly stolen jewelry and art cases for insurance companies."
  "No juicy divorces for a little variety?"
  "I don't take them Carl, never have. And it's paid off over the years. I get better fees and I don't have to deal with hysterical spouses."
  The commissioner grinned. "I suppose I can't argue with that. But I still can't help thinking that if you weren't on the right side of the law you'd have made the perfect jewel and art thief. I remember when we were in the army there were guys who were willing to swear that you had some kind of supernatural talent. One of the old time sergeants used to insist that you were better at finding stolen treasure than a dowser was going after water."
  Dorne laughed. "No," he insisted. "There was never anything especially exotic about me, Carl. I've just been a nut for solving puzzles since I was a kid. When I got out of the army after the war I figured it would be crazy for me to go to work when I could earn a good living sticking to puzzles."
  Mariani leaned back in his chair, puffed on his cigar and blew out a bluish cloud of smoke. "Okay, that sounds like a pretty good motive," he agreed. "So what are you looking for these days, gold bullion, diamonds, or maybe a missing da Vinci?"
  Dorne shook his head and smiled mirthlessly. "No, Carl. As a matter of fact I'm looking for something of negative value. Someone, I should say. I'm after a murderer."
  Mariani looked genuinely startled. He snuffed out his nearly fresh cigar, leaned forward across his desk and said, "Russ, do you know what you're doing?"
  "I hope so. Let's just say, if I can borrow a phrase, that someone made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
  "I don't like the sound of it, " the commissioner said, frowning slightly. "Homicides are the domain of the department. I know you Russ, you step on toes. You don't take shit from anybody. You could end up with a lot of enemies in the wrong places."
  "Why do you think I came to see you first? I've been around the block too many times. I've got a good business and I don't intend to jeopardize my position. I'm not one of these TV P. I.'s who goes around making a career out of antagonizing cops.
  But when a client lays ten big ones on me for a retainer and gives me carte blanche at nearly triple my ordinary fee I'm not about to turn him down."
  Mariani nodded. "Okay, Russ. I got your point. Who are you working for?"
  "Jason Everett Garson, pere."
  "I'll be a son of a bitch! Of all the cases on the books, you would have to pick that one!"
  "Hey, take it easy, Carl. It picked me, remember?"
  Mariani took out another cigar, unwrapped it and went through the entire ritual of clipping the end, wetting the tip and lighting up. Dorne waited patiently. It was better to let his old friend gain his composure before probing any further. Obviously he had touched on something very sensitive, and he had no intention of rubbing it raw. It was not the way to get results.
  Mariani took several puffs of his cigar then gave Dorne a look that meant all business. "I'm not going to try hiding anything from you, Russ," he began. "I've known you too long, and I know I can trust you. But the fact is, this Garson killing may not be an ordinary homicide. We might possibly have another Jack the Ripper on our hands…"
  "I figured this one was gonna give me some trouble… but I didn't expect anything so bizarre. Can you tell me anything?"
  "As far as we can theorize, someone in this city has made a vendetta against hookers, pimps, pushers, small-time hoods, even derelicts. It's been going on for a year, maybe longer.
  "We've only been keeping close watch for a year.
  "You see, there have been an abnormal number of disappearances strictly from the bottom of the heap—people who wouldn't be missed, no families, no very close associates. We found out about it accidentally after a couple of sociologists with an HEW grant started running a project on missing persons."
  "You mean to say that all these persons who disappeared just vanished into thin air?" Dorne demanded skeptically.
  Mariani made a wry face and nodded. "That's about it. There's also been a slight increase in unidentified DOA's that were badly mutilated, but in such advanced stages of decay that there hasn't been any way of determining a definite time of death. We're almost certain that homicide was involved because in each case the body was found on a fluke."
  "I don't follow you, Carl."
  "What I mean is that the bodies were always discovered in places where there was little chance of discovery, usually abandoned buildings. We know it's not a mob thing. We've checked out that angle thoroughly."
  "There's only one hole in the theory," observed Dorne. "You say that for a year all these disappearances were of petty crooks, nonentities, people who wouldn't be missed. Right? Well, you certainly couldn't say that about young Garson. He was too visible. There's just not enough of a connection."
  Mariani nodded again. "Absolutely right, Russ, but there was a connection—not very obvious maybe… Look, Garson was killed two weeks ago. His killer did a pretty clean job of draining almost all the blood from the body before decapitating him—" 
  "Drained the blood! That doesn't make sense." 
  "No, it doesn't, and I'm glad it didn't get to the press. Christ! They'd have had a picnic with that story. But getting back to the facts, two important items stand out: first, the murder itself with its bizarre MO; second, the only disappearances we've had since the murder are strictly the usual middle-class norm—husbands, wives, runaway kids.
  "Now I know this covers only a two-week period, but the department theory is that whoever killed Garson was planning to get rid of the body the same way he did most of his other victims, but he was interrupted by someone or something. Maybe he was hurt. Who knows? Anything might have happened. Anyway he was able to get out and cover his tracks thoroughly. That in itself had to be an accomplishment. Even though the chain on the front door was loose, it was definitely in place when the girl forced her way in. He couldn't have gotten out the front door without being seen. There are only two apartments on the penthouse floor and the only way out is down the passenger elevator. He'd have to be an acrobat to go off the terrace, so our guess is that he went out the kitchen door and walked down to avoid being seen by the operator of the service elevator. The general concensus is that he's holed up somewhere now either hurt, sick, or just laying low till the heat's off."
  "It's an interesting theory," observed Dorne, "but it still leaves the case wide open. What about clues, haven't you got any leads at all?"
  "Not a goddamn one," confessed Mariani quietly.
  "And if we haven't been able to turn anything up with all the technology and manpower we have at our disposal, I don't see where you can either Russ."
  For a moment neither man spoke a word, then Dorne stood up and said, "Well, Carl, I have to admit that the picture doesn't look too bright, but I've got to do something to earn my fee. So if you don't mind I'll nose around for a while. One thing I can promise you, I'm not looking for an opportunity to upstage the department. My client doesn't want any publicity and neither do I. So if I do find anything you'll be the first to know. All I ask is that you tell the people in homicide to play ball with me."
  Mariani leaned over and offered Dorne his hand. "Okay, Russ, you've got my word." Then, glancing at his watch, he stood up. "I'm sorry I can't ask you to stick around and have lunch, but I've got a meeting at City Hall."
  Dorne smiled. "Don't worry about it Carl, I'll take a raincheck."
  "That's a deal," replied Mariani as he escorted his old friend to the door. "And don't worry, the department will cooperate with you a hundred percent, but just between us, I'm afraid all you're going to find in this case is goose eggs, rotten ones at that."
Chapter Two
  When Russell Dorne made the obligatory courtesy call on Homicide he was given a predictably cool reception. Lieutenant Jake Barkin, who was in charge of the case, was polite, proper and of little help. He left no doubt in Dorne's mind that he had no use for outsiders interfering in what was clearly an official police matter. Furthermore, the lieutenant made no secret of his personal feelings on the case.
  "Lemme tell you something, Dorne," Barkin said flatly. "I'll do my job on this case, just like I'd do on any other. But between you and me, I feel very good every time a schmuck like that Garson gets it. Maybe he grew up on Fifth Avenue and went to all those private schools, but he was scum. Do you know that he was dealing in smack and coke and any other dope he could get his hands on?"
  "As a matter of feet I didn't."
  "Yeah, well that's not all. He also had a stable of hookers, and most of 'em he turned onto junk. They used to make porno loops in his apartment, too. I can't tell you how many times Vice had him downtown. They even got indictments a couple of times, but whenever that happened he started whining for his old man, who came in with his big-deal lawyers, and after the usual hondeling and plea bargaining the bastard got off with a suspended sentence. I'll admit that whoever wasted him had to be some kind of a nut, but he also did the state a favor."
  There were a number of questions that Dorne would have liked to ask, but he had a hunch that Barkin's reluctance to give out any concrete information stemmed from the fact that he didn't have any to give. It was pointless to press at this stage. Dorne had no intention of antagonizing anyone in Homicide this early in the game.
  He had done a good deal of thinking about the missing persons theory Mariani had given him. Maybe Garson's killer had been in the process of dismembering the body in order to make sure that his victim would disappear without a trace. Maybe he had been doing this to other victims, cutting them up, grinding them up, God knows what. Stranger things had happened before. The infamous "Hanover Vampire," Haarman, back in the twenties, had ground up his victims and sold them as sausages. If nothing else, the draining of blood from the corpse made it a good deal easier to dismember it afterward without making too much of a mess.
  Assuming that there was a connection between all the mysterious disappearances and Jay Garson's bizarre murder, then the assumption that something had happened to the killer to prevent him from following through as he had presumably done in the past made sense. But what really did happen to him and how did he actually get out? The service entrance that Mariani had mentioned was under the surveillance of closed-circuit TV cameras according to Barkin. So the chances of his having slipped out that way unseen were slim indeed.
  Dorne decided to pay a visit to the Medical Examiner's office. He wanted to talk to the pathologist who actually performed the autopsy on Garson. It would be far more productive than to ask questions at the scene of the crime.
  The man Dorne was looking for proved to be a young, enthusiastic deputy medical examiner who had not been on the job long enough to turn cynical. His name was Doctor Michael Leonard and he was the sort of young medic who did not stand on ceremony. Before ten minutes had elapsed the two men were on a first-name basis.
  "I'll tell you one thing," Leonard said emphatically, showing Dorne an enlarged photograph of the deceased's severed neck. "Whoever did this was more butcher than technician. You notice that he cut as far as he could, then hacked the rest of the way through. See how the larynx is smashed? And look at the vertebrae where the knife made contact—shattered. I'd never given it much thought before, but those French chefs knives are heavier than some cleavers."
  Dorne thoughtfully contemplated the photograph, then handed it back and said, "What interests me is what you say was the cause of death. Doesn't it strike you as odd that anyone would submit to being bled to death without a struggle?"
  "Damned odd," admitted Leonard. "But who knows, maybe the murderer had accomplices, somebody to hold the victim down. One thing's certain, the killer didn't start his 'surgery' until after death, and I'm afraid we don't have any idea of how he drained the blood out or what he did with it."
  Dorne sighed and shook his head. "It's crazy, Mike, the whole damn thing."
  "You don't know the half of it, Russ. But look, it's almost quitting time, how about a little liquid fortification?"
  Dorne grinned. "That depends on the liquid," he replied.
  Leonard assumed an air of mock solemnity, and standing there in his white coat he looked remarkably like the spokesman for some over-the-counter drug in a TV commercial. "The laboratory martini, " he said, "is superior both in proof and quality to the ordinary bar variety. Instead of utilizing vodka or gin with their hangover inducing fusil oils, the laboratory martini consists only of pure grain spirits, USP of course, cut to one hundred proof with pure distilled water, then mixed with the finest imported vermouth etcetera, etcetera."
  With that he led Dorne to a refrigerator, opened the door and revealed, in addition to an assortment of human organs in jars, a corked florence jar of alcohol, a small bottle of vermouth and covered beakers containing olives, lemon twists and cocktail onions.
  "How do you like yours, Russ," Leonard called as he knelt down and reached into the refrigerator.
  "Dry, straight up and with a twist," Dorne replied, wondering if the young pathologist followed the old medical practice of using a urinal for a martini pitcher. The odds, he decided were against it.
  Leonard's "patients," after all, were far beyond the need of such equipment.
  The ritual pouring, mixing, stirring and serving of the martinis now completed, the two men settled down, beakers in hand, on high stools alongside a high lab table. Both took sips, then Leonard put down his beaker and became serious again.
  "I saved the best for last," he said. "You can read everything in the full autopsy report when you get time—I'll give you a copy—although frankly, you'll probably find it a bore. The key points are what you're after."
  "Such as?"
  "Such as the fact that when Garson was killed he had to be stoned out of his gourd on acid. There was enough blood left in him to run some tests, about a pint. I'll tell you something, the concentration of LSD in his blood was so high, he must have taken nearly a full milligram. Your ordinary dose only runs from twenty-five to two hundred fifty micrograms."
  Dorne took another sip of his drink. That was an interesting wrinkle. If both Garson and his killer had been tripping on acid together anything might have gone on in their heads. But how did the killer get away without attracting attention? He looked across at Leonard and asked, "So what do you make of it, Mike?"
  Leonard shrugged. "Nothing in particular," he replied. "But there's something else. It can't possibly have anything to do with the murder… it's too goddamn weird…"
  "That doesn't sound terribly professional, now, does it Mike?"
  "Wait till you hear the whole thing," insisted
  Leonard. "I found out about it strictly on a fluke from a friend of mine in the Brooklyn medical examiner's office. He told me about it at a party two days after the Garson murder…" Leonard stopped himself in mid-sentence and grinned sheepishly.
  "You're going to think I've been dropping acid when you hear this one. "
  "Try me," suggested Dorne, beginning to feel a bit impatient.
  Leonard nodded. "I'll try to keep it short," he said. "The day after they found Garson's body the caretaker of Wildwood Cemetery out in Bay Ridge found a skeleton near an old mausoleum. There's no substantial connection, I mean the skeleton was just lying there facedown in the weeds. It was completely clothed in black—topcoat, suit, turtleneck, socks and shoes. It even had underwear on."
  "What condition were the clothes in?" Dorne asked.
  "Very good, worn but not worn out. I'm not finished though, just hear me out. There was no identification of any sort, just an old wallet with about a hundred dollars, and in the pockets there was some odd change and a few subway tokens."
  "Wait a minute now, Mike," interrupted Dorne. "This doesn't make any sense."
  "I didn't say it did. "
  "Okay, you say the clothes were in good condition, no rot or anything. What about the skeleton itself?"
  "It was very old. I went out there the next day and examined it personally. I'd guess that it had to be at least a hundred fifty years old. The teeth alone were a dead giveaway. The molars showed signs of excessive decay, but the canines were in good shape. The point is, there were not signs of any modern-type dental work."
  Dorne still didn't see the connection. It was getting late and he was becoming hungry. "Mike," he said, "when you told me there was no connection you used the word 'substantial.' So far I don't see anything here. It's obvious isn't it? Somebody with a macabre sense of humor went to a lot of trouble to play a very unfunny joke. It just happened to coincide with the Garson case."
  "Wrong," persisted Leonard, wagging a finger. "I'll get to that point in a minute, just hear me out first. When I told you this was weird, I meant weird. There was a pair of plastic surgical gloves in one of the pockets, and on the third finger of the right hand there was a heavy gold ring with an odd emblem on it. It looked almost like some kind of a swastika formed out of claws. But now for the kicker. There was a bloody handkerchief stuffed in a side pocket—I mean there wasn't a speck of white left showing. This thing had really been soaked. Not only did it turn out to be human and relatively fresh, it was AB Rh Negative, a fairly scarce type… Garson's blood was AB Rh Negative. Oh, one more thing the blood from the handkerchief contained substantial traces of LSD."
* * *
  It was mid-afternoon when Russell Dorne parked his car inside the entrance to Wildwood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Despite the fresh sea breeze, the bright sunlight and the cheerful chirping of birds, he sensed an intangible pall of gloom from the moment he got out of the car. All around were signs of neglect and decay. The shadow of death seemed more evident above ground than below. The trees were stark and bare; where green grass should have spread out in verdant luxury there were sere patches of brown amidst irregular clumps of sickly weeds. The unpaved roadway that led to the main part of the cemetery was strewn with rocks and dead leaves, and the absence of tire grooves indicated that it was traveled infrequently.
  The caretaker's office was in a cracked, lichen-covered gray stone shed about twenty yards from where Dorne had parked, and as he walked toward it he wondered if anyone was there at all. The weather-beaten door was almost devoid of paint and the hardware appeared to be cast out of solid rust. It was unlocked so he pulled it open and walked in.
  Seated behind a cluttered ancient rolltop desk was an ashen-faced man with gray hair, steel-rimmed spectacles and a dirty stubble on his face. Wearing worn bib overalls, a faded red flannel shirt and scuffed work shoes, he leaned back in his chair reading a weekly tabloid with the headline, SHE YELLED AT HIM SO HE BOILED HER HEAD IN AMMONIA.
  "Waddya want?" he asked, looking up from his chair with mild annoyance.
  Dorne flashed his identification. "I'm an investigator," he said. "My name's Dorne. I want to ask you a few questions about that skeleton you found here two weeks ago."
  The caretaker threw his paper down on the desk and reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "Hey, what's with you cops anyway?" he complained. "Like I said when it happened, if you guys'd go after the muggers… all of them niggers and spies—"
  "I'm not a cop," Dorne declared, cutting him off. "I'm a private investigator and I want to know if you have any idea about who might have dumped that skeleton here?"
  The caretaker lit his cigarette and flipped the burned out match at Dorne's feet. "Waddya wanna know for?" he demanded.
  "That's my business, ' Dorne replied, recognizing a crude shakedown when he saw it. Reaching into his wallet, he took out a ten dollar bill and threw it on the desk.
  The old man grabbed it, stuffed it in his pocket, took a drag of his cigarette and said, "It was probably some of them smartass nigger kids. Sometimes they climb over the fence here at night to screw and drink and take dope. "
  "Do you know that for sure?"
  "Lissen mister, I been here for forty years. I know everything that goes on in this old skull orchard. There ain't no self respecting white man who'd come around here at night. Why, five years ago—"
  Dorne cut him off. "Look, friend, I'm not interested in five years ago. I want to know about two weeks ago. Are you telling me you don't know how the skeleton got here?"
  The man shrugged. "Well, how'm I supposed to know? I ain't here nights."
  "I thought you said you know everything that goes on here. "
  "You don't have to be here to know some things!"
  Dorne decided it was time to push. "Okay, okay, suppose you take me to the spot where you found the body," he demanded.
  "Body!" snorted the caretaker. "You call that bag of bones a body?"
  "Goddamn it!" snarled Dorne, seizing the man by the shirt. "Will you just cut out the crap and take me there?"
  "Awright… awright, leggo. I'll take you, c'mon, it's only a few minutes' walk."
  The change from arrogance to sniveling obsequiousness was so abrupt it was almost pathetic. Spending a lifetime of days in an atmosphere like this was enough to make anyone a little eccentric. Dorne felt sorry for having had to put on the strongarm act. Walking alongside the old man he glanced around at the unkempt grounds. They were surrounded by neglect. Some of the tombstones were streaked with bird droppings, other tilted at precarious angles.
  "Hey, how come this place is in such bad shape?" he asked.
  "This ain't a big cemetery, you know," replied the caretaker. "A lot of the people who had plots here either died off or moved. The only business we get nowadays is from the city. You know what I mean? Unclaimed stiffs and a few from welfare. The place ain't gonna last much longer. But I don't give a shit. I'm retiring next spring. We take a right here."
  They turned off the dirt roadway and walked in silence between a row of neglected graves toward a mausoleum. The ground was overgrown with weeds, especially in the immediate vicinity of the mausoleum. An old weeping willow tree that was half dead nearly covered the tomb from above. Over the door was carved the name Gorse. The caretaker stopped in front of the high-spiked rusty fence circling the structure and pointed to the ground. "That's where I found it. '
  "How did you happen to come over this way?" Dorne asked.
  "I go though the place every day. It ain't that big. I cover the whole thing in three days. Mostly I collect beer cans, bottles and rubbers. The spades leave 'em when they sneak in at night. "
  "What about this Gorse mausoleum, anything special about it?"
  "Like I said, I been here forty years, and I ain't never seen none of that family. Far as I know the last of 'em was here in the twenties, maybe even before that. Look, mister, if you wanna stay here and poke around, go ahead. Me, I'm going back to my office."
  "Go ahead," Dorne told him. "I'll only be here for a few minutes. I'll see you before I leave."
  The caretaker nodded, turned and trudged off through the gravesites, the crackling of dead leaves underfoot marking his steps. Dorne watched him for a moment, then focused his attention on the old mausoleum. There was nothing unusual about it—a plain granite cube about ten-feet square. He had no reason to suspect that there was any connection between the tomb and the death of his client's son. So far, the only possible link between the discovery of the skeleton here and the murder was the blood on the handkerchief.
  Realizing that he was standing on the precise spot where the remains had been found, he backed off a few feet so that he could take in the whole scene. It suddenly struck him that something was out of kilter. There was little doubt that the caretaker had been telling the truth when he said that no one had been near the mausoleum in years. The weeds, the overgrowth and the general state of disrepair gave clear evidence of that. Yet there was something else. He stood there staring and rubbing his jaw, a nervous habit he had while thinking on his feet. Then it came to him. Despite the overgrown weeds there was a distinct path, wide enough to accomodate a single person on foot, leading from outside the gate directly to the mausoleum door.
  Kneeling down and moving the overhanging weeds carefully aside—they appeared to grow from along the sides, right and left toward center—he uncovered a narrow strip not more than fourteen-inches wide that was devoid of any growth. Now he examined the ground along the bottom of the gate. There was a shallow but distinct groove in the dirt. For a path to have been worn there that particular stretch of ground had to have been used a great deal. It's narrowness increased the probability of its having been made by only one person.
  Dorne got to his feet and began examining the gate. It appeared rusted beyond repair; yet, when he pressed the handle down and pulled, it swung out easily and without creaking. Dorne's heart began to beat faster. He was onto something. He knew it. On his knees again he checked the bottom of the gate. As he had suspected, the bottom spikelike protrusions fit the grooves in the earth. They also pushed the weeds aside without damaging them. When the gate swung shut the weeds covered the bare patch of ground again.
  Getting up again and swinging the gate open, Dorne examined the hinges. Upon close scrutiny, he could see that there was a line in the rust—just enough of a crack to allow careful oiling—small enough to go unnoticed from a short distance away. Passing through the gate he checked the path to the mausoleum door. Just as on the outside, from which it was a continuation, the weeds covered the narrow path all the way to the entrance. Taking hold of the green, corroded bronze handle, he pulled. It opened as easily as the door to his office. The dank smell of the tomb assailed his nostrils like some noxious effluvium that had escaped from the depths of Hell.
Chapter Three
  Dorne peered into the dark, windowless interior of the mausoleum. His first impression was that there were five coffins inside. Then he noticed something peculiar—one was actually a huge, oblong wooden crate. It was large enough to contain a coffin, yet nothing about it indicated specifically what it was. Something else struck him as odd: The four coffins were covered with dust and cobwebs. Obviously they had not been disturbed for years. The crate on the other hand was clean and dust free.
  As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he observed that the thick layers of dust on the floor were covered with footprints, but only between the entrance of the mausoleum and the crate, and then around it. He made up his mind then and there not to venture inside. Technically he had broken the law by opening a tomb without a court order and he had no intention of going any further at the moment.
  Closing the outer door to the mausoleum, he turned and retraced his steps to the caretaker's shed. The old man was absorbed once more in his tabloid newspaper. Dorne went inside and said,
  "Tell me, do you know the plot number of that Gorse mausoleum offhand?"
  The caretaker scratched his head. "Hell no," he grunted. "Like I said before, nobody's been near it in years."
  "Well, you can find it, can't you?"
  "Yeah, yeah, just a minute." He put down his paper, reached over to an ancient steel card file on top of his desk and pulled the drawer open. After burrowing around for a moment or so he pulled out a card. "Here it is, Gorse, One-oh-Eight North. You wanna know anything else?"
  Dorne shook his head. "No, that should do it for the time being. Thanks." He started to leave, but suddenly felt a pang of compassion for the old man, a living corpse, surrounded by the dead, and approaching that time of life when he had little more to look forward to than the time he would be joining the others. Reaching into his wallet he took out a five dollar bill and held it out. "I'll see you around," he said, and without waiting for an acknowledgement, he turned and left.
  As he drove back to Manhattan, Dorne considered the possibilities before him. As Mike Leonard had said, the connection between the skeleton found at Wildwood Cemetery and young Garson's murder was slim at best. Yet, it constituted a lead. There was a reasonable chance that whoever put the bloody handkerchief in the suit pocket of the clothing in which the skeleton was found had had some contact with Garson or his killer. Obviously Lieutenant Barkin knew nothing about the matter, and chances were that if anyone mentioned it to him at this stage of the game he would regard the information as irrelevant. Carl Mariani could easily obtain the court order by making a single phone call, but he was a busy man, old friend or not, and something deep down told Dorne not to contact him again until he had more concrete information. Leonard was the obvious choice. Not only was he fired up with curiosity about the whole business of the skeleton, his position in the Medical Examiner's office made him the logical person to make an official investigation into the matter.
  It was a little after three P.M. when Dorne returned to his office. He checked his answering machine for messages. There were several hangups and a call from Garson's secretary informing him that his client would be in Zurich for a week, and to call if anything important came up. Dorne sat down behind his desk, erased the message tape, switched off the machine, then phoned Leonard.
  "Hello, Mike. This is Russ Dorne. Have you got a minute?"
  "Sure, what's up?"
  "I just got back from Wildwood Cemetery out in Brooklyn. Something is definitely not kosher around the spot they found that skeleton. I want you to get a court order to open a mausoleum out there. I have a hunch were going to find something interesting in it."
  "Jesus, this get's weirder by the minute. What happened out there, anyway?"
  "I'd rather not say anything over the phone, Mike. Are are going to be in for a while?"
  "Sure, till quitting time."
  "Good, then I'll be over right away. With any luck I should make it in about twenty minutes. See you then."
  He hung up the phone, turned the answering machine on again and left the office. Luckily he found a cab just outside the front door of the building. "Five-twenty First Avenue," he told the driver, a long-haired young man with steel-rimmed glasses and a confused look on his face.
  "Gee, mister, this is my first day on the job," he said. "I'm really screwed up in this area. Can you tell me how to get over there from here?"
  Dorne sighed and wondered to himself what had happened to all the old-timers with names like Barney, Moe and Max, who wore caps, chewed cigars, talked a blue streak and knew every back street in Manhattan—and every other borough for that matter.
  "Okay," he said. "We're on Broad Street now, heading downtown; when we hit Water Street take a left until we come to Coenties Slip. Make a right there and it will take us right to the East Side Drive. We get off the drive at the Twenty-fifth Street exit and head uptown on First. Got that?"
  "I think so," answered the driver. His tone of voice convinced Dorne that he might just as well have been speaking Urdu. Nevertheless they somehow made it and, despite the heavy traffic on First, Dorne found himself entering the Medical Examiner's office exactly thirty minutes later.
  Leonard came out the minute Dorne was announced and led him back to the lab. "So don't keep me in suspense," he demanded the moment they were alone. "What did you find out there?"
  As concisely as possible Dorne told the pathologist about the Gorse mausoleum, what he had seen outside and in. He finished by asking, "How long do you think it would take to get that court order? We can't afford to waste any time. If whoever has been using the place gets wind of the fact that anyone is onto him, he's liable to fly the coop."
  "You've got a point there," agreed Leonard. "Let me call a friend of mine in the Brooklyn D.A.'s office."
  He picked up the phone, dialed a number, then said, "This is Doctor Leonard in the Manhattan ME's office. I want to talk to Paul Cooper. It's important. Yes, I'll hang on." He covered the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand and said, "He's on another call, he'll be with me in a minute." Dorne nodded and said nothing. Moments later Leonard shifted his position and said, "Paul, how goes it out there, are you guys still growing pot in the cellar of the courthouse?… No thanks, I've got a much better connection in Bellevue. Anyway that's not what I called about. Listen, remember that skeleton that turned up in Wildwood Cemetery a couple of weeks ago? Yeah, that's the one. Well, there's something I want to check out. Could you get me a court order to look in a mausoleum out there? No, there wouldn't be any trouble on that score, the family's apparently been gone for a long time. The name is Gorse and the plot number is One-oh-Eight North… Tomorrow morning? Hey, that's fantastic… Yeah, I know you've got to send a couple of your boys along, but I think that's pretty chicken shit of you. How the hell do you think we can get extra cadavers with you guys breathing down our necks. Right, Paul, I'll be in your office at ten tomorrow. Thanks. Ciao."
  He hung up, gave Dorne a thumbs up sign and said, "Well, we're in business. All he has to do is call some judge this afternoon and he'll have the court order for us in the morning."
  "I can hardly believe it," said Dorne smiling and shaking his head. "There really are times you can get things done in this great bureaucracy of ours."
  "Its like judo," confided Leonard. "You've got to use their strength to your advantage. It works every time."
  "I'm glad you're coming along," said Dorne. "You never can tell what your special talents might uncover."
  Leonard turned serious. "Look, I've always been pretty much of an inside man, besides which, my work is strictly routine. But from where you stand what do you make of any possible connection between this thing in Brooklyn and the Garson murder."
  Dorne shook his head. "Not much. The blood type on the handkerchief is it. Period. On the other hand there's the psychological angle. Ordinary killers don't go around hacking off their victims' heads or drain the blood from the bodies."
  "That's another thing," offered Leonard. "Draining that much blood from a human body isn't the easiest thing in the world. It takes a certain amount of expertise. And didn't you say that there wasn't any mess at the scene of the crime?"
  "That's what the police said. But I want to get back to the psychology of the thing again. Now first of all, the killer's M.O. was bizarre enough on its own merits. When you add in the matter of the skeleton in the cemetery, assuming of course, that it was the work of the same person, it gets even sicker. That brings up another question. Where did our murderer get the skeleton?"
  "From inside the mausoleum maybe."
  "Wrong. It's one of those little details, but it makes a big difference. You said that your estimate gave the skeleton an age of about a hundred and fifty years. Right?"
  Leonard nodded.
  "Well, the cemetery records show that the Gorse mausoleum is only about fifty years old and the last family burial there took place in the mid-1930s. "
  "The only other possibility then is that our friend got the skeleton from another grave. I mean, let's face it Russ, century-and-a-half-year-old intact skeletons don't grow on trees." He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, but the more I think about it the more I think we're dealing with a real cuckoo, and a scary one at that."
  Dorne nodded. "I'm afraid that's the only logical conclusion that can be drawn at this point. Meanwhile, there's one other angle I'm going to try to check out before tomorrow morning. There might be some connection between the Gorse family and the Garsons. It isn't much, but it's worth checking into."
  Leonard was about to say something when the telephone rang. "Excuse me a second, Russ," he said, then picking up the phone he became all business. "Dr. Leonard here, can I help you?" Dorne could see by the expression on the young man's face that something urgent had arisen. The impression was reinforced by Leonard's body language; at ease and totally relaxed a few minutes ago, he was now like a coiled spring. He nodded his head in short, rapid movements as if the caller on the other end of the line could see him. "Right," he said, a distinct edge to his voice. "I'll be down in a minute." He hung up and gave Dorne an apologetic look. "Sorry, they just brought in a DOA and I've got to post it right away. "
  Dorne got to his feet and held out his hand. Leonard grasped it and they shook warmly. Dorne said. "Don't worry about it. I've got to be on my way too, if I expect to get any of that information I want. Do you want me to pick you up in the morning or meet at the Brooklyn D.A.'s office?"
  Leonard smiled impishly. "Why don't you meet me there. I've got a date with a lady out in Brooklyn Heights tonight and I just may not make it home."
  "Good enough," replied Dorne. "Oh, by the way, the DOA, what was it?"
  "Unidentified young adult Caucasian female, automobile accident. Strictly routine."
  As Dorne walked through the corridors on his way to the exit of the building he reflected on the thought process of the young pathologist, of all pathologists for that matter… Although he himself has seen more than his share of death and horror, he had never quite learned to be casual about it. Even in the case of total strangers, he had always experienced strong, gut reactions. Yet here was this very personable young man who was obviously looking forward to an evening of amatory pleasure. Although he was on his way to partially dissect the body of another young woman—perhaps not unlike the one to whom he would presumably make love later—he did not even think of what he was about to perform in human terms. He had referred to the DOA as "It," another body. But then again, what else could he do? What would it be like to think of each new lifeless client as anything more than a conglomerate of tissues, bones, and organs? It would be impossible to function. Dorne was glad to be what he was. Out on the street he took a deep breath of fresh air. The odor of formaldehyde was not his favorite scent.
Chapter Four
  Dorne's efforts to get a lead on the family whose name was carved on the mausoleum in Wildwood Cemetery produced both positive and negative results. An early evening trip to Brooklyn brought him to the minister of a church to which the Gorse's had belonged. Although the gentleman had never known them, he took Dorne to the church office and let him examine old records. The mausoleum had been built in 1918 to accommodate the remains of two sons who were killed in the first world war. The parents had died in the 1930s. The funeral arrangements had been made by a married daughter who lived in Arizona, and a modest trust fund existed which provided enough money to pay for perpetual maintenance of the tomb. There appeared to be absolutely no connection between the Gorse family and the young man who had been murdered in Manhattan.
  Only one point remained unresolved. The records indicated that only four persons had been interred. Consequently, the presence of the large crate which may or may not have been a coffin remained a mystery. Therefore, the connection between the unidentified skeleton found outside the mausoleum and the Garson murder remained as slim as it had been in the first place. Dorne decided not to lose any sleep over the matter and to reserve judgement on any future lines of investigation until after examining the mausoleum in the morning.
  At ten A.M. the next day Dorne arrived at the Brooklyn D.A.'s office and was pleased to find that Leonard had preceeded him. With the pathologist were his friend, Cooper, and two detectives, Brophy and Smith, attached to the Brooklyn D.A.'s office. After introductions and a round of tepid coffee, Dorne, Leonard and the two detectives set out for Wildwood Cemetery in an unmarked police car.
  "I hear you're working for old man Garson," said Brophy, a barrel-chested man with bushy eyebrows and a hard, square jaw.
  "Word gets around fast, doesn't it?" replied Dorne.
  Brophy shrugged. "Listen, when a guy with connections like his gets interested in a homicide he makes waves, especially when he doesn't trust the department."
  "Hah! Who does, these days?" interjected Smith.
  "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said Dorne. "He impresses me as a man who's impatient. He's a realist though. He knows damned well he couldn't push your people into giving him any special treatment, so he did the next best thing. And he hired me because he knows I go by the book."
  "Talking about the book," said Brophy, assuming a confidential tone. "The doc here tells us that you opened that vault on your own yesterday. Are you sure you didn't poke around a little inside?"
  "If I had I wouldn't be here now," retorted Dorne. "When I said I go by the book I meant it. Besides, how do we know if this thing has anything to do with the Garson murder? As far as I'm concerned this is just an angle and I'm checking it out."
  "You know, I've been thinking, ' mused Smith. "There's a hell of a lot of dope traffic out in that section. An old mausoleum would be a damned good place to keep a stash. "
  The conversation meandered in a desultory fashion until it finally gave out and all four men retreated to the privacy of their own thoughts. Dorne got the distinct impression that the two detectives had been feeling him out, not for any specific reason other than curiosity. He was reasonably certain that the Garson murder case had aroused considerable interest within the police department. Every would-be super sleuth in the ranks had, in all probability, worked out a pet theory. They all knew that locked-door homicides were less than commonplace, and that anyone fortunate enough to contribute to the solution of this one had a rosy future.
  The presence of an outsider like himself on the case did not exactly cause joy supreme to reign in the halls of the NYPD. But his reputation as being a private investigator who always played by the rules made it impossible to give him a hard time. Besides, his personal friendship with Deputy Commissioner Mariani didn't hurt.
  It was a little after eleven A.M. when the car drove through the main gate of the cemetery. Despite the feet that there were patches of sunlight showing through the clouds, the place seemed as depressing to Dorne as it had on his first visit. They pulled up in front of the caretaker's shed and Brophy volunteered to go inside. "I'll show the guy the court order," he said. "It'll only take me a minute."
  "Well," said Leonard. "Do you think we'll find anything startling?"
  "I'll lay you odds we find dope," declared Smith.
  Dorne said nothing. Although he had a hunch that drugs were the last thing they would find, it was nothing but a hunch. He had to admit privately that Smith's logic was based on solid ground.
  Brophy returned a few minutes later. He was carrying a large, rusty old key which he held up. "The old guy insisted on giving me this," he said. "I didn't tell him the door was open."
  "Well, we might as well get over there,' said Dorne, opening the door to the car.
  "What's the matter, can't we drive?" objected Smith.
  "It's easier on foot," replied Dorne. "Follow me, it's only a couple of minutes' walk from here." He started along the path with the others close behind.
  Leonard came up alongside him. "Jesus," he remarked, looking around at the general unkempt appearance of the graves. "This place looks as if the rest of the world forgot about it twenty years ago. Hey, look at that would you!" He pointed to a large, worn headstone to the left of the path. It was one of those old-fashioned plots where the family had affixed photographic portraits of the deceased on the tombstone itself. The pictures were long since gone, but the frames remained. Inside someone had drawn crude cartoon skulls with a black marking pen and over the grinning heads was a comic strip balloon with the inscription, "We're dead and we dig it."
  "Sick," muttered Dorne, adding, "But I suppose it could have been worse. At least that can be cleaned off." He recalled a Jewish cemetery he had seen in Germany toward the end of the war. Gravestones had been smashed with sledge hammers, coffins had been dug up and the bones scattered about. It was an ugly image and he tried to erase it from his mind.
  No one spoke until they arrived at the Gorse mausoleum. "Well, here we are," announced Dorne. "Before we go in I want you to take a look on the ground." He pointed to the clearly definable signs indicating that someone had entered and left the crypt on a number of occasions. Brophy and Smith noted the fact with considerable interest, and Smith took out a Minox camera and took a few pictures.
  "What do you know," observed Dorne. "I didn't know that the department was getting into fancy equipment these days."
  "Fancy-schmancy," retorted Smith. "I'm a camera nut and I do this strictly on my own. But it's paid off. I've got about a sixty-percent track record on getting evidence that's accepted in court. At least it pays for film and developing."
  "Okay," said Brophy, "let's get the show on the road. I've got a date with a stoolie at one o'clock and he's the nervous type. If I don't show up right on the button he splits and it's liable to be weeks before I can get him again."
  "After you," said Dorne, nodding toward the mausoleum.
  The big detective pressed the handle down on the rusty gate and swung it open. "You notice how smoothly it went?" Dorne commented. "Not a squeak."
  "Interesting," muttered Brophy, kneeling down and running his fingers gently over the hinges. Then he got up and walked through the gate, directly to the door. Pausing, he took the key that had been given him by the caretaker and tried placing it in the keyhole. There was so much rust and corrosion that it was impossible to insert it.
  "I told you the key wasn't necessary," said Dorne.
  "Just curious," replied Brophy. "Well, here goes." Grasping the corroded green handle, he pulled the door open as the others gathered around him.
  The familiar, unpleasant dank smell enveloped them as they peered into the dark interior of the crypt. "Let's throw some light on the subject," said Smith, stepping forward. He had taken a flashlight with him and he switched it on, sending a strong beam of light inside. As he moved it slowly back and forth, sweeping every surface and corner of the cramped inner space, Dorne could see that nothing had been disturbed since he had last seen it.
  "Jesus, you were right," declared Brophy. "Somebody has been in here. And recently, too. Look how that dust is stirred up around that big coffin."
  "Sure as hell doesn't look like any coffin I've ever seen," put in Smith.
  "That's what I thought when I first saw it," said Dorne.
  "Shall we go in and look around?". Leonard asked.
  "Might as well," replied Brophy.
  "Let's prop open the door," suggested Dorne. "It's got to be damned stuffy in there."
  Leonard pulled it all the way open and found that it remained in that position without any help.
  Nevertheless, Brophy took the key and wedged it between the door and the jam just in case. "I'd hate to have that thing slam shut with us inside," he offered.
  Smith approached the four cobweb-covered coffins and examined them. "One thing's certain," he said. "Nobody's been near these bone boxes for years."
  "We're going to find our answer in that big one," said Dorne. "Here, I'll open the lid."
  Going over to the foot of the crate he grasped the lid and pulled it open. It creaked slightly, but otherwise offered no resistance. "You want to flash that light inside?" he asked. Smith complied and all four of them gathered around and looked down.
  "I'll be a sonofabitch!" exclaimed Brophy, "another coffin."
  A series of images flashed through Dorne's mind and suddenly he knew why. The coffin had a distinctly familiar look to it. A worn spot near the head indicated where a nameplate or some other form of identification had been torn off long ago. "You know what that is?" he said. "A World War II vintage GI coffin. It's one of the standard types they used to return bodies from overseas. It doesn't make any sense. According to cemetery records only four bodies were interred in this vault."
  "Well, let's open it up then," said Brophy, a note of impatience in his voice.
  Dorne bent over, grasped the edge of the coffin lid and pulled it up. "Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Smith. "It's empty. "
  "Well that still doesn't explain the skeleton that was found outside, " declared Leonard. "I examined it, and I can tell you that it was about a hundred and fifty years old."
  "Are you absolutely sure about that, doc?" Brophy asked. "I mean, suppose it was some kind of a fluke or something. You got to admit that there's nothing in here. "
  Leonard made a wry face. "Look Brophy, with all due respect, I wouldn't presume to tell you your business, but I know mine. I can assure you that my estimate of that skeleton's age is accurate within ten or twenty years. I could prove it scientifically if I had to, all that's necessary is to submit it to a carbon dating test."
  Brophy backed off "Okay, okay, I was just asking. But you got to admit that something's pretty fishy around here."
  "Hey!" said Smith excitedly. "Look behind the top end of the coffin." He aimed the flashlight in the space between the head of the coffin and the side of the crate nearest to it. There, wedged between the coffin and the wall of the crate was a steel strongbox.
  "I'll get it out," volunteered Dorne. He reached down with both hands and lifted it up. It was not too heavy, but something rattled inside. Closing the coffin lid and then the lid of the crate, Dorne placed the strongbox down and noticed that though it had a hasp and loop for a padlock, there was no lock. He opened the box, and found stacked neatly in bundles, seven rows of bills. Some nickels, dimes and quarters were scattered around the bottom along with a few subway tokens.
  "I knew it!" exclaimed Smith. "With all that bread there's got to be dope around. I wonder how much is there, anyway?"
  As if on cue, each one of them took a stack of bills and began counting. When Dorne reached for his third bundle, he noticed something else. Beneath where the stack had been there was a card. He picked it up and looked at it. "Well, what have we here?" he asked of no one in particular. It was a business card bearing the name of a doctor, Edgar A. Wallman, M.D., Ph.D., located at 751 Park Avenue in Manhattan. Written across the top in a rather odd, but extremely legible hand were the words, "Mon, Wed, Fri, 10:00 PM."
  "You better give me that," said Brophy crisply. "Now we're getting somewhere."
  Dorne handed over the card making a hasty mental effort to memorize the doctor's name, address and telephone number.
  "I'll be damned!" exclaimed Leonard. "Talk about the plot thickening. You know who that guy is? He happens to be a very well-known psychiatrist. I've never met him but—"
  Brophy cut him off. "Well Smith here and me are going to meet him today. That's for sure."
  The other detective had only been half listening. He had just finished counting and adding up the tallies of the cash. "Shit!' he exclaimed. "You know how much money there is here? Nearly seventy-two hundred clams!" He picked one of the stacks up and flipped through it like a deck of cards. "Listen," he said, lowering his voice, "You guys want to split this up, nobody would…"
  Brophy gave him a withering glance. "Smitty!" he snapped, "just cool it, will you?"
  Dorne knew exactly what was most likely going through the big man's mind. His expression almost gave voice to his thoughts, probably something along the lines of, Schmuck! We got outsiders here, remember? Just wait till we get rid of them.
  Whatever Brophy and Smith were thinking now, Dorne was anxious to get back to Manhattan. He, too, was anxious to pay Doctor Wallman a visit; but it occurred to him that, as in most other instances, patience would pay off in the long run. He had dealt with psychiatrists before and usually they weren't overly anxious to talk to anyone about their patients. Let the two detectives talk to him first. They would probably soften him up. If they didn't, there were other ways—he could always go in as a patient with a problem. It was amazing how the prospect of conversing with someone for fifty dollars an hour encouraged the followers of Freud to wax eloquent.
Chapter Five
  It was a little past noon when Dorne returned to his office. Systematically, he began reviewing the notes he had taken to date, from the details of the Garson murder to the latest developments in Brooklyn. There was no great rush insofar as preparing his first report for Garson Senior; it could wait until the old man returned from Europe. What concerned Dorne at the moment was the connection, that elusive connection between the skeleton in Wildwood Cemetery and the murder. He tried to put himself in Garson's position. The man was a power broker. He dealt in concrete facts. The bottom line was what concerned him, not vague theories. The police had not been able to find out who killed his son, therefore it was a matter of hiring someone who would succeed where the police had failed. Unfortunately he had no real concept of how the police functioned. He did not care about the creaky realities of bureaucracy. He wanted results. He was the sort of man who, were it possible, would arrange for everything to be fed into a computer and get instantaneous answers.
  Dorne read and reread everything he had and sighed. In effect, the gate to Wildwood Cemetery had been the entrance to a maze. Maybe it would lead to something solid, maybe it would eventually lead to an impenetrable blank wall. Even so, there was the matter of Doctor Edgar A. Wallman. He was still an unknown factor.
  While Dorne sat in his office pondering, Detectives Brophy and Smith were on their way back to the Brooklyn D.A.'s office. Their attention focused on a matter quite peripheral to the fact the Doctor Wallman had refused to tell them anything other than that he did indeed have a patient who saw him regularly on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 10:00 P. M. who had not kept his appointments since the Garson slaying.
  "Look," insisted Smith. "Those shrinks are all alike, especially when they got connections. The only way he'll ever talk is to a grand jury… maybe. I'll still lay you odds he doesn't know about that money."
  "Maybe not," snapped Brophy. "But the doc and that P. I. Dorne do. I'm retiring in a year and half and I'm not screwing up my pension for a lousy three grand or so."
  Smith fell silent and frowned. Then he said, "Okay, maybe you're right. But all I say is let's at least drop a hint to the doc and the P. I. I don't think either of them would blow the whistle on us."
  "Listen," replied Brophy impatiently. "You wanna talk to them, go ahead. Just leave me out of it. I don't wanna know about it. Now drop it already."
  An hour later Dorne received a phone call from Detective Smith who was not a subtle man. "Hello,
  Dorne?" he began. "This is Smitty. I want to talk to you about that money. You know what I mean?"
  "What about the psychiatrist?" Dorne parried. He knew exactly what Smith meant.
  There was a distinct note of annoyance in the detectives voice. "Shit, he wouldn't give us the right time of day, and there was no way we could lean on him. Now about the money—"
  Dorne cut him off. "I don't give a damn about the money, if you know what I mean. But there's something I am interested in."
  "What do you mean?" replied Smith, a note of caution in his voice.
  "I'd like to get my hands on the clothes and all the effects that were found on that skeleton out in Brooklyn. Let's say I want to borrow them unofficially for a few days. Do you think you could arrange that?"
  "Yeah, I could arrange that. What do you want the stuff for?"
  "I just want to follow up a little hunch I have. Look, you just get me those clothes and whatever else was found on that heap of bones and I'll just forget about the money. I'll get everything back to you in a few days. Is that a deal?"
  Smith hesitated for a moment then said. "It's a deal. When do you want the stuff?"
  "The sooner the better."
  "How about six o'clock tonight?"
  "Good. Be in my office. You kept the card I gave you?"
  "Yeah. Got it in my wallet."
  "Fine. I'll see you at six then."
  With that Dorne hung up and smiled to himself, then taking a small notebook out of his breast pocket he looked up the number of Doctor Edgar A. Wallman and dialed. After four rings a businesslike female voice answered.
  "Is the doctor in?" asked Dorne.
  "He's with a patient now, sir. May I help you?"
  "I hope so." Dorne did his best to sound as though he were in a state of anxiety. "You see, I have a very serious problem. I can only discuss it with the doctor. I was referred by Doctor Michael Leonard and… well, it's quite urgent."
  "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but Dr. Wallman is booked-up for several weeks. Perhaps we could refer you to another psychiatrist. '
  "No! No! That would be impossible. Look, I don't have to see him in the afternoon. As a matter of fact the evening would be better… the later the better. Please. If I don't see him tonight I'm afraid—"
  "What is your name, sir?" she interrupted.
  "Russell Dorne. I'm—"
  "Would you please hold for a moment Mr. Dorne, I'll see what I can do." There was a click and the sound of soothing music came over the phone, the sort of music that was played in elevators and boutiques frequented by women over fifty. Seconds later the voice returned. "Very well, Mr. Dorne. Dr. Wallman will see you tonight at ten o'clock. By the way we don't bill our patients. The fee is payable at the end of the session. It's ninety dollars an hour."
  "Oh, thank you. Thank you," answered Dorne, his voice laden with relief. "I can assure you, money is no object. I'll be there at ten."
  He replaced the phone in its cradle and smiled to himself, marking down the appointment on his desk calendar. He wasn't at all surprised that it had been so easy to obtain that particular time slot. It was Wednesday.
* * *
  Detective Smith arrived in Dorne's office promptly at six P. M. He carried a plain brown shopping bag with a piece of newspaper over the top that concealed the contents. "Well, I got the stuff for you," he said. "How long do you think you're gonna need it?"
  "Suppose you come back for it tomorrow night same time?"
  Smith nodded. "Sounds okay to me." He hesitated before handing the shopping bag over. "You meant what you said about the money, didn't you?"
  "What money?" asked Dorne, giving him a blank look.
  Smith grinned nervously and shook his head. "Sure, sure, I get you. Well, here's the stuff. I guess I'll be shoving off."
  "Hold it," said Dorne. "I want to go through everything with you first, just so you can be sure you get back everything you gave me."
  Smith shrugged. "Why not?"
  Dorne took the bag and put it on his desk, then got rid of the newspaper on top. The first item he pulled out was a black topcoat. Although it was wrinkled from being all bunched up it showed little sign of wear. It bore a Macy's label and the pockets were empty. Next he took out the jacket of a black suit. It, too, was wrinkled but in good condition, although on closer examination there appeared to be bloodstains around the cuffs and on the right lapel. There was something about the cut that seemed odd, then it occurred to Dorne that it resembled the styles of the 1940s. The pockets were also empty. The trousers were similarly unrevealing of anything extraordinary, but Dorne found it strange that there were no urine stains inside the fly. They were usually found on the clothing of dead bodies. Then again, skeletons did not urinate.
  There were a few more bloodstains on the black, cotton turtleneck sweater, but the underwear was absolutely spotless, looking almost as if it were brand new. The socks were black wool, knee length and there was a hole in the toe of one, a heavily worn spot in the other. Neither of them, however, showed any signs of perspiration, the stiffness that is found in old socks. The shoes appeared more used than any of the other articles of clothing. They were also completely incongruous, being sneakers that had been blackened with shoepolish or dye. The soles were well worn, but the insides appeared peculiarly clean.
  In the bottom of the shopping bag was a transparent plastic bag with a flexible tie. Dorne opened it up and dumped the contents on his desk. There was seventy six dollars in cash. Two dollars in small change, three subway tokens and two pieces of jewelry—a gold ring and a gold pendant on a chain. The emblems were identical to one another, consisting of a swastikalike cross made of claws. On the ring, the emblem was in bas relief. The pendant consisted of the claws alone and was considerably larger, approximately two inches in diameter.
  "I'll type up an inventory for you," Dorne told Smith, placing two sheets, an original and a carbon in the typewriter.
  "You don't have to bother,' Smith said.
  "It's the way I operate," insisted Dorne. "It avoids problem later."
  Smith shrugged. "Have it your own way."
  Dorne typed up the inventory, took it from the typewriter, and handed it to the detective. "Well, that should do it," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow evening."
  Smith nodded. "Okay, but if anything comes up and you can't make it, call me at this number." He handed Dorne a card. "If I'm not there just say you're my brother-in-law, George, and you can't make it to the bowling alley."
  "Ill be here," Dorne assured him.
  He waited until Smith had left and he examined the clothing again. Nothing new. Then he picked up the ring and the pendant. Neither of them had the slick look of modern costume jewelry and judging from the weight they were probably genuine. Reaching into his desk drawer, Dorne took out a magnifying glass and looked at each piece more closely. Aside from the feet that the claws were worn with age, the slight irregularities of the sculpture indicated that both pieces had been handmade. He finally put them down and returned the magnifying glass to its place in the desk. When had these been made, he wondered? Where, and by whom? They were questions, he suspected, to which he was very unlikely to find answers.
  Getting up from his desk, he went over to the closet on the far side of the office beside the door and took out a small overnight bag. Then, returning to the desk, he replaced the money, the tokens and the gold jewelry in the plastic bag. Next he carefully folded the clothing and packed it in the suitcase along with the other items. Then he looked at his watch. It was just six-thirty. There was more than enough time to go back to the apartment, take a short nap, have some dinner and keep his appointment with Doctor Wallman.
  Reaching over to turn on his telephone answering machine, he realized that he had not turned it off when he arrived at the office earlier. There was one message on it and he rewound and played it back. He could hear the sound of traffic, a few rustling sounds, then a click. A hangup. It was just as well. If it had been important the caller would have left a message. He reset the machine, turned off his desk lamp and headed for the door. He was glad he was a loner, although he had not always been one. Once a call like that would have left him restless for the remainder of the evening. Now it meant nothing. Perhaps his personal life was somewhat of a void in the years that had accumulated since his wife had left him. But it was tranquil, free of emotional traumas. When he craved the companionship of a woman he knew where to find it. When he felt the need to reminisce about "the good old days" or rail out against the present, there was always the Officers' Club at Governor's Island. Right now he wanted neither.
Chapter Six
  Dorne arrived at Doctor Wallman's office a few minutes early. Although it bore a Park Avenue address, the entrance was around the corner on the side street, a standard professional suite that afforded patients the opportunity to enter and leave without going through the main lobby of the building. A small sign over the doorbell read, Ring bell and walk in. Dorne pressed and tried the door. It was locked. He was not surprised. Many doctors left the street entrances to their offices unlocked during normal, daylight hours. But to do so after dark was to invite trouble. Doctors' offices were a favorite target of desperate junkies and other brain-boiled users in search of nirvana or relief.
  The door opened and Wallman appeared. He was a tall, muscular man somewhere in his mid-forties, with a fair complexion, glacially blue eyes and a neat, well-trimmed beard. Somehow Dorne had expected an older man. "Mister Dorne, I presume?" said the doctor in a deep, well-modulated voice.
  "Thank you for seeing me, Doctor Wallman," replied Dorne. "I know this is a rather late hour, but—"
  "Think nothing of it," interrupted Wallman. "I frequently see patients in the evening. Come in."
  He closed the door and led the way through his reception room. It was windowless and dimly lighted, but the modern decor—though sparse—gave it a relaxing and pleasing atmosphere. Aside from a functional receptionist's desk there was only a setee and a chair surrounded by a profusion of plants and the usual coffee table piled with magazines. Obviously the doctor arranged his appointments so that he rarely had more than a single patient waiting at a time, an understandable practice for a psychiatrist.
  The office itself was another story. Two walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Facing the doctor's desk was a working fireplace with a cherry blaze crackling away, and in the middle of the room was what Dorne categorized in his mind as "the regulation couch." Alongside the desk was a large comfortable leather chair. Wallman indicated it as he sat down behind the desk and said, "Won't you sit down, Mister Dorne. Make yourself comfortable and then we can talk about your problem."
  Dorne took off his hat and topcoat. "Mind if I put these on the couch?" he asked.
  The psychiatrist smiled. "Be my guest. I only use the couch with patients who feel more comfortable on it."
  Dorne returned to the chair, taking the shopping bag with him and placing it on the floor alongside him.
  "Wouldn't you rather put your shopping bag with your coat and hat?" asked Wallman.
  Dorne had the feeling that it was more than a casual question. "No," he replied. "I'd rather keep it within reach if you don't mind." There was a flicker of concern on Wallman's face. Dorne could imagine what might be flashing through his mind. He smiled. "Don't worry, doctor. I have no bombs, guns, or blunt instruments in there. But there are a few items I'll have to show you before the session is over."
  The psychiatrist's face indicated perfect composure again and he leaned forward. "That was a curious statement, Mister Dorne, would you mind telling me why you said it?"
  Dorne looked him directly in the eye. "This is only a rhetorical question, doctor. But didn't you experience a momentary twinge of apprehension when I insisted on keeping the bag where I could reach into it?"
  If the question displeased him he did not reveal it. He parried by saying, "That's the sort of question I would think should come from my side of the desk. Wouldn't you?"
  Dorne smiled. "Not necessarily, and I suspect you'll agree with me when you hear what I have to say."
  Wallman reached into his breast pocket and took out a felt-tipped pen which he poised over a fresh, yellow-lined legal pad. "All right," he said. "Suppose you tell me the nature of your problem and we'll see whether it warrants any treatment. It may be, you know, that you won't have to see me again. Contrary to popular notion not all psychotherapy requires years of analysis… not any more than it requires a couch. If you don't mind a small digression, have you any idea why so many psychiatrists began using couches back in the twenties?"
  "I can't say that I do."
  "It's a terribly pedestrian reason, but it happens to be true. It was all because of Freud. It seems as though the good doctor felt uncomfortable sitting face-to-face with his patients. He preferred pacing back and forth in his office, and it occurred to him that if he had them relax on a couch, his pacing wouldn't make them uncomfortable. Not very scientific, is it?"
  "No, but then I've heard it said that medicine is more of an art than a science anyway. '
  "A point well made, Mister Dorne. Very well made. But suppose we get down to you. What seems to be troubling you?"
  "I won't play games with you, Doctor Wallman. I'm looking for a killer. And from what I've been able to ascertain up to now, you or a patient of yours may be able to provide me with the answers I need."
  The psychiatrist reacted sharply. His professional manner vanished. With an expression of profound annoyance he put down his pen and said, "Now wait a minute. I'm beginning to get the picture. You're a policeman. Your two friends who called on me earlier couldn't get to first base, so now you come along trying to sneak in through the back door so to speak. Well let me tell you it's not going to work. What goes on between a doctor and his patient is privileged information. Now, if you'll excuse me, this interview is over. And if you people persist in bothering me any more I'll put in a call to the commissioner. Is that clear?"
  Dorne wasn't at all surprised by Wallman's reaction. Now it was his turn to use his own professional manner. "Look, doctor," he began. "I sympathize with your position one hundred percent. Believe me. But, please, at least hear me out. First of all, I'm not a member of the police force. I'm a private investigator. I'm not trying to pry any professional secrets out of you either. But I have reason to believe that the patient I'm interested in may be an ex-patient—"
  "That makes no difference," interrupted Wallman.
  "Even if there's a chance that the patient may now be dead or a fugitive from justice?"
  No slouch of a practical psychologist himself, Dorne could see that once that he had scored a point. He pressed his advantage. "Are you willing to admit that the patient in question hasn't kept an appointment in several weeks?"
  "How would you know that?" asked Wallman cautiously.
  "An educated guess," replied Dorne, reaching for the shopping bag. He brought it up to his lap but made no move to reveal its contents. "Before I show you this," he continued, "I'm going to tell you why those two detectives paid a call on you today. They didn't tell you very much, did they?'
  "Tell me anything!" shot back Wallman indignantly. "The way they carried on you'd think I was the prime suspect in a murder case."
  "Obviously then you would have no way of knowing that they found your card inside an empty coffin in an old mausoleum in Brooklyn, or that on that card was the notation, 'Monday, Wednesday & Friday 10:00 P.M.' "
  "Oh my God!" exclaimed the psychiatrist, clearly shaken by Dorne's statement.
  Dorne did not give him a chance to regain his composure. He stood up, took the newspaper cover from the top of the shopping bag and began taking the clothes out, spreading them carefully on the desk in front of his astonished listener. "Do these look familiar to you?" he asked.
  "Where did you get them?" demanded Wallman.
  Dorne kept emptying the shopping bag. "I'll tell you that in a minute or so. Just think about what I'm showing you here. Do you recognize this clothing?"
  The psychiatrist's expression gave him away. Dorne could tell. He had been through charades like this many times before with others, who, for a variety of reasons clung to an evasive manner even when confronted with irrefutable evidence. He regarded as an ironic paradox the fact that even trained professionals in Wallman's field betrayed the same weaknesses as ordinary mortals when it came down to the bottom line. Objective and unruffled as they might be in the most extraordinary situations, when it came to others their personal emotions, feelings and weaknesses invariably surfaced when they themselves were on the firing line.
  "It's difficult to say for certain," replied Wallman hesitantly. There was a strained quality to his voice.
  Dorne saved his hole card for last. Taking out the plastic bag containing the ring and the medallion he placed them on the desk. "What about these?" he asked. "Surely you don't come across jewelry like this everyday of the week, do you doctor?"
  Wallman picked up the ring and examined it carefully, a look of resignation on his face—resignation mixed with recognition. "No," he said softly. "You don't."
  "Then you admit that you recognize them."
  Wallman still hesitated, but Dorne pressed his advantage. "They belong to the patient who failed to keep his appointments for the last few weeks, don't they." It was a statement not a question.
  Wallman nodded and sighed. "All right. I admit it. But for God's sake, man, tell me where you found them and why you were so certain."
  "This is going to sound farfetched, and I'm not suggesting that I have all the answers, but I'll give it to you absolutely straight. I told you where the card was found. Well, the clothing and the jewelry were discovered on a skeleton just outside the mausoleum I mentioned. Does that make any more sense to you than it did to me?"
  For the briefest instant Wallman's eyes widened abnormally and his face went ashen. Then he quickly composed himself and resumed his professional manner as best he could. His voice, however, indicated that he was fighting for control.
  "This is incredible," he said. "I really don't quite know what to say at this point. But I'm going to do something I have never done before." He hesitated. "This may take a while."
  "I have plenty of time," Dorne assured him, settling back in his chair.
  Wallman took a deep breath and continued. "Some months ago," he began, "I accepted a patient with a delusion unlike any I have ever encountered in my professional practice. It was such a highly organized delusion that, despite my initial impulse to categorize it as paranoid, I made no attempt to recommend hospitalization. Even if I had, I'm thoroughly convinced that the patient would have refused, and the law being what it is, there was no way I could have forced the issue. Besides, I think that if I had not dealt with him very carefully he might well have become dangerous."
  Dorne shook his head sadly. He said, "If just a fraction of what I'm beginning to suspect now proves to be fact, I'm afraid that he is dangerous. Homicidally dangerous. But that's water over the dam now. But don't let me interrupt. Please, go ahead."
  Wallman gave him a tolerant, but sardonic glance. "I'm afraid I'll have to dispute you on that point, Mister Dorne. I'll compromise by saying that the man was potentially dangerous, but the very fact that he came to me, convinced me that he was not beyond help."
  "That may have been true when he walked in here for the first time," countered Dorne, "but the fact remains that he hasn't been to see you in several weeks, during which time there has been a nasty, unsolved murder and a damned bizarre incident involving a skeleton in clothes."
  "I know," replied Wallman gravely. "And that is precisely why I'm telling you about him now. You see, the man believed he was a vampire." He paused, as if for dramatic effect.
  "What!" Dorne, exclaimed, his voice rising a decibel.
  Wallman nodded wearily. "You heard me, he thought he was a vampire…"
  "That has to be the damndest, craziest thing I've ever heard."
  "I know, I know, but you have to understand that we psychistrists hear crazier things than that. And yes, we do use the word 'crazy' from time to time."
  "Tell me," interjected Dorne. "Who referred him to you? I mean, he had to have gotten your name somewhere. That might provide some sort of a lead."
  Wallman shook his head. "You're getting ahead of yourself. Hear me out first. He wasn't referred by anyone. He said he had gotten my name from the telephone book. Now I'll admit that I rarely take patients without referrals, but a case like this one has a textbook quality to it. And, frankly, the minute I heard what he had to say, I made up my mind to do a paper on it when the treatment was concluded, perhaps even a book. In any case, he was very matter of feet about thy whole thing. He might as well have told me he was a gangster who wanted to get out of the rackets. He claimed to be a hundred and sixty-five years old, that he was tired of his existence and that he wanted me to help him muster up the will to die."
  "Incredible," muttered Dorne, shaking his head.
  "That's not the half of it, my friend. Let me continue. My initial reaction was to prescribe a potent antidepressant. The angst of the man was intense. But he refused. I must admit that his reaction was chilling. He looked at me with an expression that was a mixture of resigned tolerance and pent-up fury. He sensed that I did not believe him and he told me that I would have to accept the fact that he was a living dead man, an animated corpse. Preposterous, I know. But he made it clear to me that he would take no medication nor would he submit to any physical examination. He also warned me not to touch him unless he invited me to do so, even to shake hands. I'll never forget what he did then. He held out one hand, palm up, and said, 'Touch my hand, doctor.' So I did as he said, and I have to tell you it felt like the hand of a cadaver, dry, leathery and icy cold. I started to reach out with my other hand to feel the texture more thoroughly when he pulled away. He said, 'Only when I invite you, doctor.' And there was genuine menace in his voice."
  "Do you mean to tell me he was beginning to convince you?"
  "Not at all. Cold dry hands hardly signify a corpse. Besides, I haven't quite deteriorated to the stage where I can accept the idea of twentieth-century Draculas running around. Have you?"
  Dorne grinned. "So what happened then?"
  "He calmed down. He told me he wanted to see me as often as I deemed it necessary, that he would pay whatever fee I required, and he insisted on only one ground rule. He said he could only see me at night, after sunset. I didn't argue the point, after all, within the context of his delusion it was a perfectly logical request. You see, I'm not unfamiliar with the vampire superstition. There happens to be a considerable body of psychological and anthropological literature on the subject. As a matter of fact, I did considerable research on it after I began seeing him. In any case, we agreed to the schedule you saw on my card, and I suggested we begin two days later. It gave me a chance to do some preliminary reading. He seemed amenable to the idea and that was that."
  "Did you ask him where he lived?"
  "Oh, yes. But he flatly refused to give me an address. Instead he volunteered to pay me for a full month of treatment in advance—in cash."
  "By the way," said Dorne, taking out a small notebook. "You mentioned that he told you he was a hundred and sixty-five years old. What did he look like? How old would you estimate he actually was?"
  Wallman gazed up at the ceiling. "He was fairly short. I'd say about five feet eight inches, in his late thirties, forty at the most. Dark rather dry hair, and an exceptionally pallid complexion. He certainly looked like a man who shunned sunlight. His eyes were the most outstanding feature he had. Sunken, hollow and almost hypnotically piercing. And I suspect that the fact that he affected black, funereal attire was in perfect keeping with his delusional self-image."
  Dorne finished his notes and said, "So that's all there was to it the first time?"
  Wallman nodded. "That's right. In any case I had no doubt that he would be back, so I made up my mind to tape all of his sessions. I was convinced that I was on the verge of one of the most fascinating cases I'd ever encountered. And I was right. Do you by any chance remember a book that came out in the fifties called The Fifty Minute Hour?"
  Dorne shook his head. "I don't think so."
  "It was written by a psychiatrist who described in detail some of his most unusual cases. One of them dealt with a man who had a delusion that might well have been the scenario for a film like Star Wars. I can assure you that this case ran along parallel lines, except that it didn't encompass science fiction, but rather the supernatural." He rose from his chair. "Now, what I'm going to do," he continued, "is show you the transcripts of all the sessions. I'm afraid I can't permit you to take them out of the office, but you can take them into my reception room and read them there. I have a couple of hours' work to do, but if you don't finish them tonight, you can come back tomorrow if it's convenient for you."
  "I've never been one to procrastinate," replied Dorne getting to his feet.
  "Good," said Wallman. "I'll get them for you." He went over to a filing cabinet behind his desk and pulled out a drawer. From it he took out a thick manuscript bound in a black report cover. It bore a simple label. Sexton, Z. L. After closing the drawer again he came back to Dorne and handed it over. "Here," he said. "Read it and draw your own conclusions. I can promise you one thing, you won't find it dull."
  "Thanks," said Dorne. "Judging from what you've told me so far that sounds like an understatement."
  "We'll talk about it later," promised Wallman, leading his visitor to the reception room. "Just make yourself at home."
  Dorne settled down in the chair behind the receptionist's desk and turned on the lamp. Judging by the thickness of the transcript he knew he was going to be there for some time.
Chapter Seven
  As Dorne thumbed through the transcript, he noticed that it bore little resemblance to the courtroom type with which he was fairly familiar. The remarks of the psychiatrist, he observed, were typed with an italic face, to distinguish them from the patient's long narrative passages. At the end of each session were notes and observations by Wallman.
  It was difficult to keep the report cover from closing, so in order to make his task easier Dorne undid the binding, removed the text and settled down to read. As he looked at the words on the page before him he could visualize Doctor Wallman sitting back in his chair, facing the patient and speaking in a voice that was soft, yet, at the same time deep and compelling. He wondered what had been going through the doctors mind as he sat there listening to a man whose warped mind had led him to believe that he was indeed some sort of a supernatural monster. More to the point, however, he wondered about the patient himself. Who was he? What had happened to instill in him this bizarre conviction? But most important, what was his connection with the Carson slaying, and where was he now? Although Dorne was a man who dealt only in concrete facts, he could not help recognizing the obvious link between the condition of the victim's body and this madman's belief that he was a vampire. Circumstantial as the evidence might be, it certainly pointed to the man as a prime and potentially dangerous suspect. Putting all speculations aside he began to read. Wallman's opening remarks appeared strained and cautious.
   
  You understand, of course, that it may take us some time to get to the roots of your problem …
   
  I understand, my dear doctor that at this juncture you probably regard me as some form of lunatic suffering from a bizarre delusion. I suppose I can't blame you. Most of the old beliefs and values have died in your world. And I want to die with them. I want release from a painful anguish you could not possibly comprehend. I am not even certain that you can help me, but you must try.
   
  Well of course, but you have to understand also that this isn't a one way street. You have to help me to help you, and I think the best way for us to start is at the beginning. Suppose we begin by your telling me about your childhood, your early life, everything you can remember, anything that will help to provide me with an understanding of your situation.
   
  Of course. I was born Zachary Lucius Sexton in the city of New York on August fifteenth, Eighteen eleven… I see the skepticism in your eyes, but never mind, I can only speak the truth. I learned at an early age from my tutors that this was a particularly auspicious day. Did you know that August fifteenth is the natal day of Napoleon Bonaparte, Sir Walter Scott and Thomas de Quincy? Ah, but no mind, these are facts of trivial importance to my story.
  My grandfather, for whom I was named, was a hero of the Revolution, and the founder of a ship chandlery which made him an exceedingly wealthy man. It had been the intention of my father, quite naturally, for me to enter the family firm when I attained my majority, so consequently I was provided with a substantial education. Unfortunately, like so many other young men of my station at the time, I grew into a headstrong and arrogant fellow. I was tall and strong… again I detect your skepticism. You must understand that the average height of the adult male is greater in this century than it was in my day. But let me continue. I appeared older than my years, and long before I was enrolled at King's College I frequented low drinking establishments and brothels. I must confess that I was the bane of my poor parents' lives, for my boon companions were rich young debauchees like myself, who constantly sought out the company of prostitutes and other denizens of the lower classes.
  There is no doubt in my mind that had I been obedient, sober and industrious I would have gone to my rest long before the turn of the last century. Ah, doctor, I still sense that you think me a deluded madman, spinning a tale of fantasy, arising perhaps from some disease of the mind. But I suggest that you reserve your final judgement until you have heard everything.
  I have no doubts about another matter which has great bearing on my present unfortunate state. You see, I was possessed of a keen mind. Despite my constant peccadilloes, my incessant debaucheries, I was an excellent student. History and literature fascinated me. I appreciated good music, and the study of foreign languages pleased me. I must admit that my aptitude for the linguistic arts was motivated by less than lofty sentiments. Many of the women I encountered in the demimonde were of European origin, and learning to speak their native languages fluently provided me with certain keys to their bedchambers. By the time I was fully matriculated in King's College, I was thoroughly conversant with the French, German and Italian tongues.
  Needless to say my linguistic ability served me well among the ranks of my own class. On this matter alone rested the chief lever which enabled me to manipulate my father when his patience neared the point of exhaustion. Despite the gossip about me I observed all the social graces, my ability to flatter ladies of importance made me the envy of many, and quite naturally incurred the enmity of others.
  Unfortunately, I transgressed the boundaries of society whilst still a student. I seduced a young lady, the daughter of a prominent member of the mercantile community. When she learned that I had gotten her with child the poor creature hanged herself. I was expelled from the college and the ensuing scandal forced my father to turn me out without a penny to my name. He afforded me the small consolation of taking with me one small portmanteau of personal belongings.
  My initial reaction to this abrupt fall from grace was to embark on the career of a seaman. Because of my father's business I knew the waterfront as well as the street on which I was born. But unfortunately not a sea captain of my acquaintance would offer me a berth for fear of offending my father or the shipowners who were his friends.
  In desperation I sought out the company of a French courtesan upon whom I had spent a considerable sum of money in the past. She was the mistress of a corrupt police official who now supported her in lavish fashion on public funds. On the evening I went to her house, a splendid establishment on Mercer Street, she was having a small soiree for her protector. At first I was filled with alarm for fear she would deny me admittance under the circumstances, but a twist of fate saved me from having to spend the night on the streets. One of the invited guests, a minor politician or judge—my memory fails me as to the gentleman's exact station—had taken ill at the last minute and was unable to attend. A young lady had been provided for his pleasure that evening and my fortuitous arrival enabled the hostess to fill the empty place at her table.
  During the course of the evening's revels I struck up a conversation with the lady's protector. I was not unknown to him. My reputation, though decidedly blemished amongst the upper classes, was quite the opposite in the demimonde. When the gentleman questioned me as to my future plans I conceded that they were exceedingly bleak. I was penniless. I had no home and no position. All that remained were my manners, my education and my wits. "Are you well versed in the manly arts?" he asked me. I thought it a rather odd question and I replied that I had been taught the sport of fisticuffs by an English master, wrestling and fencing by a German and marksmanship by a Frenchman.
  To my surprise he clapped me on the shoulder and said, "In that case, my friend, I think we may have a position for you with the police." It would be difficult for you to comprehend what emotions I experienced. A surge of initial elation overtook me at the thought of obtaining employment so quickly. But at the same time I felt a twinge of apprehension. The thought of being recognized as a policeman by former friends and family was abhorrent to me. You must understand that at the time common policemen were recruited from the lowest classes, and the thought of being thrust into the company of these rude men went against the grain of my upbringing. Yet, what choice did I have? So with a heavy heart I accepted his offer.
  Much to my surprise he invited me to lunch with him the next day at Fraunces Tavern to discuss the terms of my employment. I thought it odd at the time, for this hardly seemed a fitting place for the launching of such an undistinguished career. I had already begun to have visions of being herded into some gloomy chamber with a crowd of insolent ruffians, hastily sworn in, and then, heaven knows what. How mistaken I was.
  The following day, when I met my benefactor at the appointed time and place, there were two other gentlemen with him. Introductions were made and we were ushered into a private salon for our meal. I was sworn to secrecy, then told of the existence of a confidential detachment within the police forces. It was composed of men not unlike myself, who, for an assortment of reasons had fallen into disgrace, but whose backgrounds and education qualified them for positions from which they were now barred. The wages were pitifully low, a fraction of what allowance I had received from my father. There were, however, what you would term today as "fringe benefits."
  Those were different times, doctor. I find it difficult to comprehend how you can refer to yourselves as free men in a free society. You are enslaved by numbers and shackled from birth by chains of paper far stronger than the links of iron that bound our slaves and felons in those days. But I digress. Suffice it to say that I soon found myself belonging to a powerful elite society within a society that enabled me to live as well, if not better than I might have had I pursued the course charted for me by my father.
  I soon dwelt in lavish quarters. I ate the finest foods and drank the best wines. My mistresses denied me nothing and demanded nothing in return. My presence in the most dangerous stews inspired fear in the hearts of the criminal class. I could walk the darkest streets without concern for my personal safety, and when I dealt with respectable men I was treated with the utmost courtesy. They were good years, and I experienced them to the fullest.
  As time passed and the city flourished, reforms came about. Certain influential citizens commenced voicing complaints concerning the existence of the confidential detachment to which I belonged, and it soon became evident that we would be forced to disband. This came as no surprise to me. I had always suspected that by the very nature of our activities a time would come when we might be called to account. For this reason I had, from the very beginning, taken steps to ingratiate myself with those in whose hands the power rested. But then fate intervened. For many it was utter catastrophe.
  In the year 1835 a devastating fire broke out. A bitter wave of cold had descended on the nation in late autumn. The Hudson River was barely navigable to Ossining, and beyond that point the icy surface of the river was covered with a blanket of snow over two-feet thick. The temperatures were so low that many of the city's poor froze to death. Then, on the night of December sixteenth, the conflagration erupted. I had been invited that evening to a revel of Bacchanalian proportions at the house of a certain lady on Thomas Street. One of the guests was the lovely and notorious Helen Jewett, who was so brutally murdered a year later by her lover in that very house. The event had been anticipated for weeks in advance, and attending were some of the most prominent men in the city. When the alarms were first sounded we disregarded them, assuming that we were secure and detached from the rest of the world. But soon we were to learn otherwise. Panic erupted. The guests, fearing for the safety of their homes and families hastily departed. I need not tell you, doctor, that in those days our means of fighting fire were primitive indeed. And with the howling winds and freezing temperatures it was virtually impossible to bring the inferno under control.
  I had a small carriage outside and I volunteered to assist in transporting several of the guests to their homes. Although the events of that night are etched indelibly in my brain, I shall not bore you with the details, for they are only incidental to my story. Believe me when I tell you that it was as if the bowels of Hell itself had opened up and engulfed the island of Manhattan. The homes of my friends were destroyed. But I was able to assist them in the rescue of their families. The devastation was terrible. Virtually everything below Wall Street was consumed by the flames, and when the holocaust ended nearly forty acres had been laid waste.
  My own quarters had fortunately escaped the blaze and I gave refuge to the people whose lives I had been instrumental in saving. As a reward for my endeavors that night I was given an official appointment as an inspector of detectives.
  I accepted my new position with mixed emotions. There was nothing clandestine about it and gone now were certain avenues to personal enrichment that had been open to me before. The wages, though considerably better than those accompanying my previous rank were not sufficient to permit me the living standard I had adopted. Nevertheless, there was a certain degree of respectability now that I had been unable to enjoy before, and still considerable personal power. Fortunately I had been judicious with my funds. I had made sufficient investments to enable me to live comfortably if not lavishly, and I anticipated the future with a positive optimism.
  Soon afterwards, as I found myself settling into a routine existence, I married, an event which for a time forced me into a life of relative respectability.
  To my own surprise I found this very much to my liking. I was even able to effect a partial reconciliation with my family. Unfortunately two years later my wife died in childbirth. The infant survived a scant month, and after a period of severe melancholy I resumed my former ways, resolved never to marry again. My work became my life, and in time I became a model police official.
  The momentous turning point occurred in the year 1847. I was informed that I had been chosen for an important promotion. In view of the fact that I spoke fluent French I was to be sent to Paris to study and observe French police methods. I was elated. How could I possibly have known that on the day the decision for me to leave my native city was made I was doomed? Doomed to a fate more hideous than death itself. Had I gone to France earlier, even a year later, I might have lived out my allotted span. But it was not my fate.
  Upon my arrival in Paris I was received with the utmost courtesy by a certain M. Auberge, deputy commissioner of police. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was thoroughly conversant in his language and he personally saw to it that I was ensconced in a pleasant little hotel in Montmartre. For a full week I was escorted about the city and its environs for the purpose of thoroughly familiarizing myself with its topography and landmarks. I was so taken with the gaiety and charm of Parisian life that I seriously considered resigning my position and taking up residence there. By day I was shown the Paris that had enchanted visitors for centuries. By night I was made privy to the demimonde. I visited wretched hovels of indescribable squalor. I consorted with thieves, murderers, prostitutes and procurers—but all in the line of duty, always as a policeman. Never before had I seen or heard such things or met such people. Even I was shocked to witness the cruelties that were inflicted by my Parisian colleagues upon the malefactors they encountered. But I was impressed with the effectiveness of their methods, though I doubted whether it would have been possible to adopt them in America.
  You are probably wondering what possibly could have occurred in Paris to so effectively seal my fate. It so happens that some time prior to my arrival there a series of chilling events had taken place. The populace was aghast, the police were baffled and the press—ah, the gentlemen of the press. How little they have changed over the passing decades. In the vicinity of the city there had occurred a number of grave desecrations. Coffins had been broken into, freshly buried corpses had been stripped of their shrouds and horribly violated. The flesh had been bitten, gnawed upon and devoured by a ghoul so cunning he had left no traces.
  A pall of terror hung over all of Paris. Nothing of the sort had ever happened before. It was clearly the work of some fiend beyond the comprehension of all. Certainly robbery was not the motive, for in a number of instances rings and other valuables were found upon the mutilated corpses. In the beginning, of course, the cemetery caretakers were under suspicion, but interrogations proved them innocent to a man. The true horror of this bizarre epidemic came to light after medical experts examined some of the ravaged dead. It was their unanimous opinion that the teeth marks were human. This information merely fanned the flames of public outrage and horror. Guards were doubled at the cemeteries, but again and again the ghoul ventured forth to partake of his ghastly, nocturnal feasts. To be sure, from time to time reports came to the police describing an unearthly figure, half beast, half man, vaulting cemetery walls and slinking through the darkness from grave to grave. But all of these proved to be unfounded rumor.
  A few arrests were made, but in each instance the alleged perpetrator proved to be some unfortunate halfwit who was innocent of the crimes. For a while the horrible visitations ceased and all of Paris, except for the police, breathed a collective sigh of relief. Then there occurred a further outbreak. Once again the most rigid precautions were taken, but even then nothing seemed effective against the dreaded marauder.
  One afternoon a caretaker at the Père-Lachaise cemetery in the Popincourt arrondissement discovered signs at a certain spot along one of the walls which led us to believe that it had been recently climbed. I should explain that I had begun to take an active part in the investigation as part of my education. After dark that night a trap was set. It consisted of wires and explosives. A number of men were deployed inside and outside of the cemetery walls. I was assigned to a location within the cemetery near the grave that had been most recently violated. I carried a pistol and a small lantern, for the darkness was impenetrable.
  For hours I paced back and forth, seeing nothing, hearing not a sound. Although I wore a heavy cape, the cold and the dampness penetrated to my very bones and I longed for the warmth of some cheerful cafe with laughter, music and good cognac. From time to time I was convinced that I heard footsteps, but it appeared to be my imagination, for whenever I investigated I could see nothing but twisted shrubs and gravestones. While wondering how much longer I would be forced to stand my vigil I heard the sound of a clock tolling midnight in the distance. Then, only moments later, the sharp report of an explosion followed by the excited shouts of my Parisian colleagues told me that the trap had been effective. Two shots rang out. A cry of pain pierced the darkness and I began to run toward the place along the wall where the trap had been set. My heart pounded with excitement. I was anxious, after all, to participate in the apprehension of so fiendish a criminal.
  In my eagerness to join the others I carelessly failed to notice an obstruction in my path. My foot caught on a vine, the lantern flew from my hand and smashed against a marble tombstone, and I fell face forward to the ground. Only momentarily stunned I attempted to regain my feet, when suddenly I felt myself seized from behind. I struggled to twist loose but to no avail, for my assailant displayed a superhuman strength the like of which I had never before encountered. I cursed. I kicked. I flailed about wildly with my arms. But it was no use. I was in a viselike grip that rendered me helpless.
  Before I fully comprehended the extent of my plight I felt myself being turned over and forced down on my back. My arms were pinned down at my sides and my attacker straddled me like a horseman. Then I became aware of another sound. A low, hoarse chuckle emanated from the throat of the man who held me down, and then in dry, sepulchural tones he whispered harshly, "You cannot escape me, mon ami. Cease your struggles and submit peacefully." My first reaction, of course, was that I was being attacked by some insane sodomite and I continued my struggles cursing him the more soundly in the most eloquent French I could muster. Instead of answering he laughed more heartily, still in that peculiar unearthly voice.
  Imagine my horror when, despite the murky dimness, I perceived his face drawing close to mine. His eyes blazed with a weird, infernal looking inner light, and the skin on his face was pale, dry and tautly stretched so that he resembled a skull. There was a hideous smell of death about him. His was the loathsome visage of a corpse. I drew in my breath to cry out for help, for I was convinced that I was at the mercy of the mysterious graverobber, but my cries were muffled as he opened his mouth revealing a set of gleaming teeth, which, with the darting motion of a serpent he clamped upon my throat. By now nearly insane with terror and disgust I gave one final convulsive twist to escape, but again my efforts were fruitless. His lips were like ice against my neck. I felt a sudden, sharp pain as though my throat had been pierced with a sharp dagger, then I felt the trickle of warm blood that escaped his awful lips. I cannot describe how terrible the sucking noises were to me as he drew the blood from my neck. I could actually feel it flowing from my body. From time to time he would pause, make terrible gurgling noises in his throat, lick his lips, then I began to grow faint. Though I could do nothing about it I knew that death was approaching. A feeling of unutterable tranquility came over me and I experienced a lightheadedness not unlike that of intoxication. I was no longer aware that I was being held forcibly against the ground. I took my last breath. Oblivion enveloped me and my last recollection was that of being engulfed by a darkness blacker than any I had ever known before. I never gazed upon the light of day again…
  You look uneasy, doctor. I trust my personal history has not alarmed you.
   
  No, Mister Sexton. In my profession we learn to take everything in our stride. And I think that should about do it for tonight's session. I'm not going to give you any evaluations at this stage. I want to hear your entire story before we get into deep therapy.
   
  I understand, doctor. You are still convinced that I am telling you a fanciful tale arising from a disordered brain. But I will convince you otherwise. Until Wednesday night then, at the same time?
   
  [Patient's delusion is both remarkably organized and unique. Within its context he appears completely rational. Organizational content is intricately developed i.e. chronology, historical details. Even the speech pattern has distinct nineteenth-century flavor. Definitive diagnosis at this time premature. Physical disorder a distinct possibility. Faint unpleasant body odor resembling organic decay significant. General quality of patient's attitude might indicate deep-rooted suicidal tendencies inhibited by fear of taking the ultimate step. Severe prior emotional trauma masking true facts indicated. Prognosis: uncertain. Review Jones: On the Nightmare, Eisler: Man into Wolf, Summers: The Vampire in Europe.]
Chapter Eight
  Wednesday, June 6.
  All right, Mister Sexton, suppose you just continue with your story. By the way, would it bother you if I interrupt from time to time to ask you any questions?
   
  Not at all doctor. We have come together for a single purpose. I understand that what goes on between us is privileged information. I can assure you, I will conceal nothing. (Sardonic chuckle.) Besides, do you think that if you discussed my story with anyone they would believe you? But I must convince you first, mustn't I? Let me see, I believe I told you everything up to the point that I was forcibly thrust into my present state.
  My assailant, I learned later was not the deranged grave desecrator. The culprit turned out to be a sergeant in the French army named Bertrand, a madman to be sure. He had apparently developed an insatiable appetite for the flesh of decaying corpses. Apparently due to a peculiarity of French Law there was no crime with which he could be charged, so he was consigned to an asylum. I am sure you must be familiar with the case. It was described in detail some years later by the admirable Krafft-Ebing.
   
  As a matter of fact it does sound familiar. So, you've read the works of Krafft-Ebing. Interesting. But please, go on.
   
  Not only did I read him, I met the gentleman on several occasions. He was a trifle on the pompous side, but a man of great erudition. But we digress.
  It is almost impossible for me to describe the emotions that overcame me when I awakened some time later. How many hours or days had elapsed I did not know. I opened my eyes and found myself lying on my back in what I soon discovered to be a closed coffin. There was no light, yet, miraculously I could see as clearly as if the place of my confinement were flooded with light. My initial reaction was terror mixed with confusion, and then elation. I am alive! I thought. But why, then am I lying in a coffin. Perhaps the shock of what had happened to me had thrown me into a state of suspended animation, false death. I had to escape. But could I? If the lid of the coffin were nailed down, how would I force it open? I knew I could not merely lie there and risk the chance of being buried alive, so with all my strength I pushed up with my hands and to my relief the lid flew off so easily I realized that it had not been fastened down. Or so I thought at the time.
  I sat up and found myself in a mortuary. There were perhaps a dozen or more coffins resting on wooden trestles, exactly like the one from which I had just emerged. There was no light in the chamber, but just outside the single window was a gas lamp which seemed to cast an unusually bright aura of amber light. I could see as clearly as if it were midday. I had no way of comprehending the reason for this phenomenon as yet, so I looked about for a lantern, anticipating the need to light my way out of this dismal place. I saw a cabinet on the far side of the room next to the window, so I made my way though the coffins and approached it. It was locked and in a momentary burst of anger I wrenched the handle. To my astonishment it broke as easily as if it had been made of paper. I could not believe my strength, but I assumed it was born out of desperation.
  There amongst the disarrayed contents—mallets, nails, other hardware—I found two lanterns and a large vessel of oil. Happily for me there were also matches—
   
  Oh, you had matches in those days?
   
  To be sure, but they were quite inferior to those in use today. They were manufactured in England. They were called "Prometheans." Primitive, but effective. They consisted of short rolls of paper with a compound made of sugar and chlorate of potash on one end to which was attached a small globule of acid. Sulfuric acid, I believe. By breaking the glass the acid reacted with the chemicals and produced flame.
  There was ample oil in the lantern so I ignited a match and lit the wick. I very nearly set the place on fire, for the light and the heat were so intense that I experienced a sharp twinge of pain along with an inexplicable feeling of panic. I also began experiencing at that moment the pangs of a gnawing hunger, unlike any I had ever known.
  After leaving the chamber of coffins I found myself in a deserted corridor with a door at the far end. My only desire was to escape from this dismal place, return to my hotel and satisfy my ravenous appetite. Imagine my horror, my rage when I opened the door, which led to a small ante room, and saw sitting on a plain wooded bench the wretch who had assaulted me in Père-Lachaise cemetery. "You!" I exclaimed, pointing and rendered near speechless at the sight of him.
  Hatless, he was enveloped in a bulky, black greatcoat and resting across his lap was a stout walking stick with a gold head. His face was not pallid as it had been the night he attacked me, but decidedly ruddy and almost bloated looking. It was the appearance of his eyes that filled me with horror and loathing. Red and bloodshot looking they appeared almost to burn with an inner light of their own, giving him a most hideous aspect.
  A throaty chuckle escaped from his lips. "So, mon ami, you have awakened. I trust you feel no worse for your metamorphosis."
  "Swine!" I exclaimed. "You dare to confront me after your cowardly assault!" Summoning all my strength I put down the lantern and sprang at him, determined to give him the thrashing of his life. But when I thought I had reached him he was gone. I heard laughter behind me. I whirled around. There he stood, taunting me with his walking stick. "You will have to move more quickly than that to reach me, my dear fellow. Come, try again." Once more I lunged at him, and again he eluded me by virtue of his incredible agility. It soon became apparent that he was still more than a match for me. I turned to face him, my heart filled with rage and despair at having been so thoroughly thwarted.
  He said, "You see, mon ami, it is useless to waste your strength trying to attack me because you will fail. Now I suggest that you sit down and listen to what I have to tell you. Your survival depends on it."
  The thought struck me that perhaps he was infected with some contagious disease. But if so, why would he seek me out to warn me of its possible consequences. My curiosity was understandably aroused so I composed myself and told him to speak.
  He sighed. "It is always the case when it happens so suddenly, monsieur. But you must know the truth before sunrise, or you shall die." I tried to interrupt him but he cut me off. "You have no idea of what actually happened to you last night, do you?" Instead of waiting for me to answer he dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. Now listen to me and listen closely. You are no longer a living man. You are as I am, an animated corpse. You have joined the ranks of the undead. You are a vampire! Think back to last night. Could you not feel my teeth opening your jugular vein? Could you not feel me sucking the life's blood from your veins?"
  "Surely you are mad!" I gasped, raising my hand involuntarily to my throat.
  He ignored my words and said, "Don't trouble yourself about the wound. It will vanish in time. But mark my words, for they are true. Tell me, do you not even at this moment feel a terrible hunger, gnawing at your entrails?" He was right. In fact the pangs were so severe I felt weak. "And do you not find it peculiar that you were able to break open your coffin, even though the lid was nailed down?"
  The thought had never entered my mind, then I remembered the ease with which I had opened the cabinet from which I took the lantern. But it was his final question that led me to believe that he was speaking the truth.
  "One more thing. How do you account for the fact that you can see in total darkness? This is hardly a gift given by the Creator to mortal man."
  "If what you say is true," I said reluctantly, "what am I to do?"
  He shrugged. "You must do as all of us do. You must accept the fact that you are no longer fully human. To survive you must exist by blood alone. If you wish to die, of course, that is your business."
  My mind raced. I did not want to die. I wanted to live. Though I still half suspected he was a raving lunatic, my detective's sense of logic told me that he had presented me with certain irrefutable facts. "Then tell me what I must do," I repeated.
  "Ah, now you are talking sense," he replied. "Yours, I must confess is an exceptional case. You see, I had fed very sparsely the night before we met, and when I came upon you at Père-Lachaise I committed an act of gluttony. Now I do not intend to deliver a lecture to you concerning the ancient history and lore of our race. You have an eternity to discover these things for yourself. Ours is not a happy condition. We are an accursed lot. We are doomed to skulk in the shadows, lonely, vigilant, and ever seeking our prey, our life—the blood of man. We may never look upon the light of the sun, for it is lethal to us. We must sleep by day and hunt by night. If we wish to survive we must nourish ourselves once in each twenty-four hour period. Bullets will not harm us, nor will the thrust of a dagger cause injury. We can be destroyed only by dismemberment or by having a wooden stake driven through the heart by those among the living who know the truth. For this reason we must be cautious, suspicious. We must conceal our true identities. We must find a secure place in which to sleep by day. And one other thing of vital importance you must know and never forget. To drink from the body of another vampire is instant death."
  "But how can one make the distinction?" I demanded.
  "It is very simple, " he explained holding up his left hand and displaying a ring. It was of yellow gold and carved upon it was an emblem which resembled a crooked cross made of talons. "This symbol dates back to the darkest ages of antiquity," he went on. "Even I do not know it's origin. But it is a sign of recognition. Should you ever see it upon anyone, man, woman, or child, do not feed. Desist and seek another victim. I will tell you an amusing anecdote concerning the emblem of our dark fraternity. You will notice that it resembles the sign of the cross. Centuries ago a superstition arose among the peasantry that we were servants of the devil himself, and that whenever confronted with a cross in any form we were rendered harmless by the power of heaven. Nothing could be further from the truth. If we shrink from this twisted cross, we do so for reasons of survival. I suggest you obtain such a ring as quickly as you can. You might even wear the emblem about your neck on a chain."
  "But where can I get such an emblem?" I asked. He shrugged. "That is your business, mon ami. "I have fulfilled whatever obligations I may have had toward you. Your future survival is of no consequence to me. I would prefer never to cross your path again. I have myself to think about."
  There was not a trace of emotion in his voice. But I, on the other hand, still had strong vestiges of humanity in me. A cold fury arose in my breast. I felt only hatred and loathing for this monster who had robbed me of my birthright as a man. The memory of what he had done to me a scant day before seemed to appear before my eyes as in a dream. In a sudden outburst of rage I seized the lantern which rested alongside me and flung it at him with all my might.
  The glass shattered and the flaming oil streamed out turning him into a living torch. He shrieked and clutched at his burning face, his cries growing momentarily louder and more hideous as he fell to the floor where he writhed and twitched like a man in a fit. An oily cloud of smoke began rising from his crackling form as the shrieks turned to loathsome gurgles and croaks. I stood there watching with morbid fascination until there was nothing left of him but a pile of smoldering bones and clothing.
  I was about to take my leave when I noticed the gold ring on one of the bony fingers. He would no longer need it. It was small payment for the beastly purgatory to which he had consigned me. It was surprisingly cool when I slipped it onto my own finger. Then I hastily withdrew. The hunger was making me feel faint. I had to seek the means to assuage it. Quickly.
   
  There was no doubt in your mind at this point that this man had told you the truth? You accepted his word implicitly? You had no doubts?
   
  I had no doubts. What other explanation was there for the attack upon my person, my unbelievable strength, my ability to see in total darkness? But I soon found further verification, as you shall see.
   
  Well, suppose we save it for our next session. I want to go over my notes and clarify some of the questions I'm going to have for you.
   
  Very well, doctor. Until we meet again, au revoir.
   
  [Patient is displaying some alarming signals. Strong evidence in his comments indicating the presence of infantile cannibalistic wish fantasy elements. Potentially dangerous. Recurrent theme of oral sadistic tendencies alarming. Is it possible that he has fantasized or in fact committed blood-lust murders, and has constructed this elaborate delusion in order to justify his guilt feelings. Must discuss religious background, religious feelings. Possibly significant. Research John George Haigh case, the Kensington Vampire, London, 1949.]
Chapter Nine
  Friday, June 8.
  Mr. Sexton, I've been reviewing some of the literature on the subject of vampirism and lycanthropy, and I thought that perhaps it might be a good idea to discuss it with you to some extent before we go on with your story. I think it should provide us with some valuable insights.
   
  If you wish, doctor, but I fear it would accomplish less than you think, although I must admit I have a certain bias.
   
  Why do you say that?
   
  You surprise me, doctor. Let me ask you a question. To which account of a storm at sea would you lend more credence, that of sailors who had survived it, or that of a journalist who had interviewed them?
   
  An interesting point, but…
   
  Let me clarify myself. I am not unfamiliar with the literature to which you refer. Does not the victim of some incurable malady endeavor to learn all he can about his melancholy condition? I can assure you sir, that every word ever written on the subject has been nothing more than a shadowy reflection of hidden truths. Every word ever set to paper is, at best, a distortion of reality. The entire body of that literature can be divided into three distinct categories.
   
  Well, I'd certainly be interested in hearing your thoughts on the subject.
   
  Very well. The first category is fiction. Pure and deliberate fancy meant to engross the reader and to inspire fear. Such writings appeal to morbid fascination with the night side of the human soul. The second category is an immense compilation of superstition, folklore and preposterous so-called eyewitness accounts of misinterpreted events, the ravings of madmen and lies. The third is a mass of baseless theories, philosophical casuistry and feeble attempts to offer explanations of things that could not be explained.
   
  [This line of conversation clearly touches on sensitive ground. It indicates the first overt expression of emotion on the part of the patient. Could he at one time have written something on the subject that was not accepted, therefore he belittles and dismisses everything else to reinforce his own ego damage.]
   
  Those are interesting observations Mr. Sexton, but I'd like to go back to something you said in the beginning, you referred to "shadowy reflections of hidden truths" and "distortion of reality." Would you care to elaborate on those points a little further?
   
  If you wish. The truth is that we vampires have existed since time immemorial. In order to survive we have been forced to keep our true nature hidden. Many times throughout history the less wary among us have been discovered and destroyed. The wretch who made me as I am was one of those. But I can assure you, doctor, the majority of the corpses disinterred, mutilated and burned have always been nothing more than lifeless corpses. I anticipate your next question. How can I explain the discovery in opened coffins of fresh appearing bodies, bathed in blood and gore? Have you any idea, my dear doctor, of how many unfortunates were buried alive in the days before embalming? Imagine the horror of awakening in the suffocating confines of a coffin. Imagine the terror—the blackness, the silence of the grave, the screams that can never be heard, the hopeless rending of cerements, the tearing and biting, the struggling and writhing, and finally the slow painful death from suffocation.
   
  In other words you're saying that most of the cases we read about of a so-called vampire being exhumed, then destroyed, are all untrue? What about the accounts we read, say in Dom Calmet's Phantom World, just to mention one source, accounts that describe the terrible struggles and shrieks of the vampire when the stake was driven through his heart?
   
  Has it never occurred to anyone that most of these victims were still living, that perhaps they had never died. I can assure you that even a true vampire, if sealed in a coffin and interred in a grave would find it impossible to dig his way out. I do grant you, however, that a vampire with sufficient life's blood in his body to survive, if used in the manner of these descriptions, could be destroyed. But I tell you this. Those I have known who nearly met with such a fate possessed sufficient strength to overcome their attackers and escape.
  But I must comment on Dom Calmet. I am surprised, doctor, that you would seriously consider the validity of this man's writings. He was a simple, admittedly sincere man, but most important a seventeenth-century French priest. He lived in a well-ordered universe consisting of earth, heaven and hell. To him the guilt of the unfortunate women burned as witches was as real as the virtue of his miracle working saints. When an ignorant peasant told him that he had seen Satan, or escaped the clutches of a werewolf he accepted the truth of the statement as surely as he accepted the teachings and dogmas of his church. Is it any surprise that he also accepted everything he heard about vampires, demons, and incubi? If you care to look you will find that no less an authoritative source than the Encyclopedia Britannica holds that his writings have failed to stand the tests of modern scholarship.
   
  [The rational manner in which the patient states the case presents a fascinating paradox. He is clearly debunking all the apocryphal tales that clutter the literature of vampirism, yet he clings to the fixed idea that he is a vampire himself, an animated corpse over a century old. If only he can be brought around to develop sufficient insight to extend that rational thinking to his own condition, to understand the irrationality of his delusion, he will be on the way to recovery. How long this will take is still impossible to determine.]
   
  I must say, Mr. Sexton, everything you are saying at this moment makes absolute sense. Under the circumstances how do you reconcile your beliefs with your own status as a vampire?
  Your question disappoints me, doctor, and for the moment I shall not make the obvious reply. Instead let me offer you an analogy. Imagine yourself, a physician of the twentieth century, with all of your knowledge of twentieth century science and technology, cast back through time. Imagine yourself suddenly in the presence of an Avicenna or a Galen. What would these distinguished physicians of the past say were you to tell them that you could cut out a man's heart and replace it with a new one? What would the most learned philosopher of the fourteenth century say were you to assert that one day man would surpass the birds in flight, that a man in Rome could converse with a man in London, that a child often could press a switch and flood a room with light? You are confronted, my dear doctor, with something you cannot understand, something so terrible you do not wish to believe it. It defies the laws of science as you know them. It taxes the reason. To prevent yourself from going mad you circumvent the truth and seek to find alternative answers. But I must warn you, my friend, there are no such alternatives. In time you will face the truth and accept it.
   
  Mr. Sexton, I assure you, the truth is precisely what we are looking for and we are going to find it. And before I forget, there is another aspect of the literature I wanted to discuss and, frankly, I'm a little surprised it seems to be one you didn't mention.
   
  That surprises me too. What aspect are you referring to?
   
  I'm thinking about documented cases that are absolutely beyond question. Are you familiar with the case of the Countess Bathory?
   
  Ah, the infamous vampire countess. Yes, not only do I know all the details of her life, I have even visited the castle where she lived and died. I am also conversant with the more recent cases, Hartmann, the Hanover vampire, Kurten, the Düsseldorf vampire, and Mr. Haigh, the Kensington vampire. But surely I needn't tell you about these individuals, doctor. Unquestionably each of them was a monster, a despicable wretch sunken to the lowest depths of human bestiality, but nonetheless human. To be sure, the gentlemen of the press inspired terror in the hearts of their readers describing their crimes. But each was a living, breathing human being. Blood was their intoxicant, the drug that inspired them, but murder was their purpose.
  No, my dear doctor, there is little on this subject—if any—that has escaped my attention over the past hundred years. I can only sum up by assuring you once more that most of it is rubbish, some of it dangerous, and a few isolated instances the source of mild amusement. I could never comprehend, for example, the undying popularity of Stoker's Dracula. Aside from the fact that the writing was soporifically ponderous, the content was rife with preposterous superstition, vampires metamorphosing into bats, cringing at the sight of crucifixes. The count himself was nothing more than an undead Don Juan personifying the author's concept of ultimate evil. It is my opinion that there are only two works of fiction on the subject worthy of survival. One is Le Fanu's Carmilla, subtle in its presentation and deep in its implications. The second work of value is the recent Interview With The Vampire. In it Mrs. Rice, the author, came closer to the truth than any purported non-fiction ever produced. It would not surprise me if she had indeed conducted such an interview at one time, and presented it as a work of fiction knowing that it was the only way in which she could present the facts.
  And certainly no discussion of the subject would be complete without mention of the Englishman, Montegue Summers. I can only regard him as an erudite charlatan who merely gleaned ancient superstitions and mad allegations which he skillfully assembled and presented with the logic and wiles reminiscent of a fanatical Jesuit. I do not presume to speculate on his motives, but I detect in his writings a sanctimonious sneer, a perverse desire to fascinate as a serpent does its prey.
   
  Well, I must say I can't dispute what you've said about writers in the Calmet and Summers genre, and as far as fiction is concerned, I think the best that anyone can do is make an evaluation based on literary merit. And finally, I feel that to discuss myth or folklore per se won't get us anywhere. On the other hand, if we look at them, say from the Jungian point of view we come back to what you said about "shadowy reflections of hidden truth." We also have to examine some of the psychological writings, Ernest Jones' On the Nightmare, Eisler's Man into Wolf for example.
   
  [The patient's reaction to this last statement was most interesting, mild annoyance, patient tolerance, and initially at least a strong reluctance to pursue this particular aspect of the subject. This in itself is significant and poses an important question. What is the underlying reason for his attitude and in what way does it relate to his delusion?]
   
  I thought I had made myself clear on the matter of such books. Jones was nothing more than a worshipful disciple of Sigmund Freud. Like his master and all the other apostles of Freudian theory his mind was closed to anything that did not conform to their rigid conceptions of the Unconscious. I concede that certain of their ideas, especially as they related to sexual fantasies and fears withstood certain tests of logic, but only, and I repeat, doctor, only as applied to existing folklore, myth and fiction. Eisler was another matter entirely. The basis of his theories was anthropological. He was trying to explain the depths of depravity to which the human race could descend. And why? Because he himself was a doomed survivor of modern mankind's most savage behavior—the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. To preserve his own sanity he had to find reasons for bestial acts he could not understand. No, doctor, I dismiss all of these writings out of hand, no matter how earnestly they may have been undertaken. No man, no woman, indeed no vampire has ever fully solved the mystery of our existence. We do exist, therefore we are. And now, if you will excuse me, this conversation has taxed my endurance. I feel I must take my leave until next time.
   
  All right, Mr. Sexton, if you prefer, we'll cut this evening's session short. I was hoping though to cover another matter briefly, but I suppose it can wait until next time.
   
  And what matter was that? A few moments more make no difference.
   
  It may take longer than a few moments, but I think it is extremely important. I'm talking about the matter of your essential nature as you see it…
   
  [An expression that can best be described as despairing frustration came over the patient's face at this point. It was the first time he ever interrupted.]
   
  You still do not believe what I have told you. You referred to my essential nature as I see it. You think I am a madman trapped in the grip of some insane delusion. Believe this, my friend. Did I so choose, I could at this moment drain your body of all the blood that flows through your veins, yet, I still cling to the hope that in time you will provide me with surcease from my suffering. I am what I have represented myself to be, an animated corpse existing in a state that is neither death nor life. I am driven by a force I do not understand but must obey. Deep within my consciousness I know that there exists the means to break its grip so that I may return to my grave and find eternal rest. I have reason to believe you can help me to discover that means.
   
  Suppose that your condition is the result of some unknown virus, some chemical imbalance, perhaps even a glandular or cellular disfunction. A thorough physical examination and a series of clinical lab tests. …
   
  [Once again an almost violent interruption.]
   
  Absolutely out of the question! And I will tell you precisely why. The instant that a vampire comes into physical contact with a living human being the two become irreversibly locked into a hunter-prey relationship. Reason vanishes. The vampire must feed and the victim succumbs. Now, I suggest that we discontinue this line of conversation, and if you have no further questions of a constructive nature I will bid you goodnight.
   
  Mr. Sexton, you came to me because I am a specialist in my field and you believed that I could help you with your problem, which you must admit has to be unique in the annals of psychiatry.
   
  Agreed.
   
  It is not my intent to force you to say or do anything against your will…
   
  That would be impossible in any case.
   
  Nevertheless you must accept the fact that I know what I am doing, and in my professional opinion it is going to be necessary to explore all avenues of approach, therefore there are certain questions I find it essential to ask.
   
  Then ask.
   
  There are any number of tests which do not require any physical contact—a simple temperature reading. Certainly you can place a thermometer in your own mouth. A stethoscope against your chest presents no problem, and X-rays…
   
  [At this point the patient jumped to his feet and displayed symptoms of clear anxiety.]
   
  I will submit to no tests! X-rays would destroy me and I will not perish in a manner unnatural to me. Your tests would prove nothing. My heart has not beaten since the day I died. My viscera are withered and desiccated. My lungs are no more than bellows which provide air that I may speak. The tissues of my corpse absorb the blood I ingest as a sponge does water. Now, I will discuss these matters no further!
   
  All right, we'll drop the matter, and on that note I think we'd better end tonight's session. Perhaps the best thing for us to do when you come back is to continue with your story. I have a feeling that as we get to know each other better it will become progressively easier for us to find the resolutions we're looking for.
   
  Very well, doctor. But I warn you, no more talk of examinations or tests. Good night.
   
  [The patient's delusion is more organized than I had previously imagined. This session exceptionally revealing in its complexities and paradoxes. His fierce aversion to physical contact indicates deep rooted sexual fears. His refusal to undergo physical examination or clinical tests may possibly indicate fears of another type. By clinging to the conviction that he is a vampire he automatically endows himself with superhuman qualities. Immortality. Invulnerability. Supreme power of life or death over all others he encounters. Paradoxically, his expressed desire to "return to the grave" and find permanent peace contradicts his obvious fear of death by "unnatural" means. Although the nature of his delusion gives every indication of psychosis, the fact that he has voluntarily sought help is a positive sign. His absence of depressive symptoms or severe agitation precludes any suggestion of medication at this time and his general attitude indicates that he would strongly oppose it. To a certain extent this session resulted in a discernable deterioration in the therapist-patient relationship. His trust and confidence must be reestablished and strengthened before any positive results can be obtained. That he is a potentially dangerous man cannot be overlooked. Prognosis: no end of treatment in sight at this time.]
Chapter Ten
  Monday, June 11.
  Mr. Sexton, before you continue with your story there are one or two questions I have. I was reviewing the transcripts of our sessions and I noticed a couple of discrepancies that I hoped you might clarify for me.
   
  What sort of discrepancies?
   
  Well, for example, during our last session you said tome… here let me read the exact sentence you … "The instant a vampire comes into physical contact with a living human being the two become irreversibly locked into a hunter-prey relationship." Now, you recall saying that, don't you?
   
  Very clearly.
   
  Good. But do recall that when you first came to see me you asked me to touch your hand in order to feel the texture and observe your lack of body heat?
   
  I remember the incident very well and I congratulate you on raising the question. All I can tell you is that to every rule there is an exception. What I said about physical contact is essentially true, but there is another factor involved—the factor of hunger. When our appetites are sated we have neither the desire nor inclination to have physical contact with the living. At the time I permitted you to touch my hand I had no need to take nourishment. You will also probably recall that the touch was a brief one. I would estimate that its duration was less than five seconds.
   
  All right, that seems to be a logical explanation. But my next question may be a bit more difficult.
   
  Are you trying to trick me into something, doctor? I'm not certain I care for this line of discussion. If you are still unconvinced that I speak the truth I can assure you I can offer a final proof, and one which you would not find very pleasant.
   
  Believe me, I only want to understand everything I possibly can about you, and there is one point which still has me puzzled. Please, hear me out.
   
  Very well, but don't patronize me. I will not tolerate it.
   
  I assure you, Mr. Sexton that is the last thing in my mind. I think you'll understand me perfectly when I ask the question. Now you have made it clear that you cannot tolerate sunlight, that during the daylight hours you revert to a deathlike state and that you remain dormant in your coffin until after sundown. I don't dispute this. Yet, how do you explain that when you first telephoned me for an appointment you did so at approximately eight-thirty in the morning, well after sunrise?
   
  Ah, of course. You must accept my apologies. The paradox is obvious. I do indeed owe you an explanation. As I said about the matter of physical contact, there are exceptions to every rule. Here again the governing factor is hunger. When a vampire has fed to his capacity he becomes lethargic. He is overcome by a sweet feeling of well-being and exhilaration. Though he does not experience fatigue in the sense that you know it, his only desire is for peace and tranquility. Once he reclines in his coffin he is overcome immediately by the oblivion of death. What the mechanics or physiology are I cannot explain, but all animation flees the corpse. Perhaps it has to do with the state of immobility, I do not know. It is obviously related in some way to the absorption and disintegration of the blood that has been ingested. It may have something to do with the presence of ultra violet rays or the gravitational effects of the sun. Again, I say I do not know. However, after dusk consciousness gradually returns, accompanied by cramps and a terrible hunger that might be likened to a combination of sexual desires and a desperate need to take nourishment. There are times when one does not fulfill the demands of this hunger before sunrise. During those times it becomes necessary to take refuge in dark places where the rays of the sun cannot penetrate. I can assure you that such places are abundant in all cities. There are tunnels, dungeons, cellars, the holds of great ships. Many a day I have skulked in the shadows of the catacombs beneath Grand Central Station, on subways and even in the subterranean concourses of Rockefeller Center. Such times are periods of torture. One is surrounded by the living. The hunger becomes excruciating, only in the shadowy places where few venture does one dare to feed. And then it is fraught with danger. One must select a victim who will not be missed. The head must be severed from the body to prevent the subject from becoming like myself. And finally the remains must be concealed. It was on such an occasion I first contacted you from a telephone booth in Grand Central Station. I had come up from the lower catacombs, beneath the level of the tracks, a place of incredible filth and darkness, but a suitable hunting ground for me. It is a place inhabited by scores of forgotten men, half-demented troglodytes who survive on refuse and are the companions of rats and other vermin. It is a place of such despair that even I was affected by its perpetual gloom. After contemplating the events of the night and morning hours I had spent there I reflected on my existence and determined that it was necessary for me to find a way to seek once and for all the eternal peace awaiting me in the grave.
   
  Well, this is very interesting. Essentially what you're telling me is that as long as you avoid direct sunlight, theoretically you could do without sleep altogether.
   
  Theoretically, yes.
   
  In any event you've cleared up the discrepancies that were bothering me. I think the most important thing we can do now is review all the major events of your life from the time that you underwent your metamorphosis in Paris. Now, we know what your primary goal is, but in order for me to effectively help you to achieve it I must get to know you far better than I do now. I want to take your therapy one step at a time.
   
  That sounds reasonable enough… for the moment. Although I must tell you in all honesty, doctor, that up to now you have given me little encouragement. I am not in ignorance of the ways in which your profession functions. Furthermore, I am not certain yet as to whether you believe anything I have told you. If you do not, and have no intention of opening your mind, then to continue our relationship would be fruitless. My only hope of our eventual success lies in the possibility that you will be convinced of my absolute veracity after you have heard my entire history.
   
  The fact that you do have hope is a positive sign in itself. As I said, we'll have to take things step by step. So, my immediate suggestion is that we go back to the events that took place in Paris immediately after you killed the man you say was responsible for your condition. By the way, would you feel more comfortable lying on the couch?
  Most assuredly not. Physical immobility dulls my senses. As a matter of fact, if you have no objections, I would prefer to pace back and forth as I speak.
   
  I have no objections at all.
   
  Good. And if you don't mind my observation, I sense that your skepticism is still quite evident.
   
  What makes you say that?
   
  You asked me to continue with my history beginning at the point after I killed the man I said was responsible for my condition. Your employing the phrase "the man you say" implies a lack of certainty on your part as to the actuality of what I told you. But I shall try not to split hairs.
  As I said before, the terrible hunger that I now begin to experience along with the awareness of my ability to see in the dark, my immense physical strength, convinced me beyond all doubts that what I had been told was the truth. Having no desire to remain a moment longer in the police morgue I hastily made my departure and took to the streets. It was late, nearly three in the morning and the city seemed deserted. My craving for nourishment grew more intense as I walked the empty sidewalks and, accompanying the awful pangs of hunger and desire, I began to experience the cramps to which I alluded earlier. The pain was like nothing I had ever known, having never suffered a sick day in my life, and a sense of panic began to overcome me. How long I walked I cannot say, but I soon found myself in a district of poverty and decay. Heaps of decaying refuse lay reeking in the gutters. Huge scurrying rats fled at the sound of my footsteps. Then in the dim light of a flickering gaslamp I saw a figure huddled at the entrance of a dark, twisting alley.
  Taking heart I approached and saw that it was a young woman clad in rags, sound asleep, her head resting on a bundle which in all probability comprised her wordly possessions. Although she was painfully thin, her features were fine, and her face peaceful in repose. As I knelt down beside her, not quite certain how to take her, some sixth sense must have caused her to awaken. She opened her eyes and contemplated me gravely. They were large and luminous, and quite devoid of fear. A lascivious smile spread over her features. It was an expression I knew well.
  "Bon soir, monsieur," she murmured softly, suppressing a yawn, "Perhaps you would like to share your bed with me? I have none of my own to offer you."
  I knew at that moment that there was no longer any doubt as to what I had become. Had I encountered her under similar circumstances a scant day earlier, her gamin face, her smooth skin, and her gently swelling breast would have kindled hunger of quite another kind in me. But now I had but one thought in my mind.
  "Get up," I ordered.
  With languid movement she rose to her feet, taking the bundle in her left hand. Forcing a smile I took her by the arm and guided her toward the darkest shadows in the first twist of the alley. She offered no resistance at first, but when I halted and encircled her waist with my right arm a look of alarm came over her face.
  "Why do you stop here, monsieur?" she gasped.
  Instead of answering I pressed her to me and lowered my face as if to implant a kiss on her lips. Her lips parted to receive mine, then with a sudden move I clapped my free hand over her mouth, thrust my teeth against her neck, tearing the fragile flesh, and drinking the warm blood as if it were something I had done all of my life.
  She struggled fiercely, raining blows on me with her clenched fists, but they had no more effect on me than an assault by a flight of moths. As I drank delicious waves of pleasure coursed through my body, not unlike that I had previously experienced in the arms of my mistresses. But it was a pleasure far more intense than any I had ever known, for accompanying it was a resurgence of energy along with a giddying feeling of exhilaration, like the intoxication of wine without its stultifying effects. For how long I do not know, I was in these and other new and rapturous sensations.
  I was barely aware that the girl had gone limp, having lost consciousness. Releasing my grip I let her fall to the ground. My senses returned to normal and I took stock of my situation. The entire front of my shirt was drenched with blood and there were additional stains on my sleeves, my lapels, and my trousers. I looked down at the lifeless form of my victim. The thought crossed my mind that in my haste and inexperience I had created another like myself. At that moment my policeman's mentality set certain thoughts in motion. Clearly this young woman was a common prostitute of the lowest order.
  Her death would cause no consternation, except perhaps to those in her immediate circle of acquaintance. Yet, I knew that if her body were found in the position which it now lay suspicions might be aroused. If, however, I made it appear as if she had been brutally raped, then slain, little note would be taken of her death. I hastily rearranged her body, raised her skirts in the most indecent manner I could contrive, and smeared blood on the lower portions of her anatomy in such a way as to leave no doubts in the minds of those who found her the next day that she had been murdered by some brutal wretch in the throes of unholy passion. My unpleasant task completed, I left the scene of the crime hoping that she would be safely buried before she could arise and join the ranks of the undead.
  My most urgent need now was to obtain fresh clothing, money and a place to repose during the daylight hours for I had no desire to perish with the rising sun.
   
  I think this would be a good point for us to break for tonight, don't you?
   
  As you wish, doctor. I see that we did expend somewhat more time than usual.
   
  Well, that's no problem. The only thing is, I do have an engagement tonight and I have to be leaving. By the way, can I drop you off somewhere? I have my car here.
   
  No thank you doctor. I, too, have… business to conduct before morning. I trust you will have a pleasant weekend.
   
  [The sharp contrast between patient's vivid "confession" of a deliberate murder and the casual exchange of mundane courtesies is both fascinating and disturbing. Certainly the most complex and disconcerting session to date. His hostile reactions to initial questions concerning physical contact and exposure to sunlight reinforce earlier suggestions of paranoia. Next, his ability to glibly rationalize discrepancies found in previous statement further reinforce these suggestions—not to mention implied threats to therapist. Patient's continued, adamant refusal to consider the administration of medication, or to submit even to simple, non-contact examinations or clinical tests complicates matters. The idée fixe that he is a functioning vampire in the mythical sense, an animated corpse, is clearly psychotic. But his stubborn rejection of any test or treatment which can help to eliminate this delusion presents a serious stumbling block to the eventual success of any therapy. It is doubtful that any significant progress can be made until he is willing to concede that the vampire concept as he has presented it is pure fantasy.
  The most disturbing aspects of this case are moral and ethical, far more so than clinical. It is distinctly possible, and certainly to be hoped that everything the patient has said to date is pure fantasy. Suppose, however, his delusion is so highly organized that he has indeed acted out, and is still acting out his fantasies in the form of aggressive, violent, oral-sadistic attacks on living victims?
  Although it is the obligation of a physician to maintain the confidentiality of the therapist-patient relationship, there is also the matter of a basic responsibility to society. For the moment there are insufficient data to justify any drastic action. From all indications, if patient is permitted to give free rein to the verbalization of his fantasies, and remains convinced that his credibility is not challenged, it is reasonable to assume he will continue to display relatively calm behavior until he has completely unburdened himself of whatever he feels compelled to say. It would seem that the most prudent course of action at this time would be to continue listening, ask only those questions which will clarify, and which will not cause agitation to the patient.
  A random thought comes to mind that may have a bearing on this case. The patient states that all he desires is to find the peace and repose of the grave. Yet, there is nothing in his demeanor to indicate suicidal tendencies. Were he truly suicidal, since he believes sunlight to be fatal, he could easily resolve his dilemma quickly and with finality. It becomes obvious then, that his use of the death concept is symbolic, just as Restoration poets used the term "death" as a euphemism for orgasm. It is of the utmost importance, then, to determine the meaning of his symbolic interpretations of "death," "the grave," "peace," etc. Perhaps when this determination is made, the prognosis for a solution to the patient's problem will be significantly improved. Extreme caution in dealing with this man is indicated.]
Chapter Eleven
  Wednesday, June 13.
  … We had come to the point where you rearranged the body of the dead prostitute and left her. Now, looking back, can you be absolutely certain that she was indeed dead?
   
  I was not longer concerned with her. My sole concern at that moment was with my own survival. It was essential that I obtain money and a change of clothes—at the very least a cloak to conceal the bloodstains on my garments. And I felt a very real sense of alarm. As I hurried away from the scene of my first full repast I heard the tolling of a bell in the distance. Four times it rang out. I had a scant two hours before dawn, at which time I had to be suitably ensconced in some secure, sepulchral shelter which would afford my body repose until nightfall released it from its dreamless sleep.
  Quickening my pace I continued along the narrow, serpentine, cobbled street past crumbling tenements and rotting heaps of stinking refuse alive with scurrying rats and other vermin. Then, a sharp twist and I found myself entering onto a wide avenue. I had barely stopped long enough to take stock of my surroundings when I heard the clatter of wheels upon the cobblestones. Approaching from less than a hundred meters away was a closed cabriolet drawn by a single black horse.
  At that instant a bold plan took shape in my mind. Feigning the staggering gait of a wounded man I rushed toward the oncoming vehicle and placed myself directly in the path of the horse. It had been my intention to seize the reins, knock the driver unconscious, and commandeer the cabriolet. At the sight of me, however, the animal reared, whinnying in terror, causing the coach to lurch so violently that the driver was hurled to the ground, striking his head with great force. Suddenly remembering my immense, newly acquired strength, I leaped upon the horse's back and forced him into submission.
  It occurred to me that the occupants of the cabriolet must by now be in a state of severe agitation, and I thought it odd that as yet they had made no appearance at the window. Climbing down from the back of the horse I opened the door and at once discovered the reason for the passengers' failure to make their presence known. There, amidst an overpowering stench of wine, garlic, perfume, and sweat were two lovers, locked naked in a lustful embrace atop the jumble of clothing that they had most recently shed. Both were in a state of pitiful intoxication, and upon seeing me their faces reflected confusion, and at first, annoyance at the interruption of their debauch. But then it quickly turned to terror, induced, no doubt by the sight of my blood soaked lips and clothing. The sight and smell of them made me wish to vomit, and I firmly believe that even if I had not recently taken my nourishment, I would have been incapable of sating my hunger with their blood.
  Overcome by an emotion of distaste akin to what one might experience upon discovering a plump rat emerging from a tureen of soup on the dinner table, I seized each by the hair of the head and smashed their skulls together with all my might, crushing them as easily as you might a pair of eggs. They perished instantly without ever uttering so much as a whimper.
  The thought now struck me that I might dress myself in the clothing of my male victim, but unfortunately he was of too slight a build. Then I remembered the coachman who lay most likely lifeless only a short distance from the cabriolet. I was far more fortunate in his case. Although he was a man of considerably greater bulk than my own, he possessed a voluminous cape which proved more than adequate to conceal the telltale crimson which bespoke of my earlier crime.
  Closing the door to the cabriolet with the corpses of my victims within, I wrapped the cloak about me, climbed to the drivers seat, and drove a short distance back into the wretched district I had recently vacated. Choosing the darkest, winding street I could, I halted the cabriolet at the far end of a narrow cul de sac. Were it not for my ability to see in the dark I would have been helpless, but as matters stood, all things were visible to me as they would be at high noon. As stealthily as I could I stepped out onto the street and appraised myself of my surroundings. The houses were old and in a sorry state of disrepair, loose bricks, peeling paint, rusty hinges on the gray shutters that covered most of the windows. I listened for a moment. Not a sound fell upon my ears. As far as I could determine not a living soul was up or about at this hour. Without further delay then, I rid myself of the two lifeless debauchees, but not until after I had removed a gold and diamond ring from the fingers of the woman.
  Next I carefully searched the pockets and purse belonging to my victims. Good fortune was mine for the man's wallet contained sufficient cash to afford me several weeks lodging in a modest hotel. I then discarded the clothing, climbed into the driver's seat atop the cabriolet, and whipped the horse into action. I knew precisely which hotel would suit my needs. A dingy establishment which was not even dignified by a name, it was located on a narrow street in the Latin Quarter not far from the Pont St. Michel. Frequented by denizens of the underworld, its clientele consisted of prostitutes, pickpockets, murderers and thieves. Whosoever was willing to endure its shabby accommodations and pay for the privilege was granted shelter. No questions asked.
  At the intersection of the Boulevard St. Germain and Boulevard St. Michel, I abandoned the cabriolet and made my way to the hotel on foot. There, upon arousing a gruff and sleepy eyed concierge, I engaged quarters, paying a week's rent in advance. I must confess that I felt relieved once I locked the door behind me—for more reasons than one. First and foremost there was less than an hour of darkness left, thus, securing a safe place in which to take shelter during the daylight hours which was imperative. Secondly there was the matter of quality. A living human of flesh and blood, even one of the lowest class would have balked at the miserable cell that was let out in the guise of a room. It was the sort of chamber reserved for guests of last resort, or those whose unpleasant demeanor earned it for them as a form of retribution.
  Upon many occasions during my career as a policeman, I had seen hotelkeepers employ this means of taking vengeance upon a class of individual they despised. Such rooms, if one must dignify them by such a name, the world over are tiny, relatively inaccessible, stuffy, dingy and dark. I knew instinctively that by exercising an overly rude and overbearing mode of behavior I would be assured of such quarters. I was correct in my assumption. Situated in a garret at the rear of the hotel, its single window, covered with the grime of the ages, faced a gray stone wall. The floor had no covering, and the bed, a rough hewn affair that must have come from some rural peasant's cottage, had a straw pallet and a filthy coverlet that looked as though it had never been laundered. A small armoire with one door missing stood to the left of the bed, and to its right was a frail looking stand with a basin and pitcher, both severely cracked. Illumination was provided by an old oil lamp with a dirty chimney. It reposed precariously on a shelf above the bed. The overall dimensions of the chamber could not have been more than those of an eight-foot cube.
  The moment the concierge left my presence I extinguished the lamp and went to the window.
  Peering out I determined that although no direct sunlight could possibly get in, I would more fully guarantee my personal safety by further blocking the opening, which I easily accomplished by moving the armoire over and pushing it against the window. Next I removed the coverlet from the bed and draped it about the exposed cracks. It was then that I noticed a trap door in the ceiling.
  This was a feature I did not wholly relish. Knowing all too well the nature of the hotel, I could easily imagine the possibility of uninvited intruders gaining entrance through the trap door. On the other hand there was a factor in my favor. The concierge knew perfectly well that I had no baggage. The coarse quality of the coachmen's cloak I had worn was hardly what might be expected as the attire of a gentleman with valuables in his possession. There was also the matter of naive individuals, sometimes referred to as 'honor among thieves.' I can assure you, my dear doctor, I have rarely if ever seen such a thing as an honorable thief. In a den of thieves such as this one, however, there was usually an unwritten code, a code of pure practicality. By not preying upon their neighbors they were relatively certain that they themselves would avoid the unpleasantness of being preyed upon.
  I was nonetheless curious to see what lay beyond the trap door. Between the abnormal lowness of the ceiling and the three-legged stool I had found on the far side of the room I was able to reach the object of my curiosity. The trap door was so tightly shut I doubt that anyone not possessing my extraordinary strength would have been able to open it without tools. Furthermore, judging by the large quantity of dust that cascaded down when I pushed it open, it had been in place for many years. It was easy enough for me to raise myself up into the attic above, where I saw immediately that no living person had set foot there for more time than I cared to venture a guess. There were thick layers of dust and cobwebs all about. Off to one side were several empty kegs and broken chests, which, to judge by their appearance were of great antiquity. What interested me, however, was the presence at the far end of a window. So encrusted with grime it was that no light could pass through it. My curiosity, however, led me to it and when I opened it I saw that it looked out upon the roof of the building next door. I was delighted, for I saw at once a perfect means of egress and re-entry, which for my purposes could not have been more ideal.
  But the sky was beginning to take on a faintly lighter hue and I was filled with apprehension. Hastily I closed the window, returned to the trap door and my room. There was nothing more for me to do but wait until my dreamless sleep overcame me. The end of my first full night as a vampire was drawing to a close. I had learned a certain amount about myself—although, not nearly enough. I had avenged myself on the swine who had imposed this wretched condition upon me, I had experienced my first feast of blood. Most important of all, I had survived. With only the thoughts of continued survival in mind I reclined on the straw pallet and stared at the ceiling. Although I had felt no semblance of fatigue until I lay down, I now felt a definite drowsiness take hold of me. I had yet to learn that had I chosen, as long as I was sufficiently shielded from the deadly rays of the sun I needed neither rest nor sleep.
   
  This definitely fascinates me, Mr. Sexton. As much as I have read on the subject of vampirism I can't recall ever coming across anything on the physiological aspect other than the more sensational.
   
  Sensational?
   
  Yes, you know what I mean… I assume you've seen some of the films dealing with the subject… I'm referring to such things as the body undergoing what appears to be instant putrefaction when caught by the sun, the violent aversion to garlic. …
   
  I have seen most of the films to which you refer and I find them extremely distasteful. Although they contain occasional glimmers of truth, they are essentially compilations of rubbish compounded by ignorance. For instance, I assume you recall what I said about the erroneous belief that we dread crucifixes?
   
  Yes.
   
  The garlic superstition falls into a similar category. I'll admit though, that its origin is based on a certain logic, however syllogistic it may be. You see, in the middle ages, whenever there was an outbreak of plague countless corpses went unburied for long periods of time. Although these melancholy conditions created an ideal set of circumstances for the… rebirth, shall I say, of more than the usual number of vampires, the greatest terror in the hearts of the populace concerned the plague itself. The invisible scourge which, as far as they could determine, crept into their homes on the wings of pestilential night air to slay and deprive them of their loved ones. And what could be more symbolic, nay, indicative of the Black Death than the excrementious stench of corpses rotting in the streets? Now, since there did indeed occur a decided increase in the vampire population of Europe in those days there also occurred a blurring of terrors, a crossover of beliefs. Whereas it was a practical matter to wear fresh garlic about the neck to overpower the stink of decaying flesh, it evolved in time, precisely how I cannot say, into a superstition that garlic would ward off vampires. But tell me doctor, what prompted you to pursue this particular line of inquiry?
   
  You were describing the sensations you felt as dawn approached. Did it ever occur to you that anxious as you are for me to help you, I might be equally anxious to learn the scientific principals underlying your existence?
   
  Your statement puzzles me. On the one hand I begin to perceive that perhaps you may now accept the fact that I am what I say. That would mean we have made progress. Your expression of interest in learning the scientific principals you speak of, however, has an ominous sound. If perchance you think you can convince me to undergo any of the tests you spoke of earlier…
   
  No, Mr. Sexton. I assure you. You have my word. No tests. Just bear in mind that I am a medical doctor and there are things I may be able to at least guess at through questions and answers. Remember, there is still a great deal I have to learn about you, your background, your life experiences. We have a long way to go, but hopefully, if we work together we'll find the solutions we're after. Now, suppose we break for tonight and continue on Friday.
   
  Very well. Until Friday.
   
  [A decided lack of hostility during this session. It would appear that the present course of action, i.e. making every effort to convince the patient that there is no question about the veracity of his statements, is succeeding to a certain extent The underlying paranoid personality, however, surfaces quite clearly from time to time, as in the instance when he replied to a question by emphasizing that he would not submit to any tests, a point he had so clearly established much earlier. A further significant point arising from this session revolves around his description of the couple he claims to have killed in the carriage. His account of this crime bears no resemblance to that with which the literature of typical vampire killings has made us familiar. As the patient recounted the event, whether it be real or a product of his fantasies, he was offering a vivid picture of a crime of passion, motivated by feelings far deeper than the mere need to commandeer a vehicle. He spoke of profound feelings of disgust accompanied by powerful olafactory stimuli. He used emotionally loaded phrases such as "lustful embrace," "pitiful intoxication," and "debauch." Why would he experience such a violent antipathy to these individuals whom he had never seen before? One possibility is that he was/is impotent. Becoming sexually aroused at the sight of two individuals locked in a coital embrace, yet knowing that he himself was incapable of performing sexually drove him to satisfy and sublimate his sexual feelings in an act of violence which, in a secondary sense enabled him to punish those who accomplished what he could not. There is also the possibility of the patient's being a repressed homosexual. Impotent or not, the unexpected confrontation with a heterosexual couple engaged in coitus, especially at a time when their very presence was in his mind a hindrance to him, permitted him to unleash all of the inner rage and hostilities which he immediately focused on these two individuals. This accomplished for him the double purpose of eliminating those who stood in his way and punishing the heterosexuals. These, of course, are only theoretical possibilities. Considerably more intercommunication between patient and therapist will be required before any definite conclusions can be drawn. As long as he can be kept talking, as long as he appears to maintain a relatively stable emotional level, the therapy may be regarded as accomplishing guardedly positive results.]
Chapter Twelve
  Friday, June 15.
  I've been doing some more reading on the subject since our last session and there's an aspect I'd like to get your thoughts on. Particularly in fictional accounts there's the recurring theme of the vampire's requiring a coffin to sleep in by day and sometimes a quantity of his native soil …
   
  Rubbish, doctor! Melodramatic nonsense contrived by the authors of eerie tales to terrify their readers. Now, I grant you that over the years I have encountered others like myself who chose to repose by day in a tomb. Even to this day many conceal themselves by day in the mouldering recesses of catacombs, sewers and accessible underground tunnels. Paris, Rome and London are outstanding examples. There is a practical side in the choice of a coffin as a daylight resting place. It can be summed up in a single word. Security. The chances of being disturbed in a coffin are slim.
  You must understand that in my case, in the beginning at least, the thought of choosing a grave as my permanent place of shall I say, residence, never entered my mind. My principal concern was survival, my second the acquisition of suitable quarters. I had quite another problem as well. As I was to learn in the fortnight immediately following my death and the baffling disappearance of my corpse from the police morgue, there was considerable consternation in official quarters. It was bad enough that the Parisian police had lost me to 'an assassin most foul' as the gentlemen of the press so colorfully stated the case. But to have misplaced my mortal remains as well placed them in a most embarrassing position.
  As for me absolute necessity required the utmost caution. I dared not be seen or recognized. And since circumstances demanded that I function in a manner parallel to the modus vivendi of the underworld and its denizens, it behooved me to exist in the shadows of their milieu. I had a great advantage in my new situation by virtue of my past experience as a policeman. By establishing a policy of choosing only those victims I knew would never be missed I helped to ensure my continued safety. But there were other considerations. After I had fed I had no desire to prowl the streets and risk discovery, and though I had no need for the warmth of human companionship, I found that to remain within the confines of my wretched garret during my hours of animation was unbearably boring. Although I had become, by human standards, a monster, my mind remained perfectly functional. It demanded nourishment of another kind.
  For some weeks I pondered my dilemma, all the while acquiring the instincts of a master criminal. It was merely a matter of making appropriate use of my superhuman faculties. After all, could I not stalk, creep, run and leap with the silence and agility of a cat? Could I not see clearly in the dark, did I not possess the physical strength often, perhaps twenty men, and most important, did I not have inexhaustible endurance? Like the criminals whose ways I now emulated, I, too, acquired a definite modus operandi. Women and children, particularly at this low stratum of society were the most satisfactory victims. Luring them to their death was simplicity itself. Invariably my female victims believed that they had found a protector who was prepared to take them out of the streets. The children, gullible little waifs that they were, often as not were homeless bastards, offspring of prostitutes and beggars, unloved and unwanted in most cases. By terminating their miserable existences I was doing them and society a favor. Nine out of ten of them trod a via dolorosa leading inexorably to an appointment with the guillotine or a premature pauper's grave.
  I had another quite practical motive for restricting my victims to women and children. Being much slighter of size and form, it was more convenient for me to dismember their bodies after I had consumed their life's blood, and subsequently to dispose of the parts. You see, doctor, I was doing them still another good turn. I felt it my duty to save them from the curse of becoming as I.
  Within two months of my transmogrification I was, by the standards of the living, quite materially wealthy. Having accumulated two large chests of gold coins, precious jewelry and banknotes I was prepared to make certain adjustments in my mode of living. Although I still detested the garret in which I slept by day, it had become too important to me. The trap door in the ceiling, and the attic above were essential to me now. The attic was a perfect place in which to dismember corpses at leisure when I was unable to perform the task elsewhere. It also proved an ideal hideaway, should ever I need one.
  At that moment I needed it in order to secrete my wealth temporarily. Once that was accomplished I approached the concierge of the hotel and bribed him into revealing to me the true identity of the hotel's owner. That person proved to be a retired dancer of indeterminate age, a glassy eyed female with masses of copper-colored hair, an abundance of flesh, and a strong taste for opium and members of her own sex. She resided in an apartment heavily draped with satin and velvet, and decorated in the Turkish style. It occupied the entire second floor of the hotel, and its opulent decadence was a strong contrast from the shabbiness elsewhere.
  The lady was less than cordial when first I knocked on her door, but when I assured her that the nature of my call was purely business, and concerning a matter that would be to her financial advantage she admitted me. The transaction was quickly consummated. By offering her a sum in excess of the hotel's total worth, I purchased from her the entire top floor with the understanding that I would have certain modifications constructed there. There was, however, a slight obstacle, the matter of the regular tenants who resided in rooms on that floor. Madame was at a loss as to how she might evict them. "Murderers, thieves, all of them!" she exclaimed. "Why do you think I let no one know that I own this windowed sewer. How you get rid of them is your business, monsieur. And mind you, be especially careful of the one in number eighteen." She lowered her voice and leaned forward as she spoke. "A notorious assassin, that one. He'll kill anyone for a few francs. So don't expect me to get involved."
  I assured her that I would personally handle the evictions if she would supervise the construction of my new quarters. We haggled a bit more, and after agreeing to pay her an additional sum of money I presented her with a set of plans I had drawn detailing my specifications. Then I promised her that I would notify her as to when the workmen could be called in.
  It was my honest intention to offer each of the residents on the floor in question a financial inducement to find other quarters, for I did not deem it expedient to employ the most obvious means of removing them. Unfortunately for a few who chose to dispute me I was given no choice. All together there were eleven individuals involved, and a more disreputable lot it is difficult to imagine as ever having gathered under a single roof. There were seven prostitutes old beyond their years, two pickpockets, an elderly beggar woman, and the murderer. Six of the prostitutes, the pickpockets, and the beggar woman were more than willing to accept my offer and vacated their quarters within three days.
  The remaining prostitute and the assassin proved to be difficult. His reason for turning me down was pure caprice. A thoroughgoing scoundrel, he had no intention of listening to my offer. In so doing, of course, the arrogant fool signed his death warrant.
  The woman chose to remain because she was his mistress and it was my assumption that once he was gone she would depart voluntarily. Such was not to be the case.
  Because of the fellow's malificent nature I made up my mind not merely to kill him quickly, but to drain every drop of blood from his body in such a manner as to let him know precisely what was happening to him. Knowing him to be the sort of man he was I suspected, rightly so, that it would be impossible to enter his room without his knowledge. Besides, I had a far more satisfying plan of action. On the night I selected to do the deed I did not make my customary egress across the adjoining roof in search of a living human destined to provide me with my evening's nourishment. Instead I stealthily made my way into the empty room adjacent to that of the wretched killer whose life I was determined to take.
  The walls between the rooms were thin and I waited for him to take his leave, for I had determined in advance that each night at approximately the same time he went out about his nefarious business. I had also taken the precaution to leave instructions with the concierge to give the villain a letter. It was a simple ruse, an anonymous note requesting the services of an assassin, with half of a one thousand franc note enclosed—and promise of the other half upon fulfillment of the agreement. The writer of the note informed the assassin that he would call at nine o'clock sharp. It was now ten minutes to nine.
  My hunger pangs were beginning to assail me, that awful combination of abdominal cramps accompanied by the craving akin to that desire of man to possess woman. The hunger had not taken control of me yet—in fact, up to this point of my existence as a vampire I had never lost control, although upon several occasions I had felt myself losing it just at the point I was able to take nourishment.
   
  What happens when you lose control?
   
  The pain becomes so unbearable that your ability to reason departs. You become like the berserker warriors of ancient Norse tradition. You are driven by a powerful primeval force. You rage. You roar. You snarl. The only vestige of humanity that remains is your physical shape. The vampire in this demented state is without question the most fearsome thing, the most deadly thing any human can encounter. Indeed, even vampires have been slain by their own kind in that dreadful state.
   
  But isn't that fatal, that is, to drink the blood of another vampire?
   
  Most assuredly, but out of control, in the state of hunger-madness, a vampire is temporarily insane and frequently perishes as a result. For this reason we go to great lengths to avoid the condition. As I said, at the time of which I speak now, I did not know this.
   
  Well, I didn't actually mean to digress, but I wanted to be certain I understood exactly what you were talking about.
   
  Of course. As I was saying, I heard the assassin leave his chamber and begin to descend the stairs. Hurriedly I left the empty room and flattened myself against the wall alongside his door. After listening for a moment to make certain there was no one about I seized the doorknob and broke the lock with a single thrust. Then slipping into the room and quietly closing the door behind me I positioned myself behind it to await the arrival of my quarry. The pains within me grew more intense with each passing moment. It was as though liquid fire were spreading through my veins to every portion of my body, fire that threatened to consume me to ashes unless it was soon quenched by fresh blood. I could actually feel my lips and tongue stiffening and commencing to crack. Never since becoming one of the undead had I waited so long to take nourishment, and as my agony increased so did my fury against the cutthroat whom I deemed responsible for my suffering.
  Finally after what seemed to have been the passage of several eternities he approached the door to his chamber and inserted the key in its lock. As it had been broken the door swung inward before he could turn the key, and immediately his suspicions were aroused. Flinging the door open he peered cautiously into the room's darkened interior. I, being motionless against the wall beyond his line of sight prepared to spring. Unable to perceive anything in the gloom he stepped forward through the door and moved in the direction of an oil lamp on the mantle. Unable to restrain myself any longer I threw myself upon him.
  Like a maddened beast I struck the side of his head with a blow which would have crushed his skull like an egg had he taken it directly. However, due no doubt to some animal-like instinct, he had turned slightly a fraction of a second before I struck. Nevertheless, he was taken sufficiently by surprise to lose his balance and fall over backwards. Gripping his throat in my right hand so that he could not cry out I dragged him halfway across the room so that I could close the door, which still swung wide open. Fortunately my senses had not left me. Though my rage and craving were like those of a ravenous beast, I had sufficient presence of mind the ensure my privacy before doing what I must.
  Now straddling his chest so that he was forced to remain motionless on the floor beneath me I seized the hair of his head with my left hand and pulled back the better to expose his jugular. Hideous gurgling sounds escaped from his lips and his eyes bulged in abject terror. "Wretched fool!" I muttered, "You could have chosen life, but now you shall die before the dawn of another day." Then without further hesitation I bent down and sank my teeth into the exposed portion of his throat.
  His struggles increased in his final desperation, which only served to quicken his heartbeat and thus hasten the flow of blood into my mouth. Oh! The relief of it! The refreshing, rejuvenating and calming effect, as I gulped the warm liquid down my pain diminished. With each swallow the inner burning died down and a great euphoria overcame me. The thrashing about of my provider had no more effect upon me than that of a butterfly's wings against steel. Gradually he grew weaker. His attempts to cry out went from a gurgling sound to a pitiful rattle, then with a final twitch he went limp as the last breath of life departed his body.
  Rising to my feet I contemplated his inert form lying there before me on the floor. He was a man of reasonably substantial size, and the disposal of his body presented a greater problem than that of a young woman or a child. Not wishing to leave a trail of blood as I dragged his corpse to my own quarters, I hastily searched through a bureau drawer and selecting a shirt, ripped it into strips. Then wrapping it around his torn and swollen neck I lifted him to my shoulder and returned to my own quarters as quickly as I could.
  It was relatively simple matter then to hoist the body up into the attic above where I dismembered it with a set of surgical knives I had acquired for just such tasks as this. I then… Excuse me, doctor. I cannot remain here any longer tonight! We shall continue again at our next scheduled appointment. Au revoir.
   
  [It was startling. The patient stopped speaking abruptly, jumped to his feet with a spasmodic movement and clutched his stomach with one hand. The expression that came over his face appeared to indicate sharp pain, yet, at the same time implied menace. Although this is an unprofessional observation, it should be noted here. Something about the look he directed made it absolutely certain that to have attempted any further discussion at this point would have been futile and dangerous. Overall progress, despite patient's abrupt departure, was excellent during this session. For the first time he displayed neither hostility nor overt distrust of therapist. It would seem best to continue in this mode until a distinct breakthrough occurs. Most significant and promising at this point is improving patient-therapist relationship.]
Chapter Thirteen
  Monday, June 18.
  [A disturbing item appeared in the newspaper the morning following patient's last session. The badly mutilated body of a prostitute was found on the tracks of the Lexington Avenue subway somewhere between the East 68th Street and the 59th Street stations. It had apparently been dragged there by a train. An autopsy revealed that the woman had bled to death prior to being struck by any train. Yet, nowhere along the tracks was there any indication of anyone having lost an excessive amount of blood. It was the theory of the police that she had been murdered elsewhere and her body deliberately thrown to the subway tracks to make the death look like an accident. They were not able to find any clues because the woman had no known address and no relatives.]
   
  Good evening, Mr. Sexton. I was a little concerned about you… your abrupt departure the other night…
   
  I am certain I needn't explain to you at this stage why it became necessary for me to take my leave so abruptly. But if you don't mind, I would prefer not to discuss the other night… at least at this moment.
  I believe I was in the midst of describing how I disposed of the assassin I had so recently deprived of life.
   
  That's right.
   
  It was a tedious task that took several hours. After cutting the body into approximately fifteen pieces I wrapped each one into a manageable parcel. Did I mention that I had acquired a quantity of butcher's paper for just such matters? Well, never mind. I then made several trips over the rooftops to a point not too distant from my residence where there was an access to the sewers. I knew full well that those portions which were not washed into the river would be consumed by rats.
  Upon returning to my quarters I considered the inefficiency of this means of disposal and determined to devise a better one as soon after my apartment was completed as possible. However, a more immediate problem came to mind. There was the matter of the assassin's mistress. I took a sum of money with me and went to her door. Although it was nearly four o'clock in the morning I knew her habits to be nearly as nocturnal as my own. If she were not in the arms of a client, and was indeed present, there would be little likelihood of her sleeping.
  To my satisfaction she answered my knock immediately. Although still a young woman of handsome good looks, the ravages of her profession had taken their toll of her. Clad only in a translucent chemise which left none of her feminine charms to the imagination, I assumed she had been expecting a caller. I was not incorrect.
  "Oh," she said to me. "I thought you were Francois."
  "Your Francois will not be visiting you tonight," I told her.
  Flashing me a sardonic smile, she said, "How can you be so certain monsieur?" Then opening the door wider, immediately assuming her role as professional coquette, she added, "Then by all means, come in."
  I followed her inside and took the seat she offered alongside her on a quilted chaise that made it difficult to avoid a certain amount of bodily contact. She contemplated me closely and before I could do anything to stop her, reached out with her hand and stroked my cheek. "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, pulling it back. "You are as cold as death, Monsieur. Perhaps you would like a glass of cognac or wine."
  "I never drink spirits," I replied. What could I say to her? It was an awkward situation at best, and I must confess that I found her company quite pleasing. She was in no danger from me for my hunger was more than satiated that night, and though as nothing more than an animated corpse I had no feelings of physical lust for her, I found myself drawn to her in some strange way that even now I cannot fully explain. Perhaps it was a form of nostalgia for the living state. I cannot say.
   
  Don't you find it rather odd that as a vampire you would have these feelings. From what little I know the idea of anything other than the hunter-prey relationship between vampire and human is out of the question.
   
  You are entirely right, although I did not fully comprehend this at the time. There are many things about me wherein I differ from the others of my race. But should you find that so difficult to understand? No two men are alike. They do not think, feel, or perceive exactly as do their fellows. Is there any reason then, why all vampires should be identical in such matters? Though we are less than human in our present state we were once living, breathing men and women, possessing the full range of human emotions. Does it not seem logical that certain characteristics of a spiritual or intellectual nature remain? I know not what manner of force or indeed spirit, animates me during my waking hours. I may never know. But I am discontented, which is why I sought you out.
   
  From everything you've said about yourself—about vampires—since our first session, I cant help feeling that you are not quite as dead as you keep insisting you are… Now wait, hear me out. I don't dispute a thing you've said. But as you yourself have stated the case—you referred to yourself as "animated." Now, you're an educated man, Mr. Sexton. Animate—from the Latin, anima, spirit. A corpse is totally lacking in animation. There is…
   
  Stop! I will hear no more of this syllogistic casuistry. I do not breathe except to produce sound. I have no heartbeat, no blood courses through my veins, if indeed they still exist in this body. You can stab me, shoot bullets into me, submerge me under water for hours at a time and I am none the worse for the experience. I cannot explain why certain portions of my anatomy function and others do not. As I said only moments ago I do not know what force or spirit animates me, or compels me to go on in this wretched condition neither living nor dead as I should be. I had begun to believe that you no longer doubted my veracity, but now…
   
  I believe much more than you realize, and on that note, rather than our arguing, why don't you go back to your story. I think that your account of what happened between this woman and yourself may provide me with some valuable insights. Besides, we did agree that before we went into any lengthy digressions I should hear your entire history.
   
  Very well, doctor. I can well understand that a narration such as mine imposes a strain on the credibility. As I was saying, the woman, Marie was her name, immediately became the skilled practitioner of her profession. Recognizing that her lover was not going to visit her that evening, she looked upon me as a potential client, and not merely a casual one. She was quite forthright on the subject. "You know, monsieur," she said. "Since we occupy quarters so near to one another, perhaps we might make an arrangement to our mutual advantage."
  "My dear lady," I replied. "Although I do not deny your obvious charms, I must insist that we discuss another matter."
  Not wishing to be dissuaded from her purpose she pressed herself against me, placing one arm around my shoulder and the other on my thigh. How odd it felt to be in such intimate proximity to a lusty, partially clad woman and experience no emotion, feel no desire. The only sensations I can recall were the warmth of her body against me and the strong scent of her perfume. "I am a very passionate woman, chérie," she now murmured. "Come to my bed and worship at the shrine of Venus with me."
  Before I could answer she had shifted her position, flinging her right leg over my lap, and seizing my head between her hands she pressed her half-parted lips against mine. The suddenness of her attack took me so completely by surprise that almost automatically I took her in my arms. Not out of desire, but because it was the easiest thing to do under the circumstances.
  She realized very quickly that I was not reacting. She released my face from her hands, drew away from me and contemplated me with a quizzical expression. "Sacre nom!" she exclaimed. "I have never met with such a cold one as you… Oh, wait, don't tell me you have a preference for the backsides of young boys?"
  "The pleasures of the flesh do not tempt me at this moment," I told her. Then rising to my feet I reached into my pocket and took out the banknotes I had brought for her. Her expression changed immediately to one of eager anticipation. She no doubt assumed that I had in mind some perverted act which I required her to perform. I then stated my position directly, that I wished her to find other quarters, and that I was willing to pay her for doing so. To my astonishment she refused, insisting that she intended to remain. Then with a note of menace in her voice she suggested that if I persisted in my efforts to persuade her to leave, she would call upon her lover, Francois to protect her.
  I was growing impatient. "My dear," I said. "Your lover Francois has already gone. You will never see him here again."
  The color drained from her face. Her eyes widened. "Are you speaking in earnest, monsieur? You are not just saying that to strengthen your argument?"
  "Why should I lie to you?" I said.
  For a moment she merely stood there looking into my eyes, then she threw her head back and burst into laughter. "If you are truly saying he will never be back here, then all I can say is that you have done me a great favor." Then flinging herself into my arms she said, "You have done me such a favor, chérie, that in return I offer you my bed and my body without it costing you a sou. And I tell you what, maybe I'll consider moving to a room downstairs, if you'll pay the difference in price."
  At that moment something very unexpected occurred. As I said, I had ingested an ample quantity of blood earlier, and I assumed that there would be no further need for me to take further nourishment that night. For that reason I had no qualms about engaging the young woman in conversation for the purpose of persuading her to seek other living quarters. I can assure you that I had no intention of harming her. I similarly had had no intention of undergoing any physical contact with her.
  You may recall that I told you when we first met, doctor, that it was extremely dangerous to touch a vampire uninvited. I did not make that statement lightly. At the time I met this unfortunate courtesan, however, I still knew little of my own nature. In any case, as she sat there beside me embracing me warmly, and doing so in such a way as to arouse my passions, I momentarily began to think that she had actually succeeded. I began experiencing deep stirrings of desire within me, but as my eyes fell on the smooth white flesh of her throat, I knew exactly what I had to do.
  Somehow, by what means I know not, our brief encounter, which, as I have clearly related as essentially verbal, had somehow sapped my energy. I was as ravenous as I had been when I awoke earlier. Meanwhile, she, whether feigning passion, or actually entering a state of venereal fervor, began uttering little moans and rubbing against me in such a way as to leave no doubts in my mind as to her intentions.
  The more fervid her breathing and writhings the greater became my hunger. I suddenly knew that I could easily take her without her ever suspecting the truth until it was too late for her. Lifting her into my arms I carried her to the bed and lay her gently down upon the counterpane. Then displaying such impatience that she began ripping at her chemise, she cried out, "Hurry, chérie, hurry!"
  Without any further hesitation I flung myself upon her and pressed my lips to her throat. It was obvious at first, that she had no conception of what was actually happening to her, for she kept giggling and trying to wriggle out of her chemise. But then during a brief moment when I paused to lick my lips, and had raised my head slightly, she suddenly pulled back and looked at me. She gasped and drew her hand to her throat as her eyes became like saucers. My face and lips were stained with blood that trickled down my chin. And as she contemplated her own bloodied hand, then looked back into my eyes an expression of comprehension gradually came over her features.
  To my astonishment instead of reacting with revulsion and horror she regarded me with a smile of incredible sweetness and said softly, "You are a vampire, are you not monsieur?"
  "I am," I replied.
  "I will not resist you, chérie," she said. "For you see, instead of depriving me of life, you are granting me eternal life, and the power of life and death over those who have used me so ill since I first drew breath, for if the legend is true, I will become as you. No?"
  My hunger and desire were too strong to engage in conversation and I attempted to interrupt her, but she pleaded so eloquently that I granted her that last request. "So you shall," I answered.
  "Then I willingly offer you my life's blood," she murmured, lying back and exposing that side of her throat from which I had already begun to drink.
  Then clutching my right hand between both of hers she said fervently, "I die with joy in my heart, for I know that when I awaken I shall know pleasures more exquisite than any I ever dreamed of."
  What romantic drivel she had read to acquire such idiotic ideas I knew not. I had to suppress an impulse to laugh, and instead of answering I pressed my lips once more to her throat. How odd it felt to have my victim encourage me. "Drink, chérie, drink deeply," she whispered. "But please, hold me and caress me. Caress me gently in those places reserved for passion's games. I wish to die with the memory of fleshly delights…yes… yes…"
  Her voice trailed off into silence as she lapsed into unconsciousness enabling me to finish my bloody repast in silence. The familiar feeling of relief overcame me and I rose from the bed to contemplate the lifeless form in repose there. Her eyes were closed and her lips half parted in a semi-smile as if she were even at that moment enjoying some pleasant dream. Because she had offered no resistance the wound on her throat was quite minimal in appearance, and it occurred to me that were I to keep my promise and permit her to join the ranks of the undead she would look even better than she had in life. I seriously considered the matter for a few moments.
  As a courtesan in life, it would be a simple matter for her to find victims among the same classes in which she had plied her profession. Her company was pleasing and her presence during certain of the more lonely hours would most certainly be welcome. There was another aspect to the matter. Were I to permit her to undergo the metamorphosis, I would not be bothered by the troublesome necessity of disposing of her body. I needed only to be present the following night when she was, in a sense, born again. To instruct her would be a simple matter, for she was eager and filled with anticipation.
  But there was another consideration. Was it wise for me to permit the birth of another member of my accursed species? Had it not been my avowed intention to exert all of my resources to prevent that very occurrence? I knew not how many of us stalked the environs of Paris by night, or indeed, where the others sought their prey. Was it in my own best interests to have another like myself, very possibly living in the same domicile, going forth night after night in search of living victims?
  There was only one conclusion that I could draw. To permit her awakening was not in my best interests, so I removed her body to my quarters, carried it up to the attic above and decapitated her. As dawn was rapidly approaching I decided to delay the final disposal until the next night. The weather was pleasantly cool and there was no need to fear any problems with vermin. I was able to go to my rest that dawning with a sense of true accomplishment. Not only was I now ready to make arrangements for the construction of my newly expanded quarters, I could truthfully say to myself that I had helped a poor unfortunate young woman to die quite happily.
   
  That last statement seems like a rather sanctimonious bit of rationalizing. Now be objective about it for a moment.
   
  I have never been more objective about anything, doctor. Of all my victims over the many years, Marie was the only one I can ever recall as having died willingly, happily, with dreams of a romantic future consisting of eternal life and power. Don't you agree that such a fantasy is a pleasant one?
  Pleasant and not uncommon.
   
  Precisely. But it was a falacious one as well. Had I permitted her to become as myself she would have awakened to a hideous truth. What is the old saying, 'anticipation is worse than realization?' That is, of course, when one anticipates an onerous task or any other unpleasant necessity. But there is an obverse to that philosophy. How many men have dreamt of attaining great riches only to discover when they did so that they could not enjoy them. The state of possessing great riches was not in any way similar to the dream. How many brides have sworn their nuptial vows dreaming of bliss ever after only to awaken one day to a life of drudgery and woe. I can assure you, doctor, had the prostitute, Marie lived she had nothing in her future but poverty, disease, old age, and a lonely death. I bestowed the gift of oblivion upon her…would that somehow it had been given to me.
   
  Well, we could debate this subject and its ramifications for years without getting anywhere—euthanasia, the right to die, and so on ad nauseum. Now, you may be surprised to hear me say this, Mr. Sexton, but I think we're making progress. It's slow, but there are definite signs of it. Suppose we just break for tonight and pick things up on our next session.
   
  As you wish, doctor… until next time…
  [That the patient is clearly psychotic is beyond doubt. The pathology of his psychosis is what we have to understand, and at this point there are no definite answers. The preoccupation with prostitutes must have some significance, and the death that occurred two nights ago still is the cause of considerable concern. As of this particular stage in the therapy there is still no way of knowing whether or not the patient is the mass murderer he claims to be. The progress, which I believe is valid, lies in the patient-therapist relationship. Sexton has not been displaying such overt hostility. He accepts difficult questions without the earlier paranoid-suspicious reactions. Although it has been ever so slight, he has revealed a gentler side to his nature, and it remains to be seen whether this can be reinforced, strengthened, and made to become—especially in his own eyes—the dominant aspect of his personality.]
Chapter Fourteen
  Wednesday, June 20.
  I've been glancing over the transcripts of our last two sessions, and it seems to me that the more you adjusted to your… ah… new situation, there was a tendency to assume what we might regard as a more or less normal existence.
   
  Why not? The more I came to accept the undead state, the more I recognized that boredom could be as repugnant to me as it had been in life. But then, there were a great many things I was yet to learn. I'm certain that you realize, doctor, the events I have recounted to you thus far took place over a relatively brief period of time.
   
  Of course.
   
  And on the matter of boredom, I hardly think it necessary to bore you with the minutiae of how I established my new quarters. Let it suffice to say that they were spacious, secure and luxurious.
   
  What about the body of the prostitute, Marie?
   
  I disposed of it in essentially the same manner that I did the remains of her lover. And I might add that the drudgery involved in these two onerous, but necessary tasks caused me to give considerable thought to my future modus operandi. Since I had taken the trouble to arrange a permanent residence for myself, why could I not contrive to have it meet my own peculiar needs?
   
  That makes sense.
   
  My first consideration, of course, was personal safety. The chamber in which I was to sleep by day was located directly beneath the trapdoor leading to the attic which I used as a means of secret egress and return. It was constructed like a vault, windowless and airless, and for the sake of convenience I chose as my place of repose a simple oaken coffin. My entrance to this chamber was by means of a secret panel that slid to one side when a certain place on the floor below was depressed.
   
  What about the workmen who built it?
   
  There was only one carpenter who worked on that portion of my quarters. An ingenious fellow of great skill. Unfortunately he fell to his death from a window on the very evening he completed his labors.
   
  Tell me, while the construction was going on, where did you… ah… sleep by day?
   
  In a crude oblong box of my own construction, in my attic. It caused me no great inconvenience. In any event I was not displaced for long, and when I was at last able to take possession of my new home, I assumed a role that was to make my future existence much simpler than it had been to date. It was not however, without certain risks.
  You will recall I mentioned that the disposal of the assassin and his unfortunate mistress had caused me to do considerable thinking. Have you any idea, my dear doctor, how much time is consumed in the dismemberment and disposal of human bodies? Please, please, I hardly expect you to answer. The question was purely rhetorical. But you see, though I had every intention of clinging to my resolve, not to create any more unfortunates like myself, I did not relish the prospect of playing the butcher night after night. I bore no hatred of humankind. I harbor none now. I assure you there is a great difference between killing to survive and the post mortem mutilation of corpses… you look at me strangely. Do you find it odd that a vampire should have certain sensitivities?
   
  Would you like to explore that subject for a while?
   
  I have no need to, and I suspect that when you have heard everything I have to tell, you will know what I know.
   
  That's true, Mr. Sexton. But remember, you didn't come here merely to educate me on the arcana of vampirism. You came with a very serious problem…
   
  And it is my hope that you can help me resolve it, but you must hear everything first.
   
  Then by all means go on.
   
  I don't believe I told you that before my metamorphosis I was a great lover of literature. The principal enjoyments of the living had been snatched from me. I could not partake of the pleasures of the flesh or of the table. I could not love. I could not dream. I was denied the warmth and light of the sun's golden rays. Indeed, I could not experience emotion, only a pallid and painful substitute when the pangs of hunger overcame me. But I could read, and in reading stimulate my memory to revive the fading recollections of what it had been like to be a man. I knew that once I had completed the grim necessities ensuring my continued survival I could escape my wretched reality in books. I could substitute the lives and dreams of others for those I could never know again for myself. I determined therefore to acquire a library such as I had never possessed as a living man.
   
  I assume this acquisition of books you refer to has something to do with this new role you mentioned a little earlier. I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean.
   
  Of course. I did digress somewhat. But you will understand presently. If I appear overly garrulous it is that I have spoken very little over the past decades, and never have I told anyone, living or undead, all the details of my personal history. As I was saying, my desire to possess a library became nearly as strong as my compulsion to survive. There were, however, a number of practical considerations. In order to indulge myself in this matter I required time. I did not relish squandering precious hours nightly, skulking the streets as a predator, then, after having fed, hacking to bits the remains of my victims and creeping about the sewers to dispose of them. Why not lure them to me, I asked myself? Civilized man no longer plays the role of the hunter. Was I not endowed with human intelligence? Were I to employ the wiles and cunning I had acquired during my life as a policeman, there was no telling what the consequences might be. My mind was made up. I would play the spider and they would be my flies. Instead of resorting to the hatchet, the knife, and the saw, I would cremate the corpses. Accordingly I had what appeared to be a kitchen constructed on the premises. But instead of an ordinary stove it contained a large oven which was capable of reducing a human body to ashes. To be sure, the care and cleaning of this instrument required a certain amount of time, but only a fraction of that consumed by the previous method of disposal.
  Now, this new role I alluded to earlier… My decision to establish such a domicile was predicated upon its simplifying the matter of procuring nourishment, while at the same time providing ample space to house my projected library. In short,, it was divided into two parts: that which was reserved for my private use, and that which was, to state the case bluntly, an elaborate lure for the entrapment of human prey. Since I adhered to my rule of choosing only those whose eradication from the ranks of the living was a blessing, both to themselves and society at large, there were certain considerations. What sort of environment would most appeal to such individuals? Since most of them were poor it seemed only logical to hold forth the promise of delights hitherto unavailable to them. Succulent and aromatic meats. Luscious fruits of exotic origin. Purple, golden and rose-colored wines. In short, surroundings and appointments of a decadent luxury.
  The furnishings were lush and elegant, and when fully installed, gave the apartments a look that might well have been taken from the Memoirs of Gramont. There were tapestries, paintings and carvings of wood, marble sculpture and thick oriental rugs. There were no ordinary chairs, but rather satin-covered chaises, and handcarved Roman couches, tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl, cabinets of rosewood, and armoires of ebony. Flagons of crystal were filled with the finest cognacs and liqueurs. Drinking glasses of every hue and shape were in abundance, the finest that the craftsmen of Venice and Bohemia could offer. Oriental lamps fueled with perfumed oils and fine porcelain vases profuse with roses, magnolias, jasmines and lotuses filled the air with scents compounded to arouse the passions. It was a setting that rivaled the depraved imagination of de Sade himself.
  Naturally, in order to maintain this establishment it was necessary for me to engage servants. I required first and foremost a major domo of absolute loyalty and trustworthiness. He had to be a man capable of thinking for himself, yet, whose sense of initiative would not be so excessive as to be dangerous to me.
  I found my solution in the person of a young murderer who was awaiting an appointment with the guillotine. Late one night I broke into the cell in which he was imprisoned and drugged him into senselessness with chloroform. After wrapping his limp body in a winding sheet, I brought him back to my rooms and placed him on a chaise. In his hand I placed a note with instructions to remain where he was until the following night.
  As you can imagine, when we met face to face for the first time he was in a state of confusion. I did not waste words. Though I did not reveal my true nature, I impressed upon him the realities of his situation. As long as he remained under my protection he was safe from arrest. In order to maintain that protection he was required to obey my every command. His choice was quite a simple one, really. He could choose life as a servant in decidedly sybaritic circumstances, or he could choose death as a despised felon.
  His name was Marcel, and I did not permit him to venture outdoors until after he had grown a substantial beard. Until that time, I was forced to fetch my own victims each night, but thanks to my oven their ultimate disposal took very little of my time.
   
  Didn't Marcel's presence … well, cramp your style?
   
  Not at all. I was the master, he was the servant. I had not informed him of my private quarters, and it was his belief that when I entered the foyer leading to the secret panel, that I was departing via a private entrance forbidden to him. It was his place to obey me without question, and he was not permitted to forget that he was indebted to me for his very life. His impression of me was precisely what I intended—that of a wealthy eccentric of nocturnal habits and demanding tastes. Nothing more.
  As soon as his beard permitted him to venture forth without danger of recognition, his duties and responsibilities increased. He engaged servants to clean and maintain the premises by day. He supervised the purchase of victuals, wine and spirits. He became the purchasing agent for my library. But there was one other function, his most important. Although he had no inkling of the truth, he became, in reality my Judas goat, my procurer of victims… my provider of blood.
  Remember, the hotel in which my now sumptuous quarters were located was situated in one of the most unwholesome, execrable districts of Paris. Marcel was instructed to circulate amongst its denizens and let it be known that for a certain consideration selected individuals would be welcomed to participate in nightly soirees held in a secret location known only to the host and himself.
  It was my intention to surround these gatherings with an aura of mystery, thereby making them exquisitely alluring to the jaded appetites of those I chose to attract. The festivities commenced at nine o'clock each evening and the revelers were charged to rendezvous at a certain cafe where they were blindfolded in groups of four and conducted to my quarters until a total of fifty were assembled.
  As host I attired myself in different garb each night. At times I was Pulcinella. Upon occasion a hooded friar, and from time to time a boulevardier with cloak and walking stick. Always I was masked. Nearly always I moved silently among the merrymakers observing as they sank into gluttony, drunkenness and debaucheries of the most unspeakable depravity. Sometimes I engaged an occasional member of the company in conversation for the purpose of deciding which one of them would remain to satisfy my needs that night. Usually I had no difficulty selecting my victims.
  Most were women, and whether voluptuous or slight made little difference to me. My principal concern was that they appear to be of a solitary nature and not given to excessive consumption of wine of spirits. I learned very quickly that those who had partaken heavily of food, or given in to a surpassing degree of fleshly abandon tended to be lethargic. My offer to conduct them to a quiet chamber of soothing privacy was never refused.
  Once the object of my nutritional requirements was selected and led to my private quarters, it was Marcel's responsibility to provide a sufficient quantity of opium, by placing it into the wine, to render the rest of the debauchees unconscious. They were then removed by servants and taken to their original point of rendezvous. The servants were dismissed for the night, and Marcel himself was free to spend the balance of the night in whatever pursuits he chose. He was a lustful young man with a predilection for voluptuous women twice his age in tandem with rosy-cheeked ganymedes half again his junior. What manner of obscene orgies he indulged in during those hours was no concern of mine, but I forbade him to carry them out in my apartments.
   
  Did he ever disobey you?
   
  There was no need for him to do so. You see, he quickly amassed sufficient means to establish living quarters of his own nearby. In addition to extractings substantial tribute from those who attended the nightly bacchanalia, he purloined ample quantities of food, wine and spirits from my household. I expected him to do so. He was essentially a low criminal who believed that he was tricking an overly indulgent master. In reality he was dancing to my tune.
   
  I must say that from your description of this particular period you don't convey the impression that you were suffering. Doesn't it occur to you that you're painting the picture of a man who is living one of the ultimate human fantasies?
   
  [Patient's interruption here was the first of its kind. A look of absolute shock spread over his features. An encouraging sign.]
   
  What! Surely you can't be serious…
   
  I most certainly can. Consider the prostitute who willingly offered you her life. Remember, for the moment we're not talking about your perspective, we're considering that of the ordinary person who has to face the ordinary, even extraordinary frustrations and problems of life.
   
  I don't quite follow you.
   
  You're being too introspective. Just consider what I started to say before about the ultimate human fantasy-immortality, total cessation of the aging process, superhuman strength—not to mention the other attributes you've described such as perfect vision in the dark, catlike agility. Come on, man, think about it! Anyone possessing gifts like that can lay claim to an even greater dream: incredible power!
   
  [In a state of extreme agitation, patient leaped to his feet.]
   
  Gifts! Ye Gods! I can hardly find the words…
  I must consider what you have said. We will discuss the matter next time. Besides, the hour is late.
   
  By all means, Mr. Sexton. Think hard about what I've said. I think we're making real progress for the first time.
   
  Perhaps…Perhaps not. We shall see soon enough. Goodnight, doctor.
   
  [The fact that during this session the patient elicited distinctly emotional responses more than once is encouraging. This is especially so in view of the fact that despite the intensity of his reactions he exhibited no overt hostility toward the therapist. It is possible that by externalizing the more striking aspects of his fantasy, and discussing them in terms of the human condition in general, he may remove himself from the confines of the fantasy and eventually accept reality. When and if this happens there may be a remission of his psychosis.]
Chapter Fifteen
  Friday, June 22.
  [Patient appeared more pensive than usual at the beginning of this session.]
   
  I have given a great deal of thought to the nature of our discussion during the last session, doctor, and I am deeply disturbed.
   
  That surprises me, because from where I sit, your display of emotion was extremely healthy. As a rule I like to avoid such absolute terms as "normal" or "abnormal," but I must say to watch and hear you react the way you did was certainly closer to the norm than to the opposite end of the scale.
   
  That is precisely what disturbs me. The normal emotions you speak of are fine when they manifest themselves in a living man. They are abnormal in my case. Do you forget that I am a vampire? Do you forget that I am nothing more than an animated corpse, in whom the display of emotion, feeling, or desire of any kind is totally abnormal? Although I had no inkling of it at the time I was an aberrant from the very moment I entered this accursed state.
  My establishment of a lavishly furnished household, my acquisition of a library, my thirst to read… all of these things were inconsistent with my condition.
   
  Why? We've touched on this before. For what reason should all of your positive, human attributes have vanished?
   
  Because these attributes of which you speak so glowingly, belong to men, not to soulless monsters who walk among men in the shape of men. Can't you understand? In my present state I belong to neither world and so my longing for oblivion is desperate. Is it possible that my state is what the ancient church fathers referred to as Purgatory? I do not know the answers. That is why I am here.
   
  Well, its obvious that as time passed certain things happened to you that influenced your thinking. What we have to do now is find out precisely what those things were and try to understand why they brought you to this present state of mind.
   
  I follow your reasoning. Good, then perhaps I should resume the narrative of my personal history.
   
  I think you should. And I'm especially interested in knowing when you first began to experience the ennui that overcame you.
   
  I think it began very early during the period of my nightly soirees. Have you any idea of what it was like to mingle, night after night with these ill-assorted assemblages of human detritus? For the most part they included the lowest rabble that the gutters of Paris could provide. They expressed no ideas, they had no interests other than the gratification of their basest desires. Were it not for the fact that they were nightly drugged into insensibility before being carried out into the night they would have robbed me of every possession small enough to be carried off.
  Yet, from time to time there appeared in the midst of these human dregs an adventuresome individual or group, who in the course of their perigrinations, had heard of my singular nightly revels and contrived to attend. I recall one night during the Autumn of 1850 I was engaged in conversation by a man whose accent immediately revealed him to be an American. He proved to be a journalist from the city of Baltimore, Maryland, whose favorite pastime, it appeared, was imbibing strong drink. Before the consumption of one cup too many consigned him to a state of unconsciousness he revealed to me a peculiar bit of information that always remained in my mind.
  It was during the month of October, one year earlier, that the great poet, Edgar Allan Poe died in the city of Baltimore. This journalist, whose name has long since faded from my memory, claimed that for an entire week prior to Poe's unfortunate and premature demise the two of them had gone forth on a drinking spree of elephantine proportions, during which time neither of them had drawn a sober breath. He said that toward the end of this debauch Poe lapsed into periods of delirium, during which he made references to his "savage muse," and inferred that he was the possessor of some terrible secret. Before they parted company forever, Poe hinted that lying hidden in some secret place was a document, written by him, that one day long after his death would reveal all the truths to which he so cryptically alluded.
   
  Fascinating.
   
  It was indeed. Unfortunately, it was only upon the rarest of occasions that I even encountered anyone worthy of engaging in conversation. My nights became nothing more than a kaleidoscopic caravan of mirthless revelries. One blended into the next, each was nothing more than a melange of libertinage, lubricity and gluttony. For the most part I moved single-mindedly among the debauchees seeking the one chosen by destiny to die that I might live—if indeed my existence can be called living.
  A major change in my habits occurred a year later. Charles Counod's new opera, Sappho, was to have its premier performance and I made the decision to attend. I had not been to the theatre or to a concert since I'd lived in New York. My sense of hearing was infinitely more acute than it had been when I was alive, and I was curious to know whether my aural perceptions had been altered in any other way.
   
  Had they?
   
  Yes, slightly. I have found that I am able to hear sounds of a much higher frequency range. Sounds completely inaudible to a living man are quite clear to me. For example, I can hear the squeak of a bat, which I can only describe as resembling the undulating wail of a siren. But as usual, I digress. The opera proved to be less than memorable, but it produced in me a strange set of longings reminiscent of those I had known in life. Perhaps it was the music. I do not know.
   
  Now this is very interesting. You use the word, "longings." Do you think you could be a little more specific? Obviously what you're describing here isn't the—ah—hunger you experienced nightly for nourishment …
   
  No, definitely not.
   
  Could they be sexual in any way? There's always the possibility …
   
  Ridiculous! My sexual parts atrophied weeks after my metamorphosis. How many times must I point out to you that I am an animated corpse? Nothing more!
   
  [The patient's irritable outburst at this point is significant and would appear to indicate a severe case of impotence complicated by a refusal to recognize it for what it actually is, and to fit it into the overall rationale of the vampire fantasy, thereby absolving himself of all responsibility for it.]
   
  It was only a thought, Mr. Sexton. After all, as an ordinary human being, my frame of reference has to include a sexual one. Look at it this way. Didn't you tell me earlier that the hunger you experienced nightly for blood was somewhat akin to a sexual desire? And didn't you say that the satisfaction you achieved when you ingested blood was something like sexual satisfaction?
   
  I used the sexual analogy because I could think of no other that you would be capable of understanding. All I can do is reiterate that I am incapable of experiencing pleasure as you know it. Only relief. I have known no true pleasure since I was alive. The longings I refer to now I am still unable to identify. All that I can tell you is that after leaving the opera that night I experienced a restlessness which could only be satisfied by walking the streets.
  I had arranged no revel that night. Instead of partaking of my repast in the manner I had been, it was my intention to seek out a victim, most likely a young woman of the streets. It would be a simple matter to bring her back to my apartments and do what I must. I felt no hunger pangs. I would not require nourishment for several hours and so I walked, briskly at first, paying little attention to where I was or what was going on around me.
  As the hour grew late and I began to feel the familiar desire to feed I took stock of my surroundings. I was on the Rue des Rennes walking in the direction of the Seine. As I crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, I saw two women, slight of stature, weaving somewhat tipsily as they walked arm in arm. At that moment a plan took form in my mind. Having wandered about as aimlessly as I had for so long I had foolishly lost sight of my principal concern. I was too far from my quarters to return there with a suitable victim in time to satisfy my hunger, even if I were to find such a victim at once. I therefore had no choice but to stalk the two females. The Pont des Arts was but a small distance ahead. I would come up upon them from behind, seize their arms, steer them to the bridge, kill one and take the other, then throw their bodies into the Seine. Fortunately it was late and the streets were virtually deserted.
  Taking care to close the distance between my quarry and myself as silently as possible I quickened my pace. It was then I observed that they were inadvertantly playing into my hands. They, too, were heading for the Pont des Arts. I needed only to remain at their heels and pounce the moment they were halfway across the bridge. One of them was clearly more intoxicated than the other, making it necessary for her companion to half-support her as she stumbled along. This, also, made my task far simpler. The stronger of the two was so deeply occupied with assisting her friend that there appeared little chance she would turn around. By the time she became aware of my presence, it would be too late.
  My hunger pangs became more acute. I realized that if my intended victims did not quicken their pace I would have to strike before they reached the bridge. Suddenly one of them stumbled and pitched forward thereby taking her companion down to the pavement with her. I was so close behind them now that before I knew what had happened I found myself in a heap atop the two females in the middle of the Quai d'Orsay, at the foot of the Pont des Arts.
  I could contain myself no longer, and being in the position I now found myself I bared my teeth and lunged for the nearest throat. Quite unexpectedly I felt a blow in the ribs of great force accompanied by an angry hiss, "Filthy pig, prepare to die for your lust!" And at that moment the older of the two women leapt upon me—I was, having been thrown off balance, in a supine position. Her eyes blazed with hatred and glowed red with a peculiar inner fire which I instantly recognized. I had seen it often enough in my own reflection.
  "Hold, if you value your life!" I cried out, for lack of a more appropriate phrase, at the same time making a fist and brandishing my ring.
  Having hurled herself at me with such force, she was unable to prevent the inevitable collision. But she saw the ring and flashed me a look of immediate understanding. Hastily disentangling herself from me she glared sardonically. "So," she muttered, "a fellow member of the Dark Society. I take no pleasure in meeting you."
  "Nor I you, madame," I replied.
  "You will excuse me then, if I do not offer to share my repast."
  "I will excuse you, but I must insist upon inviting myself."
  "You cannot…" she began, but I cut her off.
  "I cannot argue and my time is running short. I know your strength, madame, but I am larger of frame and can overpower you. Be sensible."
  The victim, a girl of no more than fifteen years, groaned and muttered something unintelligible as she made a groggy effort to regain her feet. The female vampire, clearly entertaining no thoughts of permitting her quarry to escape, whirled about as if I were invisible, flung herself upon the girl and pressed her lips to the doomed creature's throat. Frantic at the prospect of being deprived of my own urgently needed feast of blood, I seized one of the girl's legs, threw up her skirts, and sought out a vein in her soft, inner thigh. I ripped it open and began drinking the precious crimson fluid oblivious of all but the delicious relief it afforded me from the painful desire that had consumed me.
  It was not until there was nothing left that I drew back and wiped my mouth dry. My unwilling hostess had completed her own repast at about the same time. She contemplated me with expressionless eyes as she took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped away the blood that stained her lips and chin. "You realize," she said, "that neither of us has had enough to sustain us for another twenty-four hours."
  "So?" I shrugged. "Then we both know what we must do. N'est pas?"
  "Yes, yes," she replied impatiently. "But I do not especially relish the idea of creating any more like ourselves than necessary. I have a proposition for you. For this one night, let us join forces and share another like this one." She nodded contemptuously toward the crumpled corpse at our feet. "What do you say?"
  "I see the logic of your suggestion," I admitted. "But I see no reason for us to increase the population of—how did you phrase it? 'The Dark Society'—by even two this night."
  "Don't be foolish, mon ami" she scoffed. "As far as this little cabbage is concerned, the die is cast. Even if we throw her in the Seine, which I suggest we do at once, she will probably be fished out and awaken tomorrow night."
  "I think not," I assured her. "Come. There is no sense in our wasting any time. I accept your offer, by the way. But first there is a little chore we must attend to."
  I picked up the body of the dead child and flung it over my shoulder, then strode off in the direction of the Pont des Arts. A sudden feeling of giddiness overcame me. Though the somber burden I carried caused me no difficulty, I felt the ground beneath my feet roll and pitch like the deck of a ship, and for the first time since before I entered the undead state, I felt an almost overwhelming desire to burst out laughing.
  At that moment my new-found acquaintance took me by the arm, contemplated me for a moment, and then, herself, burst into laughter. "What in the devil is happening?" I demanded, suppressing a laugh. "What madness is this?"
  "It's the wine!" she exclaimed. "Our little friend was so drunk, I'm afraid she has provided us with a headier supper than usual."
  "You mean we…"
  "We're drunk, mon ami. You must be very young. Can it be that you have never been drunk before?"
  Before I could answer she went into a paroxysm of laughter, and by the time we had succeeded in making our way to the middle of the bridge we fell to our knees laughing. Yet, how can I describe the sensation? It was without mirth. It was without emotion. A series of muscular expansions and contractions; the taking in and the expelling of air. Nothing more. Gradually the seizure ceased and the world about us seemed to right itself again. "Have you never taken a victim who was drunk before?" she asked. "It's the only thing that makes this beastly existence bearable for me."
  I had of course taken victims who had been drinking, and had, indeed, experienced a mild lightheadedness. But nothing like this. As my companion explained it to me later, she purposely plied her victims with great quantities of strong drink. It was not a matter of rendering them senseless, but one of providing herself with a form of intoxication. She had been a teetotaler during her lifetime, and having experienced the effects of alcohol accidentally shortly after her metamorphosis, she found it to her liking and continued to abandon herself to its effects.
   
  Doesn't this strike you as a bit odd? I mean, doesn't the whole idea of an alcoholic vampire seem ludicrous? It certainly doesn't conform to the image you've been trying to convey to me about vampires being nothing more than animated corpses.
   
  [This was, perhaps, not the most appropriate sort of statement for me to have made at this point of the treatment. The patient stiffened and assumed such an air of hostility it was almost as if he had undergone a severe regression.]
   
  Are you attempting to ridicule me, doctor? 
   
  Certainly not. I merely …
   
  If you were attempting to mock me, I can assure you that I would not take kindly to it.
   
  Mr. Sexton—Zachary—do you mind if I use your first name? I've often found that when a patient and therapist get on a first name basis it tends to improve the relationship.
   
  I would not be comfortable, if you must know the truth. Remember, I come from a social milieu in which we only used Christian names when addressing children, servants and animals.
   
  A point well made, Mr. Sexton. I won't forget it. Tell me, how long did the effects of the alcohol last?
   
  Until I fed again, but after the initial impact, shall I say, the feeling was something with which I could deal effectively.
   
  Was it sufficiently pleasant—or should I say pleasurable—to motivate you to deliberately seek the experience?
   
  It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was merely an alteration of my overall state of awareness. A change in my perceptivity.
   
  [The patient did not answer the question directly, and his manner of speech seemed to indicate a decided attempt at evasiveness.]
   
  Let me put it this way, then. Did you deliberately look for victims after this who had been drinking?
   
  Yes, from time to time, but not for the purpose of seeking pleasure. I am incapable of experiencing pleasure. I cannot emphasize the point often enough.
   
  Then why seek the experience of intoxication?
   
  For the same reason I experimented with victims who had taken opium, for a change of pace, for the express purpose of alleviating boredom.
   
  I think we've digressed considerably. We've run out of time, too, but I must confess I'm anxious to find out what happened with the girl on the Pont des Arts and the female… vampire.
   
  You still find it difficult to employ the term, "vampire," don't you doctor? That disturbs me. I am still not completely certain whether you believe me or are merely trying to humor me. Well, never mind. You will come to believe me in time. As to your question, once we had overcome our first bout of laughter, I unsheathed the sword-cane I carried and with the assistance of my partner-in-crime, decapitated the corpse. It was the kindest thing I could have done.
   
  Did your friend agree with your feelings on the matter?
   
  Most certainly. In fact, she was somewhat annoyed at herself for not having previously thought of taking such steps herself. She vowed that in the future she would. Not out of any sympathetic motives, you understand, but for the same reasons as my own. In any event, when we had finished disposing of the body by throwing the torso in the Seine after the head, we hunted down another victim together, a young peasant we found sleeping beneath a tree in the Tuileries. He had come to the city from the south in hopes of making his fortune. On the pretense of offering him food and a place to sleep, we took him back to my apartments and made quick work of him. I will say that he died quite happy. He was smitten by the seductive charms of my companion, whom I am certain I need not remind you was quite beautiful.
   
  Well, I think we can wrap things up on that note tonight. Don't you?
   
  Quite. Until Monday night then?
   
  [A very disturbing session. The unexpected outburst of hostility was not a good sign. Hopefully it was not an indication of regression. Despite his introduction of a new dimension to the sexual content of his narrative, he still maintains the same, skillfully structured delusional pattern in his frame of reference. No matter what apparent inconsistencies the therapist introduces, the patient successfully dismisses them and twists them into his framework of logic. His mention of alcohol and opium point to an avenue of investigation which should be explored. His catagelphobia may provide some clues to the root of his delusion, but it is an area which can be probed only with extreme caution. When he suspects that he is being ridiculed he is potentially quite dangerous. The prognosis is clearly for prolonged therapy.]
Chapter Sixteen
  Monday, June 25.
  Mr. Sexton, I was going over my notes from our last session, and there's something you mentioned that I thought a little peculiar.
   
  Judging by your reactions, my dear doctor, I often get the distinct feeling that you regard everything about me as peculiar. I have been giving serious consideration to the possibility of terminating our relationship.
   
  That's not an uncommon patient reaction, especially when the therapist begins to zero in on the root of the problem.
   
  Perhaps. But as I said, I have been only giving consideration to the matter. I have not yet made up my mind.
   
  Then I assume you're prepared to proceed as we have been?
   
  That is correct, doctor—now, about this, ah, peculiarity you mentioned?
  Oh, yes. You referred to a sword-cane that you carried. Considering your preternatural abilities, wouldn't such a weapon be somewhat redundant for you?
   
  You surprise me, Doctor Wallman. Did I not explain in detail the use to which I put the sword? I hardly need it for protection. The only use to which I have ever put it was the one I described during our last session.
   
  You speak of it in the present tense. Do you still carry it?
   
  Of course, and for the same reason I originally did. Would you care to see it?
   
  Very much.
   
  Here, feel free to examine it. And by all means, observe the superb workmanship on the blade.
   
  [The patient bent down, picked up the walking stick he had always carried with him and held it out. It was very obviously quite antique, hand carved of a dark, ebonylike wood, and extremely heavy. The handle was a beautifully carved lizard with eyes of ruby and ivory or bone teeth. It was shaped in such a way as to make it exceedingly comfortable to grip. The weight of the weapon was immediately explained by the length and thickness of the sword, which had an edge of scalpel sharpness. Near the hilt, on the flat of the blade were etched the words, Jean-Noel Dumont fecit, Paris 1848. It was a weapon which, if wielded by a strong man could easily decapitate a victim.]
   
  I must say it is a beautiful piece of work. I shudder to think of what it would cost today.
   
  The swordmaker from whom I purchased it charged me the equivalent of seven dollars and fifty cents. It was made, not from an old cavalry sword, but forged to my specifications out of the finest Toledo steel. Over the years it has saved many a victim from falling prey to the curse of the undead. It has been less necessary of late, however. Progress has rendered it all but obsolete. Modern enbalming and burial methods all but preclude the survival of a newly—shall I say born?—vampire today. And certainly any body flung into one of the excrementitious rivers surrounding Manhattan would never survive the pollutants. Then, I could easily deliver a credible dissertation on the voracity of this city's great and hardy rats. But surely, we don't wish to waste time on such trivia.
   
  No, you're right. Actually I was going to suggest that we go into your relationship with the female vampire you met.
   
  Of course. I was certain you would want to pursue that line of discussion. There is really not a great deal to tell you about the relationship itself. Until we met she slept by day in a sarcophagus situated in a crypt in a forgotten catacomb beneath the church of St. Germain-l'Auxerrois. On the night that our paths first crossed there was no time for her to return to her customary resting place, so I offered her my hospitality and brought her to my quarters.
  She was entranced with the opulence of my lodgings and I explained to her the reasoning behind my establishment of such a dwelling place. "Oh!" she exclaimed after hearing me describe the soirees that Marcel arranged for me. "You must permit me to attend your next debauch. Oh, God! I cannot tell you how tiresome, how boring it becomes stalking one's prey night after night, like a beast in the wilderness. Why do you think I began experimenting with drunkards and opium eaters?"
  With the approach of dawn we retired to my private inner chamber, where sunlight never entered. Since it would have been awkward and cramped for us to have attempted repose together in the narrow confines of the coffin I ordinarily used, we remained awake. I believe I told you that we do not require rest, did I not?
   
  Yes, you did.
   
  So, we took the opportunity to become acquainted. I must confess the prospect of having an equal with whom I could hold conversations appealed to me. I had nothing to fear from her, nor she from me. As far as the nourishment we required, my little gatherings would be able to provide more than enough to satisfy our needs. Thus, when I invited her to share my lodgings, she immediately accepted. In fact, she startled me by flinging her arms about my neck and kissing me on the lips.
  "How strange!" she exclaimed, immediately afterward. "Why I have not done anything like that since I lived. I trust you will forgive my impulsiveness."
  "What is there to forgive?" I replied. "I, too was once a living man, with warm blood pulsing through my veins. I felt joy and pain, pleasure and suffering like other men."
  "Do you think," she said, "that in some way, though we are nothing more than animated corpses, we may recapture some of the pleasures of living?"
  "I doubt it," I told her. "If I caress your bosom I doubt if it will kindle any fire in our loins. Did your silent heart begin to beat, when you pressed your lips to mine?"
  "No," she replied, without a trace of emotion on her features. "Yet, deep within me there lurks a strange hunger that I cannot identify."
  "Perhaps," I said, "there is something about us both that removes us from others of our kind. Though, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I have only known one other. We did not become well acquainted, and he exists no more."
  "What became of him?" she asked. But I did not wish to discuss the matter, and we turned the conversation back to ourselves. I told her of my background as briefly as I could, and the moment I mentioned my American origins, she began to laugh. Not only that, she began speaking in English, for England was her birthplace. Her name was Cicely Wenlock, and though she was nearly fifty years my senior, she did not look a day over twenty-two or three. Actually she was twenty-four when she became undead.
  She had just married, and with her new husband went on a honeymoon trip to Paris. As you know, France was in a state of terrible unrest then. It was the eve of the French Revolution. The young couple was strolling along the banks of the Seine one evening when they were set upon by a gang of ruffians. Cicely was raped and left for dead, her unfortunate husband was robbed, murdered and thrown into the river. Apparently at some time during the night, before she regained consciousness, she was found by a vampire who not only took her life, but offered her shelter until she learned the ways of our race.
   
  Don't you find that a little odd, I mean that a vampire, who presumably was devoid of emotion, would go so far as to do a kindness to his victim?
   
  The question is a valid one. I asked her the same thing myself. In truth her mentor did not do an act of kindness. As we have discussed, vampires all retain certain vestiges of the personalities they had while alive. The individual in question had been a painter and he had never attained greatness. He was so taken with Cicely's natural beauty that he took her in that he might contemplate her lineaments and features. Though he was undead, he continued to paint and to sketch.
   
  What made her leave his protection?
   
  As she explained it to me, Paris during the Terror was unsafe, even for the undead. Despite our supernormal strength and other—gifts, as you call them—we can be overpowered under certain circumstances. In the case of Cicely's protector, while in a weakened condition—he had not fed yet that night—he was mistaken by the mob for an aristocrat attempting to escape the guillotine. Though he fought like a demon, he was unable to withstand the assaults of his attackers, and he was stoned, then hacked to pieces in the Place des Victoires at the foot of the statue of Louis XIV. His severed head was placed atop a pole and carried off by the roaring mob, to the accompaniment of such cries as "Death to Aristocrats!" and "Vive la Republique!" He was the fortunate one and Cicely the unfortunate.
  After this she avoided the company of any but those upon whom she intended to prey until she encountered me.
   
  Did you have one of your little, ah, revels on the first night she spent living with you?
   
  No, I had permitted Marcel to take a week's holiday. He had relatives in Marseilles whom he wanted to visit. During that week Cicely and I haunted low cafes on the Left Bank. We selected couples we adjudged to be sufficiently useless to society that they would not be missed, in accordance with my policy. I must say we fared quite well under the circumstances, and as for the two of us we quickly established much more of a bond than either of us imagined could exist between us.
  When Marcel returned to Paris I had him purchase a large four poster bed with a heavy canopy of black velvet drapes. It was more comfortable than the coffin, and Cicely had suggested that perhaps if we shared a bed, we might one day kindle some spark akin to that of Eros.
   
  Did you?
   
  Something quite interesting occurred. After the installation of the bed, with Marcel's resumption of his duties, the nightly soirees began again. At Cicely's suggestion we began seasoning our midnight feasts of blood with cognac, absinthe, opium and hashish. The nature of the activities indulged in by the debauchees who flocked nightly to my lodgings made anything possible. Unfortunately, the effects of these intoxicants and drugs upon us were minimal.
  One night, however there were among the revelers some South Americans, who had in their possession a quantity of coca leaf, with which neither Cicely and I were familiar. They were quite generous in dispensing the leaf to their fellow debauchees, and ere long we observed that our guests were behaving in a more than ordinarily lascivious manner. As the hunger pangs came upon us, and the hour to dine approached, we selected a pair of appropriate victims and invited them to our private sanctum sanctorum.
  We had barely crossed the threshold and locked the door behind us when the two of them began tearing off their clothes and laughing like a pair of maniacs. Suddenly, once they were as naked as the day they had come into the world, the male looked hungrily at Cicely and said, "Well, ma chérie, are you not ready to enter into the spirit—or should I say, be entered into it?" The female, a young woman with flaming red hair, who I would have judged to be in her late twenties began giggling almost hysterically at the fellow's pallid attempt at humor. Then she approached me. The hunger pangs were commencing to cause me pain. I wanted only to feed. This charade had gone far enough as far as I was concerned. But suddenly, to my utter astonishment, I saw Cicely disrobe.
  I could hardly believe my eyes. With the deft motions of an experienced courtesan, she removed every stitch on her back. I had never seen her thus before, and as I said, she was a beautiful creature. Her skin was white as Parian marble. The young man gazed at her with devouring eyes and he began to tremble in anticipation. What a surprise was in store for him. Cicely tossed a glance my way.
  "Come, Zachary, darling," she said. "Take off your clothes, and we shall have a feast of love, the four of us."
  Had our hapless guests had any inkling of the true meaning behind her deceptively beguiling words I am sure they would have cringed in terror. What moved me to comply with her request I will never understand. But I did so. The redheaded young woman stared at me in fascination as I undressed, and I am certain that what she saw did not arouse her anticipation as to what I might do next. It made no difference.
  In moments we were upon our victims whose voices immediately intermingled with squeals and cries of complaint about the coldness of our bodies.
  Soon their struggles ceased and the only sounds that could be heard were the harsh, liquescent gurglings that accompany vampires at their repast.
  The familiar feeling of warmth came over me as the fresh blood infused the fibers of my corpse. Delicious waves of pleasure coursed through me, as they always did when I fed, but now I felt an added dimension to the sensations that held me in their thrall. That our victims had been drinking absinthe was immediately apparent from the taste of the blood. But there was something else. Something unfamiliar, something exhilarating beyond anything I had ever experienced before to my knowledge. I began to feel sensations I had not known since I was alive, that is to say sensations similar to those I had known, but not precisely the same.
  Having drunk to the limit of my capacity I released the limp form of my lifeless victim and turned to see Cicely, who had also just completed her repast. Though both of us had fresh blood smeared all about our mouths and faces—she had a small stream of it trickling down the side of her neck and over her breasts—something happened as our eyes met. Without speaking, we rushed into one another's arms. I pressed my lips to hers and for a brief, ecstatic moment as we lay there locked in our embrace, it was as though we were alive again.
   
  [It is quite possible that this observation is merely a form of projection, but it appeared at that moment as though there was an expression of nostalgic remembrance on the patient's face. It passed very quickly, however, if it was, indeed there at all.]
   
  Tell me Mr. Sexton—and this is very important. Did you, to your best recollection, experience an erection and perform sexual intercourse at this point?
   
  No. All I can tell you is that for a brief period of time, I cannot say for how long, we both experienced a degree of pleasure greater than the usual feeling of relief. It was, as I recall it, true pleasure, like that I had known in life. Neither of us was aware of the corpse chill of our bodies. As we kissed the blood from each others lips we took pleasure in the kisses. Perhaps it was the blood that did it. I do not know. In any event, nothing of the sort ever happened again, nor did we ever attempt to duplicate the experience.
   
  But why not? I mean, if it was pleasurable, and you had not experienced pleasure for so long…
   
  We discussed the matter in great depth afterwards. The experience disrupted our tranquility. Perhaps it was the presence of the absinthe and the coca leaves, but the aftermath of this episode left us both with an ineffable feeling of disquietude. I… I feel that I would prefer not to discuss it any further. Besides, I must be off I will see you in two days.
   
  Good night, Mr. Sexton.
   
  [The patient's "disquietude" sounds very much like Galen's Omne animal triste post coitu est. Still virtually no progress. No break in the delusional structure. Yet, the sexuality, the discussion of the various drug reactions, more than anything alluded to in the earlier stages of the therapy, indicate an extremely dangerous man. Admittedly this is not a very professional comment, but the patient sounds more each session like a walking composite of Krafft-Ebing cases. The likelihood of eventual hospitalization seems stronger the more I re-read the notes and study this case.]
Chapter Seventeen
  Wednesday, June 27.
  It occurs to me that after you formed your liaison with Cicely your previous state of boredom was pretty well alleviated.
   
  To be sure, for a time. But for how long could we continue with these nightly debauches? Even Paris did not have sufficient population to permit our going on like that indefinitely. We adopted different modus operandi. Cicely conceived of a brilliant idea one night. "Zachary, dear," she said to me. "Why don't we visit a hospital tonight? I'm sure that most of the poor dears there would love company." She displayed a wicked smile when she made the suggestion and I saw immediately what sort of scheme was taking shape in her mind. Oh, she was an inventive creature. Had she been alive, there is no telling what she might have accomplished.
  Our hospital visit, as she euphemistically phrased it, proved to be enormously successful. By moving stealthily from bed to bed in the charity ward we took small quantities of blood from a number of patients, causing the deaths of none. She assured me, having heard it on good authority, that individuals thus attacked were in no danger of becoming vampires unless they were repeatedly used. Over the next year we fed at every hospital in Paris and caused not a single death except at a foundling hospital. It was an easy matter to steal three or four infants, and dispose of their bodies in the usual manner afterwards.
  Very quickly though, the novelty wore off, but then it was necessary to consider the practical side of matters. Hospitals were ideal places in which to seek our prey. After all, I needn't tell you, my dear doctor, hospitals in the middle of the last century were not what they are today. The worst of your modern hospitals cannot compare to the chambers of horrors we knew then. They were cold, unsanitary repositories for the less fortunate refuse of society. Rats the size of small dogs ran free in the passageways. Roaches, flies, maggots and other like vermin infested every nook, every corner.
  It occurred to me one evening that insane asylums were ideal hunting grounds for us. There we could pursue our needs almost openly. Indeed, when patients in these sanatoria related to their keepers that they were being visited in the midnight hours by vampires, you can imagine how the revelation was received.
  In our concern to make certain that we did nothing to increase the vampire population we endeavored to pursue a course of innovation. For example, when the hypodermic syringe was invented in 1853 we made certain to obtain a supply of the hollow needles as soon as they became available to the medical profession. Working in tandem as we did it was a relatively simple matter to chloroform a victim and draw out the blood with the air of the needle and a glass tube. What we did with the body afterwards, was immaterial. It would not become reanimated and walk again.
  The only drawback to this method was that it was too time consuming. Furthermore, we both observed that blood permitted to be exposed to air, even for a moment or so before ingestion, began to coagulate and spoil. So you see, we were more or less forced to return to more, shall I say, traditional methods of obtaining our nourishment.
  It was on the eve of the Franco-Prussian War, in the summer of 1869 to be precise, that Cicely casually asked me one day if I thought it might be possible for us to devise a means of traveling. I had never seriously given the matter any consideration. The only place to which I would eagerly have gone on a moment's notice, had I thought it feasible, was home to America. Apparently my companion was entertaining parallel thoughts. "I would so enjoy seeing London again," she said, "even if only by night. Have you ever been there?"
  "No," I said.
  "Oh, you would so love it. Why, do you realize I haven't seen my native city for over eighty years?"
  "Tell me," I said. "Do you really believe that you could find any satisfaction by returning there now, as you are?"
  "Perhaps, " she replied, "I might find peace. I might find a way of going to my final rest in the bosom of my ancestors. Besides, I am so bored with Paris I can hardly express myself."
  I knew exactly what she meant. Though I had been in Paris barely twenty-two years it seemed like an eternity, and since I had an eternity of this existence ahead of me the prospect of changing my domicile was eminently appealing.
   
  I don't understand why, if you felt that your existences were so abhorrent, that neither of you ever contemplated the simple expediency of suicide.
   
  Are you unable to comprehend the fact that as I am constituted I am incapable of deliberate self destruction, even though I long for final oblivion? I know. This is a paradox, but it is a fact. In keeping with that fact I should add that the prospect of traveling abroad had more appeal after further consideration than when Cicely first brought it up. There was an element of risk, to be sure, but neither of us cared a fig about that. To meet with a truly fatal accident would have been a blessing. On the other hand, the challenge of devising a method by which it would be safe for us to travel was in itself most thought provoking.
  Working together we finally hit upon a solution. We would have constructed a pair of large, oblong coffin-like boxes that could be opened from within. We could easily arrange our schedule so that after taking our nightly nourishment we would secure ourselves within the boxes. The boxes would then be delivered to the railway station with instructions to have them placed on the early morning train to Calais. It was a slow train which did not reach its destination until after dark. It would be a relatively simple matter for us, once in Calais, to dine, engage rooms for the night and see to it that our boxes were loaded aboard the afternoon packet boat to Dover the next day. It would arrive after dark and we could then board the train for London. From then on we would encounter no particular difficulties.
  As you can imagine, there were hundreds of details which had to be attended to prior to our journey. All were made immensely more complicated by my inability to venture out of doors during the daylight hours. One immutable fact, however, I learned very early after my metamorphosis, and after having accumulated my fortune. Wealth translates into power, and power demands respect. Those with whom it was necessary for me to deal, and who came into contact with me from time to time, regarded me as an eccentric of nocturnal habits and preferences. Haven't you observed in the course of your career, doctor, that the expression "eccentric" is never applied to anyone without substantial means? The habits, the behavior may be identical in a rich man and a poor one. The rich man is regarded with patient tolerance as an "eccentric," the poor man as a lunatic, a madman, or a crazy fool. Am I not correct?
   
  There's a great deal of truth to what you say. Absolutely.
   
  Ah, then there is one matter on which we both agree. Excellent. But as I was saying, the arrangements for our removal took weeks. The private areas of my lodgings had to be sealed off so that no one, not even Marcel might have access during my absence.
   
  I was going to ask you about him. I assume he had no idea of your true nature, but he was so accustomed to being in your service. Weren't you concerned about leaving him behind?
   
  Why should I be? He spoke no English, therefore he would be of little use to me in London. He was very much in his prime. After all he was no more than twenty when I rescued him from the grasp of Père Sanson…
   
  Père Sanson?
   
  A colloquial expression of the streets at the time. M. Sanson was the public executioner. To be miraculously snatched from his hands at the last minute was the dream of every criminal in Paris awaiting his rendezvous with the guillotine. In any case, I provided for Marcel amply. He knew only that he was to act as my agent and caretaker until my return. Actually I had no idea of what the future might hold for me. Furthermore, I cared less. For all I knew I would never see Paris again.
  Several days before our actual departure, Cicely brought up a most interesting point vis-à-vis our situation. "You know," she said. "It is just as well that we leave. Why do you think that most members of the Dark Society prefer to sleep in solitary tombs, in catacombs, and other such places? It is impossible to remain in a place indefinitely, where you can be seen by the living. They grow old and infirm. They weaken and perish. While we remain exactly as we were when we met our deaths. Why do you think so many of our predecessors have been hunted down to be decapitated, burned, or have stakes driven through their hearts? As for me, I don't care if I ever see Paris again. But if ever I should return, I know I shall never encounter any living person who ever saw me."
  As dawn of the day on which we were to depart approached I wondered if I should ever awaken again. Though I knew the possibility existed that I might endure a short period of intense suffering should my plans go awry, I cared not. It was the boredom that was intolerable. Any risk was worth taking to escape it.
  Marcel had been instructed the day before that we would depart Paris that night. A carefully selected assortment of trunks, crates and bundles was left for him to place on board the morning train to Calais. Among them were the two coffins containing Cicely and myself, which had been cleverly designed to conceal their true purpose.
  When I awoke that evening in Calais I discovered that my property had been placed in a baggage shed on the pier from which it would be loaded aboard the packet to Dover the next day. Cicely emerged from her coffin less than a quarter of an hour afterwards and we held a hasty "council of war."
  "Why bother taking lodgings for the night?" she said. "At least not just now. I'm ravenous. Come, let's go before the pangs become too strong. I can't stand losing control."
  She took me by the arm and we cautiously made our way to the door of the shed. We were just about to open it when we heard footsteps outside. Instinctively I stopped and listened. "How marvellous!" exclaimed Cicely. "Now we needn't go hunting, and really, there's hardly any need to observe that silly old rule of yours. We shall probably never come this way again. Who cares whether they make the transition or not?"
  She was entirely right, of course. As I said to you before. My sole reason for observing that rule was selfish. I was not anxious to create my own competitors. But here in Calais, it hardly made any difference. The footsteps, as it turned out belonged to a night watchman and a young woman with whom he was dallying. We took them easily, slaked our thirst and threw their bodies into the water. If they were fortunate they would be swept out to sea on the tide and perish. If not, c'est la vie.
  As it was pointless for us to wander about the waterfront district of Calais until dawn, we retired to our coffins to await our next awakening. This occurred the following evening in the baggage room of Victoria Station in London. Unfortunately I was apprehended in the act of climbing from my coffin by a young baggage attendant. He was so terrified at the sight of me he was rendered speechless, which gave me the opportunity to knock him senseless before he could make any outcry. Since he was there, it would have been foolish of me not to feed without delay. I admit, I most likely would have drained his veins dry had Cicely not happened along. She did a very foolish thing. She tapped me on the shoulder.
  I was so absorbed in the act of taking my nourishment that my only thought was that I had been caught by another railwayman. Seizing my sword cane I whirled about and was about to wield it as a club when I saw who had touched me and I restrained myself. Our reactions, I might point out are exceedingly rapid, far more so than in the ranks of the living. "That was a foolish thing, to come up on me like that," I told her, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. Then observing the gleam of hunger in her eyes, I indicated my half-dead victim and said, "Go ahead, take what's left of him. It's just as well. We can go to our hotel, and find another before sunup."
  "Thank you, my dear," she said and without another word she fell upon him and daintily sucked the remaining blood from the fresh wound in his neck. When she had finished I said, "Hurry, we'll conceal his body in one of the coffins and dispose of it later."
  "But suppose our luggage doesn't get delivered to the hotel tonight, he will…"
  "I'll take the chance," I retorted. "I simply don't want us to be found here with a fresh corpse in our possession—and wipe the blood from your mouth. It hardly becomes a newly arrived Parisian lady. "
  She recognized the logic of my reasoning at once and as soon as I had deposited the body in my coffin Cicely took my arm and we ventured forth into the station concourse. Minutes later as we mingled with arriving passengers and others in search of a porter to arrange the delivery of our luggage no one seeing us could possibly have guessed that we were a pair of vampires who only moments before had alleviated their hunger with the blood of a railway employee. I should explain that we had booked a suite at one of the better new hotels in the West End—the Langham, I believe. It was our intention to remain there until we had made arrangements to set up lodgings similar to those I had established in Paris. Cicely had recommended that we seek a place in a poor district inhabited by the lowest classes, Shoreditch, which we investigated after checking into the hotel as Monsieur and Madame Duroy of Paris.
   
  Well, I'd say this is a good breaking place for tonight's session, don't you?
   
  As you wish, doctor. I fear there is very little of interest I can tell you about London, except for one small item, but I shall go into it on Friday. Au revoir.
   
  [There is very little of consequence to comment on from this session. The patient's demeanor was subdued. His voice level remained quite even throughout and he displayed absolutely no signs of hostility. Of course, it should be noted that what little conversation between patient and therapist that took place during the session was extremely matter-of-fact and almost devoid of any controversy. Still no chink in his delusional armor. The structure of the fantasy remains as strong as ever. It would be interesting if he could be tricked into attempting a feat, say of great strength, but in such a way as to preclude his paranoia from being aroused.]
Chapter Eighteen
  Friday, June 29.
  I suppose this isn't a particularly significant point, but I was wondering why you chose a French alias when you went to London. After all, English was a first language for both of you.
   
  No, this is a valid question. Our reasoning was really quite simple. We wanted to avoid any unnecessary conversation with strangers. Also, we wished to convey the impression that we did not understand English very well. In that way, if at any time anything about us aroused suspicions of any sort, people would be inclined to speak openly in our presence. We had to be on our guard. As Cicely said to me on our first night in London, "You must remember, my dear, the English are a deceptive race. They may appear to be one thing on the outside and prove to be something quite different within. What I mean is that here, we are far more likely to encounter enemies than anywhere else. Ours is a haunted island and we must beware of meeting those who might recognize us and seek to destroy us."
  "Then what prompted you to suggest we come here?" I asked.
  She smiled. "I rather thought that the prospect of no longer being the unchallenged hunter might be an amusing change. N'est-ce pas?"
  She was correct of course. Even the suspicion that we might be the prey of others was a factor in alleviating our boredom. And in order to keep you from becoming bored, doctor, I shall attempt not to dwell on trivia and minutiae.
   
  Well, there is one trivial point I am curious about. Did you succeed in getting rid of the body you took to the hotel?
   
  Of course. We dismembered it, wrapped the pieces in butchers' paper and dropped them into the Thames. We then set forth to investigate the district which Cicely had recommended for us to establish our lodgings. She was rather surprised when we got to Shoreditch, for she had been describing a foul slum of wretched tenements, reeking with disagreeable odors and inhabited by shoplifters, thieves and ruffians of the lowest type. To her amazement a great deal of the squalor had been cleared away. We accosted an elderly flower vendor and discreetly queried her as to the character of the neighborhood. She explained that the slums in the worst sections of Shoreditch had been cleared away in the eighteen forties to make way for the new Bishopsgate terminus. But then she shook her head and clucked in dismayed tones as she explained to us that there still remained a terrible rookery which was located between Bethnal Green Road and Shoreditch church. It was bounded on the east by Mount Street, on the west by Boundary Street, on the north by Virginia Road, and on the south by Old Nichol Street. "It's a bloody sink of iniquity, if y'asks me," she confided, "and certainly no place for th' likes o' fine ladies and gents like the two o' you."
  Judging by the old woman's description the district in question sounded quite promising and we made our way there forthwith. It was, as she had told us rife with the most filthy and verminous-looking lodging houses I had ever seen. Stagnant puddles of excremental slime impeded walking. Beady-eyed rats the size of felines scurried to and fro appearing and disappearing about reeking heaps of refuse that lay all about.
  The darkness was almost absolute, and save for dim yellow beams escaping from occasional windows it would have been easy to assume that we were in a city of decay devoid of all life save for the vermin. Indeed, had it not been for our ability to see in the dark it would have been impossible to traverse the streets. It was approaching the hour of three in the morning when I began to feel the return of my hunger pangs. I was distressed, for we had encountered very few living souls, save for an occasional tattered beggar or shuffling cripple so wretched looking, that even I, as a vampire, would think twice before regarding them as prey. But I knew that if a suitable victim did not become available soon it would be necessary to venture into one of the hovels, where we would be certain to find what we required.
  Such a course of action never became necessary, however, for moments after feeling my first wave of discomfort, I felt a sudden, peculiar sensation in my back. I can describe it only as akin to having a piece of ice abruptly pressed against the bare flesh. Whirling around I found myself face-to-face with a band of five or six of the most vicious-looking ruffians I had ever seen. Clad in filthy tatters, they were bearded and grimy. Their teeth were ugly and stained with tobacco and rot. All brandished weapons ranging from long gleaming knives to bludgeons and clubs.
  My sudden movement inspired Cicely to follow my example. To my amazement, our assailants, instead of attacking at once, held back, the one nearest me exchanging several startled glances with his nearest companion. "Why don' 'e drop?" exclaimed one of the thugs.
  At that moment the sensation of cold vanished from my back and I perceived Cicely holding a wicked-looking dagger in her hand. I comprehended at once what had occurred. The scoundrels had crept up behind us with the intention of murdering and robbing us. The leader had plunged his dagger into my back, which, had no more effect upon me than might a fly walking across my shoulder. For the first time in all of my years in the undead state I experienced the emotion of anger. Waves of hatred for this scruffy gang of villains pulsed through me. Black rage overcame me, and at that instant I became like a Norse Berserker facing his Viking foes. My eyes blazing with an inner crimson glow—so Cicely told me later—an animal snarl escaped my lips and I seized the two wretches nearest me by their throats and with all my might smashed their skulls together with an audible crunch. Their craniums now caved in like eggshells, I dashed them to the cobblestones, spilling out their brains like porridge from broken bowls. Uttering incoherent cries of terror their three companions attempted to flee. The stupid fools! But Cicely and I were upon them in seconds and they were helpless in our grip.
  Seizing two of them as I had their late accomplices in crime, I dispatched one by dashing out his brains against the stone wall alongside us. The other, who was now moaning and mewling like an insane infant served to nourish me. Still in the throes of my rage, I ripped out his left carotid artery with my fingernails, and squeezing him in a fluctuating embrace as if I were manipulating a bellows, I forced the blood out of him in a stream and drank like a man at a fountain. Oh, the exhilaration of it! Afterwards, Cicely opined that the gin in their blood probably contributed to our mutual pleasure that night. I cannot say. I only know that it was the first time in all of my existence, living or undead, that I had killed in anger and found genuine pleasure that transcended the mere relief which was my customary experience.
  In that both of us were rather heavily besmirched with fresh blood as a result of our unexpected adventure it was necessary for us to obtain voluminous cloaks, which we procured easily enough by smashing a shop window in a more respectable district on our way back to the West End. We decided without question that we must find another district in which to establish our lodgings. If we were to be forced nightly to fight off gangs of cutthroats, it would be only a matter of time before we called attention to ourselves. As it was, the newspapers for several days to come were full of lurid accounts of "the savage murders" in Shoreditch.
  Since I regarded the practice of nightly foraging in the streets of London's less reputable districts to be a thoroughgoing bore, I almost regretted having abandoned my comfortable quarters in Paris. Yet, as I have said again and again, the boredom of that existence had become nearly unbearable. Our principal problem was a lack of familiarity with London. I had never been there before, and Cicely, before leaving England on her honeymoon those many years before, had lived in Oxford. She had visited London from time to time, but was far from intimately acquainted with its environs.
  After a few nights we hit upon a means of hunting quarry which proved to be far less irksome than skulking about the low districts. There was a class of prostitute known as Park women. These unhappy and degraded creatures were utterly lost to all sense of shame. They wandered after nightfall about the paths in the parks most commonly frequented by passersby. And for a few shillings they would submit to any species of humiliation. Since they were invariably women whose features had been severely ravaged by the passage of time, they dared not haunt the more brightly illuminated areas of the city where the brightness of the gas lamps would betray them. Since there was no disgusting practice to which the women of this class would not submit, they thought nothing of accompanying Cicely and myself to some pitch-black corner of Hyde Park. Once there we would take them easily, decapitate their corpses, and bury them in shallow graves. With our strength this task was accomplished quickly with little or no effort. I hit upon the idea of procuring some short-handled digging implements, which I carried about in a cello case.
  We did not abandon our original intention to obtain a more permanent dwelling place, and after several weeks of conscientious investigation we hit upon a solution. A district near the waterfront was ideal, a place frequented by sailors and foreigners. We systematically scoured the borough of Stepney, not too far from Shoreditch, where we had been assaulted by the hapless ruffians, who had fatally mistaken us for West End "swells." We traversed the length of Whitechapel Road and Mile End Road. The southern districts of the borough, which included Ratcliff, Shadwell, Wapping and Limehouse, appeared more to our liking. We settled on a solidly-constructed, but relatively old hotel catering to seafaring men located near The London and India Company's St. Katherine's Docks.
  Just as in Paris, it took considerable time and effort to make the necessary arrangements with the owner. In order for the place to suit our needs we had to appropriate the entire top floor. Then there was the tedious matter of engaging workmen and having the proper alterations performed along with a thousand other details. Nevertheless, by the late Spring of 1870 we were not only ensconced in our new quarters, we had in our employ not one, but two servants, whose loyalty to us was beyond question.
  A young pair of lovers named Elbert and Daisy, they had been in the service of a wealthy wine merchant in Mayfair. His wife had apprehended them in flagrante delicto and in a state of extreme intoxication in the wine cellar. Their sexual debauchery had not displeased her so much as the fact that they had over a period of time seriously depleted her husbands supply of Madeira, which had been laid down by his father, seventy-five years earlier. Harsh words ensued and the drunken servants accidentally killed their mistress. Naturally, they were quickly condemned to swing from "the deadly nevergreen tree" on Tyburn Hill. As in the case of Marcel, I snatched the two from the jaws of death, thereby ensuring their devotion for as long as Cicely and I demanded it.
   
  I know this may seem like an irrelevant question, but it occurs to me that all of this must have been terribly expensive. How did you manage your finances?
   
  Quite simply. As I told you, I had, and indeed, still have little need for money per se. I am quite capable of taking what I need whenever I want it. But if you recall, I did mention that I amassed what could only be regarded as considerable wealth when I first made up my mind to establish a residence in Paris. To substantially increase it required a complicated series of banking arrangements—investments and the like. I used Marcel as my go-between. It was relatively simple as he was illiterate. I provided him with written instructions, and of course carried on all of my own correspondence. Since I dealt in substantial sums the bankers never questioned my eccentricities. Before removing to London I established an account with Barclays and did business as before, using Elbert in the same capacity I had employed Marcel.
  For mere diversionary purposes I learned the identities of several receivers of stolen property who specialized in precious metals and gems. A cautious and canny group of criminals, they meticulously melted down all gold and silver, selling it only as bullion. Similarly, with stones they exercised great caution. All gems were removed from their original settings before being resold. Those large enough to be identified were cut down. Periodically Cicely and I relieved these gentlemen of their excess profits during the dark hours of pre-dawn morning. In this way we maintained more than adequate cash reserves at all times.
  Soon we settled into a rather stable existence which operated much along the same lines as those I had established originally in Paris. We adhered strictly to the policy of selecting only those victims whose presence would not be missed. To afford ourselves a variety of experiences we sometimes sponsored disgusting debaucheries not unlike the ones over which I presided in Paris. On others we chose our prey in the streets, luring them back to our lodgings from low dives and other assorted places of ill repute.
  To fend off the ever present boredom we read with a voracity I honestly believe equalled our thirst for blood. Sometimes for weeks on end we spent the daylight hours in our sealed-off quarters studying languages and other subjects. We became proficient in German, Italian, Greek and Spanish. We kept abreast of world events, merely to take our minds away from the maddening awareness of what we were, and the hopelessness of our condition…
  You are displaying a quizzical expression, doctor.
  How can I convey to you the unspeakable misery that is mine? To exist as we do, neither in nor out of this world is a curse no matter what you may think. Have you any idea of how often I have recalled with sweet sadness the memory of warm sunlight, the taste of wine, a hearty roast, or fresh sweet fruit? I know, you are probably thinking, hah! what brand of madness does this fellow display? He has virtually unlimited strength, he can see in the dark and he is immortal; he is unencumbered by foolish emotions. Yet, I would give it up in an instant if I could, which is why I am here.
  No, say nothing now. I can sense by your expression you do not comprehend me fully yet. But you will. Soon.
  But I have digressed.
   
  Not really. Your feelings are very important. Frankly, I'm beginning to sense that we're on the verge of a breakthrough. It's very healthy when you open up. Now ordinarily I'd suggest that we wrap it up for tonight, but I get the feeling that you would like to keep talking. Am I right?
   
  As a matter of fact, you are. I don't know what makes me so prolix tonight, but I do not feel the need to leave now.
   
  Then by all means let's just keep going till you want to stop.
   
  There is very little more I have to say about my sojourn in London. My existence with Cicely went on like this for a number of years. We saw London's main sewage system completed in 1878. We attended the theatre and the opera frequently. On a limited basis we participated in certain activities of London society.
   
  How did you manage that?
   
  It was quite accidental. My banker, a gentleman accustomed to dealing with wealthy eccentrics, invited me one evening to meet him at his club in Park Lane. I did not look forward to the encounter with anything but apprehension, and as a precautionary measure I fed beforehand. It was in the year 1876 that this occurred, in the month of December to be exact. Preparations were being made for Queen Victoria to be declared Empress of India, and a grand ball was planned in honor of the event on January 1, the day of the proclamation. The banker, Mr. Gregory Ponsonby-Smythe invited me and "my wife," to be his guests.
  Cicely and I thought it best to accept the invitation and did so. I will never forget the expression on Mrs. Ponsonby-Smythe's face when she first met Cicely. It was as though she had seen a ghost. "Good heavens, my dear Mrs. Duroy," she said. "Perhaps it is forward of me to be so personal on the occasion of our first meeting, but… Oh, dear. This is most astonishing."
  "But please, madame," said Cicely, in her superbly simulated French accent. "Be assured I will take no offense at anything you might have to say."
  With that the lady removed a locket that she wore about her neck, and handed it to Cicely, saying, "Please look at the miniature portrait inside. It is the likeness of an ancestress of mine, Lady Penelope Wenlock of Oxford. The resemblance that you bear to her is astonishing.
  There was nothing astonishing about it at all, Cicely told me later. You see, the portrait was that of her own mother. Although Mrs. Ponsonby-Smythe had no way of knowing it, and would never learn the truth, she was Cicely's great grandniece. Perhaps there is some truth to the old saying about blood being thicker than water, for though she had not an inkling of the true relationship she became very fond of Cicely and sought her company far more often that was safe. How were we to explain again and again that we could not accept an invitation to the family estate in Scotland? How could Cicely repeatedly refuse to accompany the lady on one of her frequent afternoon shopping expeditions.
  There was only one thing to do. For a period of two weeks, Cicely paid a call on her relative every night during the post-midnight hours. Each night she drew a substantial quantity of blood from the woman so that for all outward appearances she seemed to be wasting away of some debilitating illness. She died peacefully in her bed exactly fifteen days from the time that Cicely had first tasted her blood. It was a gamble, and one that fortunately resolved itself in our favor. The lady's death occurred during an abnormally warm spell for London, and on the advice of the family physician, she was enbalmed the morning after she breathed her last. This process precluded her entering the ranks of the Dark Society, as Cicely so melodramatically referred to us. We paid our respects, of course, but afterwards assiduously avoided any other social liaisons with the living.
  The affair reminded me of an old Sumerian proverb. "He who dines at the table of the dead is destined soon to be a permanent guest."
  In the following year, 1878, two things occurred which caused me to give serious consideration to the advisability of remaining in London. The C.I.D., New Scotland Yard was founded as a branch of the London Metropolitan Police. They appeared to be extremely efficient, and I foresaw a time when they might seriously hamper our, shall I say for lack of a better term, "lifestyle." In that same year electric street lighting was introduced in London. It did not bode well.
  My apprehensions proved to be unnecessary. The gentlemen of Scotland Yard were never given an opportunity to develop an interest in the activities of Cicely and myself. Furthermore I seriously believed that even had they discovered the residue of our nightly repasts their interest would not have been kindled. In any event had ever we been surprised by a policeman, or group of them, they would have been no match for us. Thus we continued with our existence. We satisfied our own needs and at the same time served as unofficial exterminators of society's most unsavory members.
  Then in the year 1888, on Easter Monday, to be precise, an event occurred, which had such far reaching consequences, it was largely responsible for our removal from London. On that dreary morning the mortal remains of a wretched prostitute named Emma Smith were found on Osborne Street in the heart of the East End, in Whitechapel. Her corpse was fearfully mutilated, but in a way that suggested her murderer was well versed in the science of anatomy. For the first time since the bloody reign of terror by the fiend, Williams, three-quarters of a century earlier, the denizens of Whitechapel were thrown into a frenzy of terror. Now, considering that this district was a veritable sinkhole, inhabited by the lowest dregs of society, you can imagine the nature of these crimes.
  You can imagine also, the effect upon all of London, when Scotland Yard received an insolent message from a correspondent signing himself, "Jack the Ripper," promising that he would slay sixteen more victims.
   
  I don't know all the details, but I'm certainly familiar with the case.
   
  Good. Then it won't be necessary for me to go into great detail. I will only say that Cicely and I found it increasingly more difficult to hunt. Had it not been for foreign sailors and others who spoke little or no English our situation would have been desperate. There was also the matter of the police. They were now operating in the East End in platoons, both in the open and sup rosa. In addition well-meaning matrons of the upper social class began agitating to launch a vigorous campaign aimed at stamping out prostitution.
  "Dear me," Cicely said to me one evening after undergoing a long and arduous search for suitable prey. "I do wish someone would do something about this Ripper chap. He is making our existence more unendurable every day."
  I agreed with her thoroughly, but hardly thought any more of it afterwards. Some time later, on the 10th of November to be exact, during the very early hours of the morning Cicely and I were walking along Dorset Street in Spitalfields, a dingy and poverty-stricken neighborhood. A number of newly arrived emigrant workers lodged here, and were easy prey to pickpockets, cutpurses, prostitutes and other criminals who plied the narrow twisting streets of the East End. With our knowledge of foreign languages it was a simple matter for us to entice one or more of these individuals if we were able to get their ears at the right time.
  There was a heavy, miasma of a fog that night and as we made our way along the street there suddenly appeared ahead of us amidst the swirling mist a dark-haired, stockily built man carrying a paper bag of grapes which he ate as he walked. As was our custom we walked silently on gum-soled boots, so as we closed the distance between the man and ourselves he was unaware of our presence. "Let's take him," whispered Cicely. "I'm beginning to feel the pangs."
  "I suppose we shall have to," I replied. "Let us just hope he isn't a policeman."
  "We can hardly afford to be selective now, my dear," she said. "That bloody Jack has wreaked havoc with my routine. I shall be so glad when they get him… Oh, my God! Look!"
  She seized my arm and pointed. In the brief moment that she had turned to speak to me our quarry had vanished as if into thin air. Then, just as suddenly, a little gust of wind blew a clearing in the fog and we caught sight of him again. He was entering the doorway of a miserable tenement. The number above the door was clearly visible as twenty-six. Our man paused for a moment, noting the sudden break in the blanket of fog, and looked up at the address, then switching his bag of grapes from one hand to the other reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of paper.
  A clattering sound directly behind us broke the silence and we flattened ourselves in the shadows against the wall of the adjacent building. The man whirled around to loon in the direction of the sound. We could see his face clearly. He had a well-trimmed beard and moustache, a medium complexion and relatively fine features. He peered into the fog for a moment, then satisfied that there was no one following him entered the doorway of the wretched tenement.
  "Come," I said. "We'll take him now, before he gets to his destination."
  Without further hesitation we hurried in after him and saw him pause at the foot of the staircase where he peered down at the figure of an old woman who sat huddled there dozing. Momentarily we held back and watched, now thoroughly mystified, for this man dressed as a gentleman, certainly was out of place here. When he saw that the woman was asleep he continued up the stairs and knocked softly on a door just beyond the landing.
  "Let's take the woman first," suggested Cicely.
  "At least she will assuage our hunger till we go to him. Besides, I have a wonderful idea. He was obviously on his way to an assignation. Didn't you see the woman let him in?"
  "So?"
  "Well, we'll take a little from the old woman, a little from him and the rest from his hostess. That should hold us for the night, and we shan't have been forced to leave any bodies about or dispose of them either."
  "Good idea," I said, and without further conversation we each took a small quantity of blood from the throat of the woman.
   
  Weren't you afraid she would cry out?
   
  Heavens no. They never resist. It is part of our, shall I say, "bag of tricks." In olden times it was believed that vampires cast some kind of hypnotic spell over their victims. The idea is rubbish, of course. I believe that our saliva has a kind of instantaneous narcotic effect… and before you ask, let me anticipate your questions. Yes, we do have a small amount of saliva. No, you may not have a sample to submit for analysis.
   
  You underestimate me, Mr. Sexton. Please go on.
   
  She must have been suffering from atherosclerosis, because it seemed to take forever to extract the blood from her throat. I cannot say exactly how long it took, but we left her with enough to survive and then hurried up the stairs to the door of the flat into which the man with the grapes had been admitted. A slight crack of light appeared between the threshold and the bottom of the door, and as we approached I observed that it was slightly ajar.
  "That's odd," murmured Cicely. "Shall we go in?"
  "Of course," I said, "but be prepared to spring if either of them causes any trouble."
  "Really, my dear, I'm quite prepared to find them locked in a lubricious embrace. As I said, shall we?"
  With that she opened the door and gasped. "Good heavens! So that's who he was. It's true, everything we have read about the scoundrel. Look!"
  There on a shabby, blood-drenched bed, lay a woman, completely naked on her back. Her throat was cut from ear to ear so severely that she was almost decapitated. Her spinal cord was visible. Her nose and ears had been cut off and placed on a night table alongside the bed. What remained of her face was so badly slashed, that her most intimate companions would not have recognized her. Her entire abdominal cavity was cut open from the rib cage to the pelvis and the breasts had been amputated. On the table along with the ears and the nose were the kidneys, the heart and the breasts. The liver, blood oozing from it, rested on one thigh and the vagina and uterus were gutted but nowhere to be seen.
  Hideous though the spectacle must have been when it was discovered later by the authorities, only one thought was uppermost in my mind. Salvage what you can! It was a matter of urgency. Cicely and I exchanged glances and went about doing what we must. The body was still warm and I would estimate that we succeeded in drawing about three pints of blood apiece. It was the minimum quantity with which we could survive, but it sufficed.
  The Ripper had apparently finished his grisly work and escaped via a back door. His departure must have been quite precipitous, for he had not bothered to retrieve his bag of grapes. Had we moved a trifle faster we might have gotten to him first. Ah, c'est la vie. And on this note, I think I had best take my leave. For me it is nearly dinner time. Shall we say goodnight?
   
  Yes, I think we have had more than our fill of conversation this evening. Till Monday then?
   
  [Certainly one of the most remarkable sessions to date. The necro-sadistic content of the patient's descriptions resemble some of the more graphic portions of de Sade. The attention to details is significant, especially his description of the Ripper victim. Though it coincides with actual accounts as reported by Scotland Yard, and therefore could be meaningful, at most it indicates that the patient obtained the reports and memorized them. His present lack of emotion, especially during his descriptions of the more sanguinary aspects of his fantasy would again underline his more recognizable schizoid tendencies, as have other mannerisms revealed during previous sessions. Yet, there was no hostility again, and it is quite conceivable, judging by his demeanor, which has now become markedly more cordial, he has been convinced that the therapist now fully accepts his assertion—i. e. that he is a vampire. This may not necessarily be a good sign. If he cannot be made to recognize the implausibility of his fantasy, the impossibility of his delusory existence, hospitalization must be effected. Much of what he has said, and continues to say, may indicate that he has or will commit crimes of violence. It would appear that the crucial point is rapidly approaching.]
Chapter Nineteen
  Monday, July 2.
  [A most disturbing piece of information from a news item in this morning's paper. The decapitated torso of a young woman was found below the walkway of the Queensboro Bridge, halfway between Manhattan and Roosevelt Island. The medical examiner reported two inexplicable aspects concerning the body's condition. There was virtually no blood in it and the point at which the head had been severed was so clean, it indicated that it had either been cut off by a guillotine-like instrument, or severed by a single powerful blow delivered by an assailant of extraordinary strength. It was also theorized that the killer had intended to throw his victim's body into the East River, and would have succeeded had her clothing not become entangled in a sharp protuberance, which left her suspended until discovered by police. The medical report indicated that she was dead for less than twenty-four hours, and fingerprints identified her as Marylou Rennet, 27, a prostitute with a record of numerous arrests. There was no indication that she had been sexually molested.
  If the patient makes no progress this week arrangements will have to be made to commit him for observation, forcibly if necessary.]
   
  Good evening, doctor. I trust you had a pleasant weekend.
   
  Thank you. To be honest I used it to catch up on some work I had backlogged.
   
  Of course. All of us must do what is required of us. Now, I suppose I should continue my narrative at the point I left it on Friday. You can imagine what an uproar there was in the press after the last Ripper murder. What no one knew at the time was that the mysterious ghoul would never show his hand again. For me, however, the incident was enough to convince me that I had had enough of London. There were too many obstacles, such as those I had mentioned earlier.
  I will not bore you with the details of the arrangements we made, for they were not unlike those I had undertaken previous to leaving Paris for London. Cicely had some misgivings, it could well be due to the fact that she had been born on English soil. She agreed, however, that because of the Ripper's effect on London it was most expedient to leave at this time.
  Our traveling arrangements were infinitely simplified this time because we had agreed to attempt a bold experiment. Over the past few years the practice of making transoceanic shipments of frozen meat had become quite commonplace. Some discreet, but intensive questioning of butchers in the meat warehouses provided us with the answers. Although the details were somewhat complicated, we succeeded in packing our coffins with a mixture of ordinary ice mixed with a certain proportion of solidified carbonic acid and ether. This produced a prolonged temperature of minus 100°. It had occurred to me that we might very well travel in the frozen state and therefore, during that time require no nourishment. Naturally, before undertaking our journey we experimented with the process in the privacy of our secret quarters. We found my theory to be correct. We were able to enter the frozen state and remain in it indefinitely.
   
  How can you state indefinitely? I mean, think about what you've just said.
   
  Very well, I'll amend the statement. I see your point. I believe that we could have remained frozen indefinitely. I can state unequivocally that we were able to sustain ourselves without feeding, frozen, for as long as the freezing mixture lasted, which proved to be about seven days, based on the quantity we employed. We also discovered that it was inadvisable to use ordinary ice, but to restrict ourselves to the solidified carbonic acid gas and ether.
   
  This may he a rather obvious question, but why have you bothered to go through all of these sessions? Wouldn't it have been easier for you to merely join a cryonic society and have yourself idefinitely frozen?
   
  Are you attempting to be facetious, doctor?
   
  Not at all. That would seem to be the most logical solution to your problem. Don't you see the logic in it?
   
  I do not. There is nothing final about having one's body frozen—at least, not for me and my kind. All I would be doing would be to prolong the agony. Now, if you don't mind I shall bring us to the present and then we can explore some viable solutions.
   
  By all means then. Go ahead.
   
  When I tell you what happened next you will understand why I do not choose to abandon myself to the care of others. We arranged for every last detail, finances, transfer of funds to Paris, reopening of the Paris flat. The owner of the hotel in which it was situated had long since died, as had Marcel. But his son carried on his responsibilities and was prepared to receive us—believing us to be the son and daughter-in-law of the original tenants. Everything was in order. Elbert and Daisy were left in a similar caretaker situation in London and the coffins were shipped on the first morning upon which we entered into our extended slumber.
  I should explain that there is absolutely no sensation of time-passage. When we awoke, it was as though only a single daylight period had passed. There was something odd, however, when we awoke. I had thoroughly expected to find us in the familiar surroundings of the Paris flat. Instead, we quickly discovered that we were in an unfamiliar railway baggage room. As I looked around me I was gradually aroused to a state of absolute fury. Something had gone wrong, and we were in Germany—in the central rail terminal of Berlin, to be exact. Some idiots had made a monumental mistake, and here we were.
  Fortunately my anger abated almost at once. As I have told you, it is not our nature to experience emotions as do the living. My anger in this instance was due to the discovery that a specific set of plans had been temporarily thwarted. Since time was of no consequence, it was merely a matter of setting things straight. As Cicely put it, "At least we shan't be bored for a while."
  Fortunately we both spoke German with the fluency of natives, and as soon as we were certain that there was no one about we hurried out onto the concourse, which, considering the lateness of the hour was fairly crowded. Between us we had nearly ten thousand Francs, so we encountered no difficulty in purchasing a sufficient number of Marks from a currency speculator, after which I obtained a map of Berlin.
  After studying it I accosted a man in an imposing looking uniform—he proved to be a railway guard—and said, "Bitte, mein herr, but we are strangers to Berlin. Would you please be so kind as to tell us what districts to avoid after dark. My wife has a most delicate constitution and it is imperative that I spare her anxiety at all costs."
  "Ja ja," he replied sympathetically. "Keep to the lighted districts, the Ku'damm, Unter den Linden, the cafes near the Tiergarten. But avoid the forested areas, especially the Grunewald. Though it is perfectly safe by day, and indeed, one of the garden spots of our great city, it must be avoided at all costs after dark, for it is a haunt of ruffians and cutthroats who prey upon the unsuspecting."
  I thanked the man, gave him a generous tip and joined Cicely. All I need tell you is that we engaged a carriage and proceeded at once to the Grunewald, much to the driver's consternation. It's beauty must have been exactly what the railway guard said it was in the summer time. But this was December and the weather was cold. Fortunately after about an hour of driving about we saw a shabby looking young woman running along the Goldfink Weg at the edge of the Grunewald. She appeared frightened. Seeing our carriage she ran toward us. Cicely and I looked at each other and exchanged smiles.
   
  [Patient paused here and gave me an extraordinary, sardonic smile.]
   
  Knowing me as you must now, doctor, I am certain I need not go into detail insofar as what happened next. However I doubt if you can imagine our next move—or perhaps you can. We could not very well dispose of the young woman's body without attracting the attention of the driver, so he had to go, too. After severing the heads from the bodies, we left them in the Grunewald, and on the spur of the moment adopted a bold plan. "Listen to me," I said. "Suppose we attempt to drive from Berlin to Paris. We have a carriage and a horse. What do you say?"
  "I think it's insane," she replied. "What is the distance? At least six hundred miles I would say. And what are our chances of finding shelter each morning before sunup? Slim at best." Then she smiled at me, her eyes glowing and added, "But it is the most exciting idea I have heard since my first lover proposed an indecent act when I was alive."
  I must say, doctor, the journey was the closest experience to being alive again that I can ever recall. Mercilessly driving the poor beast that drew our carriage, I realized after several hours of breakneck galloping that he would never survive the trip at this pace. Thus before he was about to drop I slowed him to a walk on the outskirts of Magdeburg near a farm. Stealing into the barn I found another horse, who unfortunately appeared terrified at my approach, and neighed so loudly I was certain he would attract the farmer's attention.
  Nevertheless my strength prevailed and I led him away. Cicely in the meanwhile had unhitched our exhausted steed and replaced him with the new arrival as I led the Berlin horse to his new home.
  The sky was beginning to lighten behind us as we approached a small inn several miles outside of Helmstedt. A sleepy landlord reluctantly gave us a room, which we paid for in advance, and we barely succeeded in taking cover by dawn. It was far more important that we plan the rest of our journey, so we consulted the map we had purchased in Berlin. On the obverse side was printed a map of Europe, and it was from this I had arrived at the idea of traveling as we were now to Paris.
  "You know," said Cicely. "We were very fortunate in covering such a distance in one night."
  She was quite right, of course, and in calculating the balance of our cross country trek I was far more conservative. I estimated that it would take us a minimum of eight more days passing through Braunschweig, Bielefeld, Minister, Essen and Düsseldorf before we crossed over the Belgian border.
  Like the troops of General Sherman during the American Civil War, we "lived off the land." Since we had no intentions of ever returning to the towns and villages through which we passed, we were unconcerned with covering our tracks. In fact, once or twice—several times, in fact—I did not bother to decapitate our victims. These were districts peopled by superstitious peasants. I was reasonably certain that once they discovered vampires in their midst they would make short work of them. These were the sort of folk untroubled by the inhibitions imposed upon thinking by modern science and philosophy.
  An incredible adventure befell us at a country estate northeast of Brussels. Desiring an early start on that particular evening, we embarked two hours after sunset. It was still fairly light, but we were perfectly safe, for there were no direct rays of the sun. We were concerned, for the pangs had begun to plague us both, but it was too light to seek victims. Besides, we were in open country. The danger was not great, but the prospect of enormous discomfort was quite real.
  Shortly before total darkness had fallen I observed an inordinate number of carriages on the road, all heading in the same direction. One by one the drivers were lighting their lamps and before long the road ahead resembled a procession of fireflies. My concern increased, for the number of vehicles impeded our progress. Finally, out of desperation I whipped my horse to a trot and pulled alongside the carriage directly in front of ours. It was larger, more sturdy and drawn by four horses.
  "Tell me, my good fellow," I called to the driver. "What is the occasion of this procession?"
  "The annual masquerade ball of the Marquis de la Geuronier. If you ain't an invited guest you'll be in trouble on this road."
  "Good heavens!" I exclaimed, thinking fast. "I thought it was next week. Listen, I am Doctor Duroy. Tell me, which of the guests is in this carriage?"
  "The Comte and Comtesse de Montmirail," he replied haughtily, "Can't you see the crest?"
  "It's too dark," I replied, "but I am delighted. They are old friends. Please, pull to the side of the road that I might ask them how to solve the dilemma of my costume. "
  Between the authoritative tone of my voice and the position of my carriage, he could hardly refuse. Obeying my request he stopped the carriage, and of course the passengers, immediately opened the window to see what was the interruption. Cicely, having taken in my every word knew exactly what was on my mind.
  Moving like the wind, she leapt from our carriage and cried, "My dear comtesse, how lovely to see you like this!" Before the startled woman could reply, my companion was inside the coach. Moving with equal alacrity, I jumped to the seat of the larger coach, seized the driver by the throat and throttled him before he could utter a sound. Then pulling him down I threw him into the Berlin carriage and whipped the horse, who moved off up the road in a flash. All of this happened, you understand, in the twinkling of an eye as it were. And being as dark as it was, no one on the road in any of the other carriages could have seen a thing.
  I climbed into the coach at once in time to see that my resourceful friend had bludgeoned the two passengers into unconsciousness, each with the other's head. We then fed most leisurely and when finished were about to get rid of the bodies, when Cicely had another of her brilliant ideas. "Look at the gorgeous costumes they're wearing. Let's put them on and go to the masquerade ourselves."
  "Are you mad?" I said.
  "Not at all," she replied. "And you will agree with me implicitly when I tell you my scheme."
  And she was right. It was simply this: to dress in the costumes worn by the late count and his wife, attend the masquerade for the express purpose of selecting two more victims whom we could take away with us on the next leg of our journey. The costumes were Harlequin and Columbine, and once we had them on it would have been impossible to distinguish us from their deceased owners, whose mortal remains we threw into a ditch alongside the road. The only difficulty we encountered was having no driver, but I solved the problem by driving myself and explaining the matter by telling them at the chateau that my driver had been taken suddenly ill on the road, forcing me to do the obvious.
  The ball was a brilliant affair and ideally suited to our purposes. The guests were attired in magnificent fancy dress creations ranging from clowns to animals to kings and queens. There were acrobats and kilted Scotsmen, ballerinas, togaed Romans and half-naked harem girls. There were a number of American-style cowboys and a sprinkling of Indian Maharajas, Arabian sheikhs, and painted African warriors. There were even a pair of vampires—a Lord Ruthven and his lady, taken from the pages of the John Polidori novel. I was curious to see if they were real, but it was easy to ascertain that they were very much of the false variety.
  Because of the masks the inhibitions were left behind. With the veritable fountains of champagne and other liquors that flowed like the torrential waters of the Niagara, most of the guests were drunk before eleven o'clock. And the open debauchery was disgusting. I counted no less than eleven couples copulating under tables, beneath sofas, and upon balconies. As for some of the other acts we witnessed being performed, we might as well have been present at a Roman orgy of antiquity.
  A robust appearing pair of revelers who had sated themselves on one another's bodies and lost consciousness from their efforts seemed to be the most likely candidates for our traveling companions. We arranged them between us and pretended to stagger out, a drunken ménage à quatre. They were attired as a pair of druids, with long, white flowing garments, which were easy to tear into shreds and use as bonds once we had them in the carriage of the late Comte de Montmirail.
  "What I suggest we do now," said Cicely, once we had begun to get underway, "is keep them till we get to Paris. We will just partake of a minimum subsistence until then and save a tremendous amount of time. Frankly, my dear, I'm getting bored with this cross-country coach travel."
  "I have to agree with you," I told her. But then I pointed out that at least now we were riding in a far more splendid rig with double the horsepower.
  The balance of our journey to Paris was quite uneventful. We made far better time, as you can well imagine, having our sustenance with us. They evinced great terror when they first regained consciousness before we retired for the first day, but then quickly fell into a deep lethargy, in which state they remained until we were able to dispose of them after our arrival in Paris.
  I was honestly rather pleased to be back in Paris. I had nothing against London, but I think I had grown more comfortable in my Paris lodgings than I realized. Cicely, on the other hand, preferred London. She made up her mind, therefore, to return to her native soil. I urged her to make use of the East End quarters, for I had no intention of ever going back there myself. It took several weeks to obtain a proper coffin in which to ship her to London in the frozen state, but when it was delivered, and we had both determined that it was adequate, I personally supervised the arrangements. But before we parted forever, on the eve of her departure, we went to the opera and enjoyed a superb performance of Aida.
   
  You just went your separate ways, like that? No regrets, no feelings of—
   
  You keep forgetting, doctor, we are merely animated corpses, and not subject to human emotions.
   
  But Mr. Sexton, during the past few sessions you have repeatedly mentioned becoming enraged, angry, why moments ago you talked about being pleased to be back in Paris. Don't you see the inconsistency?
   
  Not at all. I use these terms to convey to you shades of meaning. I am not trying to split semantic hairs, but when I talk about emotions I am referring to such things as love, hate, sadness and joy. Anger and rage relate to frustration of purpose. I regard these—emotions if you will—as reactions to any impediment to the accomplishment of my essential needs.
  Now, with Cicely gone, my needs, I soon came to realize were considerably simplified. Her company had been pleasant, but unnecessary. Having spent such a great quantity of time in her company and in the company of others over the years that we had been together was well and good at the time. Now a return to solitude was welcome. I took stock of the world around me and concluded that the advancement of civilization into a more modern era had positive aspects for me as well as such drawbacks as more efficient police methods and electric street lighting. The advent of the telephone made my existence infinitely easier, especially as it related to dealings with my bankers. There was another social advance that had an enormous effect on my convenience—embalming. The practice had become so widespread that I could, from time to time, safely leave a victim intact when I was finished.
  I had no desire to attract large crowds of debauchees to midnight soirees anymore, yet I found it convenient for a while to bring home victims in twos or threes at the most. I placed them in a hospital-ward-like room with cots, and kept them alive for several weeks, until they eventually weakened and died. Then of course, I disposed of them in my customary way.
  For diversion I increased my reading and in the evenings I frequented theaters, brothels and hospitals where I found my victims. But again, as you can imagine that terrible boredom set in. I took up painting in the year 1894. It was the year that Massanet's Thais opened and also the year that Louis Lumière invented the cinematograph. By 1898, the year that the Curies discovered radium and polonium, I was an accomplished painter and my canvases were now the rage of Paris.
  I had not intended to sell them. I had discarded a number of them merely to make room for more materials. My servant had found them and learned that he was able to realize a considerable profit from them. When I discovered what had taken place he was terrified, for he thought most certainly I would punish him. I think he suspected my true nature, but I cannot be sure. In any event I merely instructed him to bring the gallery owner to me one evening and adhering to my role as a nocturnal eccentric I negotiated an extremely advantageous financial arrangement.
  To return momentarily to the discoveries of Madame Curie and her husband—I followed them with interest because I was certain that radium would be dangerous to me, and I wished to be fully aware of any progress vis-à-vis its usage. I did not wish, for example to go near any laboratory in a hospital where I might inadvertently be exposed to radiation. I had not yet arrived at my present attitude, of deliberately seeking the ability to end my cursed existence.
  For the next forty years I settled into a deadly, dull, yet extremely profitable existence painting. I had to change my style several times, not to mention my name. My servant, Marcel's son, became entirely too difficult as he became senile so I pensioned him off and sent him to the south of France, where no one would pay any attention to his cackling and raving about his master who never grew old.
  Then came the rumbles of War in 1938. The first War had not affected me in the slightest, but when the Germans invaded France in 1940, and the French surrendered, I was concerned. I engaged a female servant, for the successor to Marcel's son was drafted. When Paris was occupied by the Wehrmacht and the SS, even I could feel the inconvenience. Between curfews and restrictions I was forced into the shadows more than ever before in my entire existence. Had it not been for my secret means of coming and going through the forgotten attic above my lodgings I would have had even more serious difficulties than I did. And I can assure you, they were serious enough.
  Though I did my best to remain in the dark and avoid any contact with the Germans at all costs, occasional encounters were inevitable. One night I encountered two black uniformed SD troopers searching for Maquis. They wanted to question me and I had no time for them. When one of the arrogant fools fired several shots from his automatic pistol into my chest at point blank range, I took the weapon from him, slammed it on the side of his head and crushed it like an egg.
  His comrade, unable to believe his own eyes reached for his pistol and by now I was so enraged I knocked it from his hand, seized him by the throat, and tore his right arm from its socket. He screamed horribly for a moment, but I quickly silenced him by slashing his throat open and drinking my fill. I left him where he lay in the gutter and quickly returned to my lodgings. For some days afterwards I wondered. Did they find his body and embalm him on time, or is there, even to this day, a one-armed vampire with a German accent skulking the dark, back alleys of Paris?
  Ah, I could tell you many such tales, my dear doctor, but I doubt if they would interest you. Let me just bring my story up-to-date. As you can imagine, I adapted quickly to wartime Paris, and found the well-fed Germans to be a fine source of nourishment for me. I did from time to time encounter one or more of them, who wore the Nazi black, and who attempted to assert their misbegotten authority over me. They all died horribly, and like the first one, some may still be stalking the Parisian streets.
  I had, I should add, acquired during the 1930's and early forties, before wartime shortages interfered, a superb collection of phonograph records, as well as the finest radio receiver and loudspeakers available in Europe. Listening as I frequently did to the transmissions of American Armed Forces Radio I developed a strong desire to return to America. I therefore resolved to make the necessary arrangements as soon as hostilities ended.
  It was only a matter of being patient. Meanwhile, anticipating the need for a financial stake when I returned to America, by means of some rather complicated illegal transactions I accumulated a quantity of eighteen K louis d'or. My time eventually arrived. The war ended and American troops entered Paris. So infectious was the rejoicing, that even I found myself swept up in it the first night. My victim that evening was an ex-gestapo informer.
  My initial plan had been to have myself shipped, frozen, as I had sent Cicely back to London. But then it struck me that there was no need to do anything of the sort. A bit of judicious investigating on my part led me to a graves registration officer who was on leave in Paris, and whom I encountered in a cafe. We struck up a conversation, and he explained to me how his branch of the United States Army shipped back the remains of dead troops. He was due to join a ship bound for the Brooklyn terminus of the army's transportation corps. Did you know that the U.S. Army Transportation Corps, Water Division had more ships afloat during the war than the navy? This is what the officer told me, and I had no reason to doubt him.
  His ship was to sail from Marseilles in a week's time. I was determined to be aboard it. It was an easy matter for me to obtain a military uniform and the necessary passes and identification. I placed my gold louis in an ordinary GI canvas bag and set out for the nearest military airfield. Since I had taken the precaution to obtain the papers and insignia of a colonel, it was quite easy for me to obtain passage on an aircraft heading for Marseilles. As I had gone one step further, and obtained the insignia of the Medical Corps as well, upon my arrival in Marseilles I commandeered a jeep and a driver and went to the nearest base hospital.
  There I obtained several quarts of fresh blood, and for the first time in my experience in the undead state, I fed without having to attack a living person. The blood was not as easy to ingest as the fresh variety, but it sufficed. I experimented by trying some reconstituted plasma, and though it tasted dreadful, I could tell by the effect it had as it was absorbed by my bodily tissues that it would do as a substitute for fresh, whole blood if necessary.
  My next step was to find the morgue in which the bodies of dead soldiers were stored prior to being loaded aboard the ship scheduled to take them home. It was a simple enough matter to find a coffin labeled "Unknown," remove the remains therein, and take its place after making certain adjustments on the coffin lid making it easier for me to open and close it without making noise.
  The rest was child's play. I remained in the coffin by day and emerged by night with my colonel's uniform, at which time I obtained the blood I needed, or accepting plasma if that was all I could get. There was so much confusion aboard the troopship that when I emerged from the coffin at night, as I displayed the rank of colonel, I encountered no difficulties whatsoever during the entire crossing.
  When my coffin was unloaded at Brooklyn Army Base it was placed in a temporary morgue for unknowns. On the first night there, after taking my minimum requirement of plasma—it was all I could obtain now—I slipped from the mortuary under cover of darkness, again commandeered a jeep and driver, and went off on a nocturnal scouting expedition of my own.
  It was an urgent mission I was on that night, for I had to find a permanent place for myself—at least a reasonably permanent place. I was in no position to obtain lavish quarters such as those I had in Paris or London. A simple vault in a cemetery would have to do for now. My determination paid me dividends, for by two o'clock in the morning I had succeeded in rousing the night watchman from his illicit slumbers in the shabby little office at a cemetery in Brooklyn—I needn't mention its name for obvious reasons.
  The old man was less than pleased at my insistence that he show me certain records, but I had no difficulty in persuading him to obey me, and within an hour I had found a mausoleum whose owners had been gone from the city for over thirty years. It was perfect for me. I determined its whereabouts, went to investigate it, and though it was a bit difficult to break the lock on the door without doing any permanent damage, I finally succeeded. It suited me perfectly. All I had to do now was make arrangements for my military coffin to be removed here and I was established.
  This operation took considerable maneuvering and manipulation, but I succeeded on the following night in achieving my purpose. It was substantially aided by virtue of my using the gold louis. There was a great deal of complicated coming and going, shuffling of papers and the assertion of determined authority. It is fascinating how, in the military, if one speaks firmly and wears the proper insignia, the lower ranks will perform virtually any task, no matter how foolish it may seem, or indeed, how lacking in morality.
  In any event, by three that morning I was firmly established in the little mausoleum. It was the last time I had any dealings with the army. I had fed before taking the trip to Brooklyn, so I spent the hours remaining to me before daylight in reconnoitering the cemetery and familiarizing myself with the various pathways, the entrance and the surrounding area.
  The next night I left my coffin after sundown and began the task of getting to know the neighborhood. Once I knew that, I expanded my nightly sorties until I thoroughly familiarized myself with Brooklyn, which I had not known as a young man when I lived in New York. I studied the subway system. How fascinating it was for me to see what progress had done to the city of my birth.
  I learned very quickly to satisfy my hunger as a rule between the hours of midnight and two A.M. I found the most fruitful hunting ground to be on the Bowery, in the shadows of the elevated structure. Sometimes I would select a victim from the ranks of stragglers in Grand Central Station. Derelicts of all ages and runaways of both sexes were ideal prey, as were the painted streetwalkers who frequented the areas most favored by tourists. I discovered the haunts of sexual deviates in Greenwich Village, and frequently put them out of their misery. The men were always easier to take for they invariably mistook me for a potential lover until it was too late. The women always struggled and fought. I no longer worried about dismembering bodies, for I knew that when discovered they were removed to the morgue and embalmed within twenty-four hours in most cases. In any event, to this day I have never encountered another member of the Dark Society in this city.
  During the first decade after the war I was rarely bored for I devoted my waking dark hours to exploring the city. It was an intriguing exercise to visit places—areas I had known as a youth—and see what had become of them. Most, of course, no longer existed. It was hard to believe that this vast metropolis of steel and concrete had once been covered with rolling hills, with meadows and charming tree-dotted farms and estates. It was sad, that is to say, it indicated a disappearance of an aesthetic quality that could never be recaptured in the modern age.
  By the mid-sixties the old boredom had set in again, I had lost all desire to travel, to explore, to have social intercourse with the living, yet the inner force that drove me to survive was more than I could overcome. I began to read works on psychology and it was then I made up my mind to see if the field of psychiatry held any hope for me. Again, this was after the passage of some years. I selected you, Dr. Wallman…
Epilogue
  Russell Dorne rubbed his eyes. They burned. He looked at his wristwatch. It was after three in the morning. No wonder he felt so stiff He had been reading the transcript for four solid hours. Admittedly, he had gone back and reread a few sections. But it was crazy. Obviously, Wallman had never for a moment believed that his patient was a vampire. They didn't exist. Yet, Christ! he thought to himself. If it weren't for the shrink's comments at the end of each session, I'd be half inclined to believe every word I read. Ridiculous! Then something struck him as peculiar. Why had there been no comments at the end of the last page of transcript? Not that the good doctor had been making much progress. All he could be sure of was that Sexton was as crazy as an eight-legged snake with zebra stripes.
  He suddenly became aware that he was not alone and he looked up. Wallman had come into the waiting room. "Perfect timing, doctor, " said Dorne. "I just finished a few minutes ago."
  "Well then, what did you make of it?"
  "I think you had him pretty well pegged. He was a complete loony."
  "Suppose, for the sake of argument, that such things as vampires existed. What would be your judgement then?"
  Dorne closed the cover on the transcript, put it down on the end table beside where he sat and stretched. "Well," he said. "If that were the case, I'd theorize that he used his supernormal power, did a human fly number and let himself into Garson's apartment via the balcony or one of the windows. Not knowing that the kid was freaked out on a heavy acid trip, he drank his blood, then on the outside chance that the body might not be found for over twenty-four hours, hacked off the head, and left the way he came. The problem then was that the drug hit him. He had never experienced it before and it loused up his perceptions so badly that he never quite made it back to the grave on time, and so, sic transit gloria Sexton. That's the way I'd figure it assuming there were vampires, and he was one of them. So now, you want to tell me what you think?"
  The psychiatrist nodded. "Come into my office," he said. "You see, I found out quite recently, that Sexton was indeed a vampire. In every sense of the word."
  "Now wait a minute, doctor…"
  "No, I'm quite serious. You didn't see the last part of the transcript. When you read it, I think you'll understand."
  Dorne grinned. It sounded a bit strange, but then, in his experience, most shrinks were strange and then some. "Okay,' he said, "lead the way. "
  Wallman opened the door to his office, followed Dorne in and closed the door behind them. "The rest of the transcript is on my desk," he declared, pointing to a sheaf of papers. "That's all right, go ahead, sit in my chair."
  Dorne dropped into the chair and picked up the papers. The first page was blank. He lifted it off the pile. The second was blank also. "Say, doctor, what is this, I don't get…" The words froze in his throat.
  A chill went down his back as he noticed for the first time that the psychiatrist was pale as a corpse. His eyes had an eerie reddish glow, like the redeye that appears in color photographs, when a flash goes off directly into the subject's eye. But in the case of Wallman's eyes there seemed to be some weird, inner fire. The doctor opened his mouth and licked his lips, a sardonic smile began spreading across his features. Dorne tried to rise, but he felt paralyzed as the room began to spin. The red, burning eyes seemed to expand and whirl as they came closer and closer. The last thing the detective could remember before blacking out was the sensation of icy hands forcing his head back and a sharp pain of teeth sinking into his throat.

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