The Vampire Affair - McDaniel David (читать книги без TXT) 📗

Napoleon's gaze followed her pointing finger and found, in the shadows next to the spot of sunlight, the figure of a man, bent over two or three volumes. A notebook could be seen beside him, and he seemed to be recording material copiously.

"I am sure he would be willing to share his books with you, sir," she said. "He is an American, like yourself." She shook her head. "I do not understand what your people find so interesting in stories made up by old women to frighten their grandchildren. Please leave the books at the front office when you have finished." And she disappeared into the shadows.

Napoleon carried his books over towards the sunspot, and quietly took a seat across from the other American. He was about Solo's height, but heavier. He seemed deeply engrossed in his books, and did not look up. At last Napoleon cleared his throat, and said, "I beg your pardon...."

The American looked up with slight surprise, and Napoleon continued, "Our researches seem to be overlapping. May I look at the books you've finished with?"

"Well, sure," said the other. "Golly, I didn't expect to run into another American here. Uh, how's your Rumanian?"

"Good enough. Having trouble?"

"Here and there, none at the moment. I've been using this dictionary to get me over the rough spots." He rubbed his eyes and squinted. "What brings you here after awful things like werewolves and vampires?"

Napoleon was instantly alert. "Sort of an investigation," he said cautiously. "What about you?"

The man smiled. With the light mustache and slightly receding hairline, he resembled a fuller-faced Vincent Price, but without the comic villainy affected by the actor. "My work," he said. "I specialize in horror films. Just came from Trieste, and a sci-fi film festival. I took the opportunity to stop off in Transylvania on my way north, and collect some facts on real monsters."

"You make horror movies?"

"No, just write about them. I run a magazine devoted to the subject—Famous Monsters of Filmland. And a quarter of a million readers consider me to be the world's greatest authority on monsters, vampires, ghouls and werewolves—not to mention spaceships, mutants, time machines, and anything else you can think of that Hollywood has ever used to scare audiences. And believe me, it takes a lot of work to keep up with my reputation. That's what I'm doing now." He indicated the books open around him.

Napoleon nodded. "Maybe we could be of help to each other," he said. "My name is Napoleon Solo."

The other man smiled in pleasant surprise. "You don't say! You work for U.N.C.L.E., don't you? I've heard a little bit about you. Do you really think I could help you out? Don't tell me you're investigating a werewolf or..." His eyes and mouth opened wide as something hit. "Oh! I remember! Is it the vampire murders up in the mountains a month or so ago? I heard some rumors at the film festival about them."

Napoleon hesitated, then nodded. This amiable American seemed to know an unusual amount for a casually met tourist. But he could be checked out with New York, and if he was an expert on vampires, he could definitely come in handy. "Yes, that's it, Mr....ah..."

"Ackerman. Forrest J Ackerman—no period on the J. But call me Forry. Tell me all about them—but first tell me if I can publish it."

"I'm afraid not. Besides, I don't think you would like something this real. It's not nearly as much fun as in the movies." He glanced at his watch. "We can talk later. We only have three and a half hours until the library closes. Let me give you a quick rundown on what we want to know now, and we can go through some of these books with it in mind."

He didn't dare tell Ackerman about their experience in the woods the night before, but he mentioned the Vlad Tsepesh and said he had been seen around the village by reliable witnesses, which was certainly true.

The spot of sunlight moved along the table while they talked and worked over the great dusty volumes of history, and was starting up the wall at the end of the room when the librarian came back in with a little bell to warn them that closing time was almost upon them.

They found rumors and old stories dating back two hundred and sixty years to the death of the Vlad Tsepesh, stories which linked him with a pack of wolves which would harry his prey through the forest until it dropped from exhaustion, after which he would swoop down in the form of a giant bat and suck its blood. Ackerman knew of similar legends from all over Europe, and was able to put many aspects of the stories into perspective as part of the folk traditions of the Balkans.

It was getting towards dusk as they stepped out into the parklike area surrounding the public buildings of Brasov. Forry and Napoleon walked side by side down the broad stone steps, and Solo looked around for Zoltan.

There was no sign of him. The night guard at the Hall of Records remembered him from a description, but said he had left when the Hall closed about an hour ago. He had asked about the library's hours, and presumably had gone there. Napoleon shook his head.

"Who's your friend?" Forry asked. "Somebody else from U.N.C.L.E.?"

"No," said Napoleon. "He's Rumanian. A Count, as a matter of fact. I think you'd be interested in meeting him."

"A genuine Rumanian Count? I sure would! Golly, my monster-fans will be surprised when I tell them about this. Er—I can tell them about meeting him, can't I?"

"That'll be up to him. But you have no idea how surprised they'll be." He looked around the area in the gathering darkness. A few scattered streetlights were coming on around the park, but there was no moon, and the stars were lost in the sky-glow of the city. "I just wonder where he could be."

"What's his name?"

"Zoltan."

"Zoltan what?"

"Ah...I think that had better wait until you meet him."

Across the grass of the park came a familiar sound—the mutter of an angry crowd approaching. Napoleon listened, and a moment later he heard the pounding footsteps of a man running on the pavement coming towards them. The mob was coming from the same direction. Napoleon looked down the concrete walk toward the parking lot. "Oh-oh," he said. "Here comes Zoltan."

He started up the walk at a trot, with a rather puzzled Ackerman close behind him. "What's going on here?" he was asking.

"You'll find out when you meet Zoltan," Napoleon promised. "Right now we've got to get him out of here."

"But..."

Napoleon was fumbling in his pocket. "Can you drive a Poboda?"

"I can drive—what's a Poboda?"

"Look for the big black car. Looks like an old Plymouth, sort of lumpy. Here are the keys. Just get in and get the motor running. We'll be along in a minute."

They came off the end of the walk as he handed Ackerman the keys and pointed him towards the car, then headed off in the direction of the growing sound.

The mob was no longer in full cry, but it was still approaching. Across a wide lawn and the street, Napoleon realized with a slight shock that some of them actually were carrying torches—tightly rolled cylinders of newspaper, from the way they flared, but torches nonetheless. The whole thing seemed almost fantastic, as he watched the mob hunting a man they must have sincerely believed to be a vampire. It didn't seem real—more like some dream after a double-feature horror film. But it probably seemed pretty real to Zoltan, Napoleon realized, looking about him. He should be somewhere around here....