The Avenger 33 - The Blood Countess (4 page)

The conductor remained exactly where he was, holding onto the bridge beneath him, afraid to move.

Man’el laughed as he and the bearded man walked along the bridge toward car 8072. “Like a little baby, that one. Afraid he will fall.”

“Every man is afraid of something.” The leader jumped up to the metal staircase leading into the club car.

There was a very faint sound of glass shattering. From around his feet a swirl of blackness began to grow. In seconds he was completely engulfed in inpenetrable blackness. It was as though night had suddenly fallen, night without a single star.

“What is this? What’s happening?”

In answer to his question, a fist struck his chin. The force of the blow knocked him across the small vestibule into a metal wall. Before he could clear his head, his unseen assailant delivered several more fierce blows.

The leader slumped to his knees, toppled over onto his face, and passed out.

The cloud of blackness had spilled out onto the bridge, surrounding Man’el. “What is going on? I can’t see!”

He turned, then turned again. There was darkness on all sides of him. Perhaps if he could get inside the train he could see again. The train was this way, wasn’t it? He turned, thrust out his hands like a man newly blind, and began walking slowly ahead.

“Where are you?” he called to his fallen leader.

No answer came.

Man’el took another step forward, and another. He knew he must be nearly to the train. He took one more step and . . .

He’d been walking in the wrong direction. He realized that, too late, as he went plunging from the bridge.

“Two down,” said the Avenger. He was on the other side of the train. The moment the halt had come, he’d stepped out. Now, after using a capsule of the blackout gas on the leader and Man’el, he edged along the bridge for the remaining two gunners.

On the other side of the train they were carefully coming closer to the now dissipating black cloud. He could see their booted feet beneath the cars.

“Deus,
what was that stuff?” said one.

“Smoke, some kind of smoke.”

“No, it was more than smoke.”

The Avenger caught hold of a metal ladder that ran up the side of one of the cars.

Inside, a small dark boy was watching him, wide-eyed, nose flat against the glass.

The Avenger put his finger to his lips, then went up the ladder.

From the top of the car he watched the two men. In his hand was the unique .22 pistol he called Mike.

Getting down flat, he bellied across to the edge of the car. Resting his gun hand in the palm of the other, he took aim and fired.

The slug dug a furrow in the hand of the rear gunman. He yelled, dropping his machine gun. The weapon bounced, jumped up, and went spinning off the bridge.

“Drop yours now.” The Avenger was on his feet, gun pointing down at the last armed man.

The man seemed to be thinking about it. He said,
“Sim,
as you say,
senhor.”

The gun clattered to the bridge.

McClurg slapped the base of the desk fan. “Nothing seems to work quite right around here,” he said to Richard Henry Benson. The fan blades rattled, but spun no faster.

The Avenger said, “About the men who waylaid the train . . .”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry about that. This part of Panazuela is pretty wild, so—”

“They told me, the head man did, they came from here in Mostarda.”

“Got them to talk, eh? I’ll have to take some lessons from you. I can never—”

“They were hired by a man named Bulcão,” the Avenger continued. “The local police profess not to know anything about him.”

“Let me make a note of that name.” He began searching the desk top for a memo pad. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Rodney was a fearful slob. This office is a—”

“The name Bulcão means nothing to you?”

“No, nothing. As I explained, I only arrived here early today.”

“Whoever the man is, he had to get his information from someplace,” said Benson. “No one in Mostarda knew what train I was arriving on except Rodney.”

McClurg gave up his search for a pad to stare at the Avenger. He couldn’t see him very clearly in the twilight office. Clicking on the desk lamp, he said, “Rodney may have been disorderly, but he was certainly loyal. I knew him at Georgtown University and—”

“Either Rodney or someone who works here in the consulate told Bulcão.”

Leaning back, McClurg ran knuckles over his high forehead. “If what you suggest is at all true,” he said, “I’d better keep on my toes.”

“There’s someone else I’d like you to check on.”

“Oh, I haven’t even written down the other fellow’s name yet. I’ll make a note on the blotter for now. What was it again?”

“Bulcão.”

“If I know the Portuguese, it’s not spelled like it sounds at—”

Benson spelled the name, then said, “The other man is Dr. Antonio Bouchey, of the University of Barafunda.”

“Supposed to be an excellent school,” said McClurg as he jotted down the second name. “How does Bouchey come into the picture?”

“I don’t know that he does.” The Avenger stood up. “I’ll be going up to the castle now.”

“Your rooms at the inn are sufficient, the car we provided is satisfactory? Taking over at the last minute, I—”

“Everything is fine.” Benson left him.

The room was large, longer than it was wide. Heavy wooden beams crossed the ceiling, where two silver chandeliers hung down on silver chains.

The fat, gray-haired woman pulled an armchair out a few inches farther from the window. “Sit down there,
senhor,
it’s the most comfortable chair.”

The Avenger seated himself, and Mrs. Andrade started for the far door of the library.

She stopped halfway there, turned, and came back toward him. “Perhaps it is not my place to say this,
senhor .
. . but I hope you will be able to help her.”

“In what way?”

“Of late, strange things have—” A sound from beyond the door made her stop. “I will tell her you are here.” She hurried from the room.

Benson left his chair. He moved to one of the high, narrow windows and looked out. He could see the newer part of the castle from here, the garages and the circular parking area. The forest outside gave the impression it was ready to rush in and take over the grounds if given a chance.

A door opened behind him. He turned, expecting to see Elizabeth.

It was the tall blond, Erika, in another of her simple tweed skirts and a blouse. “Elizabeth has been resting, Mr. Benson. She’ll be down shortly. I am Erika Mowler.” She held out her hand.

He shook it; her grip was strong. “How ill is she?”

Erika answered, “What she went through over there . . . what they did to her . . . it will take a long time to get over. The scars . . . are on the mind.”

“Do you think she’s safe here?”

“What do you mean? She isn’t the kind to do herself any—”

“I mean, can the Nazis get at her?”

The girl shook her head. “We are safe here I think,” she told him. “Well guarded, well looked after. It is quite a change from what we knew in Europe.”

“The American consul was murdered last night,” said the Avenger. “The train I came here on was stopped by gunmen. It would seem to indicate that enemy agents are operating in this area.”

Turning away, Erika walked to the shelves of books that lined one wall of the room. She ran a finger over the old bindings. “I don’t think the murder of Leonard Rodney was the work of German agents. As for the men who tried to hold up your train . . . I don’t know. There are many bandits in the wilder parts of this country.”

“Why don’t you connect the Nazis with Rodney’s death?” Benson asked. “It seems like a—”

“She has a good reason, Dick.” Elizabeth, wearing a simple black dress and a single strand of pearls, had come silently into the room. In the fading light from outside she seemed to glow a ghostly white. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her hand was cold on his. “And you, Elizabeth.”

She studied his face. “It hasn’t been so long, Dick, as far as years go,” she said. “But . . . It’s not that you look older . . . It’s . . . you’ve changed. Not in bad ways, but you’ve changed.”

“I suppose I have.”

Keeping her hand on his, she led him to a couch beside one of the darkening windows. “Once in a while, years ago, I imagined what it would be like if we ran into each other again,” she said, smiling faintly. “Never anything like this.”

“I’ll be in my room, Liz,” said Erika. “I’m sure we’ll be meeting again, Mr. Benson.” She let herself out.

“Erika’s a good person. Very thoughtful and helpful. Especially now, when . . .” Elizabeth’s voice faded; no further words came.

“When what?”

“Nothing . . . It’s no use burdening you with . . .” She closed her eyes, leaning back. “I’m afraid, Dick, I’m not quite myself yet. Maybe I never will be . . . any more. We have a more immediate problem.”

“What you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes,” she answered, eyes still closed. “I . . . I’ve gotten so I don’t trust anyone. You and Erika are about the only people in the world I believe in. That’s why I asked Colonel Heberden to see if you’d come here.”

“I think you can add the colonel to your list of people who can be trusted.”

“Maybe,” said Elizabeth. “I’d rather talk to you. But the trouble is, Dick, since I asked them to send for you, things have grown worse.” She opened her eyes to look directly at him. “My . . . spells or whatever you want to call them are getting worse. Lately . . . the information I have to pass on to you . . . I can’t seem to remember most of it any more.”

It took the old professor nearly a minute to catch his breath after he stopped beside Dick Benson. He’d been sitting at an outdoor café, having a very late breakfast of coffee and sweetbread toast, when the Avenger had passed by on the opposite side of the street. “I have made an amazing discovery,” he was able to say at last. Held against his narrow chest was an old briefcase fat with papers and clippings. “Truly, it is most staggering,
senhor.”

Benson asked, “Has something to do with vampires, doesn’t it?”

“Sim,”
answered Dr. Bouchey, making another wheezing effort to take a full breath. “I feel now my trip here has indeed been worthwhile. And yet, I can’t quite decide . . . But let me tell you of what I have discovered.”

Benson was due to see Elizabeth again this afternoon. He’d been returning from another visit to the local police headquarters when the wrinkled little Bouchey had hailed him. “Do you want to go back to your table and finish your meal?”

“No, I’m actually too keyed up at the moment to eat. Besides, I don’t wish anyone else to hear what I have to say.”

“There’s a small park at the foot of this street,” said Benson. “We can sit there,” he suggested.

“Yes, and walking downhill is always more enjoyable than climbing uphill when one is my age.”

When they were seated on a white-painted wrought-iron bench in the center of the triangular little patch of greenery, Benson said, “What have you learned, doctor?”

Taking a breath, Dr. Bouchey said, “A bit of a preamble first,
senhor,
if you will be patient. Early this morning I hired a car and had myself driven out to the ruined temple I talked to you about on the train. At least, I was driven as far as a motor vehicle can travel. Then my driver guided me on foot along a forest path. At one point we happened to pass quite close to the Pedra Negra castle, and I chanced to see two young women walking together on a path that led from the castle. I was only a few feet from them as we passed on our way to the temple. So I am certain my identification of the woman is accurate.”

Benson was sitting up straight, frowning. “Which woman?”

“A girl, actually, at least in appearance. But appearances in a case like this . . . It was a dark-haired girl, very lovely, very pale. Pale as death, as we say. But then they are always pale.”

“You’d seen this girl before?”

“Not the girl, a picture of her.” Dr. Bouchey reached into his battered briefcase. “A painting I was shown many years ago . . . yes, here is a print of it. This was painted in the sixteenth century by the noted Hungarian master Alexander Toth.”

“Sixteenth century?”

The professor found the print he was seeking. “Yes, here is the portrait. Her name is Elizabeth Bathory.”

Benson took the picture. He looked at it for several quiet seconds, then rested it on his knee. The girl in the portrait, in the dress of the sixteenth-century ruling class, did look very much like Elizabeth Bentin. “Things like this sometimes happen,” he said slowly. “Every so many generations, a child will grow up to look exactly, or nearly so, like a grandparent or even a more remote ancestor.”

“No, you do not understand,” said the doctor. “This girl who lives in the castle . . . she isn’t a descendant of Elizabeth Bathory. She
is
Elizabeth Bathory.”

The Avenger looked from the portrait to the lined face of the professor. “She’d be nearly four hundred years old. Not a very likely possibility.”