LITMIR.BIZ

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and passed it back to Willis. “Everything appears to be in order,” he said. “Apologies for my caution, but one can never...”

      Willis waved a hand that suggested that if any offence had been taken, it was already forgotten. “I understand perfectly, sir,” he said “Especially in such trying times. In fact, I would venture that such caution is what led the founders to entrust you with such a valuable task as your first solo assignment, no?”

      Carpenter looked at Willis for signs of mockery, saw none, and smiled instead.

      There is steel in this fellow, beneath the smiles and good cheer.

      He stepped forward and extended his hand. “John Carpenter,” he said. “At your service.”

      “Bertrand Willis,” the man repeated, accepting the hand. “At yours. It is very fine to meet you, John, very fine indeed. Are you hungry? Shall we repair for supper?”

      Carpenter’s stomach rumbled. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he replied.

      Willis beamed from ear to ear. “I know a fine place, not five blocks from here. The chef does a belly pork that will simply melt in your mouth. This way!”

      Willis turned and headed off along West Thirty-Fourth Street, at a pace that was surprising for a fellow of his stature.

      *

      The two men walked briskly across the junctions of Eleventh and Tenth Avenues. Willis talked incessantly, about everything and nothing; the snow, the architecture, the baseball results, the relentless rise of the Wall Street banks. Carpenter’s head spun as he attempted to keep up with the endlessly diverging topics of conversation, but he found the man engaging company; his enthusiasm and boundless good cheer were infectious.

      At the corner of Eighth Avenue Willis made a right turn, and halfway down the block between Thirty-Fourth and Thirty-Third he ducked under a red and white awning stencilled with the words Chelsea Bar and Grill.

      The room beyond the door was dark, lit only by tall red candles that were placed on the clustered tables, with the heady scents of garlic and rosemary filling the air. Nearly all the tables were occupied; well-heeled men and women, dressed for the theatre, sat alongside dockworkers in battered oilskins fresh from the yards and jazz girls in feather boas and veils, fuelling themselves for the late-night exertions of the city’s dancehalls.

      Willis weaved past the waiters to a small table at the rear of the room. A disarmingly handsome olive-skinned waiter appeared next to their table, flicking a long curl of black hair away from his forehead, and Willis ordered tea and bread. They sat in companionable silence until the young man returned with a basket of focaccia, a large teapot and two china cups, and asked if they were ready to order. Carpenter ordered the belly pork, noting a small nod of approval from Willis as he did so, with roast potatoes and green beans. Willis ordered the same, then lifted the teapot and poured dark red wine into the cups.

      “I’m sorry that we cannot drink from glasses like civilised men,” said Willis. “Prohibition has reduced us to this. However, the quality of the wine should not be impaired by the vessel.”

      Carpenter raised his cup, took a long sip, then told Willis that he would like to hear everything that he knew about the man he had pursued across the Atlantic. The American took a long pull from his own cup, settled himself comfortably into his chair, and began to talk.

      “Jeremiah Haslett. Born 1871, in Marlborough, England, to a schoolteacher and a civil servant. Educated at Charter House and Cambridge. Made his fortune during the war, selling munitions to the Kaiser.”

      He took another sip.

      “Invested in property after the war, in London and New York. Unmarried, with no children. Ran with a fast London set, and started to pursue somewhat – let’s call them unusual – interests. Satanism, black magic, demonology. Although I’m given to understand this doesn’t make him particularly unique in post-war Britain, at least as far as the upper classes are concerned?”

      “Far from it,” replied Carpenter.

      “Indeed. He spent time with Aleister Crowley at the Abbey of Thelema in Sicily, and stayed in Italy after Crowley and the rest of his followers were expelled in 1923. I assume his connections to the Fascists spared him the indignity that befell his companions. Then around the same time, Haslett became obsessed with the legend of Dracula, and in 1925 he made a pilgrimage to the ruins of the castle in Transylvania. When he returned to London, he was no longer human.”

      “We don’t know exactly what happened to him in the East,” said Carpenter. “I have come to believe that his conversion was arranged in advance, and paid for, although who carried it out is unknown.”

      “That would seem to fit,” agreed Willis. “I’m sure his money is capable of turning heads in any circle. It certainly allowed him to return to London and indulge his appetites without sanction.”

      “So it appears.”

      “His townhouse in Knightsbridge became notorious. Apparently, God-fearing men and women would cross the road to avoid it. There were stories of terrible gatherings, of torture and sacrifice, of rituals in the basement and garden. Then six months ago the daughter of a prominent Member of Parliament was found running naked and bloody through the woods near his country estate, on the morning after the Winter Solstice. Haslett fled the country the following day, as the authorities finally opened their eyes to the monster in their midst. Once abroad, he spent time in Paris and Bucharest, then arrived here in New York two weeks ago. He has taken rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria, on Fifth Avenue.”

      Willis refilled his cup and took a deep slug of the crimson liquid.

      “Did I miss anything?” he asked, smiling at Carpenter.

      “No.”

      “Good,” said Willis. “I should have been disappointed to have failed the test.”

      Carpenter studied the man’s round face for insult, but again saw nothing.

      “Have you seen him? In the flesh, so to speak?”

      “Mr Carpenter, it should not surprise you to know that I have followed him every night since he arrived. And before you ask, no, he has done nothing that could be classed as suspicious. He has taken dinner with a number of ladies, he has gone dancing on several occasions, and he has spent a great deal of time in his rooms.”

      Haslett paused as the waiter reappeared, placing two plates on the table. The belly pork glistened in dark gravy, nestled between crisp golden mountains of roast potatoes.

      “Please,” Willis said, motioning to the plates. Carpenter dug into his food as Willis continued to talk.

      “I saw a note,” he continued. “I have an arrangement with one of the chamber maids at Haslett’s hotel, and it was handed to me yesterday. It was from someone who signed themselves only with a V, and was apparently accompanied by invitations to a New Year’s Eve event. I thought that it would perhaps provide our best opportunity to apprehend Haslett – a public gathering with many people around, where his defences may be lowered. There were no details on the note though – location, time and such.”

      Carpenter swallowed a sliver of meat that was every bit as good as Willis had promised. “Can we not just follow him on the night in question?”

      “We can, and I would certainly suggest that we do. However, if the event is invitation-only, we may have difficulty in gaining entrance. I had a journalist friend look into the notable New Year’s Eve balls, and he found none hosted by anyone whose name began with V. Which means that uninvited guests are unlikely to be welcome.”

      John considered this as he and Willis finished their food. He had spent long hours on the crossing considering how best to gain access to Haslett, and he believed the American was right; a social situation was the most likely place to find him with his guard down. And after all, Carpenter’s orders would not take more than a moment to carry out, especially if he was able to surprise his quarry.

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