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to it."
"They came with the house?"
"Yes, certainly. It has an interesting history. I have it on good
account from my neighbors that the place was once a bordello."
"The previous tenants are gone?"
"Yes, the owner died some time ago, the place went for sale, and I was
able to buy it quite cheaply, as no one wanted to live here. You know, I
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still occasionally have to turn away an old customer who hasn't heard
the news yet. My life is not dull-sometimes odd, but never dull." He
sipped his tea. "Shoe thinks I should talk you out of pursuing your own
case and to turn it over to the police."
"You know I can't go to them the way I am."
"I know, but Shoe doesn't. He obviously has decided that I have no
further interest in it because of this little incident."
"I'm not too surprised; he mentioned it last night. I am sorry about
this. If I'd been faster--"
He shook his head. "No one else could have been faster, I've seen it and
you did save me, after all, and I am grateful. Forget about it, I'll be
up and doing soon enough."
Cal came in with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. "It's
time."
Grimacing and accepting two, he washed them down quickly to get it over
with, then Cal took the glass away to the kitchen. As soon as he was
gone, Escott spit the pills fastidiously into a handkerchief and tucked
it into the robe's pocket. He drank more tea to wash away their taste.
"What gives?" I asked.
"They're morphine. I've seen what it can do to people, and I'd really
rather endure the pain. At least I know it will go away. Clarson is an
excellent fellow and discreet, but he really should know better. I had
an armful of the stuff this morning and could hardly do anything for
myself.''
I wondered what he could possibly feel up to doing in his condition. "Do
you need anything now?"
"Only more patience."
"You aren't talking me out of this mess?"
"We're enough alike that I know better than to try."
"I'm going there soon."
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"Tonight?"
'Tomorrow. I want to give them time to cool down from last night's
fracas. They wanted to know who we were with. You think they thought we
were Pace's men?"
"Possibly, or any of a dozen smaller gangs out for trouble. I'm inclined
to think they were just naturally suspicious. What do you plan to do?"
"I was a journalist two weeks agoI'll just check things out like it
was any other story and see what happens." Vague at best as an idea, but
it had worked for me on other occasions and had turned into acceptable
copy. I was hoping to turn this into my missing memory.
Escott was visibly tired, so I wished him well and left, walking around
the city for a couple of hours. Coldfield was right about some places
being dangerous, but I was a big boy now and could take care of myself.
I was looking things over, getting acquainted with the streets and the
personality of each block, slowly working toward the Stockyards and my
inevitable stop there.
By now I had ceased to be too squeamish about the blood drinking. That
oddball reaction had hit me on my second visit there. My first feeding
had been done in a kind of panic; "you must do this or die." It had been
quick, dreamlike, and with no time to think. My second visit had been
more leisurely, and when it came down to brass tacks, I almost balked.
The thought of opening an animal's vein with my teeth and sucking blood
from the wound was nauseating, but out of necessity I had to push the
thought from my mind and get on with the business. Intellectually, I
still had trouble handling the process, but by now I was at least
getting used to it. It helped to think of it in terms of a habit, like
brushing one's teeth; boring, but it had to be done.
The blood completely satisfied my hunger and gave me strength, but its
ingestion was a far cry from sitting comfortably around a table with
friends and socializing into the small hours over real food and drink.
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Leaving the yards, I wandered a long time until I found an all-night
theatre and went in. Leslie Howard pined after Merle
Oberon in The Scarlet Pimpernel, and I watched it three times in a row,
until I was rooting for Raymond Massey to win. He never did, so I went
home and read the papers until dawn.
The personals still carried my question to Maureen, but had no reply. I
told myself again I was a fool to hope after all these months and should
just give it up. As always, I gave a mental shrug. It wouldn't hurt for
just one more week, it really wouldn't.
But it really did. The trick was to ignore the hurt and keep hoping.
The tuxedo fit well enough. 1 was one of those lucky ones who could buy
things right off the rack, even pants. The new patent leather shoes were
a bit snug, but they'd be well broken in tonight. A mirror would have
been useful, for I was interested in how young I appeared. I'd fed
heavily last night to obtain good color as well, as I planned to pass
myself off as Gerald Fleming again.
I transferred some cash into a new wallet and worked the stiffness from
it. The rest of my money was locked in the trunk with my other personal
papers. The wallet had a little pasteboard card with lines for printing
one's name and address. I filled it in with the name of Gerald Fleming,
a phony out-of-town address, and the name of Jack Fleming as someone to
contact in case of an emergency. As a legal ID it was totally useless,
but better than nothing at all. I draped the white silk scarf so it hung
in front, and finished things off with the top hat.
I left by the back door, partially from paranoia, partially from the
idea that if anyone in the lobby glommed me in this memorable getup
they'd raise my rent. A few blocks away I caught a cab and had it take
me to the lion's den.
Tonight the windows of the Nightcrawler were bright, and fancy people
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