Pulp Fiction | The Vampire Affair by David McDaniel

  The Vampire Affair

  By David McDaniel

  The body had been drained of blood....

  In a remote area of the Transylvanian Alps, an U.N.C.L.E. agent had been killed in mysterious circumstances. The man's footprints in the snow led up to the base of the tree where he had been killed, but there were no pursuing tracks, no clues at all as to what doom had overtaken him.

  There were only the two small holes in the neck, and a complete absence of blood.

  Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin didn't believe in vampires—but as they investigated their fellow-agent's death they were forced again and again to wonder if perhaps the old terrors of the region had more reality than the world would like to think....

  THE VAMPIRE AFFAIR

  It had begun to snow. The bare black branches of the trees clutched at the lowering white sky with bony fingers, and the dark earth was flecked with bright patches like a leprous mold. The sparsely scattered pines spread impenetrable shadows in the dimness, and the wind whispered rumors of ancient and instinctive fear among their hissing needles. The rustling of air seemed to be the distant voices of spirits of the darkness, filling the forest silences with an undercurrent of unease. Nothing moved in the cold stillness except the textured white blanket above and the softly falling flakes.

  Then a sound began, very faintly. It was a quick soft thudding of feet on dirt, like the beating of an overstrained heart. There was a slight irregularity to its rhythm, and an occasional cracking of a twig. As it grew, a figure appeared between the trees—a figure running, stumbling as though exhausted, and finally stopping, slumping against a pine trunk.

  As the footsteps ceased, wheezing gasps sounded loud as he fought to draw air into his straining lungs. His coat was open despite the cold, and his tie was loose. Sweat poured down his face and ran down his neck, where the large vein pulsed violently from his exertion. His chest ached, and his legs were stiff and numb.

  He couldn't remember how long he had been running. But he knew he wouldn't be running much longer. The weakness of total fatigue was spreading through his system like a slow poison, and his muscles were beginning to stiffen up as he stopped in the cold trying to regain his breath. The icy night air burned in his dry throat.

  He managed to hold his breath for a few seconds, and listened hard. There was only silence, except for the pounding of his heart. Then he heard it. Gusts of wind began to whip the trees, and a rustling sounded behind him as of a large body forcing its way through the brush. There were other noises coming towards him—not fast, but never stopping.

  He pushed the pine tree away, and balanced himself on his feet. He had to run—to keep running. His mind refused to think of what would happen if he stopped, or fell, or slowed, and was caught.

  Something was after him in the darkness—more than one thing. He didn't know what they were. His mind supplied formless horrors with fangs and claws, and his body fled through the darkness from them.

  Now he could hear them, closer behind them. The wind was whipping around him now—a strange directionless wind that caught up the snow and dried pine needles and whirled them about him, clutched at him and tugged at his clothes. And over the wind he could hear soft running footsteps keeping pace with his own, and animal pantings behind him and to the sides.

  The wind grew, and the trees around him writhed with it. On he ran, leaden legs sinking into the soft earth of the forest floor, chest bursting for air. He knew they were close behind him now, and the flesh of his back tensed and crawled, expecting the impact of the deadly pursuers and the tearing pain of razor teeth.

  He had thought he had escaped them once. He had stopped to rest against a pine tree, for a blessed moment of release from the endless flight, and a few seconds to catch his breath, but then they had been after him again. Were they playing him? Were they going to run him until he collapsed and begged for death, or until he could see the lights of the village and sanctuary? Would they harry him until he was almost on the steps of the church and then strike him down on the brink of safety?

  If only he could save a wisp of strength, an atom of energy, held out for a final spurt that could put him beyond their reach—then there might be a chance. He could never give up hope; if he did, he might just as well lie down in the dirt and die now.

  But there were a few shots left in his gun, and unless his hunters were creatures of the supernatural he could at least die fighting.

  Still he fled, his feet landing hard now, every step jarring his whole frame. His arms flapped limply as he ran, and his steps were wider spaced as he staggered slightly. Trees appeared in his path as looming black shadows, and he swerved to avoid them. Would he ever see the lights of the village? He could have been running in a circle, for all he knew—there was neither moon nor stars in the sky, only the low scudding white snow clouds and that ghostly wind.

  Then another tree sprang from the darkness at him, and his foot caught a root as he tried to turn. The forest spun around him, and the dirt smacked the side of his head. He tried to rise, but pain shot through his leg. Something wrong with his ankle—a break or a sprain, it didn't matter which now. He wasn't going to run any farther tonight.

  He raised himself on his elbows and managed to drag his body to the base of the tree that had cost him his flight. He twisted around to a sitting position with his back to the trunk, and worked his pistol out. Seven shots left. Six for them, and one

  Then he heard them. A snuffling sound in the darkness. The tree was large—they would have to come at him from the front. He braced the gun across his good knee and waited.

  Section I: "What Have We To Do With Walking Corpses?"

  Chapter 1: "Two Small Puncture Marks Where?"

  Chapter 2: "What Does 'Vlkoslak' Mean?"

  Chapter 3: "The Natives Believe Many Strange Things."

  Chapter 4: "Well, It Looked Like A Huge Bat..."

  Section II: "Werewolves Can't Climb Trees."

  Chapter 5: "Good Lord, Illya—What Was That?"

  Chapter 6: "My Pets Seem To Be Restive Tonight."

  Chapter 7: "Oh-oh, Here Comes Zoltan."

  Chapter 8: "Begone, You Fiend Of Satan!"

  Section III: "Into The Darkness Where The Undead Wait."

  Chapter 9: "The Only Way Out Is Through."

  Chapter 10: "The Coffin Is Empty."

  Chapter 11: "There Must Be A Logical, Rational Explanation."

  Chapter 12: "You're Looking Inscrutable Again."

  Section IV: "The Vampire Has Been Dead Many Times...."

  Chapter 13: "I Smell A Rat—A Rat With Feathers."

  Chapter 14: "Only When I Am In Costume."

  Chapter 15: "My Sense Of Humor Will Be The Death Of Me Yet."

  Chapter 16: "He's Lying, Of Course."

  Section I: "What Have We To Do With Walking Corpses?"

  Chapter 1: "Two Small Puncture Marks Where?"

  Routine communications enter the New York headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement by teletype—and an amazing range of material is classified as "routine." Reports on the movements of suspicious individuals; queries for financial data on certain little-publicized companies; announcements of changes in personnel by recruitment, disconnection, retirement, or death; detailed descriptions of objects whose owners consider their very existence a well-kept secret; and complete, objective data on vast numbers of crimes ranging from loitering to attempted genocide. And it is a sad comment on the world of today that the most common crime so reported is murder.

  Murder simple, in the heat of rage, with the nearest blunt instrument. Murder complex, with years of planning behind it
and obscure Oriental poisons. Murder obvious, with a bullet hole in the back of the head. Murder subtle, with an important political figure collapsing of an apparent heart attack. And, occasionally, murder problematical, with a body found leaning against a tree in a forest in Rumania, as if he had sat down to rest—but a body with a greenstick fracture of the right ankle, an empty gun clenched in the right hand, and not a drop of blood in the veins.

  * * *

  Alexander Waverly, head of North American Operations for U.N.C.L.E., tossed the ragged-edged piece of yellow paper on his desk with a snort of disgust, and poked at his intercom. "What practical joker brought in this message purporting to be from Geneva?"

  There was a momentary pause, and the voices answered uncertainly, "The packet was not tampered with between the message room and your hands, sir."

  Waverly snorted. "All right. Give me Section Four."

  His intercom hissed and clicked, and another voice said, "Communications—Carmichael."

  "Waverly here. Who decoded the message from Geneva this morning? I'm interested specifically in section 23-5."

  "I'll check, sir, but I believe I did."

  "Please give the original ciphered text to the computer again, and bring it up with the results. I have found what appears to be a deciphering error, and I should like to be sure it will not happen again."

  "Uh...right away, sir."

  Waverly cut off the intercom and leaned back in his chair. I never enjoyed being an ogre, he thought. But sometimes it is best to throw a scare into a worker before he does something that could cause a great deal of trouble. He sighed, chose a pipe from the rack on his desk, and began to fill it from the humidor. When it was full he frowned at it as though he had forgotten what it was, then sat it down on his desk and began working through a set of reports from New Delhi.

  A few minutes later his secretary announced Miss Carmichael, Section Four.

  She carried two scrolls of yellow teletype paper, and advanced on Waverly's desk. "I re-ran the entire segment 23," she said without preamble. "Here is the text, just as it came off the machine." She emphasized the last phrase, defiantly.

  Without a word, Waverly took the scroll and unrolled it. Part five...There it was.

  "Regret to report death of Carl Endros, field agent from New York on temporary duty with Budapest office. On duty, routine investigation of rumors in rural area of central Rumania. No findings have been filed. Technician on assignment with him reports body found by peasants. Preliminary medical report indicates cause of death to be suicide complicated by complete hemospasia."

  He looked up from the message to Miss Carmichael. "Have you read this?"

  "I have scanned it for any obvious errors, sir."

  Waverly extended his hand for the coded original. He couldn't sight-read the U.N.C.L.E. code as swiftly or as accurately as the computer, but he was able to supply his own approximate translation of the complexly garbled characters received from Geneva.

  He studied the message for several seconds, then placed it on his desk and leaned back, puffing at his pipe, with an irritated expression. "Miss Carmichael, transmit a query to Geneva. Word it politely and don't give them the impression that I'm accusing them of anything, but find out who has been engaging in attempts at humor to the expense of our time and attention. If Geneva didn't originate the message, follow it back to Budapest and see if someone there has been nipping at the slivovitz during office hours. Carl Endros is a good agent, and inclined to be forgiving of practical jokes—but we cannot afford to be."

  "Yes, sir. Shall I make this an official inquiry over your signature?"

  "I don't...Yes." He leaned forward and took the pipe out of his mouth. "Put my signature on it. And when you find out who is responsible, put the matter before the head of our European section."

  "Excuse me, sir...."

  "Yes?"

  "If the report should turn out not to be a joke?"

  Waverly frowned. "If have a great deal of faith in Carl. If he had been shot, poisoned, blown up or impaled I should regret his loss. But the idea that he should commit suicide is patently ridiculous. If they think he did, get as much data as possible to me at once. And find out what the devil they mean by 'complete hemospasia.'"

  Miss Carmichael nodded, swept up her original, and was gone. Alexander Waverly returned his attention to the reports on his desk.

  * * *

  Napoleon Solo's desk phone buzzed, and, as it had so many times before, the cool impersonal voice of Waverly's secretary invited him up to his superior's office. There was no hint of the type of invitation—it could be for a reprimand, a commendation, or a discussion of something interesting that had come up. Or it could be an assignment. He hoped so—he had been sitting around the office for almost a month, since returning from two busy months along the south coast of Spain keeping a misplaced H-bomb out of unfriendly hands and trying to get a glacially attractive countess into his own friendly hands.

  The weather had been warm in Almeria, and the weather had been cool in New York when he had returned. But now it was the middle of April, and even the attractions of climate could not keep him from growing bored with more than three consecutive weeks of inaction. He had completed his income tax forms, read several books he'd been meaning to get around to, and studied all the reports from U.N.C.L.E. offices around the world that had come across his desk. He had worked out in the gymnasium and the target range, improving his armed and unarmed fighting, and had begun to practice with throwing knives. But he found it difficult to concentrate on anything without the pressure he was so used to in the field.

  As he came out of his cubicle, he saw his partner, Illya Kuryakin, halfway up the hall ahead of him, going in the same direction, and hurried to catch him. Illya turned at the soft sound of a footstep.

  "Ah, Napoleon. Did Mr. Waverly call you just now?"

  Napoleon nodded. "We've been in drydock for three weeks, and I feel like I'm rusting away. Hope it's an assignment —

  "Hey," he said, interrupting himself, "I learned a new one yesterday. Make like you're coming at me with a knife."

  Illya dropped into a crouch, a pen from his shirt pocket gripped in his fist. He circled Napoleon warily, then feinted to the left and drove in from the right. Napoleon swung his left wrist across Illya's pushing the pen just enough off-course that it grazed his side harmlessly, and let his right palm come up against Illya's face, with the first and second fingers bent and resting lightly on the eyelids.

  Illya recovered his balance. "Good," he said. "But if you could grab the wrist and pull forward, there would be additional force in the blow to the face. Also less opportunity for me to duck to one side and butt you in the stomach."

  Napoleon grinned as they started off down the corridor again. "As a matter of fact, that's what I just unlearned. Trouble with the other way, it had both hands tied up. If you had a second knife, I'd be laid out like a mackerel. This way, my left hand is free..."

  They continued talking shop as they made their way through the busy steel corridors of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to Waverly's office. Napoleon remembered to straighten his tie and settle his coat more properly on his shoulders before they went in—Illya just ran a quick hand through his hair as the automatic door slid quietly open before them.

  Inside, Waverly looked up from his desk with a black frown. There was a sheet of teletype paper before him, and without a word he picked it up and handed it across to them as they sat down. Napoleon took it and Illya read over his shoulder.

  Carl Endros had been a casual acquaintance, one to whom they had nodded in the commissary, but he had also been an agent of U.N.C.L.E., just as they were, and his death came to remind them that either of them could have been in the same position. But the manner of his death

  Napoleon looked up with a puzzled expression. "I can't see Carl killing himself. Have you checked with Section Six for his last physical and mental tests?"

  "Yes," said Waverly shortly. "Checked out perfectly. Read
on."

  Napoleon did. Then his eyebrows came together. Then they rose. He looked up again. "It's two weeks late for April Fool's," he said.

  "You are correct, Mr. Solo," said Waverly. "It is not a joke. Unless Carlo has taken leave of his senses and infected the rest of the European division with a grisly sense of humor." Carlo Amalfi was in Europe what Alexander Waverly was in North America. They had been personal friends for twenty years, and he was one of less than a dozen people in the world who called Waverly by his first name.

  When Napoleon finished the report he looked up. "It sounds like he blew his brains out, all right," he admitted. "But what could have caused such a massive loss of blood the medical examiner would comment on it?"

  "We don't know," said Waverly, staring idly at the bowl of his pipe. "It will be your job to find out."

  "According to Eclary, the technician who found the body, there were no footprints in the soft dirt or in the snow around the body," said Illya, still studying the report. "He was shot at close range with his own pistol. Except for the fractured ankle, he appeared to be completely uninjured except for two small puncture marks at the base of the throat...." His voice trailed off.

  Napoleon swiveled his head to look at his partner. "Two small puncture marks where?" he asked.

  "At the base of the throat, it says. Right over the large vein. Oh yes, Eclary checked over the area and back-trailed him a short distance—says the footprints leading to the spot were running and irregular, and the post-mortem mentions evidence of extreme fatigue in the leg muscles."

  "In other words," said Napoleon to no one in particular, "he ran until he couldn't run any longer, then sat down under a tree in the snow and shot himself. Then he lay there in a pool of blood until some peasants found him."

  "Not quite," said Illya. "Eclary specifically mentions that there was no blood around the corpse. A little on the tree behind his head—that's all."