Date:         Sun, 24 Sep 1995 07:57:43 -0400

From: Catherine A Siemann <cas47@COLUMBIA.EDU>

Subject:      The Long Forever Night



This one's historical, too, but it's fictional-historical. Those of you

who don't know Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe will recognize the

style, since Chandler & Hammett invented the American detective novel

between them.  Their influence is everywhere.



I've collapsed the time frames.  My memory of "Father Figure" is a

little rusty, but I've given Nick the job I recall him having in the

'30s.  I've also called him Knight, even though that's probably

inaccurate,  because Marlowe's the type of guy who refers to people by their

last names and it's just less confusing that way.  The Chandler books

actually take place in the 40s, but everyone always thinks it's the 30s

anyway (even the people who wrote the back cover copy of my editions).

So this is some nebulous time, after the release of a famous American

horror film.



Marlowe's been called a tarnished knight, so I just had to have him meet

*our* tarnished knight.  It's going to take FK characters a little while

to show up, but they'll be there.  With a vengeance!



Oh -- as you cry enough already! -- I tried to avoid the title.  I really

did.  But when you're paying tribute to the author of *The Big Sleep* and

*The Long Goodbye*, you want something fitting . . .



Catherine

cas47@columbia.edu



**********



The Long Forever Night

by Catherine Siemann



        It was a warm, sultry afternoon in Los Angeles.  At that time of

year, the only surprise would be if it wasn't.  I had just finished with

a client -- telling the vulnerable wife of a cheating husband that I had

the goods on him, unfortunately.  I could tell from her expression as I

handed over the photos that she'd been hoping otherwise, hoping I'd be

able to tell her she was crazy, that her husband was just too embarrassed

to tell her he was spending his evenings taking modern dance class or

some such thing.  But I couldn't.  He had a mistress, all right, and that

was it for that marriage.  This lady had old fashioned ideas, you see.

Not so typical of Los Angeles, and therefore kind of touching.

        Foolish sentimental Marlowe, I couldn't even bring myself to

accept the fee which she pressed on me with tear-stained eyes.  "Save

it.  I guess you're going to need a lawyer."  I waved her off.  The money

she'd given me at our initial meeting would cover my expenses, and as for

that month's rent . . . well, I'd have to hope another client came

along.  One usually did, just before the landlord got threatening.  But

one thing was for sure -- I was never going to get rich in my line of

business.

        So it was something of a surprise when I found a visitor waiting

patiently outside my office door.  It was even more of a surprise to

realize that it was Bill Madden, supervisor of security for one of the

major film studios.  It was a surprise to find anyone from any of the

studios waiting patiently for anything, come to think of it, but

especially outside of a rathole like my office.

        "Hello, Marlowe.  I assume you remember me, from that little

matter about Ruby Fitzpatrick."  Madden was just important enough that he

could afford a good suit, and just unimportant enough that it didn't

quite work on him.  What was actually a pretty good specimen of the

tailor's art hung on him like an old rage.  He was medium sized and

balding, altogether a forgettable-looking guy.

        "Yes, I do.   And what brings you from Hollywood into my part of

town?  Another missing ingenue?  Or a leading man whose interest in his

costar has come to the attention of his wife?"

        "No, Marlowe.  This time it's strictly big-league.  This time

it's murder."

        "Murder?  Isn't that a matter for the law, then?"

        "Let me be the judge of that.  Do you want the job, or not?"  He

looked around him, at the minimal decor of my office suite.  "It looks

like you could use the work."

        I put my feet up on my desk in a gesture that could have conveyed

either good-fellowship or contempt.  What it really meant was that I

wanted to gauge Madden's reaction to a less than servile attitude.  The

studio types could be funny about that, and my involvement in the case

was going to depend on whether I could work with Madden.  I offered him a

drink from my desk bottle, which he accepted gratefully, and then

launched into his story.

        "You've heard of Jack Sanderson, right?  He's a contract player

with the studio, big handsome midwestern type but not quite star quality,

so he plays a lot of second leads."

        "The name sounds familiar.  I don't get to the movies so much

these days."

        "What I'm saying is that Jack Sanderson was found dead, by his

swimming pool, this morning."

        "I'm all ears."

        "Well, the thing, Marlowe, is that he was found without a drop of

blood in his body.  Dry as the proverbial bone.  And the only wound was

on his neck, a coupla puncture marks.  No one's ever seen anything like

it, outside of that *Dracula* flick."

        "And you're telling me this because --"

        "The L.A. police have agreed to let us investigate this

privately, first.  They're afraid it may cause something of a panic, if

it gets out.  I mean, clearly *Dracula* is a fairy story, but what if

there's some kinda maniac, seen the movie hundreds of times or

something?  Besides, Sanderson was a strong guy.  Whoever did this was no

shrinking violet."

        The L.A. police "agreed to let" the studio investigate the murder

privately?  Sanderson wasn't that big a star, and crazy killings happen

every day in a place like Los Angeles.  The studio was using that green

kind of persuasion on the cops, the same they were about to offer me.  So

I wasn't surprised at all when Madden offered to double my usual fee.

But I was quick enough to tell him that my usual fee was twice what it

really was in the first place.  He didn't even flinch.

        "So will I be working with anyone from the police, or am I flying solo?"

        "We'd prefer that you made some preliminary investigations on

your own.  You will report directly to me.  We, not you, will make the

decision when to call in the police.  This has already been cleared with

the Chief of Police himself.

        "So do I get to see the body?  The crime scene?"

        "It won't be possible for you to see the body, but here's a

detailed file, with photos.  But unless you have another appointment, I

can take you to the scene right now.  And I strongly suggest that you not

have another appointment.  We'd like to see this thing put to rest as

quickly as possible.  So that you don't feel motivated to, umm, stretch

out the investigation, we'll provided an additional bonus for quick

completion."

        We rode out to Sanderson's house in Madden's car.  There was one

more quetion that I had to ask.  "You mentioned the killer made like

Count Dracula.  I was wondering, there are certain . . . rumours about

Bela Lugosi.  That he takes his part a little too seriously.  That he

sleeps in a coffin even when he isn't working and stuff like that.  That

maybe he acts out his role in other ways."

        Madden smiled.  "That's one of the reasons we want to keep this

investigation quiet.  See, we know for sure it wasn't Lugosi.  But we

know about those rumours, too.  He does sometimes identify a little too

strongly with his most famous role.  In fact, it's true he sometimes

sleeps in a coffin.  But he's also a good family man, with a wife and

kids and some real personal problems."

        "Such as?"

        "Such as, he's got a monkey on his back."

        "Dope?"

        "Intermittently.  He kicks, he's clean for a while, then he can't

get any work but the umpteenth stage show of *Dracula* and he begins to

need a little pick me up.  Lugosi's been in a rest home, kicking.  He's

due out at the end of the week.  Any publicity about a "Dracula" killer

could send him right back in and frankly, well, his wife needs him, his

kids need him, and we need him to start shooting a few days after his

release."

        "And you're afraid if it gets into the press, the public will

suspect him, or he'll begian to wonder if he's capable of such a thing

when he's doped up or something like that --"

        "Yeah, something like that."

        "And the studio has an investment here."

        Madden shot me a look of disgust such as I have never seen from a

studio type before.  "Well, yeah, there's that.  But also . . . look,

I've met the family.  Little Bela Junior's only six years old, but when

you ask him if he wants to be an actor like his daddy when he grows up,

he says, "No!  I don't wanna be an actor.  I wanna be a lawyer!"  I just

want his old man to be able to give him that chance, to get outta this

crazy life and be something real."  He grimaced.  "And the studio cares a

lot about its investment."

        Maybe Madden deserved more credit than I'd been giving him.  Just

becuase he had a few feelings didn't mean that everything was suddenly

sunny and bright, but it somehow made me feel a little better about the case.

**********

        Sanderson's house was just the kind of place you'd expect a

second-rate studio not-quite-star to live in.  It wasn't much more than a

bungalow, but it had a hacienda-style facade, and a smallish swimming

pool around the back.  The place where Sanderson had been found was a

small concrete pation attached to the pool.  There was noting at all

extraordinary about it.  It was the home of a second-rate dreamer who was

so self-deluded that he died not even knowing that he'd never achieved

his dream.

        "So what about Sanderson's personal life?"

        "Exactly what you'd expect.  No wife, no steady girlfriend,

fancied himself a ladies' man."

        "Think this could be the revenge of a spurned paramour?"

        "We've thought about it.  But Sanderson's size is against it.  If

he'd have been shot, then sure, but very few women, and not so very many

men, could have overpowered a guy like Jack Sanderson."  He reached in

his pocked and took out an envelope.  "Here's his datebook.  We've

already dusted it for prints, and there weren't any but Sanderson's."

        I filed it away to look at when I got home.  Right now I just

wanted to get away from everything that reminded me of Sanderson, from

the pretentious small house to the pretentious small pool.  I was

beginning to dislike him, and I thought he deserved better than that.  It

was the only murder he was ever likely to get, and maybe it was his big

starring role at last.  Too bad there wouldn't be any sequels.

**********

        When I returned to my office, I pulled out the datebook.  For a

ladies' man, Sanderson hadn't been very busy lately.  Earlier in the year

there were many names:  Judy, Marilyn, Caroline, Betty.  But in the last

month, only one:  Janette.  Fortunately, her address was in the back of

the book.  She lived outside of the city, in an area that was just

beginning to see the encroachment of what is optimistically known as

Greater Los Angeles.

        It was late when I got started, and after dark when I arrived.

Janette DuCharme lived in a much more attractive house than Sanderson,

larger and less foolishly ornamented.  It was older than its neighbors,

and very well-kept, although there wasn't much in the way of a garden.

There wasn't anything at all odd about the house until you saw the inside.

        The woman who opened the door was strikingly beautiful, which is

not unusual in L.A.  But in L.A. nearly every woman is a blonde, at least

professionally, and the brunettes are that fiery Dolores Del Rio type.

This woman had dark hair and wore a black dress that set off the total

pallor of her skin.  In a town where women strive to be seen as exotic,

she did it effortlessly.  "May I help you?" she asked, with an accent I

could not at first place.

        "My name is Philip Marlowe.  I'm investigating the death of Jack

Sanderson.  May I ask you a few questions?"

        "I am Janette DuCharme.  But I am still not sure how I can assist

you."  The accent was French, to match the name, not necessarily a given

in Hollywood.

        "It seems that you knew Mr. Sanderson."

        "Yes, I knew him.  Why don't you come in?"

        Janette's house was furnished like a place from another climate,

another century.  Heavy velvet drapes hung at the windows, and the

furniture was dark and ornate, with brocade upholstery and carved wood.

There were rich oriental carpets on the floors, and the colors were red

and blue, with dark, dark wood.  I had never seen a place that looked

less like Southern California, not even outside of Southern California.

        "You don't seem surprised to hear that Mr. Sanderson is dead."

        She gave an emimently Gallic shrug.  "He was courting death.

Should I be surprised that he found it?  May I offer you a drink, Mr.

Marlowe?  I'm afraid that the only thing I drink is red wine.  Will that

be all right?"

        "That'll be just fine," I lied, thinking about how nicely a

whiskey would set just about now.  Since there was an extra glass sitting

by the wine bottle, I went to pour some for myself.  "No!"  I heard her

cry suddenly.  "That is -- this wine has been sitting for too long.  Let

me open a fresh bottle."

        This Janette was one cool customer.  Literally cool.  When she

handed me my drink, her hands felt like ice, and this was despite the Los

Angeles summer geat, the heat that never really broke, not even at

night.  But the wine was excellent.  It made me wonder why I was so

attached to that slop in my office bottle anyway.

        "Why do you say that Sanderson was courting death?"

        "The company he kept.  It was not wise . . . for someone like him."

        "The company he kept?"

        "Well, myself and a number of my friends.  We were not the right

people for him to know."  She raised an eyebrow.  "I don not mean that my

friends or I killed him.  We did not.  But he was interested in things

that should not have concerned him."

        "In what sense, Miss DuCharme?"

        The phone rang in the other room.  "Excuse me, Mr. Marlowe."

        I could hear her speaking rapidly into the telephone in French.

Unfortunately, my French -- what there ever was of it -- is more than a

little rusty, and I couldn't really make anything out.  She returned to

the room a moment later.

        "In what sense, Miss DuCharme, was he interested in things that

should not have concerned him?"

        But that phone call was unlucky for me, because she seemed to

have lost a lot of her interest in making dire comments about Sanderson.

"Oh, nothing, really.  Just -- going to bars on the wrong side of town,

driving too fast, that sort of thing.  Nothing a pampered little studio

boy should be doing.  And he had this idea that he was in love with me,

when that was quite impossible."

        "Why?"

        She shrugged again.  "Because I could never love him."

        I wasn't going to get anything more out of her tonight, so I

decided to bring the interview to a close.  There was something odd about

this Janette DuCharme, but whatever it was, it was clear I wasn't going

to catch her unawares again tonight.  So I excused myself, and was soon

headed back to my apartment in the Hobart Arms, where I fell promptly

asleep, to dream of pretty ladies endlessly disappearing behind red

velvet curtains.

*****

        When I awoke it was bright sunlight outside.  I looked at the

clock on my bedstand, but unfortunately, I'd forgotten to wind it the

night before.  I fumbled my way to the dresser, where I found my watch.

It was after noon.  Not like me to sleep that late if I hadn't been

rendered unconscious by force, which was one of those hazards of my

profession.  I often awoke in the middle of bright sunlight, but usually

with a sore place somewhere on my head to indicate just where I'd been

hit.  I was confused for a moment because I didn't hurt anywhere.

        The afternoon was frustrating and fruitless.  I talked to a

couple of Sanderson's studio acquaintances, but nobody had much to say

about him except that he was mildly annoying, essentially well-intentioned,

and that nobody had any strong feelings about him.  He just wasn't the kind

of guy you'd care enough about one way or another enough to want to

kill.  Even his lady friends regarded him as harmless, a good-looking guy

to have on your arm if there was nobody special in your life at the

moment.  I began to think his playing the field so much might not have

been his choice.  Which brought me back to Janette, the one woman he had

pursued continually and exclusively for the month prior to his death.

        There was certainly something odd about her.  So odd that it was

difficult to even begin to pinpoint what it was.  But while I was sitting

over a drink and pondering it, I noticed that the sun was hanging low

over the horizon,  already.  And I still wanted to take another look at the

murder site, see if anything had evaded the eagle eyes of studio security.

        Nothing had, of course.  Nothing ever does.  When dark fell

entirely, I turned away, thinking that a visit to Janette might be my

only hope for a new lead.  As I headed back to my car, I saw that another

car was pulling up next to mine.  A man got out, a blond man in a dark

suit, who looked to be a few years younger than me.

        "What are you doing here?  You with the press?" I asked.

        "No," he frowned.  "Are they looking into this?"

        "Depends what `this' you're talking about."

        "The Jack Sanderson murder.  You *are* investigating the

Sanderson murder, aren't you?"

        "I might be, if there was one," I said.  Let him give away his

game first.

        "Well, I am."  He smiled, disarmingly.  I wasn't disarmed.

        "Just who *are* you?" I asked, not bothering to hide my impatience.

        "Nick Knight.  I'm with the Chicago police force."  This Nick

Knight was blond, but not suntanned California blond.  In fact, he was

unusually pale.  Okay, the winters are colder in Chicago, and longer, but

he looked like he hadn't seen the light of day in awhile.  I guess you'd

call him a handsome guy otherwise.  He must have noticed my inquisitive

stare.  He was probably used to it.  "I have a medical condition -- I

need to say out of the sun . . . as much as possible.  So I work nights,

and even on vacation . . . well, Los Angeles is beautiful at night."

        "If you're on vacation, Mr. Knight, what are you doing snooping

around the scene of a murder?  The L.A. cops have let the studio take

charge of this, and quite frankly, *I'm* the only investigator who's been

authorized."

        "All right, I'll be honest with you.  Sanderson's from Illinois.

His parents are friends of mine.  They sent me out here because they

hadn't heard from him in a month.  He was the kind of guy that's write

his mother twice a week and phone on Sundays, and when they stopped

hearing, well . . . "

        I could picture Sanderson's parents, small town Midwesterners.

The mom probably wore a checked apron and the dad probably had a small

business.  I didn't see them hanging around with this guy.  Where would

he know them from?  Church?  He seemed like a bit of a boy scout, but

even so, that was hard to swallow.  "But what makes you think he'd dead?"

        "I checked the records at the City Morgue.  They may be keeping

it from the public, but not from the Chicago police, Mr. -- ?"

        "Name's Marlowe, I'm a P.I.  It's an honest living, at least the

way I do it.  Which means I'm not getting rich at it."

        "I like you already, Mr. Marlowe.  Listen," he said, "since

you're authorized to investigate, and since I've come all this way, why

don't we join forces?  You give me the official okay, and I give you --"

        "What?" I asked.  I didn't need this Chicago cop hampering my

investigation, especially not when I'd so fortunately escaped the L.A.P.D.

        "I have many talents."  He smiled amiably.  I was beginning to

like this guy, in spite of myself, and that was worrying me.  "For

example," he said, beginning to head back towards the pool, "I see very

well in the dark.  What's this?"

        What he was holding was a small black button.  It looked at if it

had come off of a black shirt, men's.  Outside of priests, I didn't know

too many people who wore black shirts, not in Los Angeles in the

summertime, so this was quite a find.

        "I'm impressed."  I was.  "But I'm calling it quits for the

evening.  Come by my office tomorrow afternoon, late, and we can talk."

        "I'm . . . tied up tomorrow afternoon.  Plus the sunlight'll be

pretty strong then.  Could we meet in the evening?"  He looked like the

kind of guy you could trust, and I have pretty solid instincts about that

sort of thing, so I gave him my home address.  Besides, I was in the

book, so it's not like I could hide from anyone who really wanted to find

me.

        But before I called it a night, I wanted to pay another visit to

Miss Janette.  I needed answers, and I had a hunch that Janette DuCharme

was the person to provide them.  I stopped to get something to eat, and

it was close to midnight when I pulled up in front of her place, but she

didn't seem like the early bird type.  I saw that there was another car

in her driveway.

        I took the precaution of looking in the window before I rang her

doorbell.  One of the heavy velvet curtains over the front windows had

obviously been pulled aside and not yet readjusted.

        "Janette," a man said.  It was Nick Knight.  "What are you doing

in Los Angeles?"

        "I might ask you the same question," she fired back. "I was

looking for a new place to live -- since you've made it clear that I

needn't think about living near you."

        "Is LaCroix here, too?"

        "I don't think so.  I came here on my own.  I haven't seen him."

At least that's what I think she meant to say.  What she actually said

was, "I haven't sensed him."

        I saw her draw closer to Knight, and he backed away a step or

two.  Clearly this femme was a bit too fatale for our boy scout.  Perhaps

now would be a good time to ring the doorbell, and save him from a

potentially embarrassing situation.  The lady did not seem the type that

was used to being turned down.

        "Nicolas, I have missed you," she said in that charming accent.

My heart melted, if his didn't.

        "And . . . I have missed you, too."  He looked her in the eyes,

and he wasn't backing away anymore, so I lowered my hand from the bell.

It must have been the lighting, but I thought I saw her eyes glowing with

a golden flame for just a minute before their faces met and they kissed

each other hungrily.  When he began to nuzzle her neck, I collected

myself and turned away.  Philip Marlowe may snoop for a living, but he's

no voyeur.  I'd have to try Janette again tomorrow.  I check my watch.

Nearly 12:30 and time for this boy to get some sleep.

        I wondered who Knight was really working for.  Janette had seemed

genuinely surprised to see him, so maybe it *was* the Sandersons.  Knight

and Janette clearly had some kind of history together -- they didn't kiss

like it was the first time, but like it was the first time in a long

time.  Thinking about his pale, almost luminous skin, and remembering her

equally striking pallor, I figured maybe they'd met at a convention for

people with that sun-sensitivity disease or something.

        On the other hand, I decided it would be best if I called the

Chicago police department in the morning, just to make sure this guy was

for real.  After all, didn't Count Dracula hide from the rays of the sun,

too?  I didn't remember the movie all that well, but maybe Knight and

Janette did.  Maybe they were in on it together.

**********

        I wasn't given the option of sleeping in the next day.  The

telephone took care of that.  In fact, the clock read about 7 when the

phone rang.  It was Bill Madden, which is what I expected.  There'd been

another murder, just like Sanderson's.  Another minor studio player, just

like Sanderson.  Only Alexis Parker was a lot more popular than

Sanderson.  She was the kind of girl who nearly every man in the studio

system had taken his chance with, and she was the kind of girl who could

get away with giving in, sometimes.  Every man at the studio, whether

he'd been lucky with her, or not, liked her, thought she was a good

sport.  Women liked her too, which was unusual with a girl like that, but

in this case, true.  But she'd been found just inside her living room,

body drained of blood and two little wounds in the neck.

        The frustrating part was that she'd been killed at about 12:30

am, and that was just about the time I was turning away from Knight and

Janette in a clinch.  So there went my two suspicious characters.

        A call to the Chicago Police Department brought me confirmation

that Detective Nicholas Knight was indeed one of the Windy City's finest,

and one who had attracted a lot of positive notice from his superiors.

He worked nights, and he preferred to work alone, but he got results and

he played it by the book.  Plus, it turned out Sanderson's dad was a desk

officer on the night shift there.  So much for the small town apple pie

picture I'd built in my head.  Jack Sanderson was a city kid after all,

and his dad really did work with Knight.

        I met Madden at Alexis Parker's home.  She lived in a flat, and a

nice one.  In fact, Alexis Parker lived in a flat with a doorman.

        "She always said she felt safe here, what with being a single

girl and all," a nearly hysterical neighbor was saying.  Alexis having

been so popular, this was going to be a much more difficult death to hush

up.  The neighbor, an older woman with red-blonde hair, wearing a

tired-looking housedress, looked genuinely overcome, between lsoing her

friend and seeing the failure of her building's much-vaunted security

system.  "She was a wild girl, but a good girl at heart."  Alexis was the

kind of girl who'd dance with the studio johnnies until dawn, catch a few

hours of sleep, and be ready with a plate of cookies to share with a

disappointed housewife the next morning, if she wasn't shooting that day.

        There were a couple of policement at the door, who immediately

stepped aside to let Madden and I enter.  One of them followed us into

the apartment.  "The Chief is concerned.  Another day or two without

results, and it looks like the department will have to get involved after

all."

        Madden looked at me.  "Marlowe's really on top of things.  In

fact, he's just waiting for a few last pieces of the puzzle to come

together.  Isn't that right, Marlowe?"

        "What?  Yeah, right."  In fact, my attention had been transfixed

by one of the many pictures displayed on Miss Parker's baby grand piano.

Right next to the picture of Alexis Parker with Clark Gable, there was a

picture of Alexis Parker that suddenly riveted my attention.  There she

was, photographed with Janette DuCharme.  They were both in evening

dresses, and both smiling.

        The cop was trying to get my attention.  Alexis Parker herself

was present, covered with a sheet, and he was wondering whether I would

like to take a look at the body.  Well, I wouldn't, but it would hardly

be professional to say so, so I nodded my approval.  She was lying there,

auburn curls loose around her shoulders, no makeup, looking very peaceful

and very very dead.  There was no expression of terror on her face.

Whoever had done this must have known her, or surprised her very quickly.

        "Not a drop of blood in her body," the policeman was whispering.

"That's what the doc says.  We've got to take her downtown now, but the

Chief said we should wait for you to see her."

        I thanked him, and as soon as I could get rid of Madden, I drove

out to Janette's house.  It was dark and still.  Nobody answered, despite

my repeated rings.  Knight's car was gone.  I guessed I'd have to go back

later, and headed back to the studio, to interview all sorts of people about

how absolutely beloved the late Miss Parker was.  At least this time

their grief seemed sincere.

        I spent the day listening to Alexis Parker's praises.  If Jack

Sanderson had been a nobody, Alexis Parker had been a somebody.  Aside

from a slightly different way of living her life than the folks back home

might have approved of, there was not a thing against the girl.  And

there was not a thing she had in common with Sanderson except the studio

.. . . and an unfortunate propensity to socialize with Janette DuCharme.

**********

        Slightly after dark there was a buzz from my lobby.  It was

Knight, coming to keep his appointment.  He certainly had a lot to

explain, Chicago police or not.  When I opened the door, Knight and

Janette were standing side-by-side.

        "How very convenient," I said.  "The two people in Los Angeles I

most wanted to speak with.  They entered, looked at each other, then back

at me.  "Or perhaps you hadn't heard about Alexis Parker."

        "What about Alexis?" asked Janette, with just the right shade of

concern in her voice.  She was wearing a red number tonight, with black

trimming.  She was beautiful, all right, but there was something almost .

.. . inhuman . . . about her paleness, her stillness.  "Is she all right?"

        "Well, nothing's going to be hurting her ever again."

        "You don't mean . . . "

        "She was murdered, just the way Jack Sanderson was murdered.  Two

wounds on her neck and all the blood drained out of her body.  You

wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?  She wouldn't have

been running with the wrong crowd, say?"

        Now Janette looked genuinely surprised.  "No, she and Jack had

nothing to do with each other, as far as I know.  She came to me for

elocution lessons.  She was to play Marie Antoinette, and she wanted to

develop a French accent for the part."

        "Pardon me for being a bit cynical, but you must be giving some

high-class elocution lessons to afford a house like that."

        She gave a short laugh.  "My money is inherited.  I gave her the

lessons because it amused me.  One does need something to do, after all."

         Now Knight, who hadn't seemed to register anything when I'd said

Alexis' name, burst in.  "Surely you don't suspect Janette."  Living up

to his name, riding to his lady's rescue.

        "No," I said, lighting a cigarette.  "I don't.  But only by the

merest of chances."  I gestured to my companions.  Janette graciously

accepted, but Knight declined, brusquely waving the smoke away when it

came near his face.  "Only because I drove out to your house around

midnight last night, Miss DuCharme, to ask you some further questions,

and you don't close your curtains so well.  Alexis Parker was killed just

after midnight, and I'd have to confirm that you were each other's alibis."

        They shot another glance at each other.  They didn't act like a

couple who'd just spent a passionate night in each other's arms, but I

guess that was their business.

        "Any suspects, then?" asked Knight.

        "Even fewer people had any reason to wish Alexis Parker harm than

Jack Sanderson.  So it may be down to your black button, after all."

        Janette looked at him sharply.  "Black button?"

        "Button off a man's shirt.  Hardly a summer color, here in Los

Angeles.  But I'm surprised Knight hasn't told you all about it already,

you two being so close and all."

        I wondered what they were not saying to each other, and whether

maybe I'd have a chance to find out if I left them alone for a moment.  I

asked them whether they'd like a drink and they both refused, so I went

into the kitchenette to fix one for myself.

        "Do you think we need to tell him?"  Knight was asking Janette

softly, so softly that if I hadn't always had extra good hearing I never

would have caught it.

        "We must avoid it if at all possible.  The community would not

--"  but she broke off as I reentered the room.  "Nicolas and I were just

saying what a lovely community you live in.  So convenient to downtown,

yet so quiet."

        I didn't deign to reply to that one.  "Look, there've been two

murders, my only reasonable suspect is you, Miss Ducharme, and you have

an alibi for the second.  The black button could belong to the gardner.

I don't have a whole lot to go on, here.  Whatever you two know, either

spill it, or I may have to call in the police.  I'm not sure why, but I

don't think either of you would like that very much.  Just call it a hunch."

        Knight raised a hand to his tie, which he straightened

nervously.  "Okay, my attention is all yours.  What else do we have to go

on?"

        "Well, whoever it was, either was strong enough to overpower

Sanderson, or else was someone he trusted.  And whoever did it, may be

keeping track of who Miss DuCharme is spending her time with.  The first

time we met," I turned to her, "you mentioned friends.  They may be

suspects, or they may be next on the killer's list.  But it's not an

unreasonable suspicion to think that, whoever the killer is, he or she

may be fixated on you."

        She looked at Knight again, searching for something in his face,

and when she didn't find it there, began to speak, reluctantly.  "Yes,

there is someone.  A former lover of mine.  It is possible that it was him."

        "Janette, was it--?"  Knight began.

**********

        "His name is Francisco DiLorenzo.  He lives here in Los Angeles.

He is very jealous and very violent.  He did not like losing me."

        "And this DiLorenzo is one of that group of friends you have

spoken about?" I asked.

        "Yes, Mr. Marlowe."

        "Then I think it's time for me to meet your friends."

        "That won't be possible," she said firmly.  "They are not fond of

the authorities, nor are they likely to cooperate with you.  I will

determine if it is Francisco, and if it is, he will be dealt with.  He

will disturb the peace of Los Angeles no longer.  Please, Mr. Marlowe.

Let me take care of this."

        "I don't think you quite understand, Miss DuCharme.  There have

been two murders committed.  Either you cooperate with me now, and this

is take care of quietly, or the polices come in, and trample all over

your sensitive little matters.  I put my hand gently on her arm in an

attempt to soothe matters.  It was quickly removed, but with such

strength and such speec as to be positively incredible in a woman of her

size.  Strength that could have overpowered even a man like Jack

Sanderson.  "Who *are* you?"  I asked.

        "I don't think you need to know that," she said softly.  "Just

let me take care of the matter.  Nicolas will contact you when it is over."

        I looked at Knight, but his face was studiedly blank.  "Janette

is right.  This is not a matter for the police. Please, Marlowe, let us

take care of it."

        "But you *are* the police," I pointed out, "in case you'd

forgotten.  A pretty face can do that to a man."

        Knight smiled. "No, I hadn't forgotten.  Marlowe, I'll phone you

in the morning."

**********

        I gave them a few minutes.  They weren't hard to tail.  Knight

just didn't know Los Angeles like I do.  I followed them to a shuttered

house, in a decaying part of town.  Mixed in between the cheap bungalows

were a couple of grander houses, mostly divided into apartments, and

rotting because of the weather and the lack of attention they got.  This

one looked deserted.

        I made my way around to the side of the house, where I heard

voices through a closed shutter.

        "He's *here*?  LaCroix is *here*?"  Knight sounded angry.

        "But Nicolas, you know he always turns up when we are in

trouble.  I did not contact him, I swear it.  He just *knows*."  Janette

sounded less distressed than resigned.

        I couldn't hear footsteps, but suddenly there was a third voice

in the room.  "Will you never learn, Nicholas?  I am always there for my

children when they need me."  It was a man, an Englishman by the sounds

of it.  "And you *do* need me, Nicholas, make no mistake about it."

        "Why is this suddently my problem?  It's Janette's little friend

who's been breaking the Code.  He's the one who's put the community at

risk with his foolish behavior in not concealing his kills."

        "Yes, and you had to come blundering in, helping one of your

mortal friends locate a missing son.  Janette could have handled this

private investigator by herself, but not once you were involved,

*Detective Knight*.  Honestly, Nicholas, after all these centuries, have

you learned nothing?"

        At was just at this moment that my body chose to betray me.  I

was seized with a sudden uncontrollable urge to sneeze.  It was soft,

they shouldn't have heard it, but whoever these people were, the ordinary

rules didn't seem to apply to them.

        "What was that?" asked the Englishman.

        Knight sounded reluctant as he answered.  "I think I know.  Wait

just a moment."  A minute later I found him at my side.  "Marlowe, this

was a really *bad* idea.  I'm trying to protect you, and you're not

making it easy."

        "Protect me from what?"  But I knew he wouldn't answer.

        I followed Knight into the house, and into a back room.  Janette

was there, and with her was one of the strangest-looking men I have ever

seen.  He was so pale that Knight and Janette looked almost tanned in

comparison.  His hair was extremely short, like a marine's, and his pale

blue eyes were deeply shadowed.  If you'd have told me that he was some

kind of supernatural killer, I'd have believed you.

        Knight introduced me, in what seemed to be a weak attempt to

maintain decorum.  "Lucien LaCroix, may I present Philip Marlowe?

Marlowe is the detective who's been working with me on the Sanderson murder."

        "Charmed, I'm sure," drawled LaCroix.  French name, British

accent, and he gave off the air of having lived in a lot of different

places.  "Nicholas, are you quite insane?"  He rolled those eyes.

"Nothing . . . personal, Mr. Marlowe."  He turned back to Knight.  "But a

mortal cannot know our secrets."  And then he turned to me once again,

and something happened that I still have trouble believing, something

that returns to me on sleepless nights.  His eyes changed color, from

blue to an amber-gold and his teeth . . . I have trouble believing it and

I was there.  His teeth had transformed into fangs, like a wildcat's or a

tiger's.  "Our secrets must remain safe."  He lunged towards me, grasping

at my shirt collar.

        But suddenly Knight was between us, and as I glimpsed his face,

he had transformed himself in the same way.  "No, LaCroix!" he snarled.

"Marlowe is my responsibility.  I will take care of him."

        "The only way to take care of him is to kill him -- or to bring

him across.  Which are you going to choose?"

        "Neither," said Knight.  "Marlowe can be of use to us.  And he is

honorable."

        LaCroix's face had returned to normal.  "You and your mortal

virtues.  What *is* honor, Nicholas?  Very well, Mr. Marlowe, you may

stay -- for the moment."

        I turned to Janette, knowing what that lovely mouth must also

contain. "And you?  Do you have any sudden surprises for me?"

        She nodded.  "I am what they are."

        "Vampires.  Like in the movies.  Unlike the infamous Mr. Lugosi,

whom it might interest you to know I am trying to protect."

        LaCroix curled his lip.  "Bela Lugosi movies?  Come now, you can

hardly believe we are accurately represented by those . . . primitive jokes."

        "And this is supposed to get me to *remove* you all from my

suspect list?"  If those movies told the truth, I was pretty much

defenseless right now.  Silver bullets, wasn't it?  And wooden stakes and

garlic.  None of those in my pockets.  No crosses, either.  "We thought

the killer might possibly be someone who thought he was a vampire.  You

three don't just *think* you're vampires, do you?  Unless there was some

sleight-of-hand with the eyes and the teeth?"

        Knight smiled.  No fangs now.  "No, no magic tricks."

        "Well, then, let's get to work.  But if you'll pardon me, I'm

going to have a drink, first."  There was a nearly-full hip flask in my

pocket.  I drained about half of it in one swig, to no apparent effect

except that my heart found its way back into my chest.

        "I'd like a drink, too," said Janette, meaningfully.  I wasn't

sure I liked her anymore.  But LaCroix handed her a bottle of what looked

like red wine and probably wasn't.  I tried not to think about it as they

passed the bottle between them, or about the bottle of wine she'd

prevented me from pouring from in her apartment that night.  Tried not

to, but failed.  Knight declined, but he probably just wasn't hungry.  I

didn't want to think about that, either.

        Well, Marlowe, if anyone had ever told you you'd be drinking with

a trio of vampires, would you have believed them?  I took another quick

tip from my flask and screwed the cap back on.

        "So this Francisco you were mentioning before?"

        "Is one of us," confirmed Janette.  "As I have said, he was my

lover for a time.  But I was ready to move on and he was not.  Why he

chose to wreak his vengeance on my mortal associates, I do not know.  He

may have thought I was prepared to bring one of them across to join me,

to replace him in my affections."

        "Bring them across -- make them in to vampires?"

        She nodded.  I thought of LaCroix's words earlier and shuddered again.

        "Alexis Parker, as well as Jack Sanderson?"

        Janette looked me straight in the eye.  "If one of them could

have tempted me, it would have been Alexis Parker.  She was far more . .

.. interesting.  And far more attractive."

        I liked her again.  She was honest, all right.  "But, in fact,

neither of them did."

        "No.  They did not."

        "And is there anyone else who might have given him reason to be

jealous?  Anyone else, uh, human, you were spending a lot of time with?"

        She thought for a moment.  "Yes.  Yes, there was one other mortal

with whom I spent a fair amount of time.  His name is Paul Kaminsky and

he lives out by the water, at Venice Beach.  He is painting my portrait."

        I nodded to Knight.  "Let's go."

        "Excuse me," said LaCroix, raising his hand and pointing to me.  "You

are proposing to accompany a vampire, to protect a mortal from another

vampire?  Do you have the vaguest idea what that involves?"

        "Look," I said, "all I know is that Paul Kaminsky is in danger.  You

two do what you want.  But the three of you are going to be pretty conspicuous

together.  *You* were talking about the need for secrecy.  Knight's the

least noticeable.  I mean he -- passes for human the best."

        "I take that as a compliment," Knight smiled.

        "You would," LaCroix raised an eyebrow.  "We'll meet you there."

He turned to me.  "We won't let Kaminsky see all three of us together."

**********

        Knight and I got into my car.  I knew Los Angeles a lot better

than he did.  "Are they following us in your car?"

        He hesitated.  "They'll meet us there."

        "Okay," I said.  "I guess Janette knows her way."  But there was

something else on my mind.  "LaCroix was willing to kill me to keep your

secret.  Why does he want to help save Kaminsky?"

        Knight smiled, resignedly.  "I don't think Kaminsky's well-being

is very high on his list.  Taking care of DiLorenzo, before he annoys

Janette any further, or puts her in any danger, is what LaCroix is

concerned about.  If he has any concern at all about Kaminsky, it will be

because he knows how much it would annoy Janette if her portrait weren't

finished."

        We rode in silence much of the way to Venice Beach, an artists'

colony on the water.  I had a lot to absorb, and Knight seemed concerned

about something.

        Finally, he spoke.  "If DiLorenzo does show up, you could be in a

great deal of danger."

        "Should I stop off and pick up a bottle of holy water?" I asked,

sarcastically.

        I was surprised when he said, quite seriously, "Can you get one?"

        I'm not Catholic, and I hadn't been inside a church of any sort

in years, but it happened that there was a priest I knew who lived out in

our general direction.  He was a good sort, did a lot for the kind of

lost souls I came across all too often in my work, and we'd helped each

other out before.  We took a brief detour -- we didn't even know whether

tonight was the night DiLorenzo would pick to strike -- and I stopped by

the Rectory.  Knight waited in the car -- he explained that religious

symbols did, in fact, have some kind of power over him.  A few moments

later, I'd emerged with a sizable crucifix under my arm (usually resident

on Father Matthew's living room wall) and a bottle of holy water in my

jacket pocket.

        Knight flinched, and hard, when he saw the crucifix, which I

concealed under a blanket in the back seat of my car.  He smiled

ruefully.  "We took these things more seriously in my day."

        "In your day?" I asked him.

        "What would you say if I told you I was a Crusader in medieval

Europe, before I became . . . what I am?"

        He looked about thirty-five, a couple of years younger than me.

"Now, my history's a little rusty," I said, "but that would make you what

-- seven, eight hundred years old?"

        "About that."  He was serious.

        "This is getting too weird for me," I admitted.  "And Janette, LaCroix?"

        "Are older than I am.  LaCroix, particularly, he was a Roman

general."  He smiled ruefully.  "The only reason I'm telling you all this

is because it will be arranged so that you forget it, at the end."

        "To protect your community, as you called it?"

        "That, and, because otherwise, we would have to kill you.  But I

won't let that happen."

        "Nick Knight, you are the strangest policeman I have ever met."

        "Just trying to atone for some of the damage I've caused over the

centuries."  He looked serious when he said that.

        I thought about the crucifix in the back seat, and suddenly, I

was glad it was there.  But soon we were in Venice.

        Kaminsky's house was a small beach shack, near the water.  There

were a number of really large windows opening into what was obviously his

studio, facing the water.  The rest of the house was behind the studio,

and it was pretty clearly bachelor's quarters.  It wasn't large enough

for more than one person.  We walked around to the back of the house.

The window was open, to catch the breezes, and we could hear a sound of

steady breathing.  Kaminsky was home, and he was peacefully asleep.  For

now.

        "Perhaps DiLorenzo's not coming, tonight," whispered Knight.  I

had a strange sensation of motion, and suddenly Janette and LaCroix were

beside us.  Knight motioned them further away from the window, where the

three of them stood in whispered conference.  It occurred to me that I

hadn't heard them drive up.  Perhaps they'd gotten here earlier and

parked further away.  LaCroix looked up and our eyes met.  They were the

coldest eyes I'd ever seen.  I was hiding the crucifix under my jacket

now, and I gave it a little squeeze, much like in another tight space I'd

feel for my gun.

        We waited for perhaps an hour, listening to the surf washing

against the shore.  The ocean breezes chilled me, the first time I'd been

chilly in months.  Then suddenly, with that same odd whoosh of motion,

there was another in our midst.

        It was DiLorenzo.  His bared fangs and reddened eyes told me

that.  He saw LaCroix, first, and sprang at him.  There was a struggle

that I couldn't quite make out in the dark, just two dark-clad bodies and

the flash of teeth and eyes, and a sound of snarling, like animals.  I

pulled out my flashlight, hoping to see better, and perhaps to shine it

in DiLorenzo's eyes and temporarily blind him.

        LaCroix was lying on the ground, bleeding from his throat.  I

wondered if what he was bleeding was what I had seen him drinking

earlier.  Despite his obvious strength, DiLorenzo's madness and

recklessness had given him the edge.  Janette rushed to LaCroix's side,

while DiLorenzo turned to face Nick Knight.  "You," he spat.  "You're the

reason she doesn't love me.  The *real* reason."  And he rushed Knight.

In the flashlight beam, I could see that all his clothes, even his shirt,

were black.

        For a moment they grappled together, more like a pair of wildcats

fighting than two men.  And then Knight was sent sprawling, bleeding from

several places.  DiLorenzo looked at Janette and at me, quickly

discounted me as no threat, and advanced on his beloved.

        "I'll make you love me," he growled.  "I'll *make* you."  She

hissed in response.

        Her fangs were just as frightening as the men's, her eyes just as

red, but she was much less DiLorenzo's size.  I saw that Knight was up

again, and that he was heading towards the studio.  Then it struck me:

Kaminsky would stretch his canvas on pieces of wood . . . which could be

sharpened into stakes.  I had a quick flashback to *Dracula*, where the

Count is staked through the heart by the hero.  Knight was going to do

the same, if Janette and I could keep DiLorenzo busy while he readied the

stake.  I rushed forward with my crucifix, hoping it would have the same

effect on DiLorenzo that it had had on Knight.

        He saw it and shrank back, as did Janette.  But while she

flinched and stood her ground, he actually moved as if to flee.  He could

not, though.  LaCroix was up again and holding him from behind.  He was

using DiLorenzo's body as a shield, so that he himself could not see the

crucifix.  I advanced on DiLorenzo, and pulled the holy water bottle out

of my pocket.  I couldn't warn LaCroix without warning DiLorenzo, so I

hoped for the best as I uncorked the bottle and threw it in his face.

        I've never seen a vitriol-throwing, but I've read about them.

DiLorenzo's face began to smoke, to burn, as he writhed in agony.  And

then Knight was there, armed with a wooden stake which he thrust through

DiLorenzo's heart.  He twitched for a moment, and was still.  As he died,

he screamed in heart-wrenching agony.

        Lights switched on inside the house.  "Is anybody there?  What's

the matter?"  It was Kaminsky, in his pajamas, awakened by the sound.

        "Everything's under control.  It's the police," I lied.  I went

to meet him, flashing my P.I. badge briefly in the dark.  I gave him a

quick excuse about disturbances in the neighborhood but how there was

nothing to worry about now.  He gladly bought it.  He wouldn't want to

have to sleep with his windows closed and locked in this weather, not and

miss that ocean breeze.

        When I returned to the yard, they were gone, even the body.

There wasn't a scrap of evidence that they had ever been there, except

the crucifix I'd just dropped and the holy water vial.  My flashlight

showed what seemed to be some grey ashes on the lawn.

        My car was parked where I'd left it, so I drove home.  There

really wasn't anything else to do, until the morning when I'd phone Bill

Madden.  I drove back into town, back to my place, had a couple bourbons,

and collapsed into bed, prepared for a restless night, and strange dreams.

        But, in fact, I slept soundly and dreamlessly until a couple of

hours before dawn, when I awoke to find LaCroix and Janette standing at

the foot of my bed.  I sat up quickly, too stunned to speak, and

remembered I'd left the crucifix in my car.

        "And what shall we do about Marlowe?" asked Janette.

        LaCroix stepped forward and fixed those pale blue eyes directly

on mine.  "You will forget everything you have seen.  You never met me.

There are no such things as vampires.  Janette is just a suspect, who

proved innocent.  Nicholas is just a policeman from Chicago.  The

murderer was insane and he was accidentally killed while you and Nicholas

were apprehending him.  The body washed out to sea."

        I nodded, entranced by his gaze and words.

        "I was afraid you were going to kill him," said Janette.  "He is

only a mortal, but . . ."

        "There is something about him.  You noticed it, too. . . . I have

not respected a mortal in many centuries.  I respect Marlowe.  That is

why I will not kill him.  I would bring him across, only I suspect he

would present us with the same sorts of problems that Nicholas does."

        Knight rushed into the room.  "LaCroix, don't!"

        "You are too late, Nicholas.  I have already erased his memory."

Knight looked relieved.  "He is still in an entranced state.  You must

tell him a story . . . one that he can tell to his clients and to the

police."

        I remember no more, except waking up in my own bed, in bright

sunlight, with a throbbing head and two different versions of what had

happened running simultaneously through my mind.  I phoned my client and

told him the one I knew he would believe.  The one that didn't really happen.

        You see, LaCroix hypnotized me so that I wouldn't remember about

him, or vampires, or any of those secrets we mere mortals are not

supposed to know.  But there are some people who can't be hypnotized.

And I'm one of them.

        Knight came to see me that evening, just after sunset, and went

away happy.  For all he could tell, I thought he was just a nice-guy

policeman from Chicago, nothing more or less.  I knew LaCroix didn't want

to kill me, so I wasn't going to go out of my way to make him.

        Well, I guess they went back to Chicago, because I never saw any

of them again.  Knight and Janette, well, whatever there was between

them, I hope they worked it out, because they were quite a pair and I

would have felt sorry for anybody else who fell for either of them.  And

not just because they were vampires.  As for LaCroix, I think there would

have been a lot of work for him in Hollywood, if he'd have stayed.  He'd

have had a real future playing decadent crime bosses and mad scientists.

His most benign looks were more menacing than the best frightening that

Edward G. Robinson and Boris Karloff could manage between them.  But I

guess shooting during the days would have been a problem.

        The studio, and the police, were happy to accept my explanation.

The studio paid me enough that I wouldn't have had to work for a year.

But somehow I couldn't do that, so I paid my landlord the next six months

in advance and stuck the rest in a bank account to tide me over whenever

my sentiment defeated my business sense.

        But first I went down to Mexico, to sit in the sun for a few

days.  I've never hidden the fact that I like to drink.  But I never get

really drunk, never cross that line into oblivion.  Only I got real

drunk, that kind of drunk, for a couple of days down there in Mexico,

drinking tequila in the sunshine.  Real real drunk.  And by the time the

cumulative hangover began to fade, I had begun to convince myself it was

probably just a dream, anyway.

        They call death the big sleep.  And it's not such a bad thing,

really.  Just not if it comes too soon, or at the hands of someone you

trusted, or loved.  What Knight and Janette and LaCroix were facing was a

lot worse.  Like being an insomniac, only forever.  And there's never any

sunlight, never a reprieve from the darkness.  Just one long forever night.

END