Fangs at Fasching

Coming out the bathroom, toweling himself off, Mustafa saw the assault in progress, gauged Hans's cries to mean that this was not a willing fuck, although at this point, it was, and went into action. He threw himself on the assailant's back, his strong hands going to the man's throat and squeezing hard.

In a short time, Drago Corvius had been dragged off of Hans and the bed and lay dead on the floor.

"You best get dressed and go find your detective," Mustafa said, standing over the body, his hands still flexing and unflexing from the exhilaration of having done their worst. If asked, he'd admit that he never did like Drago Corvius—too slimy by far, Mustafa thought.

* * * *

"Well, that solves the murders," Friedrich Halterman said, standing in the third-floor servants' room and looking down at the dead body of the opera baritone, Drago Corvius, wrapped in the black cape of his masked-party vampire costume.

"You keep mentioning vampires," Halterman turned to Terry Winter and said. "Surely you don't think Corvius really was a vampire."

"No, of course not. He was being a bit too blatant about that," Winter answered. "Besides, he's clearly dead. Throttling wouldn't do that for a real vampire."

The detective laughed. "I wish it was that easy to figure out," he said.

"I suppose it can be taken that way—that the murders are now solved," Terry Winter said, and before Halterman could query him about that, he turned to Baron Luderman and said, "It does, of course, close out your concern of his intentions toward Madeleine."

"I can see now why you wanted me to keep Madeleine close to me last night and not let her go with Corvius. It wasn't women he was interested in, was it? Or he at least was interested in men too. His interests were mostly in money and position."

"Corvius wasn't the only one Madeleine needed protection from," the young viscount said. "I think you need to steel yourself."

"How so?"

"Chances are good Madeleine's interest go beyond having a husband—having a man. And don't look so shocked at me. With the choices you yourself have made, you should understand if your daughter's preferences aren't the usual either."

The baron was about to say something when the screaming started from the guest bedroom level below. The maid, Ingrid, was exercising her considerable lung power.

When they got there, they found the Italian tenor, Guido Salvitore, stretched out on his back, naked, on the bed, a beatific expression on his face. In death he was as pale as the prior two victims had been, which Halterman immediately remarked on.

"Yes, I would bet your medical examiner will say he's almost drained of blood, as the other two were," Winter affirmed.

"And you have an explanation for that?" Halterman asked.

"I'll repeat what I asked you before," Winter said. "Do you believe in vampires?"

"No, of course, not," Halterman retorted, "although it would seem that Drago Corvius was playing at that. He must have done this before he assaulted Hans upstairs. At least this closes the case."

"It would seem so if you don't believe in vampires," Winter said. He was moving his hand around on the sheets around Salvitore's body and coming up with multicolored sequins.

"I suppose we need to gather everyone up in the lounge and wrap this up," Halterman said. He sent Fritz and Hans to attend to that. Once in the lounge, they discovered that not everyone was present.

"The woman, the Polish countess, and the Spanish couple seem to have departed in the night," Fritz reported. All of their luggage is gone. The butler, Jozef, said he was awakened twice this morning and that Mustafa drove them, separately, to the train station in Garmisch. They claimed the detective told them they could go.

"What do you make of that, Terry?" Halterman asked the young viscount. "And of course I didn't tell them they could leave."

"I'm surprised to have found two of them in the same place at the same time," Terry answered, and when Halterman gave him a quizzing look for that, he sighed, and said, "I suppose putting this all on Corvius is going to provide the neatest conclusion of your case under the circumstances. Let's leave it at that. Unless you have brought a golden spike with you—no, two, it seems—and you don't want to rush to the Garmisch train station, there's no other satisfactory result in the offing here."

The guests—those who were left—milled around the lounge, chatting with each other, as the medical examiner finished with the bodies of the Romanian baritone and the Italian tenor. The detective concluded his work, announced the case closed, and declared that they all were free to go about their business. He saw no reason to try to track down those who had absconded in the night. They probably did so for their own safety, he said.

"Maybe," Terry Winter said to that. "And about you and your safety, Friedrich," he added. "What about that?"

"I don't understand," the detective said.

"I think you do. You know the political atmosphere here in Germany. I see the distain that even Fritz, your subordinate, shows you—and he's watching you like a hawk. I'm betting you're under surveillance. You're Jewish. It's only a matter of time before that will work against you here, not only in your position, but in your very life."

"I don't see what can be done about that."

"I do. I'm going to America—to New York—when I finish my travels here. You could come to the States—sooner than later. I could help you get established there. I've grown quite fond of you."

"It's something to think about," Halterman said, taking the stateside contact information for Winter from the young viscount.

"Just don't take too long to think about it. And," Winter said, turning to Baron Luderman, "your reason for asking me here has been settled and the people you have been gathering to help you with your new ballet-opera idea have dispersed or died. I think that's on hold now—and, again because of the building political climate here—perhaps it would be best not to be producing something just now that tries to raise warnings about the brown shirts. I think your country is beyond that now. I think it best that you return to your work with the Wagner festival. I think that's safe for the current mood in Germany."

The baron nodded his unspoken understanding, and said, "Then you'll be leaving soon?"

"Yes, later this afternoon. Otto Merkel has asked for a lift to Munich and a brief stay with him."

"Ah, yes, Otto was telling me about the new playroom—the dungeon, he said—he's installed in that castle he's renovating in Munich. You were always susceptible to the cruelty of military types, as I recall. Do be careful, though. One of these days you are likely to go too far—to give too much of yourself."

Winter just gave him a smile.

"Well, enjoy yourself," Luderman said. "One question, though. You don't really think that Corvius was the murderer here, do you? I watched you. You don't think this case really was solved but you are letting loose of it."

"Let's just say I don't think you or Madeleine are in any danger anymore and that I think Corvius got just what he deserved. Beyond that, I'll ask you what I've asked Friedrich Halterman a couple of times. Do you believe in vampires?"

"No, of course not."

"Then we'll leave it at that." Winter had seen one of Charles Frankel's sketch pads lying on a table and had picked it up and looked at the sketches the man had done at the party the previous evening. Frankel was watching him closely. The sketches he'd done both of the Polish countess, Caroline Radiswal, and the Spaniard, Rodrigo Alonso, depicted them with bared, sharp fangs, dripping in blood and enshrouded in black capes. "Do you mind if I take a couple of these sketches?" he asked Frankel. "Perhaps they'd be safer with me."

"If you wish. If you think that would be best," the diffident set designer answered.

"I suppose it's necessary," Winter said, "since everyone but you and I say they don't believe in vampires." He took the sketches of Caroline and Rodrigo, crumpled them up, walked over to the fireplace, and fed them into the fire.

"And that, I guess, is that," he said, turning to Jimmy Chin. "Perhaps you should go and tell Otto Merkel that I'm ready for the next adventure."

Chin gave him a sour look, but he went off to find Merkel.