Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl by David Barnett Read Free Book Online

upon him and lay back in the bed. As he did so he heard a distinct tapping sound, and he blinked away the sleep enveloping him. Stoker looked up and let loose a small cry.
    There was a pale face at the window, shadowed within the confines of a voluminous hooded cloak, a pair of blazing eyes regarding him balefully as a long, thin finger tapped insistently on the glass. Was it Dracula, come to claim him?
    Then the eyes became two moths, banging in unison against the pane before parting and fluttering off. The face was nothing more than the moon, within not a hood, but the branches of the plane tree outside his room. The components of the hooded face had disassembled, and Stoker forced a smile. He lay back again, laughing at his own foolishness. But his departed dreams still left a strange taste of something incredibly old and forbidden on his dry lips, and it was a long time before sleep embraced him again.
    There was excitement in town that distracted Stoker from his intention to telephone Florence, and from his brooding of the incidents of the night before: a crowd at the entrance to one of the cobbled side streets stretching in a haphazard warren up from the harbor. Stoker spied the chief of police, Superintendent Jackson, glowering grimly as a uniformed officer murmured in his ear, and he hailed him.
    “A bad business, Mr. Stoker,” said Jackson, his moustache waggling. “A bad business all around.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Murder most foul.” He pointed at a shapeless lump in the shadows of the alley, covered by a sheet. “Holidaymaker,” said Jackson. “Son of a Bradford wool family.”
    “A thief?” asked Stoker. “He was murdered for his money?”
    “It doesn’t appear so. He had a full- to-bursting wallet in his jacket pocket. We’ve got witness reports saying he left the harbor area at quarter to ten, with a local girl.”
    “Aha,” said Stoker. “A suspect.”
    “A doubtful one,” said Jackson. “She was at the scene, in a dead faint. Still in the infirmary, not properly conscious. And I doubt a fish-and-chip shopgirl could do that to a man.”
    “Do . . . what?”
    “Rip his throat out,” said Jackson grimly. “And leave a corpse drained of blood, with barely a drop spilled on the cobbles.”
    Stoker met Gideon at their appointed time and led him to the harbormaster’s office to return the ship’s log of the Dmitri . More mysteries worried the harassed Randolph; he had discovered that the three wooden boxes were filled with nothing but earth, and overnight someone had stolen one of them. “Now, who’d do a thing like that? A six-foot-long box of soil? Take three men to carry it.” He shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”
    Or one man, thought Stoker. One man with the unnatural strength of the vampire. They left Randolph poring over the translated notes, shaking his head and puffing again, and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.
    “Well,” said Stoker. “Most exciting. Did you know, Mr. Smith, that vampires like to hide away from daylight in coffins? According to Le Fanu, they favor a layer of soil from their homeland.” He paused and stroked his beard, regarding Gideon. “You are not yourself today, Mr. Smith, if I might say so.”
    Gideon sighed. “All this talk of vampires, Mr. Stoker. I’m not sure . . .”
    “We need to get back into the chase,” said Stoker. “Perhaps some lunch at the Magpie Café . . . ?”
    “Mr. Stoker,” said Gideon, “if this Count Dracula really is in Whitby, and if he is responsible for the deaths of this tourist and my father’s crew, perhaps we need help. You have worked for the magazines . . . maybe they’ll listen to you at World Marvels & Wonders, put you in touch with Captain Trigger.”
    Stoker laughed, then regretted it as Gideon’s face fell. “I didn’t mean—” he began, then stopped. “Look, Mr. Smith, this is my story, and while I’m grateful for your assistance . . .”
    “Story?” asked