The Avenger 33 - The Blood Countess by Kenneth Robeson Read Free Book Online Page B

me about. It is rather a shame, because I am actually well versed, in a variety of topics, due chiefly to my having read a good many American magazines and—”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “As I told the police and the American consul and the old professor with the whiskers, the last time I saw senhor Benson was six nights ago. I have not seen him since; his room remains empty.”
    “The night you did see him . . . do you have any idea where he was heading?”
    “Alas, senhor, no. He did not confide in me; he exited by way of that door there, and that was the last I saw of him. Some of our guests, you know, will tell me almost anything. I think it is basically because I have such an open and honest face.”
    “You have honest feet, too,” said Cole. “Look, I know who the American consul is. In fact, a couple of my chums are talking to him right now. I’m even aware of who the police are, but who's this old professor chap?”
    “He is, senhor, a professor,” replied the clerk, “and very old. He is staying, though I cannot understand why, at the Hotel Segunda on the other side of the town plaza. He’s a friend of senhor Benson’s, and has been quite concerned about what may have happened.”
    “I don’t suppose this is the height of the old professor season at the Segunda, but to make it even easier for me to dig him up . . . what’s the old boy’s name?”
    “It is Bouchey, Dr. Bouchey.”
    “Might be enlightening to have a bit of a chat with him. We may have other things besides Richard Benson in common.” He moved toward the door. “Adeus.”
    “Good-bye, senhor. If you change your mind about that suite, I can give you a very good rate on it. And the bathroom alone is . . .”

    There was dust all over the professor, on his rumpled jacket and his baggy trousers. He kept brushing at himself as he and Cole walked toward the outdoor café table. “They certainly don’t keep their archives very clean here in Mostarda,” he said. “It is a pity, too, because they have some very valuable manuscripts.” He patted his narrow chest, and a swirl of dust arose. When he seated himself in the caneback chair, several more small clouds of dust erupted from his clothes.
    Seating himself opposite the old man, Cole asked, “So you knew my friend Richard Benson?”
    “We became acquainted on the train from the capital, senhor Wilson,” replied the professor. He signaled the sleepy-eyed waiter and ordered coffee for both of them. “A very intelligent and well-read man, your young friend.”
    “That’s Richard, sure enough,” said Cole. “As I told you, we’re here hunting for him.”
    Dr. Bouchey nodded his wrinkled head, which produced more flumes of dust. “Yes, senhor Wilson,” he said, resting his sharp elbows on the table top. “And I can tell you what happened to him!”
    Cole’s eyebrows climbed. “That would be quite helpful.”
    A long sigh, accompanied by whiffs of dust, issued from the professor. “It is very sad, senhor, but I am very much afraid our friend is dead.”
    Fingers gripping the table edge, Cole leaned toward the old man. “Is this a guess—a conjecture—or do you really know?”
    “I feel, senhor. I feel that something terrible has happened to senhor Benson.”
    Cole’s grip on the table relaxed somewhat. “I’d like to hear your reasons, professor.”
    “I have made a life-long study of the subject of . . .” He stopped talking while the waiter set down their cups of coffee. “ ’Brigado. A lifetime study of vampirism. It was that interest which brought me here to Mostarda. There has been here in the past few weeks a series of brutal murders, murders which I strongly believe are the work of a vampire. Perhaps you, like many young people today, think a belief in vampires is only so much foolishness.”
    “The Wilson clan, Dr. Bouchey, are noted for their open minds. Pray continue.”
    “These killings, and I have been able to study the police