28 - Blood Harvest_玖贝云文库

BLOOD HARVEST by TERRANCE DICKS

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Doctor Who Books an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd 332

Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH Copyright (c) Terrance Dicks 1994 "Doctor Who" series copyright (c)

British Broadcasting Corporation 1994 ISBN 0 426 20417 4 Cover illustration by Bill Donohoe Typeset by

Intype, London Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired

out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser

Contents

PROLOGUE

01 THE BIG FELLOW

02 DOC'S PLACE

03 CONNECTIONS

04 THE VILLAGE AND THE TOWER

05 VAMPIRE

06 THE INVITATION

07 THE ATTACK

08 HIS HONOUR THE MAYOR

09 THE MEETING

10 THE REVENANT

11 RESISTANCE

12 CONFERENCE

13 DEATH TRAIL

14 TRACKDOWN

15 THE ARREST

16 SUMMIT OF DEATH

17 FLIGHT

18 PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

19 THE TRAIL

20 RESCUE

21 THE BATTLE

22 SARGON'S CASTLE

23 VAMPIRE HISTORY

24 THE QUARRY

25 CRACK-DOWN

26 FAREWELL PARTY

27 ESCAPE TO DANGER

28 GALLIFREY

29 THE THREE

30 RASSILON

31 SWEET HOME CHICAGO

EPILOGUE

Never play cards with a man called Doc

Never eat out at a place called Mom's

Never lie down with a woman

Whose troubles are worse than your own

PROLOGUE

The Doctor came hurrying into the TARDIS, curly hair standing on end with excitement, long scarf trailing

behind him. K-9 was plugged into the console and lights were flashing furiously.

As the Doctor entered, K-9 unplugged himself and turned round. "Computations completed, Master! Using

information from the Hydrax data banks I have computed an infallible method of entering and leaving E-space

at will."

"Never mind that now!"

K-9 was hurt. "Leaving E-space matter of highest priority, Master!"

"So is this! Romana insists on leaving us, K-9. She wants to help Biroc free the Tharils. I can't go with her.

Will you?"

There was a moment's pause.

"She needs you, K-9," said the Doctor. "She's taken on a huge job and she needs your help. Will you go?"

K-9 said "Affirmative, Master!"

The Doctor picked up K-9, hugged him and carried him out of the TARDIS.

A few moments later he came back in, alone. He went back to the console and re- ran the data K-9 had just

loaded, storing it in his Time Lord memory. It was an elegant solution - and very logical. "Of course!" he said.

"So simple I couldn't see it! Clever old K-9. We can go back now."

Somehow the idea didn't seem to give him very much pleasure.

Things would be very different without Romana and K-9. There was still Adric, of course.

Then came the explosion.

The hidden control room, deep in the heart of the Capitol, had long been cleansed, deactivated and sealed.

Tarnished by a history of ancient evil, it was a place of unspeakable horror, no longer discussed, or even

thought of by the civilization that had created it. Yet now it was in use once again.

Two black-robed and hooded figures watched a third as he struggled with a complex array of ancient

equipment. There was a console, a variety of controls, a monitor screen bordered with elaborate metal

scroll-work.

One of the hooded watchers spoke. "Can it be reactivated?"

The one at the console said, "It won't be easy. Flavia's lackeys were thorough."

"But without the Time Scoop - "

"Visual function at least can be restored. We can observe. When the time comes, we shall find ways to

intervene."

The watcher raised his voice in a ritual incantation.

"Death to the Doctor!"

The second watcher joined him:

"Borusa lives!"

All three chanted the final, blasphemous line:

"Rassilon must die!"

The figure at the console returned to his work.

On the monitor the swirling mists of space and time cleared to reveal a city.

A city of towers beside a lake.

"But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished

nor afraid . . . He is the hero, he is everything . . .

He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

The story is this man's adventure in search of a hidden truth."

Raymond Chandler: "The Simple Art of Murder"

1 THE BIG FELLOW

It was a bright winter morning, the sun shining with a sharp jab of cold in the wind off the lake. Chicago

looked swell - like a beautiful woman with an ice pick in her stocking top.

I was driving along Lake Shore Drive in my old Buick. I was wearing the new dark-blue pin-stripe with

trenchcoat and snap-brim fedora. I was everything the well-dressed private eye ought to be. I was calling on a

hundred million dollars.

The invitation had arrived in my office a few hours earlier. It was my first day in business and I was sitting

behind my new desk wondering what the hell to do next. The desk itself wasn't new, it came with the office.

The previous occupant was in the insurance business, until someone cancelled his policy with three slugs

from a Saturday night special in a South Side speakeasy.

Suddenly shy a tenant and a month's rent, the landlord had rented me the office at a bargain rate and thrown

in the fixtures and fittings for free. I was now the proud owner of a hat-rack, a worn-out carpet, a

cigarette-scarred wooden desk, one swivel and two rickety kitchen-type chairs and a beat-up green filing

cabinet filled largely with Chicago air.

The desk was pretty empty too, except for the bottle of bourbon - well, the label said bourbon - in the deep file

drawer.

I was just deciding that it was too early for a drink but I'd go ahead and have one anyway when my first

business opportunity arrived.

It arrived in the shape of two hard-eyed characters in black topcoats and identical pearl-grey felt hats with

broad black hatbands. The topcoats hung open to reveal dark suits, white shirts and striped ties. In certain

criminal circles, gaudy vests, loud ties and diamond tie-pins were a thing of the past.

The Big Fellow liked the hired help to look respectable.

The get-up had changed but the manners were the same as ever. They shoved the door open without

knocking and stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, sneering down at me. Both were beefy and blue-jawed,

one tall, the other short and stocky.

"Morning gents," I said cheerfully. "What can I do for you? Lost dogs, missing mothers? You do have

mothers?"

The tall hood said, "They told us you was a wiseguy, Dekker."

The thickset one said, "We gotta come all the way downtown to this dump to listen to cheap wisecracks from

a cheap peeper."

He spat on the carpet, which needled me more than somewhat.

"Hang on till I send for a spittoon," I said. "Try to remember you're not at home."

"On your feet, shamus," said the tall one. "We're going for a ride."

"One way?"

"Someone wants to see you."

I stood up, hands on the side of the desk.

"Clients are welcome in office hours," I said. "House calls can be arranged by appointment."

"Cut the wisecracks, Dekker," said the stocky one. "Move your ass or we'll move it for you."

I picked up the desk and threw it at them. The desk smashed them apart like ninepins, knocking them to the

floor. By the time they made it to their feet I had the .45 out and was covering them both.

I felt under their arms and took away their guns. I knew they'd both have guns, just as I knew they'd both have

permits. I grabbed the thickset one and shoved him down on his knees.

"Clean up the carpet," I said. "Clean it up, or I'll scrub it with your face."

He took the display handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed away at the spittle. I let him up.

"Get your hats, you're leaving."

They grabbed their hats, getting the wrong ones in their hurry. The tall one's hat came down over his ears, the

stocky guy's hat perched on top of his head.

"Change hats, boys," I said. "And next time you're sent on an errand, act polite."

They changed hats and beat it. I heard their feet clattering down the stairs. I picked up the desk and put it

back in place. I checked the telephone - it still seemed to be working. I looked in the file drawer and found the

booze had survived, although one of the glasses was broken. I poured myself a drink in the remaining glass,

set fire to a Camel and sat staring into space in a kind of dream.

The sunlight printed the lettering from the office window onto the carpet in reverse. "Untermeyer Insurance" it

said.

I ought to get it changed to "Thomas Dekker - Investigations", I thought - but was I going to be around long

enough to justify the expense? What seemed like a long time later the phone rang and I grabbed it. "Dekker."

There was a moment of silence. Then a soft voice said, "They tell me you make house-calls, shamus?"

"Only for very big clients."

"Hawthorne Hotel, noon," said the voice. There was another pause, then the voice added, "That polite enough

for you, Mister Dekker?"

"That's just fine, Mr. - ?"

The voice said, "Ask for Al Brown," and the phone went dead. I hung it back on the stand and poured myself

another drink. After all, this was a special occasion. It's not every day you get a call from Al Capone.

Some people said Capone owned Chicago, which was kind of an exaggeration. He owned the little suburb of

Cicero for sure though, lock, stock and cops as well.

He'd owned it since the last local elections, when so many bombs went off it was christened the Pineapple

Primary.

The bombs and bullets of Capone's hoods had made sure the voting went the right way.

The Mayor and City Council came with the package. To ram the point home, Capone had dragged the Mayor

out of his office and kicked him down the steps of the Town Hall for talking back.

The Hawthorne Hotel was a three-storey brown brick joint on Twenty-Second Street, just west of Cicero

Avenue. It was a high-class hotel that had gone down in the world - and come up again when Mr. Brown

picked it for his out-of-town HQ. Now it had all kinds of improvements, like steel shutters at the windows and

resident mobsters wall-to-wall.

I parked the Buick by a fire hydrant and went inside.

There was only one way into the Hawthorne, along a passageway that led into the lobby. The front desk,

cigar stand and all the lobby chairs faced right down that passageway. The lobby was crowded with hard

guys - I could feel myself being watched every step of the way.

I headed for the reception desk. Before I got there a slender, dark man appeared by my side. "Dekker?"

"That's me."

"Frank Rio. You're expected. This way."

He led me across to a row of elevators on the left of the lobby and opened the door with some kind of special

key. The lush velvet-lined elevator whisked us up to the top floor. The elevator doors opened onto a thickly

carpeted hallway with a mahogany table and a set of double doors on the far side.

There were two armchairs, one each side of the door, a mobster lounging in each one. They had hats tipped

over their eyes and looked to be asleep.

I headed for the doors but Rio barred my way. "The iron, shamus. No one gets in to see the Big Fellow

heeled. Not unless he's on the payroll."

"What happens if I object? You wake the sleeping beauties?"

I glanced at the two hoods in the armchairs.

"Why bother?" said Rio.

I looked back, and found he was covering me with a Browning automatic.

I glanced back at the two mobsters and found they were suddenly wide awake and pointing black automatics

at me.

I shrugged and took the Colt .45 from under my arm, slamming it on the table.

"This one I'd like back."

I took out the guns that had been weighing down my left and right-hand suit pockets.

"These belong to your messenger boys."

Rio slid all three guns into the table drawer and slipped the Browning back under his arm. "Inside."

I went through the double doors.

The big room beyond was a combined office and parlour. A dictator-sized desk, overstuffed armchairs and

sofas, a drinks cabinet against the wall. Steel shutters were folded back on the big windows, and a massive

shape stood gazing down at the bustle of Twenty-Second Street.

As the door closed behind me he swung round and came towards me. I was looking at a bulky figure in a

pearl-grey suit, cut by the best tailor in Chicago. The tailoring wasn't quite good enough to disguise the belly,

but I got the feeling there was more muscle there than fat. The body was topped by a big round head with

greased-back hair. The plump, jowled baby-face had a big cigar stuck in the middle.

I was looking at the man who liked to use the alias Al Brown. He was also known as the Big Fellow. He was

Scarface Al Capone.

The thought of the nickname made me look for the scars - I'd never been close enough to get a good look at

them before.

There were three of them: one on the left cheek, one on the jaw, the third on the neck. They'd faded with time

and were no more than thin, white lines.

I must have looked a bit too long. The Big Fellow noticed but he didn't seem to mind.

"Spoil my beauty, don't they?"

It was the same soft husky voice I'd heard on the phone.

"Know how I got "em?"

I decided to act diplomatic.

"I read in the paper how you got them in the Big War, heroically saving your platoon from a Mills bomb."

Capone chuckled. "Those newspaper slobs will print anything. I got 'em in New York when I was a kid,

working in Franky Yale's bar on Coney Island. A skinny little guy called Galluchio comes in with his kid

sister. She's a real hot little piece and I make some crack about her having a nice ass. I mean it like a

compliment, but you know how we Italians are about family. Her brother pulls a knife - little bastard really cut

me good. I hadda have about thirty stitches."

"How did Galluchio make out? Is he still around?"

"He's fine. I went looking for him when I got outta hospital, but Joe the Boss made us have a sit-down at the

bar. He said I was outta line making cracks about the guy's sister, and Galluchio had a right to be sore but

he shouldn't have cut me. We both apologized and that was that." Capone sighed. "People had standards in

those days, we knew how to behave. These guys today... You're Dekker, right?"

"Right."

Suddenly the amiable grin turned to a glare that could curdle bootleg bourbon.

"You take chances, Dekker, bouncing my boys around."

"I took the chance that if Mr. Brown wanted a private eye, he'd want one who wasn't too easy to lean on.

Consider the bouncing act my references."

The grin came back and I breathed again. Capone went over to the big drinks cabinet and fixed himself a

brandy in a balloon glass you could have taken a bath in.

"Drink, Dekker?"

"Only when I can get it. I'll take bourbon."

He poured me a slug of Jim Beam - real Jim Beam -and handed it over. He went behind the big desk and sat

down in a swivel chair.

"You were a cop, right Dekker? Till you got canned."

"Till I quit," I said with dignity.

"How come? Being on the cops is a good racket in this town."

"That was my problem. I had this dumb idea about a cop being some kind of public servant."

"So what happened?"

"I busted Pete Gusenberg for putting the muscle on a poor little slob of a saloon keeper. The guy wouldn't

change suppliers so Pete broke his jaw. I was having a quiet drink, saw the ruckus and pulled Pete in. He got

a little damaged in the process."

"That Gusenberg, he's an animal," said Capone disgustedly. "The times I try to talk sense into him, make a

business arrangement, but will he listen? So what happened?"

"Down at the station Pete has a private chat with Reilly, the Precinct Captain.

Then Reilly calls me in and tells me he's dropping the charge. He just happens to have an envelope stuffed

with greenbacks which he offers to split with me."

"What did you do?"

"I slugged the Captain."

Capone chuckled wheezily. "So they busted you?"

"They wanted to, but I threatened to tell the press boys why I slugged him. So we did a deal. They got my

resignation, I got a licence to be a shamus."

Capone took a last puff on his cigar. "I got a job for you, Dekker."

I drew a deep breath. It was now or never.

"I may have left the cops, Mr. Capone, but I haven't crossed any lines. So if you want me to drive a beer

truck, muscle a saloon keeper or take some guy for a ride..."

Capone held up a massive paw.

"Don't insult me, Dekker. For jobs like that I got all the guys I can use. This job's strictly legit. I want you to

check someone out for me."

"Like who?"

"A guy called Doc."

"Why, the very guys that make my trade good are the ones that yell the loudest about me. Some

of the leading judges use the stuff. When I sell liquor it's called bootlegging. When my patrons serve it on

silver trays on Lake Shore Drive it's called hospitality."

Al Capone

2 DOC'S PLACE

Capone mashed out the butt of his cigar in a big marble ashtray and took another from a box on the desk. He

pushed the box towards me. I shook my head, fished out my cigarettes and set fire to another Camel.

Capone made a big production of lighting another torpedo-sized cigar, biting off the end and using three

matches to get fired up. He leaned back in his chair and sent out enough smoke signals to send the Apache

nation on the warpath.

"A few weeks ago this guy Doc opens up a night-spot in a house just off Dearborn Street. Small place, high

class, good liquor, straight gambling, no hostesses... To get in you say you feel sick and ask for Doc."

"Is the joint in your territory?"

Capone shook his head. "It's kind of in no-man's land. A place where several territories overlap. Me, the

Gusenberg mob, the Aiellos, the O'Donnell's..."

"Sounds like this Doc could be in trouble. He have another name?"

"Smith," said Capone ironically. "Doctor John Smith. But everyone calls him Doc."

"So what do you want from me?"

"I need to know about him. Who he is, who his friends are, how much clout does he have. Is he connected,

maybe a front man for some New York guys? Do I take him in, take him out, leave him alone? I gotta know.

Check him out for me, Dekker."

I reckoned it was an honest job - about as honest as I was likely to get in Chicago. Beside which, if I said no

to Capone I'd be swimming across Lake Michigan in a cement bathing suit.

"Okay, I'll check this guy out for you. But if you decide he has to go, don't expect me to set him up."

"Relax," said Capone. "All I need from you is information. If I can settle things peacefully with this guy Doc

then I will. You know me, I'm a businessman."

The funny thing was, I believed him. Capone liked to keep things peaceful. Shooting was bad for business. He

only killed you if he had to.

"Okay," I said. "Now, my daily rate..."

Capone pulled out a roll of bills that would choke a Chicago City Alderman and tossed it across to me.

"Retainer. Let me know when it's used up."

"Right," I said. "I'll get right on it, report back as soon as I've got news."

"Fine," said Capone. He leaned forwards. "Those boys I sent to fetch you, Dekker..."

"Never send the boys round to do a man's job."

"Okay, so I underestimated you. But you'd better play square with me on this. I've got better people to send if

I have to."

"Like Frank Rio?"

"Frank's the best."

I stood up. "No, I'm the best. I'll do an honest job for you, Mr. Capone. But keep your hoods out of my hair or

I'll comb "em out like dandruff"

Capone shook his head. "You really are something, Dekker."

"That's why you hired me."

"I could use a guy like you. It's a pity you're straight."

"Well, nobody's perfect," I said. "I'll get back to you, Mr. Brown."

I went out into the vestibule, collected the .45 from the waiting Rio, rode down in the lift, got into the Buick

and drove home. I reckoned I was ahead of the game. I had a client, a roll of greenbacks - and I was still alive.

That night I went to take a look at Doc's Place.

It was a modest-looking joint, a compact three-storey mansion in a little side-street just off Dearborn. Lights

glowed softly behind curtained windows and there was a faint throb of jazz somewhere. There was nothing

else to show it was anything but a private house apart from the number of cars parked outside, and in the

vacant lot across the street. I added the Buick to the collection and walked over to the house.

There was a light over the door, a closed shutter at head-height and a big brass bell-pull. I stood under the

light and yanked on the bell.

The shutter slid back and a gravelly voice said, "Yeah?"

"I'm feeling sick. I came to see the Doc."

The door opened and I stepped into a luxuriously furnished hallway. There was a short passageway dead

ahead. To the right an elegant staircase curved upwards. There were ornamental tables and gold-framed

pictures on the walls. A classy joint all right.

A gorilla in a tuxedo was closing the door behind me. I looked at the low brow and battleship jaw above the

boiled shirt. Happy Harrigan, the biggest, toughest and dumbest thug in all Chicago.

Happy was delighted to see me. "Hey, Mr. Dekker! Who gives you the password?"

"Oh, I just heard it around."

Happy had a caveman build and a cheerful friendly nature, but he was so dumb he found it hard to earn an

honest criminal living, even in Chicago. I'd been his friend ever since the day I left the cops. It just happened

to be the day the boys at the precinct had scooped Happy up and put him under the lights down in the cellar.

Their plan was to improve the monthly crime figures by bouncing blackjacks off Happy till he confessed to

every crime on the unsolved list - believe me there were plenty.

Flattered by the attention, Happy was glad to oblige. The boys didn't even get to use their blackjacks. He'd

confessed to enough crimes to draw 99 years in Leavenworth when I heard what was going on and stepped in

and spoiled the game.

Happy had just served a short stretch for smashing up a saloon, so he'd actually been in jail when half the

crimes he'd confessed to were committed. I alibied him for the rest by saying we'd been singing in the church

choir together every night since he got out. The Captain knew he'd be laughed out of court so he let Happy

loose.

As we'd walked away from the station house together Happy gave me a worried look. "What you said in there

wasn't true, Mr. Dekker. We was never in no choir together."

I stopped and glared up at him. "Listen Happy, if the cops ever take you in, like just now you only say one

thing. I don't know nothing about nothing. You're a gangster, aren't you?"

Happy scratched his head. "Yeah.

I guess so."

"Well, that's what gangsters say."

I thought it was a stroke of luck, Happy being the doorman at Doc's Place. He owed me one, so he ought to

be good for the straight scoop.

"What's the set-up here, Happy?" I asked casually, as he took my coat and hat. "How much do you know

about this guy Doc?"

Happy beamed at me. "I don't know nuttin' about nuttin', Mr. Dekker!" he said proudly. "Right?"

I sighed and slapped him on the back. "Right, Happy. Which way's the bar?"

He pointed down the corridor and I went on down.

I pushed open the black velvet-covered double doors and found myself in Doc's Place. It was a high-class

version of your basic night-spot. Tables crowded round a postage-stamp dance floor with nobody dancing. On

the other side of the floor a jazz combo played quietly as if for their own pleasure. It was early yet and the

place was nowhere near full.

A bar ran down the left-hand side of the room with a row of stools, empty except for a dame on the stool at

the far end. I went over and perched on the next stool but one. The barman, a silver-haired continental type,

stopped polishing an already gleaming glass and glided over.

"What's your pleasure, Sir?"

"Straight bourbon - Jim Beam if you have it."

He reached behind the bar for a bottle, poured a sizeable slug into a glass and put it in front of me.

"We have everything here, sir."

"You certainly do," I said.

I was looking at the girl on the bar stool. She had long, dark hair swept back from her face and she wore a

black silk evening gown that was tight in all the right places. She was a good-looking dame, well built and

well dressed, but that wasn't why she made such an impression on me. There was something about her.

28 - Blood Harvest

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