Read Online TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW by Simon Hawke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Hawke
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stank, encrusted with his own filth. And he was starving. He wasn't given any food.
From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.
The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.
"It is almost finished. Tony,•• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."
"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"
"Are you hungry. Tony?"
"No. no. please, no more, not again—"
"You are hungry, aren't you?"
“No!”
"Aren't you?"
"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please . . ."
"Then give me what I need."
"Yes,
do it."
Tony whispered.
"do it now!"
He bent his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.
It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer.
The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself
a
nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.
It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight years old.
A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.
"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'—"
Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed
her
by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.
Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.
It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was
From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.
The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.
"It is almost finished. Tony,•• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."
"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"
"Are you hungry. Tony?"
"No. no. please, no more, not again—"
"You are hungry, aren't you?"
“No!”
"Aren't you?"
"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please . . ."
"Then give me what I need."
"Yes,
do it."
Tony whispered.
"do it now!"
He bent his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.
It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer.
The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself
a
nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.
It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight years old.
A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.
"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'—"
Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed
her
by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.
Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.
It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was
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