Important Visitors

A long black automobile was parked in the courtyard of the chateau. Six motorcycles, with uniformed outriders, formed a neatly serrated wall of defence around the car.

'Important visitors,' Theo said.

Poe, queasy from exposure to the risen sun, suppressed a cringe. In his experience, important visitors usually meant some new reversal. His dealings with publishers in America and Europe always involved violent argument, broken contracts and long-lasting bitterness. His current patrons might well be disposed to couch criticism of his work in terms of wooden stakes and silver bullets.

Imperial eagle pennants hung from the hood of the car. The outriders were sleek new-borns. Their undoubtedly military black leather uniforms were unfamiliar. Poe assumed this was a new outfit, an adjunct to the Air Service or Dr Mabuse's secret police.

In a German Utopia, everyone would wear a magnificent uniform. Lavatory attendants would look like field marshals. Field marshals would stagger under the weight of braid and brass.

Poe was acutely aware of his status as the lone civilian at Malinbois. Even Ewers had taken to sporting a natty cavalry officer's outfit, earned by some obscure reserve status.

He had an impulse to conceal himself behind Richthofen.

A motorcycle rider, arm fixed in a salute, opened the car's rear door. An insectile elder unbent from the dark interior. A grave miasma emerged with him. Attendants held a black canopy aloft to keep the creature in shade. His rat face hung in the shadow, dirty white eyes shifting, as he stood up stiffly.

'It's the Graf von Orlok,' Theo explained. 'One of Dracula's closest advisers.'

Only the very very old looked this ghastly. Orlok wore an ancient greatcoat, fastened by dozens of buttons and hooks. He was hump-backed, spider-fingered, rodent-toothed and hollow- cheeked; his swollen head was bald under a fur cap and his hands were locked into arthritic claws. Poe had never seen a vampire so repulsive. This was one specimen Ten Brincken would never be able to measure and categorise. Orlok was a fiend of hell, not a creature of science.

'I thought we had more time,' Theo muttered.

Poe would have pressed his friend for an explanation but Theo cut himself off. He had said more than he ought.

Orlok looked around, shaded against the sun. His eyes squirmed in their sockets. Poe tried to stand to attention. Richthofen was instinctively erect, ready for inspection.

General Karnstein marched out of the great doorway, Ten Brincken and Dr Caligari flanking him. Sundry fliers lolled behind the general. They had done their best on short notice to get into dress uniform, the licence for individuality usually afforded heroes suspended for the moment.

The general saluted Orlok, who waved a claw and snarled. Poe realised the elder chose not to speak.

The little lakeside excursion party joined Karnstein's cadre. Baron von Richthofen took his place at the head of the fliers. Theo fell in behind the General and to his left. Poe stood by Theo and was eclipsed as someone - Hanns Heinz Ewers, of course - stepped in front of him.

The tallest outrider returned Karnstein's salute and removed his goggles. He was a handsome new-born Prussian with a clipped moustache, a fixed smile and a duelling scar.

'Hardt of the General Staff,' he introduced himself.

The new-born was Orlok's mouthpiece. He wore a black leather coat and helmet. Hardt looked around the courtyard and up at the skies.

'So this is the lair of our knights of the air. I'm a navy man myself. Submarines.'

Karnstein nodded.

'You've impressive quarters, General. And an impressive record. Which of your men is our Red Fighting Eagle?'

Karnstein gestured. Richthofen stepped forward, saluting. Hardt returned the salute and shook the Baron's hand.

'It is a privilege,' Hardt said. 'You are a hero.'

'I do my duty.'

Poe could not look away from Orlok. The elder seemed almost frail, as if his long fingers would snap and crumble like old twigs. If a sunbeam fell on him, he'd burst into a puff of dust. But there was a strength in him that came with centuries. The spark in him that had clung to life must be hideously strong. The truly old were beyond comprehension.

'Sir,' Ewers addressed himself to Hardt, 'has Dr Mabuse had time to absorb the import of my report?'

'You are ... ?'

'Hanns Heinz Ewers.'

'The doctor will give due consideration to your complaint, Herr Ewers. As I'm sure you understand, more pressing matters demand his time.'

Ewers hung his head and chewed his lip angrily.

'And is this the cause of your trouble, Herr Edgar Allan Poe?'

Poe understood the brand of treacherous calumny Ewers had communicated to Mabuse. Ewers, no friend of his, must be working hard to undermine his position. Poe could only shrug. Hardt looked him up and down, grinning.

'Herr Ewers claims your reputation is inflated,' Hardt said, smiling.

Poe tried to return the new-born's steady gaze.

'On the contrary,' he said, hoping bravado would conceal unease, 'it might stand higher were I not plagued by arrant plagiarists. If my work is so overrated, one wonders why so many stoop to imitate it.'

Ewers glared evil at him. Poe had not realised the depths of the man's envy.

'We find Herr Poe's work satisfactory, sir,' put in Richthofen.

Hardt raised a sardonic eyebrow. Poe was himself surprised.

'You feel your collaborator is suited to his task?'

'Eminently so, sir.'

Hardt looked at Ewers with a sharp smile and a repressed, almost French shrug.

'It seems the matter is settled without further debate, Ewers. Our Fighting Eagle must be judged the expert. Thank you for calling attention to the matter, but it seems your worries are entirely unfounded.'

Ewers's face was red with swallowed fury. Veins in his temples expanded and pulsed. Poe gathered Baron von Richthofen had just saved his life. If not that, at least his position. And Ewers had tried to eliminate him.

'Shall we go inside?' Hardt suggested. 'The Graf von Orlok finds out-of-doors tiring after sun-up.'

Karnstein stepped aside. The fliers formed a guard, lining the entrance to the Great Hall. Flanked by his motorcycle guards, Orlok inched across the cobbles, taking care to remain inside shadow. Hardt took his pointed elbow and helped him on to the first of the three steps that led to the great door.

There was a pause. The silent vampire was a traditionalist. He would not step across a threshold unless invited.

'Graf von Orlok,' said General Karnstein, 'you are welcome to the Chateau du Malinbois. Please come and go of your own will.'

Orlok ground fingernails together like cicada legs. Hardt helped him up the steps. Once inside, surrounded by gloom, the elder wriggled away from his outriders. In the close confines of the passageway that fed into the Great Hall, Poe almost choked on the death stink of Orlok's old clothes.

Karnstein followed Hardt and Orlok up the steps, pointing out the way to the Hall. Poe stayed close behind, followed by Theo and Ewers. He felt a pricking in his spine as he imagined Ewers thinking of thrusting a dagger into his back.

Richthofen hung back, letting the elders go their way, and stood between Theo and Poe. He glared out through the door at Ewers, who remained on the bottom step, still digesting his fury.

'Ewers,' said Richthofen, 'I shall thank you not to concern yourself with the affairs of my biographer.'

'Baron, I ...'

Poe, standing behind the Baron, saw only the neatly trimmed back of his head. Ewers was struck terrified. For an instant, Richthofen's ears were pointed and the set of his jaw changed. Turning round, he was as impassive and bland as ever. Poe was grateful he had not been staring the Baron in the face for the last few seconds. A blood tear trickled down Ewers's cheek. He was still gripped by terror.

They left Ewers in the courtyard and caught up with Orlok's party as General Karnstein showed them the wall of trophies, enumerating each flier's individual victories.

'This is most impressive,' Hardt exclaimed. 'The Graf von Orlok admires the achievements of JG1. As does his estimable cousin, the Graf von Dracula.'

'It will be a great privilege for these men,' Karnstein said. 'They are new-borns. Few of their kind are chosen for such exalted service.'

Poe had missed a vital point. What service was the general speaking of?

'To commemorate the significance of this position,' Hardt said, 'Berlin has decided its name should officially be changed. The Chateau du Malinbois is a little too French for our taste. From now on, in honour of the eagles of JG1, this will be the Schloss Adler.'

The Eagle's Castle.

Orlok prowled by the trophy wall, spindly claws tapping his chin as he looked at the relics of the dead. He seemed not to hear the talk, though his huge rat-ears must be sharp enough to catch the tiny sounds that plagued Poe. Hardt was merely the smiling mask, the dancing puppet. Orlok was the master.

'Now, if your intelligence officer can make himself available.'

Theo stepped forwards, smartly. His insouciant manner was gone. This was an Oberst Kretschmar-Schuldorff ready to stick at his post until the last trump.

. . we shall inspect the arrangements made to increase the castle's security when our commander-in-chief comes to be among his finest.'

General Karnstein cried clear stern tears of pride. Apart from the stoic Richthofen, the fliers were shocked, bewildered, ecstatic. Even these creatures could be impressed. The great commander was coming to Malinbois. No, to Schloss Adler. Sometimes, Poe hardly dared think the name.

Dracula.