Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Never Bite the Hand that... by Don Marshall

“Mr. Nickolas,” called young Andrew as the mortician tamped the last shovelful of earth over his most recent customer.

“Mr. Nickolas, is this grave marker correct? It reads kind of odd.”

“Odd, Andrew? In what way?”

“Well,” Andrew hesitated, fingered his celluloid collar so as not to appear stupid. “Uh, it reads,

“Isn’t that a bit strange, Mr. Nickolas?”

“Well, yes, Andrew. I must admit I took some liberties with his name. It should read DRACULA; however, not wishing to alarm folks hereabout, I carved the first two letters to suggest a medical background.

“One might accurately describe him as adept in the art of hemotherapy, a method of blood transfusion. The latter portion of his name, acula, seemed appropriate... acu is a Latin adjective meaning sharp, needlelike, or pointed. In this particular case, la reads as an exclamation of wonder or astonishment rather than the sixth note in the diatonic scale.

“Though some claim dracula is actually draco, a Greek noun meaning dragon, I prefer my version. Now, Andrew, let us get our shovels back into the hearse and head for home.”

“Yes, Mr. Nickolas, but the name is not what I meant. It’s all those different dates.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with them?”

“Well, Mr. Nickolas, but how many times...”

“Oh, you mean how many times can one person die? Well, Andrew, since it’s a long ride back to town, I might as well tell you.”

Simon Nickolas, almost well-liked mortician of Bear Valley, California, unobtrusively sampled his flask, settled back in the upholstered seat of his ornate C-spring hearse, and clucked at the horses.

“It all started when I, ever on the lookout for a bargain, noticed an advertisement for European coffins at reduced prices. They were part of a consignment to Stockton, England, but were misdirected to Stockton, California. Since the shipping company was unable to locate the consignee, I bought them at a bargain price.

“Much to my astonishment, I later discovered that one of the containers was already occupied.”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, all that time aboard ship, it must have been...”

“Actually not, Andrew. The cadaver, for lack of a better name, appeared in remarkably good condition — well dressed, cutaway, tails, and wrapped in a rather expensive cloak. I was in the act of removing said overgarment when I was suddenly seized by the wrist.”

“You mean...” Andrew gulped.

“Yes, the occupant of the coffin...” Nickolas mused, half aloud. “A rather well-constructed coffin, I must admit, satin lined, solid silver handles, mortised...”

“No, Mr. Nickolas,” Andrew stammered, “I... I mean, uh, who, uh, what, grabbed you?”

“Andrew, in our profession we never, I repeat never, show undue excitement. Proper deportment is essential.”

Young Andrew blushed at the gentle reproof yet reveled in the words “our profession.” He was almost an equal.

The hearse swayed gently while negotiating a curve in the dirt road. The horses kept perfect cadence.

“Count Dracula, as he introduced himself, was not dead, at least in the usual sense, and had chosen this novel method of transportation from his native land to new diggings, so to speak.”

“Yes, but...”

“Andrew, if you persist in interrupting...”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Keen observer that I am, I immediately sensed something strange about this... ahhh... person. He looked rather anemic. He had, in the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘a lean and hungry look.’

“Upon noticing the other coffins spread about the room, he gave me an evil smile and immediately proposed a business partnership. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘we have similar pursuits.’

“In the meantime, he said, he would like to take a look about town and fluttered off, like a bat, you know. I retired for the night. He must have returned before dawn, since I found him fast asleep in his strange bed when I arose.

“I, of course, wasn’t interested in a partnership, but before I could refuse the offer, Mr. Sideburn from the Shortbranch Hotel knocked and informed me that one of his patrons had expired during the night... a traveling salesman, I think he said, or a Republican. I forget which.

“At any rate, while preparing the body for burial, I noticed two strange puncture wounds on the neck. I got to thinking about Mr. Dracula.

“I opened his polished walnut abode and, sure enough, there he lay, sound asleep, rosy as a peach with a satisfied smirk on his face. I did the only honorable thing.”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, what was that?”

“Why, I buried that bloodsucker along with the Republican.”

“But, Mr. Nickolas, how come the other dates...”

“Things were quiet for some time after the event. Then I was summoned to Banker Hardbristle’s home. It seems he had expired during the night while counting money extracted from Widow Brown. The sheriff said Hardbristle died of natural causes. There was no evidence of foul play, the money still lay in plain sight, and the room appeared undisturbed.

“Nothing appeared suspicious to me, either, until I found the two small punctures on his neck. Almost two years had psssed, yet here was evidence that Dracula was again at work.”

“Gee, Mr. Nickolas,” Andrew shivered, “I hope we make it home before dark.”

“The following day, after the ceremony, I delayed until the mourners left, which didn’t take too long. He was a banker, you know.”

Andrew nodded, determined not to interrupt yet all the while thinking about those puncture wounds. The shadows on the road grew longer.

“I found, much to my surprise, that Count Dracula had been happily tunneling from one new grave to another. For the last two months, however, there had been a dearth of deaths — we traced it back to a patent medicine man who came through town — and the batman’s appetite got the better of him.

“I was quite fearful of what havoc he could create about the countryside, so I took his coffin back to the shop, knowing that he had to retire to it before dawn.”

“How did you know that, Mr. Nickolas?”

“His servant, a mousy little chap named Renfrew who had a disgusting habit of eating insects, had arrived in town looking for the lost shipment. He had been waiting in vain at dockside in England.

“Fearful of facing his master’s wrath, he was only too happy to tell me of the fiend’s weaknesses. Together we rode back to the cemetery, where we sealed each tunnel by erecting crosses at the entrances, two to each, sort of a... heh, heh... double cross, you might say. We lowered the coffin with its undead occupant and quickly planted garlic over the entire grave.”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, what was the garlic for?”

“According to Mr. Renfrew, vampires have an aversion to garlic. I can’t say as I blame them. It worked, too. I felt comfortable with the count safely tucked beneath a blanket of that pungent herb. That was the second burial.”

Andrew noticed the shadows of night, not falling as many people say but rising, rising from the ominous depressions in the fields and sinister ruts in the road. The fingers of darkness were growing longer, reaching... reaching...

He shivered again, almost fearful but he had to ask. “And the other date? The 1876?”

“Well, Andrew, you know Mr. and Mrs. Paparazzo, who own the clothing store in town. You also know she makes the finest spaghetti, along with other Italian dishes, in the entire county. Inadvertently, one of her more popular dishes sabotaged my entire plan.”

“Yes, sir, but do you mean...” Andrew hesitated, listening for strange flutterings from the shadowy copse along the road.

“Exactly. As the saying goes, ‘A nose by any other name will smell the same.’ While attending the funeral of their worthless son-in-law Smedly the inventor, who was killed in an explosion while demonstrating Smedly the Inventor’s Non-explosive Lamp Oil, the Paparazzos discovered the aromatic growth of garlic covering the resting place of Count Dracula. Its removal, done only to appease the palates of Mrs. Paparazzo’s spaghetti loving family, freed the evildoer from his pungent compound, and once again mysterious deaths prevailed in our beautiful valley.”

The undertaker reined the horses to a stop and directed Andrew to light the carriage lamps front and back.

“But it’s dark and I’ll have to get down on the ground.”

“Very astute, Andrew.”

Before the mortician finished two swallows from his flask, the four lamps shone brightly and Andrew sat breathlessly back in his seat.

“Now to resume my story. Though my business increased dramatically, it necessitated my taking the bull by the tail and looking it right in the eye. Dracula pestered me nightly to join forces with him, but that snake-in-the-grass was barking up the wrong tree. I still had another foot up my sleeve.

“I took his coffin back to my workshop. ‘Von Helsing,’ he sneered at me, exposing his sharp teeth. He always called me Von Helsing, a former opponent I suppose. ‘Why are we fighting? California is the fruit basket of the world. We have a whole valley ready for plucking. Yet you insist on letting me starve to death; not that I can, of course, for immortality does have its advantages. I give you all the business you can handle, yet I know you brought my roll-away back here for a reason. You have another foot up your sleeve, I can sense it.’

“He retired, leaving me with this terrible dilemma. Business had never been better, I admit. Regrettably, if it kept up, there would be no one left to bury. I had to act fast.”

The jiggling rays from the carriage lamps set the roadside leaves to twitching like bat wings. Young Andrew hunched his shoulders and clutched his lapels tighter about his throat.

“Finally, in desperation, I seized upon the last option related to me by Renfrew while he was crunching a particularly large beetle.”

“What was that, Mr. Nickolas?” asked the apprentice, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind.

“A stake through the heart. The absolute solution to the depredations of this abdominal creature. In triumph, I carted him and his bier back to his place of interment and covered him up... unfortunately, that, too, failed.”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, I would think a stake through the heart would kill anybody.”

“True, under normal conditions, but here we were dealing with immortality and... termites.”

“Termites?”

“Yes, the little beasties went to work the moment he was in the ground. They ate the stake in its entirety, thus unwittingly freeing the count to go batting about on his nefarious rounds.”

“How did you finally bury him?”

“I didn’t. Ahhh... here we are, Andrew. You may unhitch the horses while I warm up the lasagna from Mrs. Paparazzo.”

“Well. That was a good meal, if I do say so. Andrew, your sense of security is commendable, but after locking all doors and windows, looking through the cupboards and under the beds, do you have to draw the curtains, too?”

“But you said that Count Dracula is still...”

“Oh, not to worry. You see I finally arrived at a solution that satisfied everyone. The Paparazzos felt rather guilty when they found their culinary efforts had caused so much trouble. At my request, they were only too happy to contribute several gallons of their very best red wine to implement the plan... the idea was to get Mr. Dracula to imbibe. The entire town agreed that Mute Willie would be the ideal bait.”

“Mute Willie?”

“Yes. Because of his chronic laryngitis, Willie always wore a hot water bottle about his neck. Everyone else put on a garlic necklace, and I filled Willie’s hot water bottle with Mrs. Paparazzo’s homemade wine.

“The plan worked admirably. Mute Willie remained unhurt, his ‘wounds,’ if you will, were readily healed by applying a dab of India gum rubber, and Mr. Dracula got so drunk he passed out cold; The townspeople carried him back here, and I quickly performed the extractions.”

“All of ’em?” Andrew’s eyes widened.

“Every last one,” Mr. Nickolas said. “Andrew, I left my Hungarian cloak in the hearse. In the pocket you will find a medicinal flask. Would you fetch it, please?”

Andrew did as bidden. Somehow the dark did not seem so dark now. He smiled, then laughed out loud as he thought of the frustration of Count Dracula gumming it through all eternity.

“Uh, whatever happened to poor Mr. Renfrew?” he asked on his return.

“Oh, he became a very successful businessman in San Francisco. Specialized in insect and rodent extermination, the last I heard.”