Chapter 11.
"Malory Ulysses Svenson," Reinhardt said.
"Ah," Campbell said simply.
"Was he a member of the club?"
"No, but he might as well have been. He talked with almost everyone."
"Including the three dead?"
"Especially. Although Golden did not like him. Never knew why."
"What did he do for a living, what was his business here at the club?"
"He was a sort of entourage for a new count from east Europe."
"Count?"
"Yes. Apparently he had adopted the title recently and wished to make a name for himself by making big money deals and making himself relatively known to all. My opinion is he's a spoiled Eastern European brat that wants to look like a legitimate count. Schwartz had some minor dealings with the royal family that which this Svenson wanted to get his master in on. Doing favors for the crown is a quick way to make yourself known and look legitimate."
Reinhardt stared at the paper he had on his lap. It was a strange name. It rang false. But at the same time it struck a chord in his mind. "And the real estate man?"
"Svenson would come by often to see what kind of properties he was selling. Always inquired about the worst places. Old churches, houses, and crypts. It was all very unusual."
Reinhardt began to write the name on a piece of paper.
Malory Ulysses Svenson
Seven Sons Loss Ma Yuly R
Reinhardt peered at his paper. He then tried the initials. M U S
The name perturbed Reinhardt. "Why did you accept an eccentric like Golden into the club?"
"Oh, he was alright. He lost the job at a distinguished museum because of some scandal. Still he was quite normal. It was only towards then end that he really began to show his eccentricity. With the exception of the time after losing his job, he was quite sociable and never discussed his studies."
"Scandal?"
"Yes. He failed to prove some dusty old skeleton as a fraud so the museum fired him."
Reinhardt paused and thought. "That's odd. His son told me that he was fired because of his obsession with the occult."
"Good heavens no! That was only towards the end really. I always imagined that he had some weird business going on at his bookstore but the occult had nothing to do with his losing his job at the museum." Campbell paused, then asked, "Did you say you spoke to Golden's son?"
Reinhardt's face became very serious. "Why?"
"He had none." Campbell chuckled. "In fact I could probably swear to you that he never even touched a woman in his life."
Reinhardt stood up suddenly, dropping the papers on Campbell's desk. His mind was racing to put the facts together. Campbell looked surprised at Reinhardt's urgency. He stood looking down at the papers on Campbell's desk. His eyes fixed on the sheet where he had been writing the same name over an over again, sometimes scrambling the letters.
"Malory Ulysses Svenson, what did he look like?" Reinhardt asked.
"Rather young. Twenties. Slick black hair. Had more ink on his hands than a writer. A most disagreeable trait. I sometimes thought he was coloring his hair with black ink.
Reinhardt suddenly slammed his fist on Campbell's desk. He grabbed a pencil and wrote the name once more:
Malory Ulysses Svenson
He then began to draw a line through some of the letters:
Malory Ulysses Svenson
Malus.
Reinhardt stared at the paper, horrified by the impossibility of it all. His hand raced through some paperwork that the real estate man had left in the club. A plot of land sold to Malory Ulysses Svenson. Reinhardt saw the address, took the paper, and stormed out of the room without another word to Campbell.
Reinhardt ran out of the building that was the Campbell club and immediately looked around for a carriage. From behind him one came up from the street. Reinhardt ran in front of it and the horses went into a panic. The driver began to yell curses at Reinhardt. Reinhardt leapt onto the top of the carriage and pushed the driver off of his seat. He took the reins and called the horses to begin galloping. The carriage began to travel faster and faster until after several minutes it seemed to be traveling at death defying speeds. When the carriage reached Reinhardt's home, it nearly did not stop. Reinhardt bolted from the driver seat and ran for the door. To his dismay, the door was ajar.
"Rosa! Carrie! Henry!" he yelled in quick succession. He ran upstairs to find that both bedrooms had been through some kind of battle. Doorways and furniture were demolished. The house was in shambles. Blood on the floor of his bedroom filled him with dread. On the floor were Henry's guns. Reinhardt touched their nozzles. They were still warm with only three bullets left between the two of them. Downstairs he found some more telling signs. Trails indicating two bodies dragged away by two different people. One of them was strong the other weaker, a woman perhaps? Whatever came in through the skylight in Carrie's room also exited the same way. Reinhardt did not understand who the other person was. Indentation on first floor indicated that someone was thrown from above. For his piece of mind, Reinhardt checked the green house. What he saw did not make him feel better. A cape that Rosa wore when it was chilly at night lay on the floor. Puzzling was that the door was locked from the inside and then busted outwards as well. Rosa locked herself in and then fought to get out. Why? Reinhardt did not have to guess that Carrie was also gone as well.
Campbell's description of Svenson matched Matthew. They were the same man. But who was he really? Why pose as Golden's son? Then there was the question of his name. Could Malus still be alive somehow? Hiding in plain sight and leaving clues, like his name, to lead them into a trap. Reinhardt could not believe it. Malus was dead. His soul was destroyed the minute that Dracula took over his body. If the name was a message, what did it mean? A dark thought crossed Reinhardt's mind. Could it be Dracula? Reinhardt looked at his hands. His hands were the ones that last banished Dracula from this world. How could it be him? Who resurrected him? Sean Golden? For what purpose?
Reinhardt walked back to what remained of his bedroom. Most of the room's contents had been thrust to one corner of the room. At the bottom of the half buried dresser Reinhardt found the one box that Rosa had not unpacked and he hoped he would not have to. Opening it he found his hunting clothes, chest plate, backpack, leather and chain whip, and his throwing cross. Within minutes he was dressed and stood before the half- cracked mirror. Reinhardt stared at his own face. His fingers brushed his sides now thick with three days hair growth. His face had become a stern one. He thought for a moment how one does not really notice the passage of time from day to day, only when many years have passed. How much younger did he look more than a decade ago when he fought Dracula for the first time?
When Reinhardt walked out of his battle ravaged home and he found that the carriage he had stolen was still there. Reinhardt unhooked one of the horses and set upon it a saddle he brought from the house. Although the horse was still a principle mode of transportation it was still somewhat uncommon to find someone riding a single horse in the city. Nevertheless, Reinhardt galloped through the city of London in a direction that would take him away from the bustling city and into the wooded outskirts that lay between it and the next city and many others after that.