I, the Vampire
By Henry Kuttner
Dark horror settled down like a fog on Hollywood, the world's film capital, as an evil thing from overseas preyed on the celebrated stars of filmdom—an odd and curious story
1. The Chevalier Futaine
The party was dull. I had come too early. There was a preview that night at Grauman's Chinese, and few of the important guests would arrive until it was over. Indeed, Jack Hardy, ace director at Summit Pictures, where I worked as assistant director, hadn't arrived—yet—and he was the host. But Hardy had never been noted for punctuality.
I went out on the porch and leaned against a pillar, sipping a cocktail and looking down at the lights of Hollywood. Hardy's place was on the summit of a hill overlooking the film capital, near Falcon Lair, Valentino's famous turreted castle. I shivered a little. Fog was sweeping in from Santa Monica, blotting out the lights to the west.
Jean Hubbard, who was an ingenue at Summit, came up beside me and took the glass out of my hand.
"Hello, Mart," she said, sipping the liquor. "Where've you been?"
"Down with the Murder Desert troupe, on location in the Mojave," I said. "Miss me, honey?"
I drew her close. She smiled up at me, her tilted eyebrows lending a touch of diablerie to the tanned, lovely face. I was going to marry Jean, but I wasn't sure just when.
"Missed you lots," she said, and held up her lips. I responded.
After a moment I said, "What's this about the vampire man?"
She chuckled. "Oh, the Chevalier Futaine. Didn't you read Lolly Parsons' write-up in Script? Jack Hardy picked him up last month in Europe. Silly rot But it's good publicity."
"Three cheers for publicity," I said. "Look what it did for Birth of a Nation. But where does the vampire angle come in?"
"Mystery man. Nobody can take a picture of him, scarcely anybody can see him. Weird tales are told about his former life in Paris. Going to play in Jack's Red Thirst. The kind of build-up Universal gave Karloff for Frankenstein. The Chevalier Futaine"—she rolled out the words with amused relish—"is probably a singing waiter from a Paris café. I haven't seen him—but the deuce with him, anyway. Mart, I want you to do something for me. For Deming."
"Hess Deming?" I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. Hess Deming, Summit's biggest box-office star, whose wife, Sandra Colter, had died two days before. She, too, had been an actress, although never the great star her husband was. Hess loved her, I knew—and now I guessed what the trouble was. I said, "I noticed he was a bit wobbly."
"He'll kill himself," Jean said, looking worried. "I—I feel responsible for him somehow, Mart. After all, he gave me my start at Summit. And he's due for the D. T's any time now."
"Well, I'll do what I can," I told her.
"But that isn't a great deal. After all,
