“It says, ‘You were warned,’” I told Lugosi, who was recovering a bit from the shock. I flipped off the light. His face was hidden but I heard a sound like a laugh and then his familiar voice.

“Worthy of a Monogram serial,” he said.

“Well,” I said putting the car in gear. “We’ve got our list of suspects down to five. We’re making progress.”

As I drove Lugosi back home, I kept him talking, about his life, his work, anything to get the world back to normal.

“Once,” he said, “I had ambition.” I glanced over at him to see the light from passing cars cast dark shadows on his face. “I was in the National Theater of Hungary. I played Shakespeare. Can you imagine? I played Romeo. I was distinguished, yes. I was an officer in the Forty-third Royal Hungarian Infantry in the war. Wounded. I saw real death. And here a foolish trick makes me tremble.”

“I’ve had better days myself,” I tried.

“No, Mr. Peters, I live on hope. I have made less money than people think, have spent more than I should have on vanity and foolishness.”

I was about to try to console him further when he laughed and elbowed me gently.

“No,” he said, “I try, but I can’t see myself as a tragic character. I’ve had good times. Let’s stop for a drink. I have to be at the studio at eight in the morning, but tonight, my new friend, we share a bottle and tell our life stories and fill them with lies and truth and romance.” We went to a little bar I know on Sprina. Lugosi mixed beer and scotch and I nursed two beers for an hour. He stood drinks for everyone and listened to the bartender tell us that he heard MacArthur had been wounded and Manila had fallen. Another guy with a black wig that tilted to the side added that he heard the Army was going to start taking cars away from civilians because there was a shortage of vehicles.