Karloff had called me. He was worried about Lugosi. The world was exploding. The Japanese had just hit Pearl Harbor. The Germans were marching through Russia, and everyone was scared as hell. No one else was going to worry about Lugosi. With the world melting outside your window and the front pages a series of horror stories, the bottom had dropped out of the monster movies for a while. Lugosi had hit hard times, according to Karloff. He had lost his car and his home and a lot of his dignity. Lugosi was making a small comeback, but his body and his nerves had taken a hell of a beating.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Peters,” Karloff had lisped deeply over the phone. “Bela resents what he sees as my greater success. I assure you it is only a relative success, but I seem to have adjusted much better to the inevitable life of evil into which I have been cast. Actually, I’m quite grateful to be typecast and working steadily. Would it be possible to approach Bela without mentioning me?”

With no client on the books and a stomach that echoed a cry for tacos and an occasional beer, I told him I’d give it a try. The try came the next afternoon when I called Lugosi and made an appointment, being as vague as I could about the reason. Lugosi’s house was a small frame one-story with a little grass in front where he was playing quoits with a four-year-old neighbor.

“I’m Peters,” I had told him. “Toby Peters. I’m a private investigator.”

“And you sell your surfaces door-to-door and by telephone?” he had asked with an exaggerated raising of his eyebrows.

“I understand you’ve had some trouble. Someone playing tricks that might not be funny.”

“I’ll hide. You find me,” the boy interrupted.

“No,” glowered Bela, raising the sleeve of his gray cardigan sweater to his face like a cape. The boy was neither frightened nor impressed.

“Claire couldn’t find me,” said the boy.