"A relatively undamaged bullet may give us an indication of where it has been," said Illya. "Whether it bounced off something, hit nothing but the tree in which it stopped, or passed through something, and whether that something was flesh and blood or not. It could be most interesting."

* * *

They returned to the village shortly past mid-day, for lunch and rest. Several dozen trees had been examined, and two possible bullet holes found. In both cases the slugs, if slugs there were, were buried too deep for casual extraction with a pocket knife, and would have to be dug out by stronger methods. There was a small hand-axe in one of their boxes of equipment which should prove itself equal to the task, and with which they planned to return after refreshing themselves.

They were seated on the porch of the inn awaiting their ciorba, and sipping at a local white wine, when the sound of voices raised in anger came along the street to them.

"I wonder what that is," said Napoleon with slight interest.

"Sounds like a small riot," Illya suggested.

Hilda looked doubtful. "A riot? In Pokol? I don't believe it."

"We shall soon see," said Illya. "It sounds as if it's coming this way."

And a few seconds later a tall slender man, dressed in a black suit of formal and slightly old-fashioned cut, hurried around the corner, casting glances over his shoulder. As he approached the inn, he slowed and looked up. It took Napoleon a few seconds to recognize him as Zoltan, whom they had helped in a similar situation in Budapest some five days ago. He poked Illya.

"It's Zoltan," he said. "Our friend from Budapest. Looks like whatever he does, he did it again. Should we wade in and help him out, or figure if it happens this often maybe he deserves it?"

"We can accomplish little here without the coöperation and trust of the people of the village," said Illya. "Let us see what happens if we don't take a hand."

There was a larger crowd after Zoltan this time—some twenty men and women were following him, many of them waving scythes or brooms. Zoltan was still a good thirty feet ahead of them as he gained the steps of the inn, mounted half-way up them, and turned to face the crowd. He raised his arms, and they stopped.

"My countrymen," he addressed them in Rumanian, "your suspicions of me are understandable. You know the old stories and you have seen the old spirits walking in the forests. But I am one of God's children, like you. And if there is any man among you who questions my true nature, let him come with his friends to the church this afternoon when the bell tolls the hour of one, and let him apologize before the altar to me and my family."

There was a mutter from the crowd, and some of them moved a step forward, but Zoltan stood firm.

"The church, within the hour," he repeated. "I wish to remain in this village for some time, and I want no one here to consider me an enemy or to walk in fear."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and went up onto the porch. He seemed about to walk past them into the inn, so Napoleon greeted him quietly:

"Good afternoon. I believe we met in Budapest a few days ago."

The thin aristocratic features turned in their direction, and then softened into a smile of recognition. "Ah, yes," he said in English. "Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, of New York, America. I had half expected to find you here. I don't believe I know your charming female companion."

Hilda smiled up at him prettily, and Illya performed the introductions. "Hilda Eclary, this is Zoltan...ah..." He looked up at their guest. "I don't believe you ever gave us your last name."

A brief smile flickered across his thin face. "I'm certain I didn't. It is not given lightly."

Napoleon hooked a fourth chair with an outstretched leg and dragged it to the table. "Well, why not sit down and have a glass of wine, and tell us your life story."

"I cannot partake of wine or any other food for an hour or more, my friend, but at half past the hour of one I will be more than pleased to accept your invitation. You see, at one o'clock I must take holy communion in the church, or I cannot rest in this town."

Napoleon and Hilda looked at each other, and then they looked at Zoltan. Before they could phrase the questions that were bubbling in their minds, Zoltan raised a slim, well-manicured hand. "My name will answer all your questions," he said. "I am the heir to a no-longer existent title, and the last son of a noble and aristocratic family. But my name is a curse which has followed me around the world." He looked them over, and said in a perfectly level voice, "I am Count Zoltan Dracula."

* * *

At twenty minutes past one, Napoleon and Illya stood outside the little Orthodox church where they had just watched, with most of the population of the village, as Zoltan Dracula said the words of prayer, kissed the silver cross of the priest, and took communion. No man in Pokol could have been found willing to admit he had thought it impossible, but several had stayed behind to shake Zoltan's hand and apologize, though they didn't say for what.

"Well," said Illya as they started for the door, "there's one we don't have to worry about."

Napoleon looked oddly at his partner. "Worry about what?"

"Never mind, Napoleon. There's just one we don't have to worry about, that's all."

Colonel Hanevitch was one of the few absent from the ceremony, but he met Napoleon and Illya as they came out of the cool darkness of the church into the bright mountain sunlight. Illya greeted him.

"Good afternoon, Colonel. Did you miss the mass?"

"Of course not. I am a good atheistic Communist, and I have no time to spare for these peasant superstitions." He paused. "I presume nothing...untoward happened?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The ceremony was unmarred by any...unusual occurrences, and was completed properly?"

"Of course," said Illya with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Did you expect anything to happen?"

"Oh, certainly not, certainly not," said the Colonel hastily. "I was simply inquiring of politeness. And I came only to speak to Domn Dracula about his plans while here. He has no legal standing, you understand, except as an expatriate visitor; his title is meaningless."

"And his name?" asked Illya softly.

"Is merely a name," said the Colonel definitely. "If the people choose to attach meanings to it, my only duty is to protect our visitor from the results of their misinterpretations."

"I don't think there is much danger of that," said Napoleon, as Zoltan came out between the tall wooden doors, surrounded by well-wishers, and with Hilda right behind him.

He raised a hand to hail the U.N.C.L.E. agents as he approached, then turned to the crowd. "My people," he said. "I hold no ill-will. I ask only that in the future you remember this—a name alone holds no evil. Now my blessing on you all. Return to your work." And obediently they were gone.

Zoltan turned to Colonel Hanevitch. "You wished to speak with me, I believe? Food has not passed my lips today, and while my soul is strengthened, my body is weak. Could we speak at the inn, over ciorba and mititei?"

They did. Napoleon had remembered something though, and opened the conversation before the Colonel had a chance to speak.

"I seem to remember the Dracula family actually died out in 1658," he said without preamble.