“Inside, Mr. McDonald,” the werewolf said, leading on, “inside you will learn everything!”

I followed Grimshaw begrudgingly up a short flight of dark marble stairs and to a row of patio doors, one of which was open. I took out my gun as I followed the leader inside. If it was some kind of trap I wanted to at least get off a round before I got mauled.

As I stepped over the threshold of the door and pushed aside a curtain, I saw a gigantic room. It was some sort of library; dark wood shelves lined three of the four walls and went up two stories. At floor level there were statues of demons and devils of all kinds scattered about in between large decorative plants. The focus of the room was split between a grand piano to the right and a huge oak desk to the left.

There was a strange contraption built on top of the oak desk: a shotgun mounted on wood braces with a pulley and wire rigged so that the person sitting in the chair could blow their head off while sitting comfortably.

Above the desk was a large, elaborately framed oil painting.

It was a portrait of Paul Grimshaw.

I turned and lowered my gun on the subject of the portrait and said, “I’m not a big fan of being lied to.”

Grimshaw showed me his hands. “I’m sorry, but I had to have you here. I told you everything. I told you the truth.”

“Why the break-in routine?” I asked.

“I couldn’t risk you running off. I had to get you in here to show you—”

“The Nazi capsules.”

Grimshaw nodded slowly.

I gestured toward the shotgun suicide rig on the desk. “Explain that.”

Paul twitched and for an instant his eyes flashed wolf. “I was going to end it all, but I cannot do it by my own hand. I cannot die in such disgrace.”

I kept my gun on him. “Where are they?”

Keeping his hands in plain sight, Grimshaw began leading me out of the room. While we strolled I played with the facts. “So this was Helga Freed’s mansion, right?”

“Correct, Mr. McDonald.”

“And you were inside one of the canisters after all.”

“Correct again.”

“But you woke up and broke out and have been occupying the house ever since.”

Grimshaw stopped and turned. I took a step back.

“You almost have it right,” the werewolf said, “but I woke from the capsule while Ms. Freed was still alive.”

“You were lovers?”

Grimshaw laughed, “Dear God, no. She was a hideous woman!” he said. “I removed myself from the capsule—”

“Then you killed the hag, made it look like suicide, and took possession of the house, right?”

“Correct yet again.”

It made sense, I guess. Despite the fact that Paul Grimshaw was a werewolf, a Nazi, and a murderer, I still trusted him.