The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1)

by Michael Panush

  “All right. You win.” The devil didn’t seem too happy about it. He folded his arms. “Now what the hell do you want?”

  I looked back at the parking lot. Leon Strank was in the crowd of Morningstar Car Club members, his hands clasped in expectation. Behind him was the car, his man Jimmy, and Selena Stein. Strank was a rat. I wouldn’t trust him to hand over his hostage, even if he got his soul back. He’d probably kill her, just for the hell of it, and get rid of me and Weatherby before we could plot revenge.

  “Two things. One you won’t like, the other I think you’ll enjoy,” I told Satan. “First off, there’s a girl in a car back there named Selena Stein. I want her to survive what comes next – no matter what else happens. Secondly, there’s a fellow named Leon Strank. I got the feeling you know him.”

  “I know old Leon very well,” Satan said, his mask nodding up and down.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I want you to take him to Hell.”

  The devil paused. We looked at his mask. It kept on grinning. “I really got hand it to you, Mr. Candle,” Satan said, stepping back towards his car. “You’re something special.” He opened the door and slid inside. All the damage my Packard had made, all the bent metal and busted engine, was gone. “Let’s go get them,” he said. “Can I offer you a ride?”

  “Hell yeah,” I agreed. I opened the back door and slid inside, and Weatherby followed. The inside of the devil’s hot rod was nice and cool. The leather upholstery felt good on my aching body. Satan pressed down on the gas pedal and slid out slowly. His ride smoothly rolled forward, heading towards the finish line.

  I looked out of the window at Leon Strank. I saw his smile slowly vanish and then his mouth fell open. “Oh god!” he cried. “Oh no! Not me!” He turned to run, and the audience scattered as well.

  “Little late for that, Leon!” Satan laughed as he revved up the motor and sped forward. He was trying to run Leon down, but the occultist runt was already running to the parking lot. He got into his Ford and started the engine. Jimmy held Selena in the back seat, and Weatherby leaned forward to get a closer look. The Ford peeled out of the parking lot and the devil followed.

  I put my hand on Weatherby’s shoulder as the devil drove after the Ford, going at a blinding speed down the rocky cliff. Leon was driving with the insanity of the damned, his car weaving back and forth down the narrowing road. There was sheer rock on one side of the road, a sharp drop and the ocean on the other. Satan didn’t seem to care.

  Before I could stop him, his Cadillac shot forward and crashed into the back of Leon’s vehicle. The Ford pitched over the side of the cliff and hung there. I heard Selena scream. I opened the car door and ran outside, Weatherby close behind. Selena was trying to crawl through the open window as the car slowly tilted backwards over the edge. Weatherby ran to her and took her hand.

  “Selena!” he cried. “Hold on! I’ll get you out!”

  He started to pull her out, when Jimmy’s fat hand clamped on her arm. Selena screamed again, and the Ford started to fall away. But before it could drag Selena with it, her sleeve tore. She tumbled forward, one hand clutching the edge of the cliff, the other holding her brother. Behind her, the Ford fell backwards – into the sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

  It went up in a fearsome explosion as I helped Weatherby help Selena up to the top of the cliff. “Oh, Weatherby,” she said, wrapping him in a fierce hug. “My little brother. My brave baby brother.” He returned the embrace.

  I looked back at the remains of the Ford, already being covered by the roaring waves. The devil joined me. “Looks like I got two more souls to welcome,” he said, nodding to the wreck. “I better get going so I can be there to say hello.” He turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said. “One question – is it true you got a place down there, waiting for me?”

  The devil laughed. It was a pure evil sound, like the fluttering of leathery bat wings, the howling of wolves, and the screams of the dying. “Oh, Mr. Candle,” he said. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He walked back to his Cadillac and got into the driver’s seat, then started speeding away down the open road, until he vanished from view.

  After the end of the Morningstar Car Club race, I took the Packard back to Dutch’s shop for a tune-up, as well as to return St. Eustace’s leg bone. Dutch was a little surprised that I had made it, but only a little. After giving the relic back to the priests, I joined Selena and Weatherby in the little restaurant across the street from Dutch’s garage. Both of them had coffee and cakes, but the food was untouched. They were too busy talking.

  “Mr. Candle!” Selena called, as soon as I came in. “Please, come and join us! I must thank you, with all of my heart, for saving my life, of course, but also for taking care of Weatherby.” She looked back at him and ruffled his hair. “He stayed with me a little bit, after he left the custody of the CIA, but then he departed. I do wish he stayed.”

  “You’re still in school, Selena,” Weatherby explained. “And I don’t want to be a burden. That’s not my place. Circumstances have made me the man of the house, and I have to do my best to take care of you.”

  “Oh, Weatherby.” Selena shook her head. “You could never be a burden.”

  I smiled at her. “He isn’t,” I said. “He’s a good kid, Miss Stein. Your parents raised him right.”

  “Thank you,” Selena said. Her manners were impeccable. “Well, Weatherby, if you won’t move in to my dorm room, then perhaps you can still stay with Mr. Candle. He is a hero, and a man of the highest caliber.”

  I considered her words. I had just cheated in half a dozen ways to win a race, and damned two men to the pits of Hell. Was that something a hero would do? Or was the devil’s laughter spot on, and he’d be seeing me shortly?

  I didn’t know. I still don’t. But I sat there in that diner, and watched Weatherby happy to be talking over old memories with his sister, and Selena just glad to be re-united with her baby brother, and I realized that I didn’t care.

  I stood in a foggy field in England, watching a movie being made. I could tell that this one wouldn’t be winning any Academy Awards. It was a lurid horror film, a b-movie in every sense of the word, where the neon glare of fake blood, the cleavage of the distressed damsel and the snarls of the monster would draw in the teenage, drive-in audience more than anything else. It was like a million other such pictures produced by Mallet Films, a burgeoning outfit that pissed off English censors and made the lion’s share of their dough in America.

  This one was called Curse of the Witch Queen. It seemed a nice enough picture, with all the sound and fury of a usual Mallet production. Like their others, it was filmed on location in Bly Studios, an old Victorian Manor that had been Dracula’s castle, Frankenstein’s lab, the mummy’s tomb, and a dozen other haunts of horror as well.

  But I wasn’t there to tour the set. As a private detective, that just ain’t my role to play. Curse of the Witch Queen had been running into a great deal of problems. Expensive camera equipment had been found smashed. Carefully constructed cardboard sets had been ripped to shreds. Lighting had been spoiled. The director, a high-strung fellow named Clarence Teller, was convinced someone was trying to sabotage his picture. So he called up the Stein and Candle Detective Agency and hired me and my partner to figure out who was behind the sabotage and put a stop to it.

  We flew to London, took a private car into the countryside and landed right in Mallet-Land, where everyone was working feverishly to finish the movie. Already over-budget and off-schedule, it was clear that Teller needed to wrap things up and send the film on its way. He was adamant that my partner and I, Weatherby Stein, should be on the set to look out for any signs of wrong-doing.

  We had been there for most of the day, and the only crime we discovered was one against cinema. Weatherby sat in a cloth-backed chair, watching the camera crew set up for the day’s shoot. The set had turned the patio behind Bly studios in an old fashioned graveyard, complete with crumbling graves around a vine-encrust
ed mausoleum. It was a foggy day, but they had a few machines rigged up to bathe the set in even more white smoke.

  “Wretched business,” Weatherby muttered, turning to me as the camera crew wheeled in their equipment. “I detest vulgar entertainment, and none more than this gothic malarkey. It’s disgusting, it’s despicable, and it’s slanderous.”

  I pointed to the graveyard. “It’s just entertainment, kiddo. People pop down a buck or two, they want to be entertained. Mallet Films sees to that.”

  “But it’s all wrong!” Weatherby whined. “I know graveyards, Mort. I spent my childhood in graveyards, and they have a solemn majesty that is completely destroyed by copious fog, poor lighting, and of course, the wretched gallivanting of Mallet’s actors.”

  Just as he said that, the actors themselves arrived on set, followed by the director. A tall, square-jawed kid in a crimson Victorian costume suit headed over to us. “Um, pardon me, chaps,” he said, with the usual briskness of the English upper class. “But you’re in my seat.”

  I looked at the yellow letters embroidered on the back of the folding chair. It was apparently reserved for Patrick Darling, the male lead of Curse of the Witch Queen. “Sorry, sir,” Weatherby said, slipping off of the chair and stepping back. “You have my apologies.”

  “No trouble, my boy, none at all.” Darling hopped into his chair and folded his legs. He examined Weatherby’s own Victorian suit, one infinitely more intricate than his costume. “Say, that’s a brilliant costume. Very dark and I love the pinstripes. You get some tailor to make it up for you special? Ought to put him touch with the props and costumes department. I could use some threads like that for this role.”

  Weatherby glowered at Darling. “It is my father’s suit, sir,” he said. “And your simpering hands shall never touch it!” He turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Darling grinned at me. “Strange little fellow, isn’t he?” he asked.

  “He is that,” I agreed. I leaned forward. “But at least he doesn’t wear a playsuit and go tramping around cardboard graveyards.” I touched the brim of my fedora. “See you around, Darling.” I walked away from him, out through the thick green grass and over to Weatherby. The kid was staring into the distance, looking at the broad band of dark road than ran through the countryside, and the abandoned military base that bordered Bly Studios.

  He turned around and looked at me. “We shouldn’t have taken this job, Morton,” he said. “There is no saboteur. The director must possess a vivid imagination. We are wasting our time.”

  “Long as we get cash in our pockets, we ain’t wasting time,” I corrected. I patted his thin shoulder. “Come on, Weatherby,” I said. “I know this reminds you of home in all the wrong ways, but it’s just a job. Let’s go on back and play good little watchdogs for the director, then get our payment and skedaddle. What do you say?”

  He looked at his shoes and finally nodded. “Okay,” Weatherby muttered.

  We walked back to the set, just as the lead actress was arriving, a dozen make-up beauticians clustered around her. The babe headlining this movie was Angelica Witt, and with her flowing brown hair, diaphanous turquoise nightgown and wide smile, she could play her role just fine. She looked up at me and Weatherby and grinned.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know Mr. Teller had hired more character actors!” She pointed to me. “Are you going to be some sort of bruiser thug working for the Witch Queen?” She pointed to Weatherby. “And you must be some little peasant boy who the monster eats!”

  Teller approached her, hands outstretched. “Angie, baby, these are the security fellows I hired. They’re Yanks, you know, and they’re supposed to be awful good at this sort of thing.”

  I nodded. “Just pretend we’re not here,” I said.

  Angelica Witt smiled. “Oh,” she said. “That’ll be tough.”

  Weatherby coughed. I looked at him and saw his pale face going a little red. Like any fourteen-year-old, the kid was just starting to get it bad for the dames. “We’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe, Miss Witt,” he stammered.

  Angelica didn’t make fun of him, but gave a quick nod. “That’s good to hear,” she said, and offered Weatherby a comforting smile.

  “All right, all right – quiet on the set!” Clarence Teller was a thin man with thinning hair, in square spectacles, a worn olive green vest and rumpled shirt. His eyes were darting around and he bit his tongue – looking like he was waiting for something to blow up. He walked over to his chair and sat down, looking at the script on his clipboard and then at the set. “Right, in this scene, Angelica’s chasing that phantom she saw in the graveyard outside of her new boyfriend’s manor, and she gets attacked by a wild man. Niles is back there, already, just waiting for the signal. Patrick, baby, that’s when you come out and save her.”

  “With the battleaxe?” Patrick asked.

  “With what else?”

  “Six years with the Royal Shakespeare Academy for this…” Patrick muttered, as Angelica took her place.

  Teller nodded to the cameramen and they zoomed in with the bulky mechanisms, which reminded me of the bazookas we had used to knock out Panzers in the woods of France. Teller watched as Angelica Witt and her make-up assistants walked into the middle of the graveyard. They finished touching her up and then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Remember Angelica, it’s cold at night and you ought to be shivering. Everyone ready? And….action!”

  The cameras started rolling and the magic began. Angelica took a few steps through the graveyards, and she did her best to shiver and look longingly at the camera. I had to admit, she was a pretty good actress. I wouldn’t mind seeing her in another kind of picture – minus that nightgown, of course.

  “H-hello?” she asked, just like a terrified ingénue about to see the monster for the first time. “Is anyone there?”

  The dark bushes behind the mausoleum rustled. A black loping shape leapt out of them and landed before Angelica, knocking aside several of the cardboard graves. It was a great hound, black as midnight and with long fangs, slicked back ears and glaring red eyes. The dog could rival a grizzly bear for size. Its growl was like an engine revving to life.

  “Goddamn,” I whispered to Weatherby. “Those are some good special effects.”

  “That’s no special effect,” Weatherby replied. “That’s a Gytrash, a Bharghest, a Black Shuck – a Hellhound!”

  Angelica screamed, and it sounded just a little too real. Teller turned to me and Weatherby. “That’s not Niles!” he cried. “That’s something else – something awful!” The great hound was stalking slowly towards Angelica on its silent paws, is great fangs barred. She took a panicked step back, then tripped over her nightgown and tumbled to the grass.

  I was already reaching for my automatics. “Stay here!” I told Teller, dashing in front of the cameras and into the set. I started firing, putting round after round into the hairy flanks of the Black Dog. I felt the familiar pulse of recoil as I unloaded the Colt automatics. The blasts echoed across the wide fields and the moors beyond. But even over the gunfire, I could hear the Black Dog roar.

  The beast turned to face me and emitted a low growl. The good news was that it turned away from Angelica. The bad news was that it wanted to take a bite out of me. “Get out of here, sister!” I screamed to Angelica, and she ran from the fake graveyard as the hound approached me. I saw its muscled legs coil up, preparing a pounce. There wasn’t enough time to reload.

  “Weatherby?” I asked, as I reached for the Ka-Bar combat knife in my boot heel. “You got a way to put this dog down for good?”

  He was looking through the pockets of his frock coat. “Keep it busy, Morton!” he called. “I seem to have misplaced my sprig of holly…”

  I shook my head. I was about to get mauled by some ferocious ghost dog the size of a grizzly bear and he was looking for holly. I squared my shoulders and looked back to the black dog. It leapt for me, flying through the air like a plummeting comet of dark fur.
All I saw was its fangs, big as daggers and glowing white like a full moon in a cloudless night sky. I threw myself backwards, but the black hound still landed on me and lunged for my throat.

  I planted my blade between its eyes, driving it through fur, flesh and bone. That slowed it down – but did nothing else.

  “Weatherby!” I shouted, holding back the hellhound by its throat. “Any time now!”

  “All right! Take this, and apply it vigorously!” He tossed me a small twig of holly, with a few leaves and red berries. The twig was sharpened, like a tiny spear. I caught it with one hand and slammed the sharp end into the side of the black hound’s throat.

  For a few seconds, the hound continued to press forward, howling as its chomping teeth neared my throat. Then a shudder ran through the black dog, and its paws went rigid. I could feel its fur going mushy under my hands. I stood up quickly. The fur fell inwards, the legs curled up and the whole dog seemed to melt. Soon it was nothing but a large pile of ash, with its red eyes turned into two glowing coals. I kicked at the ash, scattering it amongst the cardboard gravestones.

  Teller ran over to me, followed by Weatherby and Angelica. “Quick thinking with the holly, kid,” I said. “But what the hell was that thing?”

  “Your words are apt,” Weatherby explained. “It’s a hellhound, known by a variety of names in the English countryside – such as gytrash, or bhargest. They are summoned by certain powerful spiritual entities, and serve them like loyal hunting dogs.”

  “And you think one of those powerful spiritual entities is trying to sabotage Curse of the Witch Queen?” Teller shook his head. “I don’t recall pissing one of them off – unless there was one in the British Board of Film Censors or in the producer’s office.” He turned to Angelica. “You all right, honey?”

  “Fine,” she said, straightening her dress. “But what about Niles?”