The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3)

by Michael Panush

  “Shut up, shut up!” He waved his hand and pointed to the receiver. “They’re just getting to the point! They’re gonna start talking!” We sat down and listened. Belasco clammed up, reached for a notepad and pencil, and listened in. We joined him.

  There was the sound of an automobile driving into the alley, and the engine fading away to a dull purr. A door swung open and shoes clicked on the pavement. It was day and getting dimmer, so I figured Dracula must have some aid standing next to him with an umbrella and sporting a heavy coat.

  I heard Wagner speak first. There was no mistaking his confident nasal tones. “Ah, Count Dracula. What a pleasure it is to see you. I must say, the climate of this new age has done wonders for your complexion.”

  “Forget your jests, Stein. I’m in no mood for levity. After all, it is your descendants who are causing us so much trouble.”

  “Ah yes, that little runt. What a sad fate for a once proud line. Though I must say, his sister is a delectable morsel.” At the mention of Selena, Weatherby balled his hands into fists and shivered. I put a hand on his shoulder, but I could see the rage coming off him like smoke from a fire. “They are troublesome, but I think we can resist them easily enough. They are human, after all.”

  “So are you, Stein.” Dracula sounded like a firm parent. “Until this is done, I want you and all of your ingredients to move into the Knight Building. I have a private army of vampires, half-turned, Nosferatu and human servants under Fielding. We should use them.”

  “You are so worried about my well-being, are you not?” Wagner asked. “And not just because of the Panacea, I’m sure. You want me close, Count, so you can keep an eye on me and our little project. Don’t bother disguising your greed under kindness. Compassion simply does not become you.”

  “But you’ll do it?”

  “Why not? Someone has to die in great numbers when Stein and Candle come knocking. Why shouldn’t it be your men?” This information was more precious than gold. Dracula and Wagner, together in the Knight Building – one nice, juicy target. And they’d think they were invincible. There was a German fellow named Hitler who once felt the same. We taught him otherwise.

  Now that they had finished discussing security, the conversation switched to business. “So,” Dracula began. “I believe I am nearly ready to begin flooding the market with Midnight Products. Our marketing department is ready to unleash a bombardment of advertisements throughout the media. All of America will soon be in our pocket.”

  “You’ve taken to capitalism like a duck to water, Dracula. How do you do it?” Wagner was full of false enthusiasm.

  “I simply find a need and exploit it. In England, it was women. Forced into a menial existence as housewives, they thrilled to the joys I gave them. They would die to be soldiers in my army. And in America, it is the need to conform that should be exploited.” Dracula was a blowhard. He loved talking about himself. “But what of you, Stein? Has your drug successfully ruined the brains of the counterculture?”

  “Oh, it’s getting there,” Wagner replied. “And I am increasing distribution nationwide as we speak. I should have a new shipment coming in from Central Europe by tomorrow evening. My undead minions are hard at work producing new batches. And you’ll need the shipment for your own products, won’t you? And you know what that means.”

  “A sharing of power.” The hatred in Dracula’s voice was clear. So that was it – Wagner had something to do with Midnight Products. I wondered if there was enchantment over them, some mumbo-jumbo that would hook all of America, just like the dope fiends going crazy for another fix of Panacea. It was a good plan – hook American consumers into buying Midnight Products’ goods. But what was the next part? What did the Jell-O, TV dinners, and hair cream actually do?

  Before I could think on it any more, I heard Dracula let out a small groan. “Wait,” he said. He sniffed the air, a feral, animalistic sound. “I sense deception.”

  “What are you going on about, you old fool?” Wagner asked, but Dracula was already moving. There was silence for a while. I realized what had happened instantly. Drac had gone and found the bug. He was probably already giving orders.

  I turned to Belasco. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He set down his notepad. “I hid it well,” he said. “Right there in the trash can. There’s no way—”

  “You touched it. You smell like cigars and cheap whiskey.” I was already reaching for automatics and looking to the door. “Dracula’s got senses that’d put a bloodhound to shame.”

  “Vampirism greatly exceeds all physical abilities,” Weatherby chimed in.

  Dracula’s voice came from the receiver again. He swore in his own language. “A thousand hells,” he whispered. Then he spoke into the microphone, and I could tell he was talking directly to us. “Morton Candle. Weatherby Stein. And whoever else is helping you. I know where you are. I can track this scent through the city. I am sending men to finish you. If you survive, I sincerely urge you to flee the country and give up. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

  The line went dead. I was afraid we’d join it. Weatherby moved to the door, but I caught his arm. “They’ll be expecting that, kiddo. The fire escape’s our best bet.” I moved to the window and cracked it open. Five stories of spidery metal stairs led down to the dirty pavement. “You got a heater, Belasco?”

  The CIA spook pulled out his automatic. We had three guns between us. I cursed myself for not bringing along the Thompson. I moved to the window and stepped outside first. I looked down. It seemed clear, so I started moving. Weatherby followed, with Belasco keeping up the rear. He didn’t take anything with him.

  The metal of the fire escape squeaked and twisted under our weight. The tenement owners must have built the damn thing cheaply, and not replaced it since the Great Depression. I kept going, counting the seconds as we made our way past the sixth floor. Weatherby tripped on a metal strut and fell into the railing. He pulled himself up, his face going red.

  That’s when I heard an engine’s roar and the shriek of metal. I looked down. A pair of autos headed our way, driving into the alley next to the flophouse and screeching to a halt. I saw Fielding step out of the first one, wearing a black leather trench coat over his dark suit. He reached inside and drew out an M3 grease gun. The lethal little cannon gave him killing power – but it didn’t have range.

  “Hello, Airborne boy!” he called up to me. More goons came out of the cars. Some of them had rifles. Those were trouble. Fielding nodded and the riflemen knelt down. Some of them were half-turned, and others were humans. All of them were trouble. I swung my pistol their way and fired. My shot struck the pavement next to a sniper, another cracking the windshield of one of their cars. The range was too great for my .45s to be much use.

  “How about you come down here, huh?” Fielding asked. “We’ve got plenty to talk about, I’m sure!”

  “Go boil your head!” I shouted, thinking out my options. I turned back to Weatherby and Belasco. “Go down slowly,” I said, as a rifle shot cracked past my head and struck the brick wall of the tenement. I ducked low, trying to make myself less of a target. “I’ll try and suppress them. And we hit the street – run like hell.”

  I raised my pistols and started firing, while Weatherby and Belasco moved. We went down another story, as the rifles cracked away. Each shot drew closer. We couldn’t last long. I emptied both automatics at Drac’s men and forced them behind the cars, and then stopped to reload. That’s when fate took the whole damn thing out of my hands.

  A rifle shot struck a joint in the fire escape. The cheap metal broke. The whole platform folded, slamming into the second level. I lost my footing and tumbled down, but grabbed onto the railing and managed to stay still. Belasco jumped back, keeping himself from slipping. Weatherby wasn’t as lucky. The poor kid fell down, crashed hard onto the second story railing, and then went down to the first. Fielding moved toward him, the grease gun poised to fill the kid full of lead.

  I spotted a dumpster un
der the fire escape. I fought down panic and jumped. For a few seconds, I plummeted through the air. Garbage broke my fall. It felt like a hundred rotting hands were reaching out to catch me. I stood up, forcing them off. Soft, stinking garbage or not, that fall wasn’t painless. Every inch of me hurt.

  From outside the dumpster, I heard Fielding laugh. “Going into the dumps, Morton?” he asked. “It’s where you belong, I suppose. But your little friend here – he just belongs in heaven.”

  I gripped the side of the dumpster and pulled myself out. I saw Fielding grabbing Weatherby’s arm, pulling the kid to his feet. The poor kid was dazed and his nose was bloodied from his fall. He was bruised and battered, but seemed otherwise unharmed. It looked like Fielding was going to change that.

  I swung my automatics to face him. “Let go of the boy,” I said, and started shooting.

  I put a round through the goon behind Fielding, blasting out his brains. I started moving, charging Fielding and Weatherby. Dracula’s security expert stared at me, his eyes getting wide. He expected me to break, not to charge. I did my best to disappoint him.

  I collided into Fielding, and swung the handle of my automatic into his face. I heard something crack, so I hit him again. Then I grabbed Weatherby, letting him lean on my shoulder as I ran to the door of Fielding’s black Packard.

  But the driver was still in the seat. He pointed a revolver in my direction. He had me dead to rights, until a shot from Belasco’s pistol splattered his brains all over the dashboard. I opened the driver’s door and pulled him out, tossed Weatherby into the passenger seat and got inside. Belasco was running toward the car, and I covered him with the last shots of my automatic. He reached the car just as my clip emptied.

  The key was still in the ignition. I turned it and the Packard roared to life, and then I sped out of that alley with a grease gun chattering away behind me. I peeled into the street and turned the corner. I turned to look at Weatherby. He was getting back to his senses, leaning back and resting his hands on his forehead.

  “Good Heavens,” he whispered. “Mort, you have a terrible aroma about you.”

  I knew he’d be okay. “Good to know you’re all right, kiddo.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his politeness returning. He looked over his shoulder at Belasco. “And I must thank you as well. I think you saved our lives back there, when we were trying to commandeer this vehicle.”

  Bobby Belasco reloaded his sidearm. “Hey, I was just making sure my own fat didn’t fall in the fire.” He leaned back, sliding his gun into a shoulder holster under his leather jacket. “Well, I guess we got a better idea of what Dracula and Wagner are up to. There’s something in those goods that Midnight Products makes, and that Panacea dope that Dr. Twist pushes.”

  “We’ll find out what it is,” I said. “And then we’ll stop them from making it.” I was planning to ditch the car in some deserted alley near the Hotel Grande. “You want me to get you a room with us in the Hotel Grande, Belasco? It might be safer there, with Drac and Wagner tearing up the city looking for us.”

  “Thanks but no thanks.” He shuffled uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t really fit in up there, with all your buddies. And no offense, but being by your side ain’t exactly the safest place in the world right now. Just let me out on the sidewalk over there. I’ll do my best to lay low.”

  He could talk about his safety all he wanted, but I knew the truth – Belasco was nervous about being accepted. He had been crawling through the mud for so long that a breath of fresh air was poison to his lungs. I didn’t blame him. If it wasn’t for Weatherby, maybe I’d be in the same boat.

  I let Belasco out and then headed back to the Hotel Grande. I was starting to get worried. Weatherby and I both nearly got our tickets cancelled this afternoon. It was clear that we couldn’t handle this case alone. By the time the sun set over New York, we’d learn that we wouldn’t have to.

  We got back to the hotel and walked in through the main doors. Weatherby’s leg was a little sore, and he had a slight limp. I smelled like I had been bathing in sewage. The girl at the receptionist’s desk stared at us and I didn’t blame her.

  “Mr. Candle,” she asked. “Have you had any trouble?”

  “Not nearly enough, sister,” I replied.

  “Right.” She smiled politely. “Well, your guests arrived. They insisted on waiting here to meet you.”

  I looked into the corner of the lobby and then I saw them – the three members of my squad from the war. They were sitting around, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. I walked over to them, and their conversation ended. Each one stood up and ran to say hello to me and Weatherby.

  “Good to see you, Mort! Jeez Louise, you smell terrible!” Dutch was our mechanic, an affable guy with a growing gut and thinning hair. He still wore his grease-stained coveralls and a rubber bowtie, a flat cap on his head. “Weatherby, you’re looking good. Did you get taller?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir,” Weatherby said, shaking Dutch’s hand. “It is wonderful to see you.”

  “Grand to see you too, little Weatherby.” Elkins stood behind Dutch. Tall and whip-thin, he looked like he ought to be working on a farm. He wore a khaki leather jacket and a tattered Stetson, and his freckled face split in a smile when he saw me and Weatherby. “And Sarge, I just want to let you know that I’m here to help. You just say the word and I’ll go to war.”

  “And Elkins won’t be alone, my friend.” Tiny pumped my hand and patted Weatherby’s shoulder, nearly knocking the kid off his feet. Tiny could rival a Grizzly Bear for size. He wore a slick black shirt and silver tie with a matching fedora, his voice a soft Cajun twang. “Listen, Sarge, I got a truckload of ordinance sitting out behind this place. I didn’t know what exactly you want, so I just got a whole lot of everything.”

  “That’s music to my ears, Tiny,” I said. I nodded to the elevator and we headed over. “I got you boys a room across the hall from mine. It should be a lot better than sleeping out under the stars in some damn Belgian foxhole, I think. We’ll go up there and brief you. After I take a shower, of course.”

  The elevator took us up to the top floor. We stepped out into the hall, and it felt like coming home. Sly and Henry Wallace opened the door of their room and stepped outside to meet us. Henry Wallace ran to Weatherby, fear and relief washing over his face at once. Weatherby introduced Dutch, Tiny and Elkins to the boy, while Selena and Chad also came into the hall to say hello.

  Selena headed my way. “Morton,” she said, after making sure Weatherby was unharmed. “There’s something I should tell you. I rented another set of rooms. You see, someone else arrived and they said they knew you and have information about Wagner Stein.” She looked away, covering her nose. “What exactly happened out there?”

  “Fell in some garbage. Killed a few people. The usual.” I looked over her shoulder, as another door opened. “Who exactly are these friends of mine?”

  They stepped into hall, and Weatherby looked up from Henry Wallace. I saw his face go red and a tremor move through him. It was a different kind of fear than facing sudden death from Fielding, but I think it was just as strong. Doc Darby Dearborn, aging, world-traveling archaeologist, stood in the hall. But Weatherby had eyes only for his daughter, the teenage Evelyn Dearborn.

  She hurried over to him and they stood apart from each other saying nothing. “Good heavens,” Evelyn said suddenly. “You’ve been injured.” She had light brown hair in two long braids, a red vest and a long pleated skirt. A pair of boots peaked out under the dress.

  “I just had a little fall. Nothing more.” Weatherby struggled to find the right words. “Y-you look w-wonderful,” he managed to say. “Would you like to come into our room? We could have dinner there. It’s very nice. Well, I suppose it’s the same as yours, but I’d like to talk about things, and I could introduce you to my friends and—”

  “Weatherby.” Evelyn interrupted him. “That sounds lovely.”

  So we all went to my room and I ordered
up meals for everyone. It was putting a dent in my bank account, but I didn’t care. This was the first time in my life I got to play host for a bunch of my good pals, and I’d do anything for them. Besides, we were all facing down two of the most evil and powerful men on earth. They stood to lose a lot more than money by standing with me.

  We didn’t talk about the case until after dinner – and after I had a shower. I leaned back on the couch in my shirtsleeves, reloading my pistols as I laid out everything. Henry Wallace sat next to Weatherby, who stayed near Evelyn. I caught Selena watching them. She had to hide her smile, whenever Weatherby looked in her direction.

  I finished my little briefing and reached for a cigarette. “So there it is,” I said. “Wagner’s importing something from Central Europe, and that’s what’s going into Panacea and the junk that Midnight Products is making. I don’t know what it is, but I doubt it’s good.”

  “We can fill you in there, Mr. Candle,” Doc Dearborn said. “We’ve been in Central Europe, trying to see what the Viscount’s been up to. I’m afraid we have grave news.”

  Evelyn nodded. “He’s been buying ancient artifacts by the dozen. Cursed jewels, enchanted portraits, dirt from the graves of depraved nobles like Elizabeth Bathory – anything with occult significance has captured Wagner’s interest. He’s shipping it all to America.” She lowered her voice, her hands folded. “And I believe I know the spell that he’s attempting to create – mind control.”

  I breathed out cigarette smoke. It made a hell of a lot of sense. Drac’s marketing sense could fill all of America with his products. Wagner’s magic could make it trap minds. They’d get people to buy more, and do whatever else they want. I guessed that a few days after Midnight Products became a household name, Dracula could declare himself president-for-life and no one would stop him. The only outrage would come from the counterculture, and Wagner’s Panacea would take care of them.