“One of these people is the murderer. I am certain of it.”

The detective handed the photograph to Patrick Midnight. Midnight studied the picture. He first recognized the background as belonging to one of the studio lots currently resting beneath the detective’s third floor office. As for the people in the picture, Midnight could only make out Norma Reed in the center.

“I know her,” he said with his finger pressed on the bosom of the well-known blonde. “I think I last saw her in Diamonds in the Rough. A nice picture.”

“Should have done better,” grumbled Dan Huston, Head of Studio Security and a licensed private investigator in the State of California. Huston had his many licenses framed behind him and displayed next to several trophies that he had taken from the bodies of dead Moros. Midnight especially appreciated the wicked and curved dagger that the old Marine had resting next to his elbow on the lacquered desk.

“Von Stauffen went way over budget on Diamonds. Studio lost a lot of cabbage. Haven’t fully recovered even three years later,” Huston continued. He retrieved the photograph from Midnight and turned it so both men could see. He began identifying each person one by one.

“The fellow with the side whiskers and monocle is E.L. Debney. Limey actor in his sixties. Harmless bachelor. I think he’s queer.”

Midnight snickered at Huston’s bluntness.

“Next to him is Jimmy Jones. He’s the cinematographer. Beside him is…”

“An ape,” Midnight quipped.

“Yeah. A monkey man. Looks pretty real, no? Well, the gent in the ape suit is Al Contreras. A spic from Tijuana who smokes dope and chases skirt. Can’t act human but plays a mean simian.”

“And this one?” Midnight pointed to a tall, thin gargoyle with a hooked nose, bushy eyebrows, and a maw full of blackened teeth.

“Gordon Blish. Creature feature specialist. I’ve only seen him out of makeup once or twice. By all accounts a swell guy. Seated by his elbow is Ms. Reed. Beside her is Von Stauffen, and rounding out the troupe is Gees.”

“Gees?”

“Yeah. Jian Lee. We call him ‘Gees’ because it’s easier.”

“What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” Huston said with a shrug. “Coolie can’t speak English. No use questioning him. Doesn’t matter anyway; he ain’t the killer.”

“What makes you so sure?” Midnight asked.

“Doesn’t seem like a Chinaman crime,” Huston said with finality. “It was done quietly and without torture. Also, the deceased didn’t know Gees. She’d only been on the lot for a week before her death, and everyone we’ve talked to said that Gees never interacted with her. Hell, he and Blish don’t interact with anyone.”

“So, when was this picture taken?”

“Yesterday. Right down there,” Huston pointed a formerly broken finger down beneath his window. Midnight looked down and saw a lonely janitor sweeping up rubbish near a studio door.

“They seem like a chipper lot. I don’t know if I’d be smiling if one of my fellow actors had been murdered just hours before.”

“Brother, you don’t know these actors. They’re odd ducks, and to top it all off, this has to be the craziest damn studio that I have ever worked for.”

Midnight reached for a cigarette and struck a match. In the billowing smoke, he saw the faint outlines of Reverend Blackstone’s stern countenance. His ancestral shade loathed tobacco, and Midnight’s addictive behavior (three or four cigarettes every two hours) had earned him the Puritan’s unwavering ire. He brushed the smoke away to erase Blackstone’s visage. In response, Blackstone used a phantom foot to kick Midnight hard in the stomach.

Huston misinterpreted Midnight’s sudden grunt as flatulence.

“Strike another match,” he said in jest.

Rather than humor the man, Midnight plodded forward with his questioning. “What makes you say all that? I mean, what’s so crazy about Draco Studios?”

“Brother, are you kidding? Paramount and RKO got their wildness, sure, but this cut-rate outfit takes the cake. First of all, you’ve got Von Stauffen the Kraut running this place like the war never happened. That little Prussian jackboot doesn’t direct; he drills. Second, half of the actors are hopheads, and the other half can’t speak more than a sentence before running back to their bungalows. Third, I don’t know who cuts my checks. Sure, they say ‘Draco Studios,’ but whose funding this whole shebang? Besides, what the hell even is a Draco?”

Midnight whistled. Huston’s questions put him in a bind. The special agent knew full well that Draco Studios was funded and owned by the Society of Gentlemen Geographers, and Midnight also knew that such knowledge had to be kept private. After all, Draco Studios was a way for the Society to wash some of its dirtier money, plus it offered a legitimate cover for espionage activity. Prior to coming out to Los Angeles, Midnight had been fully briefed by Stanley Hopkins about what he could and could not reveal.

“You can’t give up the Society,” he had said. “That should be obvious to you by this point. You can’t give up Von Stauffen, or at least not what we’re doing with his estate.

“What are we doing with his estate?” Midnight had asked.

“Pet project of Von Eberling’s. Herr General and Von Stauffen are building a secret army in Allenstein to make sure that nothing like the Spartacist business can ever happen again. The money for that army comes from a lot of things, including Draco Studios.”

Midnight had questioned the wisdom of this plan by pointing out Germany’s recent history of military aggression. Hopkins had countered by simply stating: “Nobody in the Society has done more good on the Continent than Von Eberling’s agents. We got to keep him happy.” He then had told Midnight about the one fact that he could divulge to Huston.

“The name comes from Von Stauffen’s plane. ‘Draco’ was what the director called his Fokker during the war. He was an ace.”

Huston broke Midnight’s memories by grumbling. “It was that goddamned Caligari picture that convinced this town to forgive the Krauts for their wickedness. Now we’re swimming in their artists. Almost feels like we didn’t win the big one, eh?”

Midnight placated the angry Huston by uttering a swear word. “You can say that again, brother,” Huston enjoined. “Still have more questions than answers, though. Oh well, I have a feeling Draco Studios ain’t going to last long. Murder publicity won’t help neither.”

“Has the story already hit the press?” Midnight asked.

“No, but I got two newshounds sniffing hardcore. We can only keep this thing under wraps for a day or two more. That’s why the investors sent you out here, right?”

“Right,” Midnight said through a cloud of smoke. “Tell me a little about the victim?”

“Shannon Riley. Cute little thing. Just twenty years old. Considered herself a native Angeleno because she was born in Iowa. That’s a joke around these parts, Midnight—all natives originally come from Iowa.”

“Did this Shannon Riley come out here straight from Des Moines?”

“No. The frilly really grew up out here. Even went to high school in Silverlake with the other micks. I did some research on her.” Here, Huston tossed a manilla folder across the table. Midnight picked it up and shuffled through a random assortment of papers.

“Shannon graduated cum laude but rather than enroll at USC like many in the class of ’26, she instead opted to make money in the pictures. She’d been hustling for a year and a half while working part-time at Giorgio’s. That’s a diner near the beach; in case you were wondering. It’s run by a Greek named Spiros. The greaseball told me that Shannon was good worker that made extra money just because she was so damned cute. The surfers and truck drivers and the bootleggers that live down there would throw her extra nickels and dimes just for a smile or two.”

“Was The Slave of Araby supposed to be her big break?”

“Hell, no. Kid was just an extra for this nuthouse picture. They found her dead as a doornail out behind where all the extras dress.”

“Describe it to me,” Midnight said. “Tell me in detail about her death.”

Huston sat up straight in his chair and leaned a little over his desk. “The poor kid was as pale as moonlight when they found her. My overnight man, Schmitty, practically tripped over her corpse when he was doing his rounds. Seeing Shannon Riley dead and totally nude almost gave Schmitty a heart attack. When I came in, I found her covered underneath a raincoat.”

“Any pictures? Any known cause of death?”

“Cause of death? Murder. And no pictures. I already told you she was found nude. Pictures would’ve been pornographic.”

“Not very good crime management. LAPD won’t like it when the news finally leaks.”
“If, Mr. Midnight. A big if. Besides, the rules of Los Angeles don’t apply out here. We’re a self-contained entity—a city-state, if you will. If we can’t wrap this thing up soon, then we’ll have two options.”

“Which are?”

“One: I tell the tabloids that Shannon Riley committed suicide.” Huston waved his hands in the air like a demonic maestro. “Happens all the time to the hard luck cases that want to be starlets. Hell, last month a frilly named Ritter drowned in her own bathtub after getting cut from a Laemmle production. Happens all the time.”

“What’s the second option?”

“Nothing. No body, no crime, and no report. We’ll make Shannon Riley disappear. That happens too, just not as much.”

“Pretty sinister combination, Huston. I either solve this thing before my next flight or justice goes permanently blind.”

“Don’t blame me, bub. That’s how Hollywoodland works.”

***

An hour later, Midnight was safely ensconced in an unoccupied bungalow near the studio’s east wing. He busied himself with reading through Shannon Riley’s file. A fresh pot of coffee was brought to him by a smiling secretary.

“Do you need cream, Mr. Midnight?” asked the bespectacled brunette with a Texas lilt.

“Sure. Don’t need sugar, though. They tell me I’m sweet enough.” His little joke made the secretary giggle and blush. When he asked her for her name, she told him that she was Grace Belvedere.”

“Is that real or one for the stage?” Midnight asked.

“Nothing is real in Hollywoodland, Mr. Midnight.” Grace winked at the special agent and asked him about his attendance at a party scheduled for that night.

“Sadly, I’m here on business. And besides, if it’s really a costume party, I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Wear a suit,” Grace offered.

“That’s not much of a costume.”

“How about a birthday suit then?” Grace laughed some more and blew Midnight a small kiss that nearly knocked the special agent off his feet.

“Wow! What a peach,” he said aloud.

“You haven’t been in this Babylon for twenty-four hours and you’re already seeking a whore! Alas and alack, I no longer feel shame over you, young cur.” Reverend Blackstone’s ectoplasmic shell stood ominously above Midnight, who reclined leisurely on the bungalow’s plush couch. The ghost started to invoke the Old Testament when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come on in, beautiful,” Midnight said in a dreamy cadence. He opened the door fully expecting to see the flirtatious Grace Belvedere. Instead, he found a short, ferret-faced man with a thin mustache. The man held out a hand.

“Nobody has ever called me beautiful before,” said the man who spoke like a carnival barker. He pumped Midnight’s hand and introduced himself as Tod Garrett. “By the way you were talking, I suppose you expected someone else.”

“Yeah, I expected cream.”

“Ha! That would be Missus Belvedere, our resident minx. Be careful, chum; that cowgirl gets her claws into them all.”

“She scratch you yet?”

“Hardly. I’ve only been on this kooky lot for a few days trying to get someone, anyone to make my script a reality. So far, no bites but crust.”

A perplexed Midnight asked for clarification. “What I mean is that I’ve gotten nothing but crumbs. The brush-off. The ‘we’ll call you’ routine. A lesser man would have gone home to Fishtown, but I’m made of sterner stuff.” Here, Tod patted his breast pocket and asked Midnight if he wanted to make his coffee Irish. The special agent held out a cup.

“Better than cream anyway,” he said.

“Cheers to that,” Tod added.

After taking a few hearty sips, Midnight asked Tod Garrett about his business. The little man, who moved with frenetic energy, began pacing back and forth in the bungalow. He dived into a lecture before Midnight was even prepared for a chat.

“I know why you’re here, Mr. Midnight. I lingered outside of Huston’s door while you two bloodhounds chewed the fat. I’ve already tried to convince Huston of my theory, but the numbskull just won’t listen to reason. I figured that you might be more enlightened.”

“Your theory?”

“My theory about the murder of Shannon Riley. Not only do I know how she was killed, but I know by whom.”

“Ok,” Midnight said with a bemused tone in his voice. “Lay it one me.”

“You better not laugh, because I’m absolutely serious and I can prove what I say.”

“Ok, you have my permission.”  Midnight continued to smile, while the little screenwriter adjusted his shoulders and twisted his own wrists prior to putting his hands out before his face and making a tight square. Tod Garrett’s makeshift camera told Midnight everything that he needed to know about the strange bird currently sharing his temporary bungalow.

“Shannon Riley was killed at night. That’s fact one. She was found nude. That’s fact two. She was also found drained of blood, and that’s fact three and the most important one.”

“Found drained of blood?” Midnight repeated.

“Yes. The night watchman whispered this truth to me the following morning. The poor old coot looked half drained himself he was so frightened. But nevertheless, he told me in plain English: Shannon Riley was fully drained of blood and not a drop was left behind.”

Midnight’s heart sunk a little. He, a veteran of at least two vampire cases—one in the deep jungles of Malaya and the other in a tony manor house in Westchester County—looked a little harder at Tod.

“Are you telling me that our victim was killed by a vampire?”

“Maybe,” Tod said with some hesitation. “If you’re asking me if I think Count Dracula is prowling around this place, then my answer is no. Vampires—real bloodsuckers that sleep all day and live in coffins—don’t exist. That’s kid and peasant stuff. But kooks that kill? Yeah, they do exist.”

“You think someone on this lot thinks he’s a vampire?”

Tod pointed a sharp finger at Midnight. “Correct, and I know who it is. The freak is as suspicious as can be, and more to the point, he keeps a bat in his bungalow.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Blish. He’s got an apartment all to himself, and it’s always dark. Who knows what goes on in that crypt. Plus, like I said, I know he’s got a bat in there. The thing got lose a few weeks back and attacked some mutt that had wandered in from the beach. Bit the pooch on the neck and sucked enough blood to make Fido wobbly. Starting to see my point?”

Midnight turned and looked to the side. Tod couldn’t see it, but Midnight was starring directly into the fiery, coal-black eyes of Reverend Blackstone, whose ectoplasmic head bounced in the air like a ball. Without saying a word, the Puritan gave his blessing to Midnight’s intuition.

“Ok,” the special agent said while finishing his coffee and placing a fresh cigarette in his mouth, “let’s go poke around in the monster man’s lair.”

***

By the time the unlikely duo reached Gordon Blish’s isolated bungalow, the sun had already set. A small chill bit in the air despite the August heat. Midnight let Tod take the lead, for it was obvious that the screenwriter had spied on the actor before.

“Sometimes it’s unlocked. Let’s hope it is,” Tod said with his palm on the doorknob. Midnight placed a restraining arm on the man’s wrist.

“Wait. We’re just going to barge in there? Not a very smart plan, friend, especially if Blish is a killer. Killer’s kill, and not every victim is a pretty little blonde.”

“You’re right, but I know that our enemy is with everyone else at the party.”

“This is the second time I’ve heard about this party. What is it, and where is it?”

“You didn’t get an invite either?” Tod said with a hearty laugh. “The party’s the Lammas Night Gathering. Sounds spooky to me too. It’s a high falutin’ shindig where everyone shows up in a mask and does God knows what. The only people who participate are the cream of the crop at Draco and other studios.”

“And Blish is one of them? That’s high praise for someone who keeps getting lower and lower billing.”

“Blish may not be the biggest star, but that man has made Hollywoodland more money than most. He’s been a fixture in pictures since the two-reels of the tens. He’s more or less royalty, and his best quality is his reticence.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Tod said with a grin. “The people who run the Lammas Night party only have one rule: nobody can ever know what goes on at the party. Blish has so far proven to be like a father.”

“Hunh?”

“He always keeps mum.” Tod’s light-hearted joke even forced the nervous Midnight to chuckle. The pair continued to laugh as Tod quietly turned the doorknob and led the way into the darkened bungalow.

Even in the gloom, Midnight could tell that the bungalow was large but mostly empty. The plywood floors were bare except for one small patch of carpet near a standing lamp. Midnight crept towards the lamp and tugged on the chain underneath the bulb. A weak white light cut through the darkness and revealed that Tod and Midnight had an unexpected guest.

“Jesus!” Tod exclaimed as he put his hand up to his mouth. Midnight turned his neck and almost repeated the same oath, but a strong nudge from Blackstone stopped him.

“Azrael’s handiwork is no excuse for blasphemy,” Blackstone said whilst fully formed and standing betwixt Midnight and Tod. The screenwriter rubbed his eyes and then shook his head, but still the tall and lean Puritan stood before him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You know,” Midnight said, “a lot of the time, people can’t see him. You must be special…or crazy.”

“I guess I’m crazy,” Tod said.

“Better than dead,” Midnight added as he checked the pulse of the corpse reclining in the chair next to him. The body belonged to Gordon Blish. The star’s big, bulging eyes stared vacantly towards the ceiling. Unlike the death of Shannon Riley, Blish’s demise was no mystery. Midnight reached over and picked up the half empty syringe that lay on one of the armrests. He looked at the brownish liquid in the syringe and showed it to Tod.

“Did you know that Blish was a hophead?”  he asked.

“No. I mean, I knew he was weird and a loner, but junk? Never would have guessed.”

Midnight put the syringe back where he found it and began inspecting the rest of the bungalow. There was not much besides a make-up chair, a few rubber masks, and a small kitchen that include three books stacked on top of each other. Midnight read the titles.

“A sorcerer,” Blackstone intoned.

“Maybe he was just a student of his craft,” Midnight offered as a defense. The three books all dealt with either witchcraft or alchemy.

“Doubtful, lad. Such books in the possession of a maledict who attends occultic ceremonies are merely evidence.”

Midnight understood his ancestor’s point and moved forward towards the center of the bungalow. He asked Tod about the bat.

“I don’t know,” the screenwriter mumbled. “I don’t see the rodent in here. Maybe Blish set him free before taking one last dose. Or maybe someone stole him.”

Midnight scratched his forehead and kicked imaginary dirt at his feet. “Looks like we have no other option but to crash that party, Tod.”

The screenwriter audibly gulped. “You sure? I’ve heard that the gathering is guarded by gangsters with guns.”

“Lovely,” Midnight said with humor. “But everything is pointing in that direction, and we have to investigate.”

***

Despite the lateness of the evening, Midnight and Garrett found a secluded bungalow alive with sound. The bungalow was located outside of Draco Studios and near the mighty Pacific, which Midnight found wine dark near midnight. Garrett informed him that the bungalow belonged to one of Von Stauffen’s friends—the producer Ernst van Tassel. Garrett whispered a few words about van Tassel being a former Kraut war criminal who ran amok in Belgium during the occupation.

“Hopheads, barbarians, and blood-sucking bats,” Midnight said. “Is Hollywoodland this crazy across the board?”

“Sure,” Garrett said, “but Draco is the nuttiest of the bunch.”

“I’ll be sure to tell New York,” Midnight grumbled. Garrett asked for clarification, but Midnight waved him off. The special agent instead pointed out a pair of burly men dressed in black who paced and forth on the sands near the raucous beach bungalow. “Those look like heavies,” he said.

“Sure do.” Garrett slunk further down the grass embankment and began to take cover.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I can tell by the way you talk that you’re a heavy fella too,” Garrett said. “And heavy fellas only got one speed. I’m not a heavy type; I’m the soft touch. I’ll wait here while you take care of those goons.”

“You think I have a death wish?” Midnight joked. Garrett pointed at a small indentation that arose from Midnight’s thin seersucker jacket.

“That ain’t a tumor,” he said. “It’s a gat. A small one, but it still kills.” Midnight nodded but promised the nervous director that he had no intention of setting off fireworks.

“We’re just going to go ahead and walk up to front door like we have invites. We’re Draco people, after all. Plus, worst comes to worst, I have this.” Midnight held up a golden badge that read: Inspector, U.S. Postal Service, Mortuary Affairs Division. The position and department were both fake, but few people knew or cared.

“A Washington tin is the world’s best passkey,” Midnight added. After that, the special agent stood up and began walking slowly towards the bungalow. Garrett reluctantly followed behind him. The pair came within a few paces of the front door when a meaty paw blocked their way.

“Can I help you gentleman?” The roughneck had a voice that was pure Bronx and fists seemingly made of iron. Midnight also noticed that the mug carried a big revolver on his hip.

“We’re with Draco,” Midnight said. “Got an invite from Gordon Blish.”

“And Dan Huston,” Tod Garrett added.

“Oh yeah? You know the password?”

“Password?” Garrett said with a gulp. “Sure…” The director nudged Midnight and told him to say the password. Midnight couldn’t hide his perplexion, so, he repeated the phrase again: “Password?”

“What is this comedy act?” The second guard, who stood beside his partner, spit out words like a German machine gun. His heavy Bavarian accent rendered most of his words unintelligible.

“Like Fritzie said, say the password or scram!” said the Bronx thug.

“Ok. The password that I know is ‘Blackstone, come on out.’”

The two guards looked at each other and smirked. When they moved to put hands on Midnight and Garrett, an invisible specter grabbed both of their heads and smashed them together like a pair of coconuts. The first blow rendered both men dizzy. The follow-up strikes sent both to the sand as unconscious dummies.

“Good work,” Midnight said to Blackstone. The ancestral shade stood proud and semi-transparent, and the haughty look on his face said all that needed to be said. The trio quickly found the bungalow’s entrance and opened the door.

Inside, a riot of disturbing images assaulted the three men. Black was the predominant color, but capes and cloaks of red and purple also danced underneath the electric lights. Each figure wore either a stylish Venetian mask or a more absurdist rubber one straight from one of the backlot make-up chairs. Tod pointed out someone near the back of the group who dressed just like the late Gordon Blish in A Wolf’s Hunger. Of the human menagerie, Midnight could only recognize two—Gees the Chinese, who flitted around the party in a state of near-undress, and the apeman Al Contreras. The closer Midnight and Garrett got to the center of the room, the more they both noticed the disturbing buffet.

There, laid out on a pair of two tables, were two nude women. Their most private parts were covered by foodstuffs, such as trays of sandwiches, salad, and various cuts of game meat, from pheasant to boar. Tod softly whistled, while Midnight studied the two figures to see if they still breathed. Softly and subtly, he saw their diaphragms rise, but nevertheless, the special agent did not expect that the two sunken-eyed and emaciated women would last through the night. He made sure to make eye contact with one of the women, and upon lowering his gaze, he noticed a two sets of puncture wounds. The first was a small, blackened hole in the crook of the woman’s arm.

“Dope,” Midnight muttered to himself. He pointed this wound out to Garrett, who likewise studied the woman after grabbing a sandwich for himself. Midnight then pointed out the other wound, which was on the woman’s throat. Two ragged cuts mimicked the bite of a vampire, but Midnight could tell that it was the work of some kind of implement rather than canines. Just as he was about to touch the wound, his hand was gripped by a figure in a black hood and all-white mask.

“Best not to disturb the furniture, friend,” said a cultured transatlantic voice. Garrett leaned close to Midnight and whispered that the figure was the star E.L. Debney. “You and your friend seem to be a little…lost,” the figure continued.

“I’m here for Herr von Stauffen.”

“You mean General von Stauffen?”

Midnight nodded, even though he knew from the casefile that the little Prussian was only a colonel. Such puffery was not uncommon among thespians, and Midnight knew that von Stauffen was especially prone to exaggeration. The diminutive man had styled himself as a music hall empresario after the war when in fact he had only been a Parisian cab driver.

When Debney failed to move, Midnight pulled out his badge and demanded to see von Stauffen. The sight of gold charmed Debney enough that he stepped aside and told Midnight that the director was in a private room with van Tassel.

“Make sure you knock,” Debney cooed. After that, the white-faced fellow floated to the left and joined a small gathering of masked figures sharing flasks of hooch. The Volstead Act be damned. Midnight found the door and used the edge of his fist to knock loudly. The pounding was answered by two voices speaking German. Rather than answer, Midnight opened the door.

“’Swounds!” bellowed Blackstone, who remained unseen but heard by all five men in the room. Garrett likewise uttered an oath, albeit one far more blasphemous.

“Oh boy,” Midnight said. “This is a bonanza for the vice squad.”

Von Stauffen, van Tassel, and Gees shared a small and circular bed with heart-shaped pillows. All three were shirtless and holding small flumes of champagne. Midnight, Garrett, and Blackstone all knew the significance of the scene. Midnight was the first to act, once again removing his badge and showing the three men.

“I’m an agent with the federal government,” he said. “I’m helping your man Dan Huston to investigate the murder of Shannon Riley.” Midnight then lowered his eyes to scowl directly at von Stauffen. “I am also a friend of Baron von Eberling, whom I’m sure you know.”

At the mention of von Eberling, von Stauffen shot up out of the bed and hurriedly put on his clothes. He shooed van Tassel and Gees out of the room, and once he was alone with Midnight and Garrett, he began to beg.

“Please, do not inform Herr Baron of this. My personal peccadilloes are not a threat to his funding, I can assure you.”

“Then how did you fund this soiree?” Midnight asked.

“The party is not entirely my doing,” von Stauffen said defensively. “It’s mostly the handiwork of Blish and van Tassel. Yes, I have spent much of my money…”

“Von Eberling’s money,” Midnight intoned.

“Yes, yes. Herr Baron’s money. However, if you are looking for the criminal elements, then look no further than the lecher and the occultist.”

“Well, the occultist is no longer a problem,” Midnight said. “We found Blish dead earlier.”

“Dead?”

“Deceased. No longer of this world. A victim of dope like those young girls in there.”

“Good God!” Von Stauffen said. “So much decadence.” The little Prussian began to cry into his hands. Midnight told Garrett to lock the door. The special agent then unholstered his .25 automatic and pointed the muzzle to Von Stauffen’ chest.

“Ok, give. Spill the story…the entire story, and maybe I won’t tell von Eberling.”

Von Stauffen looked up, saw the malice in Midnight’s eyes, and decided to comply. “Yes. We have been squandering Herr Baron’s money terribly. I have tried to make quality pictures. Truly, I have. None of them have been successful, sadly, and each failure has drained our funds even further. Diamonds in the Rough was the last straw. We went over budget and underperformed. In order to make our current film, I had to seek outside investment.”

“Are some of your investors back in there?” Midnight asked.

“Yes. Many of them are friends of Mr. Contreras. Those ones come from Tijuana. The rest are either associates of Gees or Blish. The real perverts are Blish’s friends.”

“Perverts?” Garrett asked.

“The women,” von Stauffen said. “come from Gees. His friends in Chinatown know how to cultivate and corrupt innocence, and it’s through their…umm…casting agents that we get the female extras. Shannon Riley was one such extra, until she outlived her usefulness.”

Righteous fury caused Blackstone to suddenly materialize between Midnight and Garrett, and it took a calming hand from his descendant to keep Blackstone from cleaving the director in two.

“Gees’s men get the women, then Contreras supplies the buyers. These people come for the parties and the chance to indulge in their darkest desires. Some of these buyers are tied in with the dope trade, and I’m positive that the Mexican is using our studio to push dope throughout Los Angeles.”

“Seems like a safe bet,” Midnight added. “But what’s with the bloodletting?”

“That is…was…Blish’s additive. The freak got a sexual thrill from seeing the flow of blood, plus the girls’ blood is collected and sold in vials. If you got back to Blish’s rooms, I’m sure you’ll find his small catalogue of subscribers.”

“Jesus,” Garrett said. “What a mess.”

“Was it Blish who drained Shannon Riley until she was a corpse?”

“Yes, but he had help. A lot of people took turns draining that poor girl. Some pressed the scissors to the wound, while others preferred to hold the hot cups up to her throat.”

“So that’s how they do it,” Garrett said. Midnight could tell that the screenwriter was taking mental notes.

“Yes,” von Stauffen continued. “Horrible scenes that I see almost every single night. That damned draining! I would have stopped too!”

“But…?” Midnight asked.

“But they knew my secret. My…how do you say? My preferences. Contreras took photos too, and the threat of their publication have hung over my head for months like a sword of Damocles. Do you have any idea what that’s like, sir?”

Midnight did not answer. Instead, he, Blackstone, and Garrett merely looked upon the director with a mixture of horror, disgust, and pity. Midnight finally broke the brief silence. “Someone got sloppy then and left Shannon out in the open.”

“Yes,” von Stauffen said. “Probably high on dope or drunk. Draco is lousy with addicts, Mr. Midnight. Poor Shannon was drained at one of these parties, then thrown away like trash. If you’re looking for the guilty party, you may as well arrest the whole lot of them.”

“I don’t think that’s feasible, but don’t expect to go back to work anytime soon,” Midnight said. He nodded at Garrett, who unlocked the door. As Midnight exited, he told von Stauffen to clear out his office and make his way to New York. When the Prussian asked why, Midnight said: “You’ll need to apologize to von Eberling when this thing is finished.” Midnight’s sentence was punctuated by a slap from Blackstone that left a cut across von Stauffen’s cheek.

“Filth and wretchedness. These are the meals that thou hast made for thyself. Cur, disreputable cur,” the Puritan swore. Von Stauffen whimpered but did nothing to defend himself. He merely watched the two men and their ghost exit the room.

Midnight’s plan was to leave the party, then alert Huston and the police. However, Midnight’s plan was immediately challenged by the appearance of the two beach guards from earlier, who stood angrily by the bungalow’s door. Their cold, purple-ringed eyes scanned the party for their prey, and as soon as they saw Midnight and Garrett, they began shoving the revelers aside.

“You’re gonna pay for my shiner,” the Bronx one said. He flung a fist at Midnight, who ducked the punch just in time. Garrett, however, took the knuckles flush on the lip. The blow caused him to stumble backwards into a nearby table. Midnight counter-attacked with a jab to the stomach, followed up a sharp knee to the thug’s nose. Blood poured from the wound. A crimson shower dripped on Midnight’s head as he attempted more follow up blows, by his arms were seized from behind by the Bavarian guard, who lifted and squeezed Midnight until the special agent felt his shoulders pop towards his ears. A few weak kicks were thrown, but the Bavarian’s grip proved too strong. Midnight felt his lungs slacken and his consciousness loosen. Only a quick rapier thrust from the semi-corporeal Blackstone saved him from an early death.

Blackstone grunted several invocations of French fencing terms as he cut the Bavarian to ribbons. None of the blows were meant to kill the opponent but rather subdue him with multiple small nicks that each bled. Now free, Midnight used the butt of his .25 automatic to brain the Bavarian into unconsciousness once again. When his Bronx partner scrambled to try and take Midnight down, a combination of Midnight’s foot and Blackstone’s backfist set him down for good.

“On your feet, lad,” Blackstone said as he helped Tod Garrett up. The little screenwriter thanked the ghost and Midnight.

“Never heard of a friendly phantom before,” he said.

“Believe me,” Midnight responded. “He’s not all that friendly.”

Garrett looked around the now empty bungalow. All the partygoers were gone, and even the two barely alive girls had managed to shuffle outside.

“Some party, eh? Looks like we’re the only ones soused enough to stick around. Except we’re drunk on vitality instead of hooch.”

“Tod,” Midnight said. “You’ve got a way with words.”

***

The following morning, after dealing with an irate Huston and a slimy LAPD detective named Marberry, Midnight put in a phone call to Stanley Hopkins back in New York. The call was brief and stuck to just the facts of the case. Midnight hung up with a groan because Hopkins had informed him that his dirigible ride back east would be delayed a day or two.

“What’s a matter, bub?” Garrett asked. The screenwriter offered Midnight a cigarette. The special agent took several long drags before answering.

“A lot of things, Tod. First of all, my employers in New York have confirmed that this case is far from over. Seems that they don’t trust LAPD, so after quick RnR, I’m heading back out here to try and flush out all the Tijuana and Chinatown connections. Contreras and Gees have already gone to ground, so that won’t make things any easier.”

“Why not just stick around here and finish the case soon rather than later?”

“Policy is that RnR is mandatory after every mission, but you may be right. Still, I do need at least a day to rest.”

Garrett shrugged his shoulders. “Why not stay at my place?”

Midnight studied the idea and found that he liked it just fine. “Ok,” he said. “I’ll delay my RnR for a few week and book myself a Tijuana vacation instead. Or maybe I’ll go to Chinatown first. Either way, I’m staying. Von Stauffen can deal with von Eberling before me.”

“So, our director friend is heading to New York to beg and plead?”

Midnight smirked. “Yep. Methinks his former army chum won’t be too kind to him either. After all, von Eberling lost a lot of money on this Draco fiasco.”

“Sure enough. Hey, when we get to my place, mind if I work while you sleep?”

Midnight shrugged. “It’s your apartment, Tod; do what you want.”

“Thanks,” he said with eagerness in his voice. “I’ve got a new script in mind. It’ll be a murder picture masquerading as a vampire picture.”

“Let me guess: the killer cuts his victim with scissors and drains their blood with a hot cup placed directly onto the bleeding wound.”

Garrett raised a fist and shook it at Midnight. “You better not spoil this picture before it gets made, pal. If you don’t, I’ll make you as invisible as your ghost.”

A vaporous and gloved hand belonging to Reverend Blackstone materialized just long enough to smack Garrett on the back of the head. “Such impudence,” the ancestral shade said. Garrett promptly apologized and raced forward to keep pace with the sleepy, but quick-moving Midnight.