The Third Interlude from "The Return of Patrick Midnight"

Arbogast's pulp noir hero returns in 2025 with a new collection

The following is an entire interlude from the forthcoming Return of Patrick Midnight—a new collection of Midnight and Blackstone adventures from Arbogast. Be on the lookout for the book from Bizarchives in 2025.

Third Interlude

                 It should have been an easy job. Just babysit a car for a night and hand it off to a wrecking crew. After that, complete and total demolishment. The mildest case in the history of mild cases.  

            And yet, on the second night of his watch, a sleepless Patrick Midnight wondered where it had all gone wrong. First, the wrecking crew’s truck had gotten a flat tire twelve miles outside of Chicago. Second, after his first hotel suffered a waterline bust, thus coating Midnight’s room in freezing wastewater, the special agent was forced to call in a favor from a friend. The friend set Midnight up in an apartment located above his family’s garage. The apartment lacked both heat and plumbing. Its only amenity was a window that Midnight used mostly for smoking.

            But of all the misfortunes, none were more bothersome than the noises—the interminable racket that always seemed to be coming from the dark blue Willys-Knight.

            “It’s the damned car,” he complained. “Something is hinky with that damned car.”

            It was a blisteringly cold night in late December 1924, and all Midnight wanted to do was sleep. Whenever he attempted to close his eyes, his tender ears would be assaulted by muffled screams and cries coming up from below. After checking the garage several times and always finding a parked and empty car, Midnight had resolved himself to insomnia.

            “There’s something ungodly attached to that conveyance, lad,” Blackstone said. “Didst the gentlemen say anything about it?”

            “Not a thing. All Stanley said was that the State of Illinois wanted the car gotten rid of. Said that they preferred to use private channels to guarantee total secrecy. My guess is that they fear the press for some reason or another.”

            Blackstone made a noise signaling his agreement. “Maybe your friend in the house yonder might know something of it.”

            “Clarence? Maybe. He does read the papers more than I do.”

            As if on cue, a light tap was heard on the apartment door. Midnight opened it and found Clarence Landsberg standing on the other side.

            “Can’t seem to stay asleep tonight. Too cold,” Clarence said. “Mind if I join you?” Midnight noticed that his friend carried with him a flask and two glasses.

            “By all means.”

            Midnight used the apartment’s small reading desk as an impromptu bar. He pushed both it and the room’s single lamp towards the window. The pair positioned their seats so that they could look out into the night rather than stare at each other.

            “Swell neighborhood,” Midnight said.

            “Yeah, me and the old lady lucked out. She’s from the old country, and to her Andersonville is like a fairy tale.”

            Midnight had to agree with his friend’s Swedish wife. Andersonville—a sleepy, mostly Scandinavian enclave in Chicago’s far north—seemed so idyllic as to be unreal. All the neat, well-maintained houses, with all their new-model Fords and Chevrolets parked on the street or in unconnected garages, formed a perfect image of New America. This is the Jazz Age dream, Midnight thought to himself.

            “I’m glad you’re doing well,” Midnight held up his drink as a toast.

            “Yeah. Not bad for a mechanic.”

            A mechanic? A light went off in Midnight’s head. “You’re an auto mechanic?”

            “Sure. I thought you knew that.”

            “What about the painting?”

            Clarence snickered. “Aw, shucks. I haven’t painted anything other than my Pierce-Arrow. Sure, I thought I could be a fancy artist type once. Must have bored you with all that talk back in the service.”

            Midnight remembered the days. Back then, Lieutenant Landsberg had been the joke of the convalescent ward. The short, squat, and toad-faced man with the heavy Chicagoland accent made all of the doughboys laugh with his declarations about art. The biggest knee-slapper had been his earnest belief that he would become a bigger name than Rembrandt.

            “A Titian body with a Picasso face,” was the common refrain. Clarence had taken it all in stride and had promised all the sneering lieutenants and captains that he would indeed make it as a successful painter. It saddened Midnight to see that the promise had not been kept.

            “I don’t miss it that much. Truth is that I was never much of a painter. Never very good. I think all that time in France got to my head. Boy, you should have seen me out and about in Paris. I was the uncrowned king of the Left Bank. I went nutso over there!” Clarence laughed at himself. The mirth had a tinge of melancholy and regret, which hurt Midnight’s heart even more. “I’m doing better than okay, though. I have a nice house in a nice neighborhood, I got a nice wife that cooks better than my mother, and right outside I have a car that’s worth more than all the bums on the South Side. And I have all of that because I’m the best mechanic on the North Side.”

            “Speaking of that,” Midnight said, “the car down there is acting kind of funny.” The special agent used his index finger to emphasize the Willys-Knight below their feet.

            “Funny how?”

            “Just keep quiet for a minute and listen.” Clarence and Midnight sat in silence until they both heard the small, soft whimpering of an injured child. Midnight looked at his friend. The wideness of Clarence’s eyes informed the special agent that he had indeed heard the sound.

            “That was a kid,” he said. Clarence bolted out of his seat raced towards the garage. Midnight followed behind at a more leisurely pace.

            “There’s…there’s nobody in here,” Clarence said with his head halfway in the Willys-Knight. “You heard it too, right?”

            “I’ve been hearing it for over twenty-four hours,” Midnight said. “It never stops. Could be something with the car?”

            “Pal, I’ve been working on cars for a lot of years, and I’ve never heard an engine, or an exhaust make that kind of noise. That sounded just like a kid being hurt.”

            “Why don’t we drive it around the neighborhood just to be sure,” Midnight said. The special agent knew that there was nothing mechanically wrong with the vehicle. The veteran of several supernatural encounters already understood that the problem was spiritual in nature. He put up the performance for Clarence’s sake.

            “The keys are in there. You can drive.” Midnight got into the passenger seat. Clarence caressed the steering wheel. He caressed the leather with love and tenderness.

            “A beautiful vehicle,” he said. “It’s a shame that you guys are getting rid of it.”

            “By orders of the governor,” Midnight added. “I have no idea why, but just like in the army, my job is not to question why.”

            “But to do or die,” Clarence finished.

            “Exactly. I’m sure Governor Small has a good reason, too.”

            Clarence smirked and raised his eyes at Midnight. “He better have a good reason. I voted for him, but I’ll learn to regret it if it comes out that he’s a wanton destroyer of fine machines.”

            The two men shared a hearty laugh as Clarence eased the car out into the tranquil night. The dark blue Willys-Knight glided easily through the narrow streets. Clarence remarked again and again on the quality of the vehicle.

            “Handles like a dream,” he said. “I have half a mind to buy if off of your hands.”

            “It’s not mine to sell,” Midnight reminded his friend.

            “What a shame.”

            After ten minutes of joyriding, Clarence returned the car to the garage. He got out and handed the keys to Midnight. The mechanic then took his time in studying the car. He got down on his knees and looked underneath the running board; he lifted the hood and inspected the engine; he put his greasy thumb on all four tires.

            “There is absolutely nothing wrong with this car,” he said. However, the longer Clarence looked at the vehicle, the more his face began to gradually change. Midnight noticed that the jovial mechanic went from looking at the car with respect to gawping at it with horror.

            “I might be crazy, but I think I know why the governor wants this car dead and buried.”

            “Why’s that?”

            Clarence looked at his friend with confusion. “You don’t read the papers much, right? Probably not much of a radio man either.”

            “I work a lot. On the road most days of the week,” Midnight said defensively. “I like the radio fine enough. Prefer the shows and music to the news.”

            “Figures,” Clarence said. “You’ve been babysitting the most infamous car in the world, and you’ve been in the dark the entire time.”

            Midnight asked for clarification.

            “Those two college boys,” Clarence stammered while pointing at the Willys-Knight. “They used a car just like this to pick up little Bobby Franks and murder him. Used a chisel to crack his skull. You gotta know. Leopold and Loeb. Well-heeled Jewish boys from Kenwood who thought that they were supermen above the law. The ones that Darrow saved from the chair. The trial only ended four months ago.”

            Realization dawned on Midnight. He had heard about the case. Two teenagers with genius-level IQs who had kidnapped and murdered a family member merely to prove that they were smart enough to commit the perfect crime. One of the articles that Midnight had read indicated more salacious rumors, such as other crimes and a rumored love affair between the two. He looked at the Willys-Knight with new eyes.

            “That would explain the cries.”

            Clarence grabbed Midnight by the shoulder. “This car is haunted?! Did you know that already? You playing dumb?”

            “I had no idea about the car’s past,” Midnight said. This was true. What he said next was a lie: “I just now thought of ghosts.” 

            Clarence shook the special agent. “This car ain’t spending another minute on my property. You take it somewhere and get rid of it. Once you do that, then you can come back here and help me finish off the hooch.”

            Midnight looked into his friend’s eyes and saw the fear. He reassured his friend that he would destroy the car.

            “How far is Wisconsin?”

***

            Midnight arrived back at the Landsberg home well after noon. Haggard and dehydrated, the special agent did not have enough energy to climb the stairs to the apartment. Instead of Clarence, he was greeted by two men standing around a large Ford truck. The company name on their uniforms indicated that they were the wrecking crew.

            “Go home and tell your boss that the job is done,” Midnight said through gritted teeth. “Make up whatever story you have to in order to get paid, but the job is done. We took care of it.”

            The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

            “Okay, boss. Just sign here.” Midnight lazily scribbled his name on an order form and watched the Ford drove away to the west. Once the truck was out of sight, Midnight slumped down on the steps and closed his eyes. Given the time of day, he expected Clarence to be at work. As such, the special agent slipped off into much-needed slumber without fear of being bothered.

            He was only asleep for five minutes before he felt a swift kick in his ribs.

            “Get up, lazy cur.” Midnight, even in his groggiest state, recognized the voice of Reverend Blackstone.

            “The Lord made ye for work, not rest. ‘Tis not Sunday yet.”

            For the first time since his possession, Midnight looked at the ancestral shade with hatred. All night long the Puritan had insisted on burying the accursed car in a bog, for that was “old country way” of dealing with unclean objects.  As a result, Midnight had been forced to drive deep into Wisconsin. Blackstone did not tell him to stop until they reached an isolated spot near a certain Bray Road, where a large pond was deemed suitable enough for the car’s entombment. It had taken hours for the Willys-Knight to submerge out of sight. Because of this, and because of the Puritan’s haughty, self-righteous manner, Midnight had had enough.

            “Shut the hell up,” Midnight said with finality. The special agent put his jacket over his head and went back to sleep.