As Jimbo looked out on the view of Anderburg City, at the Dollar Dock, past the massive bronzed statue of the Anderburg Strongman, he noticed the plane fly past Phineas Brown Airport, the gas-guzzling cars in red, white and blue swiftly chasing each other. Then, the red phone rang. “Hello, this is Jimbo Johns, of the Interestigators. Who is this?” he asked.
“It is Mr. Dreadstone!” said the thick Liverpool accent on the other side of the phone.
“Oh, Mr. C,” said Jimbo, “what do you want us for?”
“Oh, James, I want you to go to Romania. There’s a castle in Transylvania that’s been turned into a cheap motel. However, several guests have gone missing. Two American hikers, a Chris Ridley and a Joan Howley were out there, and vanished. They say it is all connected to Count Dracula. Where’s Dick?”
Dick was on holiday in Ireland, on the farm of his friend Grady O’Flynn. “The O’Flynns certainly know their way around a good soup!” Dick told the red-haired boy, as they rode on horseback.
“Yes, we are coming up to the ‘Molly Barn’.” Grady pointed out.
“Why is it called that?” asked Dick.
“You English must know about the legend of the Banshee. It is a famous Irish legend.”
“Yes, of course, the howling lady ghost!” Dick commented, as he tugged his tartan jacket.
“Well, we call her Molly. People have seen her in the shed. Even the old lady who lives on the edge of Ballin Farm saw it before it took her! Mrs. Killigan, she said it could be seen from Aberdeen!”
“Again, it is only a myth!” cried Dick. “There is no sign that it exists. It could be your Uncle!”
“No! Look!” cried Grady, as he got off his horse and ran into the shed, pointing at a glow. A fat, red-bearded man in tweed came in, swelling up with hatred, his knitted sweater bursting due to weight.
“Boy, Ballin Farm is mine, after your father died!” he snorted, like a fierce, mad warthog.
“This is my Uncle Francis. He’s my father’s older brother.” Grady explained, looking scared.
Dick told Uncle Francis, “According to local reports, Grady’s father, Patrick O’Flynn died at the time the reports of the banshee came to surface.”
“It shows he was killed by the banshee. I saw it with my own eyes, I tell you!” Uncle Francis said.
“No, it proves you dressed up a scarecrow as a banshee and fooled the locals into thinking that you had not killed him but the banshee had! You wanted to build your theme park on Ballin Farm” Dick told him, as the Gardaí (police) came in. The tall, slim Garda Sergeant looked at Francis.
“It would have been a mighty great one, Leprechaun Land!” screamed Francis.
“Thank you, Dick and Grady, you especially, and your granny will be chuffed!” cried the Garda Sergeant, as Uncle Francis was dragged away into the van.
“I must be going!” Dick said, outside the village pub, waiting for the Garda Sergeant, a while later.
“Well, you were welcome here.” Grady said, as the Scotland Yard Helicopter arrived to collect Dick.
Dick entered the helicopter, and saw a familiar sight, a flaming red-haired, bespectacled woman, aged about sixty in a tartan headscarf, his Aunt Elsie! “Boy,” she said, “hurry up, we have to get back to Biltmore Grange.
“Right, Aunt Elsie, but is there anything from a Carlton Dreadstone?” asked Dick.
“Oh, no, it’ll all be back at the Grange! I actually have to get back to Simpson Street. I am doing a big tea party. We all love tea in London!”
“I know!” cried Dick. “I’m more of a ginger ale man, ale not beer, because there is no good thing about alcohol. Tea on the other hand, tea is the thriving business of the Thames-side area.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Elsie. The helicopter landed at the massive redbrick stately home of Biltmore Grange, filled with policemen, as it was the British Police base outside of London.
It was here that a police officer called Dick. “A telegram has been issued by Ramsey, sorry Mr. Dreadstone. You have been ordered to meet up with your friend, Jimbo. A Count Von Stormm is terrorising the British owner, Barrymore of the cheesy Dracula’s Castle Hotel. He apparently needs blood.”
“Right!” cried Dick, as he was transported by another helicopter.
“Von Stormm was a Nazi, and he was put in deep freeze.” Jimbo realised, as he arrived at the cheesy, neon-bat-adorned hotel, the name in big red letters dripping in paint like blood. He had been told by a local peasant that “Von Stormm rules us.”
As Jimbo entered the hotel, the elderly, monocle, moustachioed Barrymore told Jimbo, “Yes, I fought him in the war. Don’t know how he got out! My wife, she’s local tells us he is doom!”
“He is the Devil incarnate!” screamed Mrs. Barrymore.
“It’s the only English she knows!” apologised Barrymore with a sad look on his aging face.
An American man came in, looking tired. He was tall, with grey hair. He was about sixty. He handed in a card, reading “Harry Boyce, journalist.” “My voice is going a bit. I have a throat infection.” He explained.
Suddenly, Dick came in. “Hi, Jimbo!”
“What is it, Jimbo?”
“Nothing much, this is Barrymore. He owns the hotel. He is English.”
“Yes, I am a former Brit. I can’t believe what an ex-Nazi is doing to my home” bemoaned Barrymore, “I am pained.”
“Oh, I know. That man, that must be a bite, is it not a vampire’s bite? My aunt tells me that the proper lust for a vampire is the blood of a werewolf, but it weakens them, making the vampire easier to stake. I suppose there are not many werewolves.” Dick realised.
Barrymore held up a newspaper. "Fleet Street werewolf! It's been snacking on spinsters."
Jimbo told Dick, "You should go over there. Simpson Street nears Fleet Street. We could catch the werewolf, well you could."
"I am worried about Elsie," said Jimbo, as he ran off, pained to the airport, "I want a quick one-way ticket to Heathrow please." He got the ticket. In the redbrick terraces of Simpson Street, red buses passed red phone boxes and red postboxes. It was a land of red. Elsie was drinking tea. Tea was being dropped off the Thames and being driven to the Simpson Street Tea Refinery.
As Dick arrived, Elsie hugged him. "I know. You're on a werewolf hunt, aren't you? I've all my silver ready, in case you need it. Do you want tea?"
"No, I prefer coffeee." Dick added.
"Luckily I have some, but I have never seen the appeal of it."
"Who should I call to help? Is Father alright?"
"Dicky, your dad is in Wales. I'll call Inspector LeStrade. He's a mumbler with a moustache, but he'll do his best and his worst!"
LeStrade was rung up, and arrived. "Now, where's this wolf?" he rumbled in a Yorkshire accent. "I am not happy. Anyway, it is all publicity for the papers. I'm going out to ring the Crescent, the London Times, all of them!"
"No!" cried Dick, as LeStrade entered a phone box, only to feel something behind him.
"Is that your fur coat, Elsie?" cried LeStrade, only to be attacked by a fierce two-legged, long-armed, bony but tall werewolf, its jaw screaming.
Elsie ran out in her nightdress with a gun, and realised, as the wolf chased a bus, "Red's a trigger for his attacks. We have to paint the house grey." Soon, they did paint it, and once they fired the silver bullet, Dick noticed something.
"It is a dog, a normal dog mutated!" exclaimed Dick. "I have to go."
"Oh, don't, oh, yes, here's a bag for the wolf!" cried Elsie, bringing out a large bag. Soon, he returned to Romania.
"Oh, here he is!" cried Jimbo, as Dick returned.
Dick took out the wolf remains, drained the blood, put it in a bottle and gave it to Barrymore. "We have to lure him."
"I am here!" cried Boyce, removing his wig to reveal he was in fact the disguised Von Stormm. "People hate me, so disguising myself is better. I all want to suck you, though I can't turn into a vampire, as I do need it to live, because of the Nazi experiments.
"Here!" cried Jimbo, throwing blood on the floor for Von Stormm to slip on, and he fell, Barrymore throwing the stake in.
"That was jolly!" cried Barrymore. "Thank you, boys!"
"It was welcome!" said both boys. They walked off, off to solve more mysteries. The end.