Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 2: Los Angeles
part 2
A low marine layer covered the moon like a thick cotton quilt. Max hid within the darkness of an arched warehouse entrance across the street from the bridge. Bright electric lamps lit the area around First Street, but Max’s hidey-hole, set back a few feet from the sidewalk, remained in the shadows. From this vantage point, he watched and waited until a horse-drawn hack coming from the west side of the river rumbled across the roadway and came to a halt about eighty feet from the stakeout.
Burgess stepped down from the carriage, reached into his pocket and paid the driver. The hack pulled away and continued east toward Boyle Heights. Burgess turned toward Max’s hiding place. Max lit a match; Burgess touched his hat brim, indicating that he recognized the pre-arranged signal. Then he turned around and kept his eyes on the opposite end of the bridge. Max snuffed out the match and dropped it on the concrete step.
A few minutes later, two points of light appeared on the west side of the bridge. The points grew larger and brighter; Max heard the growl of a powerful automobile engine, the whine of its gears and the screech of its brakes as it approached and then pulled over to the curb next to Burgess. A medium-sized, slender figure in a motorist’s outfit-gray duster, flat cap pulled down low, goggles and leather gloves-stepped down onto the running board of the idling car. They exchanged words, and soon the conversation heated up. Max smelled trouble. He reached into his coat and pulled out his revolver.
Burgess shouted, “No deal!” The driver drew a gun. Burgess went for his Colt. A shot rang out. Max saw Burgess reel and collapse on the pavement. Max sprinted across the street. The driver jumped behind the wheel, released the brake and put the car in gear. Tires screeched, the engine roared, the car leaped forward. Max fired and knocked out one of the headlamps as the automobile bore down on him.
Max sidestepped and jumped onto the running board as the car sped by. The auto swerved, ran up onto the sidewalk, and back out into the street with tires squealing as Max grappled with the driver. Max grabbed hold of the steering wheel. The driver aimed a blow at Max’s head with a wrench. Max ducked; the wrench grazed his forehead. Stunned for an instant, Max lost his footing. He fell from the running board and rolled over into the gutter as the car raced up the street.
Max got up slowly. He rubbed his aching head and bruised legs. He glanced up First Street just in time to see the car disappear around a corner. He limped back toward the bridge where Burgess lay bleeding out on the sidewalk. Max kneeled down by the fallen detective’s side.
Blood gurgled in Burgess’s throat and foamed on his lips. He groaned faintly and held out his hand. “Max... the baggage check... take it.”
Max took the bloodied ticket and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Don’t talk, Art. I’ll get a cop; he’ll call for an ambulance.”
Burgess winced and coughed up more blood. “No... I’m finished. Get... map. My client... Santa Teresa... take there.”
“Your client in Santa Teresa? What’s the client’s name?” Max lowered his ear to the dying man’s lips.
Burgess’s eyes glazed and he sighed... a death rattle. His head rolled to one side.
“Drop the gun, Mister! Get up slow with your hands out where I can see ’em. No funny stuff or I’ll plug you.”
The patrolman retrieved the dropped weapon from the sidewalk while cautiously keeping his eye and revolver trained on Max. Then he put on the bracelets and marched Max across the bridge in the direction of a police call box.
* * *
“You’re a lucky guy, Niemand.”
“How do you figure that, Lieutenant?”
“You’re alive and in one piece, and you’re cleared as a suspect in the Burgess homicide.”
Lieutenant Buck Hamlin’s cubbyhole resembled the office Max had occupied when he was a Detective Lieutenant in Chicago: the same gray paint flaking on plaster walls; the same lingering odor of tobacco smoke, strong coffee and sweat interfused with the scent of ammonia and vinegar from a recent cleaning.
From the outer office came the muffled sound of witnesses and detectives taking down their statements, the clacking typewriters and ringing telephones.
Max had stood up to a grilling by Hamlin and his sidekick, Sergeant Denny Burke. The interrogation would have been longer, and much rougher, but for facts that started rolling in to corroborate Max’s story.
A night watchman at the warehouse heard the first shot. He ran to a third floor window and saw Burgess drop to the sidewalk with the driver standing over him on the car’s running board, smoking gun in hand. Then he saw the driver get behind the wheel, put the car in gear and aim it at Max. Finally, he saw Max running toward the car, shooting out the headlamp, sidestepping and jumping onto the running board.
The witness’s description of the car and the incident were consistent with Max’s statement to the detectives. Neither Max nor the night watchman had gotten a good look at the driver: he was slender, medium height and clean-shaven, that was it.
There was a knock on the door. Burke, a strapping Irishman whose muscular bulk equaled Max’s six-foot, two-hundred pound frame, entered with coffee and sandwiches. The sergeant handed a ham and cheese on rye wrapped in wax paper, and a cup of black coffee, to Max. “Guess you could use this, huh?”
“Sure can. Thanks.”
Lieutenant Hamlin cleared some room on his cluttered desk before taking his proffered sandwich and coffee mug. Burke sat next to Max across the desk from the lieutenant. The sergeant swallowed some coffee before saying, “More news on the Burgess case, Lieutenant.”
“What have you got, Denny?” Hamlin looked up from his steaming coffee mug.
“The autopsy and ballistics confirm that Burgess was shot with a .32. Niemand’s revolver is a .38, fired once.”
“More good news for you, Niemand, but it just adds to what we already knew from the night watchman. Unless there was someone else out there with a .32, the unidentified driver shot Burgess.” Hamlin put down his coffee and waited for Max to reply.
“I assume you guys are checking on the car? It might be stolen,” Max said.
“You bet, pal,” Burke said. “One of our detectives is going through the stolen vehicle reports.”
“We know our job, Niemand,” said Hamlin between sips of hot coffee. “What we’d like to know is what you and Burgess were up to last night.”
Max finished chewing and swallowing a bite of his sandwich before saying, “I already told you all I can, Lieutenant.”
“I know; confidentiality. Tell us again.” Hamlin set down his coffee, began rolling a cigarette and waited for an answer.
“Can I smoke?” Max asked.
“Sure,” Hamlin said. He held out his tobacco pouch and cigarette papers. “You wanna roll one?”
“No, thanks. I prefer cigars, but mine are currently in the custody of your property clerk.”
“Guess you’ll have to do without cigars until you’re released.” Hamlin finished rolling his smoke, put it in his mouth and lit up.
Max frowned but remained silent.
Hamlin waited a while before saying, “So, tell us again what was going on with you, Burgess, and the guy in the car.”
Max wanted to tell Hamlin where he could stick the cigars, but thought better of it. He kept it short and simple; the same story he had told since he was hauled up by the patrolman. He was in Los Angeles in transit to Santa Teresa, working on a case for an out-of-town client. He stopped to see Burgess because he thought the detective could fill him in on the locale. Burgess said he might have some useful information for Max, but he wanted a favor, first. So Max agreed to provide added protection for Burgess, favor for favor. The rest was history.
Hamlin exhaled a plume of gray smoke. “We know your reputation. You’re supposed to be one of the best in your racket. But I guess you didn’t do old Art Burgess much good.”
“No, I guess I didn’t. But at least you’ve got me as witness to his murder.”
“Did you know Art was an ex-cop?” Hamlin asked.
“No, he didn’t tell me,” Max answered without any show of surprise.
“He was a fifteen-year veteran from this precinct,” said Hamlin. “A damn good man until he started hitting the bottle. But he still has plenty of friends hereabouts. We want his killer, Niemand, we want him with a rope ’round his neck.”
“I want him, too, Lieutenant. It’s personal. I’ll help you as much as I can. But you got to let me do it my way.”
“Oh we do, do we? And what is your way, Mr. Hawk?” Hamlin stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward over his desk.
Max was about to reply when there was another knock on the door. A young detective entered with some papers in hand. He seemed nervous or excited, maybe both. He walked up behind Max and Burke, and said, “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but I’ve got something on the car in the Burgess case. I thought you’d want it, right away.”
“What have you got, son?” Hamlin said.
“Around ten last night the car’s owner, a Mr. Waldron of West Adams Terrace, reported a stolen vehicle, a new Thomas Flyer, dark blue with brass trim. The car matches the descriptions from Mr. Niemand and the night watchman. About an hour ago, a patrolman spotted a car in a vacant lot in Boyle Heights, a dark blue Thomas Flyer with a shattered right headlight.”
“Is the patrolman keeping his eye on it?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, he is.”
“Good work, Morris. You can leave the paperwork and go back to your regular duties.” The detective left the report on Hamlin’s desk and returned to the outer office. Hamlin turned to Burke:
“Denny, get hold of a forensic specialist and a photographer and get out to that lot in Boyle Heights. And you’ll need a team of horses for a tow if the car can’t be driven back to the station. I’ll finish up with Niemand and join you, later.”
Burke grabbed the remains of his coffee and sandwich and rushed out the door.
As soon as they were alone, Hamlin said, “I could roust you on a concealed firearms beef, but I don’t want the extra paper work. You’re free to go, but don’t go too far. You’re a key witness in this case.”
“As soon as you return my property, I’m catching the train to Santa Teresa,” Max said, “but as I recall you wanted my help. I’ll give it if you’re willing to take it.”
“Oh yeah,” Hamlin said with a sarcastic smirk, “you said you’d help if I let you do it your way. What is your way, shamus?”
“I’ve business in Santa Teresa, and I’ve reason to believe there might — I say might — be a tie-in between my job up there and your murder case. If I discover something relevant, I’ll pass it on. Is it a deal?”
Hamlin eyed Max suspiciously. He was angry about the Burgess matter, but not so angry that he wouldn’t accept Max’s offer of assistance. “How will we communicate?”
“I’m going to Santa Teresa under an alias, Matt Rogers, real estate broker. According to my cover, I’ll be scouting property for a group of Chicago investors. I have business cards under my assumed name. I’ll give you one when you return my stuff. Is there a long distance line to Santa Teresa?”
“Yeah, there’s a telephone connection.”
“Good. We can use the phones, but I don’t trust the operators. We’ll call the Burgess case the Murphy deal. If we use telegrams, it’ll be the same method of operation. We’ll need to be careful and creative about the way we discuss the matter over the wires.”
Hamlin grabbed a pencil and made notes. “Matt Rogers. Murphy deal. Careful and creative. Got it. What else?”
“As soon as I get situated I’ll phone you with my number, but I don’t want to call police headquarters. Let’s keep our communications to the minimum necessary, the fewer the better. And I don’t want you calling me from a phone that can be traced back to the cops. Give me something that won’t tip off a nosy operator.”
Hamlin added “Safe phone number and wire address” to his notes. Then he jotted down an address and phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Max. “You can contact me at this address and phone number. It’s a cigar store that belongs to one of my best informers. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Anything else?”
“Just one thing. Did Burgess have a family?”
“A wife, but they’ve been separated for years. What’s it to you?”
“I got the impression Burgess was up against it. What about the funeral arrangements? Did he have enough insurance to cover it?”
“No insurance. It lapsed when he stopped paying the premiums. Some of the guys in the precinct are raising a burial fund.”
“Good. Put me down for a C-note under ‘anonymous’.”
“A hundred bucks? That’s a hell of a lot of dough for a guy you hardly knew.” Hamlin stared in disbelief. After a pause he said, “Are you trying to ease your conscience?”
“What if I am, Lieutenant?”
Hamlin softened his tone. “All right, Niemand. You’re in for a hundred. Thanks.” He was almost sympathetic. “I guess we better get you squared away and out of here.” He came around his desk and escorted Max out of the detectives’ offices and down to the property clerk. On the way, Max figured he’d charge the hundred to the Van Dorns as a “miscellaneous” expense.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
