Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 3: Santa Teresa
part 1
Max rode the trolley past a giant palm tree that welcomed travelers to Los Angeles. The streetcar tracks ran right up to the main entrance of the vast, wooden arch-roofed Arcade Depot.
Toting his one suitcase, Max entered the station and made a beeline for the storage area, where he buttonholed a busy clerk and handed him the bloodied ticket. The clerk adjusted his glasses, as though he were having difficulty deciphering the numbers on the red-splotched claim check.
“Sorry, pal. I had a nose bleed,” Max said.
The clerk lifted his wire-rimmed spectacles, muttered, “Uh, huh,” and scrambled back into the baggage room. After rummaging around for a minute or two, he returned with a leather valise, which he handed to Max.
Max popped open the latches and checked the contents.
“What’s wrong, mister? Think I gave you the wrong bag, or you was robbed or something?”
Satisfied from his examination that he had Burgess’s valise with the map, Max said, “It pays to double-check.”
The clerk frowned, muttered to himself and returned to sorting parcels and luggage.
Max hustled to the platform gate, where he got in line behind a young woman. He immediately noticed her tapered back, slender waist and shapely hips attractively displayed in a dark green traveling suit. Her chestnut hair, neatly arranged and pinned up beneath a broad-brimmed hat, gave off a fresh, youthful scent. He wondered what she looked like from the front. She soon satisfied his curiosity.
As if sensing Max’s eyes examining her from the rear, the young woman glanced back over her shoulder. Liking what she saw, she smiled and turned around.
The woman’s face and a glimpse of her well-rounded bosom exceeded his expectations. “Nice day for a train ride, isn’t it, miss?” Max set down his bags and tipped his hat.
“Yes, sir, it is. Are you traveling far?”
“Not far. Just up to Santa Teresa.”
“Is that so? I’m going there myself.”
Max introduced himself as Matt Rogers; the young woman said her name was Eve Sinclair. Having made each other’s acquaintance, they continued a pleasant conversation on a number of topics. Soon, the line began moving; they kept the discussion going as they passed through the gate, walked up the platform, and boarded the train.
They sat together and chatted as the train chugged its way out of the shed, into the yards, through the city and its outskirts, and on into the valleys, passes, and rolling hills of the open countryside. As they neared the Pacific shore, an invigorating ocean breeze filled the cars. The crisp, clean air and California sunshine enhanced the experience and enlivened the conversation.
Eve soon developed an interest in his business, that is to say Matt Rogers’ purported business, which did not surprise Max. In his experience, following a good first impression, women instinctively sized up a man based on his socio-economic prospects. On the other hand, men chatting up a new female acquaintance tended to think about sex first and money later.
Of course, Max had known plenty of women who used sex as the quickest way to a man’s wallet, bank account or securities. What’s more, he had worked many cases where women used their charms to lure men into crime. But he was not quite cynical enough to believe that such women were the rule rather than the exception.
Nevertheless, after what he considered too much focus on Matt Rogers’ “business,” he switched the subject to Eve: “Enough about me, Miss Sinclair. Would you mind telling me what you’ll be doing in Santa Teresa?”
“Oh, me,” she said with a sweet smile, “I’m not all that interesting.” She turned her eyes from Max to gaze out the window. “Now, will you look at that! Have you ever seen such a sunset?”
Max glanced out the window at a flaming orange disc on the horizon, streaks of crimson and gold mirrored in the silvery-blue Pacific. Perhaps this was part of the attraction of Phantom Point for the artistic Hugo Jr.? “Yes, it’s beautiful,” he said after a moment’s contemplation, but he may have been referring to Eve’s profile turned into the fading light.
She gazed back at him with a pair of inquisitive green eyes and a naturally red-lipped smile. “Are you attracted to beauty, Mr. Rogers?”
“As much as the next fellow, I guess, Miss Sinclair.”
“Why don’t you call me Eve?”
“All right, Eve. And you may call me Matt. Now that we’re on a first-name basis, why don’t you answer my question?”
“I’m sorry, Matt. What question was that?”
“What are you doing up in Santa Teresa? Or is it a dark secret?”
“No secret, dark or otherwise” she said with a light laugh. “I’m going to work for John Merwin. I suppose you’ve heard of him?”
“I have. He’s an important man, and it’s my business to know about folks like him. So what are you going to be doing for Mr. Merwin?”
“I’ve been hired as a companion for his daughter. I suppose some would call me a governess, but I don’t like that word. It’s old-fashioned and European, not fitting for a modern American girl.”
“And you’re a modern American girl?”
“I should certainly hope so.”
Max wondered just how “modern” Eve was. Modern enough to tolerate his relations with women like Peg Rooney? He doubted it, but then with some girls, you never knew.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked with a teasing smile.
“I beg your pardon?” Max answered with a perplexed frown.
“Well, you were staring at me for so long without saying something, I didn’t know what to think.”
Max grinned. “I’m sorry, Eve. I guess I don’t know much about companions or governesses. Just put it down to my ignorance.”
“Santa Teresa! Next stop, Santa Teresa.” The conductor walked through the car announcing their imminent arrival.
* * *
Max and Eve were both traveling light. A porter with a baggage cart asked if they needed help; they waved him off. Max acted like a gentleman and carried the heavier of Eve’s two suitcases.
Toting their bags among a small throng of passengers, they jostled their way up the narrow, planked platform to the depot’s front porch and street entrance where hotel coaches and express wagons lined up waiting for trade, which looked slow. The most animated individuals were a few kids across the street, playing tag. A little, yapping yellow dog scampered alongside them.
Merwin had promised Eve that he would send a car, but the only private vehicles in sight were buckboards and an old one-horse shay. Figuring they would not have long to wait, Max asked Eve if she minded him keeping her company while she waited for the car. She answered with an enthusiastic, “Yes, please do.”
Max set down the luggage on the porch, lifted his hat, and mopped some sweat from his forehead. Then he asked Eve, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead,” she replied. Then she added with a wicked gleam in her eye, “If we were alone, you could offer me one.”
Max laughed. “It’s a bit too early for us to scandalize the town. We both want to make a good impression on the locals. Besides, I smoke cigars, not cigarettes.”
“And how do you know I wouldn’t smoke a cigar, if you offered me one?”
“I don’t. Maybe someday we’ll get together in private, and you can show me how you handle a big Havana Corona.”
Eve said nothing, but she kept smiling and drew a little closer to Max as he lit his cigar and leaned forward against the verandah’s railing to enjoy his smoke.
A breeze blew in from the ocean, rustling the leaves of a fragrant eucalyptus. Shadows from its leafy branches danced over the pavement. They watched the passengers and locals; murmuring voices, an occasional laugh, sneezes and coughs, footsteps creaking on the boardwalk and clomping up the depot stairs.
One guy in a straw boater and loud checked jacket, carrying what appeared to be a sample case, aimed a brown stream of tobacco juice at a nearby shrub, knocking a sparrow off its perch. Some passersby admired the drummer’s skillful spitting while others, mostly the ladies, expressed their disgust.
A moment later, the roar of an engine and a cloud of dust announced the arrival of an automobile. John Merwin’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes seemed as out of place as a submarine gliding past a steamboat on Mark Twain’s Mississippi. The body sparkled and the red leather upholstery flashed in sunlight.
As the car pulled into the depot driveway, glimmering like a newly minted dollar in a swirling haze of gold dust, locals rubbernecked as though they had been invaded by H.G. Wells’ Martians. Max grabbed the luggage and escorted Eve to the car.
The gray-liveried chauffeur exited the driver’s seat, lifted his goggles over his cap’s peak and greeted Eve with a German accent. “Are you Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes, I’m Eve Sinclair, and you must be from The Eyrie. And this is Mr. Rogers, who’s been kind enough to help me with my luggage.”
“Of course, miss. My name is Karl. May I take your bags?”
Max handed her grip to the chauffeur, who strapped it into the space behind the seats. Then Max turned to Eve. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we meet again soon.”
“I’m sure we will. Enjoy your stay, and good luck with your business.”
Karl watched with interest, as though this budding relationship between a new Merwin employee and a stranger was something he might pass on to his boss. After Max and Eve said their good-byes, Karl handed Eve goggles and a duster; she slipped into the motoring outfit, boarded the machine, and eased back onto the warm leather seat.
By now, they had gathered such a crowd of curious onlookers that Max wondered if half of Santa Teresa had turned out for the show. Even the kids playing across the street stopped their game and, along with their yipping mutt, had come over to gawk.
Karl went about his business like a soldier guarding the Kaiser’s palace. He marched to the radiator grille and started the powerful engine with a swift half-turn of the crank. A few onlookers — perhaps those familiar with crude American cars — applauded. Karl took his place in the driver’s seat and they sped off to more cheers, applause and a couple of barking dogs chasing the exhaust. Eve turned around, smiled and waved to Max.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
