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 13: Red Rivers
The marshal’s office reflected the man: neat, clean and efficient, like a well-maintained weapon. Files and paperwork on the oak desk top were arranged in orderly fashion, like soldiers on the parade ground. Two brass telephones sparkled in sunlight filtering in through half-shaded windows.
Some items caught Max’s attention. A framed, signed photograph of President Roosevelt was displayed prominently on the marshal’s desk. On the wall to Max’s right hung a calendar with the portrait of a gorgeous red-head in a low cut gown, holding a glass of Coca-Cola in her delicate white hand. The calendar was situated next to a gun rack containing two new Model 1907 Winchesters.
Max commented on the guns: “I see you have the new Winchester semi-automatics. They’ll get off ten rounds as fast as you can squeeze the trigger, and they’ve got detachable box magazines for a quick reload. I guess they’ll outshoot just about anything short of a Maxim gun, if they don’t jam, that is.”
“My weapons don’t jam, Mr. Rogers.” The cold eyes studied Max from the opposite side of the desk. “You take an awfully keen interest in weapons, for a real estate broker,” the marshal added.
“I fancy myself something of a sportsman, Marshal.”
“I think it’s time you told me who you are and why you’re here.” Rivers leaned forward, folded his hands and narrowed his eyes.
Max always felt uncomfortable on the “wrong side” of the desk, answering questions rather than asking them. But he had already made up his mind about Rivers. He was the law in Santa Teresa, and Max guessed the marshal knew more than he was letting on. At any rate, the marshal had the advantage in his office, just as he had had at Doyle’s rigged poker table. Max figured his best option was to come clean, and gamble that Rivers was a man he could work with.
“My name is Max Niemand, formerly Detective Lieutenant Niemand of the Chicago police, now a private investigator. I’m here on a case... two cases actually. One involves a murder in Los Angeles. Do you know Lieutenant Hamlin?”
“Sure, I know Buck. We go way back.” Rivers grinned, leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets.
“Could it be your old friend Buck already told you who I am and why I’m here?”
“That’s right, Mr. Niemand. But I wanted to hear it from you.”
“I’d be pleased if you’d call me Max.”
“Chicago Max?” The grin widened.
“Just Max will do.”
“All right, Max. But what gives with the two monikers, Chicago Max and The Hawk?”
“Think of it this way, Marshal. Chicago Max and The Hawk are like two sides of the same coin. Chicago Max is a bit tarnished; The Hawk side is shiny and spotless. But it’s still one coin.”
“Sounds like dime novel stuff to me.” Rivers sat up straight and placed his hands on the desk.
“I suppose so. Sort of like the stuff Bat Masterson’s been writing about you, Earp and the others, including of course himself.”
“You can’t believe all the horseshit you read in the newspapers or the dime novels.”
“Horseshit or not, you have a reputation for being tough but fair. I do believe we can work together for our mutual benefit.”
“Maybe.” The marshal opened a desk drawer and brought out a bottle and two glasses. Then he opened another drawer and pulled out a star. “I’ll put it to you straight. I’m the law hereabouts, and I mean the whole damn county. The sheriff and his boys don’t take a dump without my permission. You follow?”
“Yes, Marshal.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to give you a choice, Max. You take this here badge, I’ll deputize you and we’ll seal the deal with a drink. Then you can stay undercover, but you’ll report to me as long as you’re in Santa Teresa county. If you don’t take up the badge, my deputy will escort you back to your hotel and watch while you pack your bags.
“Your next stop will be the depot, where you’ll be put on the first train headed north or south. Then, if you so much as set foot across the county line you’ll be locked up for disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, trespass, carrying a concealed firearm and any other charges I can think up. And, son” — Rivers added with a sharp edge to his voice to go along with his gunslinger stare — “in my jail, we’re very informal about things like habeas corpus.”
“All right, Marshal, I’ll take the badge but with one condition.”
“I’m not used to agreeing to conditions, son, but go ahead.”
“I’ll report to you as required and when necessary, but I’ll continue to work the case my way. In other words, I’ll take a dump when I need to, with or without your permission.” Max waited for the marshal’s reply.
The marshal nodded his agreement. He picked up the star and handed it to Max. Then he got up from his chair and Max did the same.
“Raise your right hand, Mr. Niemand. You, Max Niemand, do solemnly swear...”
* * *
Following the swearing-in ceremony, handshake, and ritual shot of rye, Max and the marshal discussed the Burgess case and Phantom Point. They talked about oil exploration, disputed rights, suspects and motives: John Merwin and his brother’s widow, Eugenia; Lawyer Williams and Virginia Moore. In addition, the marshal indicated Gil Doyle could be interested in the oil bonanza, and there was trouble brewing between Doyle and his right hand man, Duke Placco. A fight for leadership of the gang seemed imminent.
Max mentioned the map that could clear title to the oil rights as a motive for murder, but he didn’t reveal its present location. As for suspects, all those with an apparent motive — possession of the map — had neither the means nor opportunity to kill Burgess without the aid of an accomplice. Hamlin was following leads related to the stolen automobile. As for Max’s brief involvement with Burgess, he told Rivers the same story he had told the Los Angeles police.
The first shot of rye led to a second and a third, and it wasn’t long before they got off the Burgess case and started trading war stories, about Dodge City, Tombstone, and Chicago. In the course of that conversation, each man viewed the other as either a younger or older version of himself, much like gazing into a mirror that doubled as a time machine. A knock on the door interrupted.
Marshal Rivers growled an acknowledgement. The deputy who had escorted Max to the marshal’s office entered the room. “Sorry to bother you, Marshal,” the deputy said, “but you wanted me to remind you about your afternoon appointment.”
“Afternoon appointment?” the marshal said with a confused look on his face. Then: “Oh, yes, I forgot.” Rivers got up and walked around his desk. He introduced the deputy to Max. “Riley, shake hands with Max Niemand, a private investigator from Chicago. He’s going to be working with us for a while, undercover. Outside this office, he’s Matt Rogers, real estate broker. He reports directly to me, and if he asks for your help, you give it. Understood?”
The unsmiling Riley said, “Understood, Marshal,” and then turned and shook hands with Max.
“Pleased to meet you, Deputy,” Max said. “Do you always go by Riley?”
Riley glanced at the Marshal, but said nothing.
“His first name’s Aloysius,” Rivers said with a sly grin.
“Well then, I guess you won’t mind my calling you Riley?” Max said to the deputy.
“Right,” Riley replied.
“Max, I’m sure you have other business to attend to. But remember to keep me informed. Now, Riley will drive you back to your hotel.”
“Thanks, Marshal,” Max said. He followed Riley out to the street where the deputy parked his red Oldsmobile runabout. They returned to the hotel at a cautious ten miles per hour. On the way, Max tried a few friendly remarks, to which he received one- and two-word replies. As they neared the hotel entrance, Max made a futile attempt at eliciting some useful information. “Say, Riley, would you mind telling me what was so important about the Marshal’s afternoon appointment?”
“Yep, I would mind.” Riley pulled over to the curb and set the handbrake. Then he turned to Max and gazed at him coldly through his driver’s goggles. “See you around, Mr. Rogers.”
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
