Phantom Point

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Chicago, July 1907

Max Niemand was on the road to recovery from a twenty-four hour spree. Following the successful conclusion of a lucrative case, Max celebrated with his pals at Otto’s tavern. Afterwards, he contacted Peg Rooney, a Follies chorine, for a bout of horizontal refreshment. These festivities coincided with a record-breaking heatwave.

Chicago sweltered like the boiler room of a ship in the tropics. Like many Chicagoans who enjoyed indoor plumbing, Max Niemand sought relief in a cold tub. This was an improvement over his childhood and youth in the old neighborhood. As kids, Max and his pals opened hydrants, which got them in Dutch with the cops, or took dips in the polluted river, which put them at risk for typhoid and cholera.

A damp cloth covered his aching head; he reached over the side of the bathtub and grabbed a bottle of beer from an ice bucket. He pulled the cork and took a swallow. The cold lager revived him. Max rolled the sweaty brown bottle over his flushed cheeks. An electric fan on a stool behind the tub stirred a little air current, rippling the surface of the bathwater.

The telephone rang. Max ignored the phone; he sucked down the remainder of his beer and reached into the bucket for another. The bell kept ringing. He shook his head in exasperation and got up out of the tub. He grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall, wrapped it around his dripping body, exited the bathroom and walked to the living room phone.

“Niemand here,” he growled into the mouthpiece.

“I’m Jasper Morton, Mr. Niemand; personal secretary to Mr. Hugo van Dorn.”

Max was impressed, not by the voice squeaking through the earpiece, but by the name of the voice’s boss. Van Dorn was a wealthy grain merchant with clout; grain elevators displayed the name throughout the Midwest. But Max played it cool; he didn’t want to seem overly eager for the wheat mogul’s business. “It’s Sunday, Mr. Morton. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Niemand. This is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

It’s always a three-alarm fire with these big shots. “All right, Mr. Morton. How can I help?”

“I... I’m afraid it’s not something we can discuss over the telephone. I’ll send a car for you. Can you be ready in half an hour?”

Hell, no, he thought. But Van Dorn had the jack to make it worth his while. Max would not pass up the chance of a big fee. “Very well, Mr. Morton. I’ll be waiting.”

He hung up and set the phone back on the table. “Shit,” he muttered, “this one had better pay big.” Then he remembered something: Peg Rooney. Is she still here? He wondered.

Max entered the bedroom and walked softly to the bed. Peg was sleeping naked, sprawled face down on the sheets. Her shoes, stockings, underwear and dress were scattered about the room. The bedroom reeked of her perfume. Sunlight streamed through the half-shaded windows, making her moist flesh glow. Her unpinned blonde hair flowed down over her shoulders and smooth, white back. Like a wheat field in the sun. Van Dorn’s wheat. The metaphor involving the millionaire’s agricultural commodity brought him back to earth. Max reached out and smacked her behind.

Peg woke with a start, rubbed her reddened backside, and glared at him. “What’s the big idea, slapping my ass like that?”

Max grinned. “Sorry, baby. Time to grab your duds, get dressed and blow. Daddy’s going to work.”

* * *

A breeze rushed inland from the lake, rustling the lush branches of shady elms and ash trees lining the avenue. The onshore flow cooled the mansions of Chicago’s elite. This is better than a cold beer, Max thought as the Packard runabout whirled up Lake Shore Drive at twenty miles per hour. He grabbed the brim of his straw boater to keep it from flying away; his new seersucker suit ruffled in the wind.

Just north of Elm Street, the chauffeur slowed to a walk, made a sharp left turn and halted at a wrought iron gate. The driver honked his bulb horn; an attendant swung open the gate. The Packard rumbled up the driveway past a roundabout containing a celadon sundial surrounded by well-tended flowerbeds.

The car stopped beneath a portico. Max stepped down from the running board, turned and smiled at the driver. “Thanks for the swell ride, pal,” he shouted over the idling engine.

The chauffer nodded and touched the peak of his cap.

Max gave the crenellated, gray limestone fortress the once-over. Right out of Sir Walter Scott, he thought. He walked up to the massive oak door and rang the bell.

The door opened. A pasty-faced butler tricked out in a morning coat, greeted Max: “Mr. Niemand?”

“That’s right, bub.”

“Follow me, sir. You’re expected.”

Max followed the butler down a corridor lined with suits of armor, trophy display cases and antique furniture. Crossed swords, shields, banners and paintings of medieval jousts and battles decorated the alabaster walls. Max craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the vaulted ceiling. The electrified chandeliers filled the hall with golden light.

Like Rotherwood, but with all the modern conveniences, Max thought. Ivanhoe never had it so good.

The butler stopped by a pair of sliding doors. He opened the doors and gestured for Max to enter. “Please wait here, Mr. Niemand. The mistress will be with you presently.”

“The mistress? Who would that be?”

“Miss Cassandra; Mr. Van Dorn’s daughter.” The butler gave Max a look like a dead mackerel on ice.

“Miss Cassandra, huh. OK, pal.”

The butler nodded curtly, turned, passed out into the hall and closed the doors behind him.

Max killed time by giving the room a look-see. The place seemed more like a museum gallery than a sitting room, which is what Max assumed it was. If he had been mathematically inclined he might have circumambulated the perimeter and calculated the square footage, comparing it to that of his three-room walk-up. But arithmetic was not one of Max’s strong points. He just figured that all the apartments in his building stacked end-to-end could fit into this opulent cavern, with room leftover.

A skylight was set in the plane of a coffered ceiling. Natural light streamed down, filtered through the stained glass panes, illuminating numerous gilt-framed paintings that decorated the mahogany paneled walls. The soft diffused light gave a magical quality to the place, like Aladdin’s cave. Overstuffed chairs, love seats and sofas upholstered in rich brocades were arranged over a broad expanse of parquetry partially covered by colorful oriental rugs.

Max spotted a tiger skin on the floor next to a Federal period escritoire. He walked over and gazed down at the dead predator’s inquisitive glass eyes. The sound of a woman’s heels clicking on parquet interrupted Max’s confrontation with the tiger.

Max turned his attention to a tall, slender young woman dressed to perfection in a white embroidered mixed lace tea dress. She looked like she had stepped out of a fashion plate with a caption: Here’s what the smart young ladies are wearing to their lawn parties this season.

The young woman approached Max assertively with a bold stride. She thrust out a tapered hand in greeting. “Do you like our tiger, Mr. Niemand? My father bagged him on a trip to India.” Her tastefully rouged lips parted in a sly smile; her brown eyes squinted with strabismus. However, her slightly misaligned left eye did not mar her natural attractiveness; rather, it added mystery to her otherwise regular features.

Max wondered where Jasper Morton was hiding, but decided not to ask. Instead he answered her question. “Yes, I do like it. There’s something about those glassy eyes that grabs you. I’ve bagged many things, mostly human, but I can’t claim a tiger. Anyways, there’s much to admire here besides a big dead cat. It’s like having your own private Art Institute.” Max shook the proffered hand. It seemed unusually cool, soft yet strong.

“Are you interested in art, Mr. Niemand?” She gripped his hand firmly, as though she were testing his strength.

Max noticed the added pressure; he was tempted to give her a bone-crusher. Instead, he tactfully let go of her hand. He pointed to two portraits, each placed on opposite sides of a hunting-themed Gobelins tapestry hung between two Corinthian columns. “Those portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Van Dorn are by Sargent, aren’t they?”

“Yes, both by Sargent.” She raised a luxuriant eyebrow at his mention of the fashionable portrait artist. “They were painted a few years ago, shortly before my mother passed away. But I presume you would know that from reading the society columns.”

“Perhaps, Miss. The society pages are of some interest in my profession. Frankly, I prefer the sports page and the funnies. But I do know a Sargent when I see one. He’s one of our greatest American artists; the finest society portraitist since Van Dyck.”

The young woman gave a light laugh. “Your knowledge of the fine arts is surprising, Mr. Niemand. Or do you prefer being called The Hawk, or Chicago Max? I understand those are your monikers.”

Max shook his head and grinned. “’Monikers’? You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Miss. It’s true I’ve been called those names, and plenty others I won’t mention. But I prefer Max.”

“I see. Well, I prefer Miss Van Dorn, Mr. Niemand.” Her crazy eye twitched on the “prefer.”

“That’s jake with me, Miss Van Dorn. Now, I’ll admit I was expecting to meet with your father. At least that was what I assumed when Morton telephoned and asked me to come out here.”

“Do you object to working for a woman?” The eyes narrowed and the smile faded.

“Not at all. I just don’t want there to be any confusion about who I am working for. No conflicts of interest, you understand.”

“That’s scrupulous of you.”

“Not so scrupulous. Just good practice and common sense.”

The wry smile returned. “Very well. I’m afraid my father’s too ill to deal with this matter. You’ll be working for me.”

“That’s if I take the case. Shall we start talking business?”

She nodded her agreement. “We needn’t do it standing.” She turned and walked toward a couple of chairs near the escritoire. Max noticed how she moved, like a cat that’d been trained to walk with a little book balanced on its head. He also noticed that she put a wiggle in her feline walk, which made the delicate material covering her hips swish seductively.

Miss Van Dorn sat in a comfortable armchair and Max took the love seat opposite her. She asked if he would like some refreshment or a smoke. He declined. She reached for a case on the escritoire and withdrew a cigarette. Max got up and gave her a light. She steadied his hand with the same cool, soft but firm grip. He returned to his seat, watched her take a deep drag, exhale and pick a strand of tobacco from her lower lip. He glimpsed a row of even, white teeth.

“Mr. Niemand,” she said after she set her smoke in a tray next to the cigarette case, “I’m offering you a job that could pay up to five thousand dollars, but no less than twenty-five hundred. It will require travel, a good deal of discretion, and it’s not without danger. It’s a job for the best in your profession. I’m offering it to you because you’ve come highly recommended. Are you interested?”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder