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 12: The Best Laid Plans
Max walked Virginia back to her boarding house. The shadow followed. If he had been alone, Max could have lost the guy or confronted him. Instead, he used this opportunity to reinforce the impression of his meeting with the young woman as nothing more than a big city dude making time with a small town gal.
Max had no trouble getting Virginia to keep up their “act.” He suspected the young woman enjoyed playing her role. They walked arm-in-arm all the way. She leaned close to him, something Max did not find unpleasant and, in the course of their stroll, she made a suggestion. Mr. Williams would be going to San Francisco for a couple of days, providing an opportunity for Max to gain access to the lawyer’s Phantom Point files.
They turned onto an avenue lined with purple-flowered jacaranda trees. The board sidewalk was slippery with fallen blossoms that stuck to the soles of their shoes. When they stopped at the gravel walkway that led to the boarding house’s front porch, Max noticed the tail ducking behind a tree trunk. These small-town mugs wouldn’t last a day on the Chicago streets, he thought.
Max and Virginia continued on to the porch. They turned to face each other at the front door. He held her hand and said, “Can you meet me at the same place tomorrow?”
“I think so, Matt. Mr. Williams will be leaving for San Francisco on the afternoon train. I’ll telephone you as soon as he leaves. Then we can meet in the park.”
“All right, but please be careful what you say over the phone. The operator may be listening.”
“I understand. Will we be watched?”
Max smiled. “Yes, and probably by that same guy who tailed us from the park. He’s hiding behind a tree up the street. Don’t worry, I’ll have a plan for dealing with him. Now, to keep up our act, I’m going to kiss you goodbye. Is that all right?”
“Yes, Matt.” She smiled, parted her lips and closed her eyes.
He kissed her, and this time he put more into it. She responded in kind.
* * *
Max knew plenty of ways to shake someone off his tail, but those dodges were designed for the big city. Most of them were difficult, if not impossible, to pull off in a town like Santa Teresa. You couldn’t get lost in a crowd where there was no crowd. Besides, Max had no particular reason to get rid of the shadow, at least not at this moment. Nevertheless, on the way back to the hotel, he amused himself by doing things calculated to annoy the guy following him.
Max returned to the Pacific by a circuitous route, as though he were taking a sight-seeing tour of the town. He walked slowly, stopping at intervals to check his watch against a jeweler’s clock, light a cigar, tie his shoe-lace, buy a newspaper. At each stop, he glanced furtively in the direction of the shadow who flinched, ducked and dodged like an amateur.
Max decided to double back through the park to confuse the guy. He kept stopping and looking around the main path, as though he had lost something. He could hear the trickling fountain near the bench where he had met Virginia; it stood just around a corner, hidden behind a tall hedge row. Max suddenly picked up the pace, darted around the corner and ducked behind a hedge. He crouched and watched as the shadow passed by and kept going down the path.
He waited a moment and then cut back through some short grass behind the hedge cover. The ground felt spongy beneath his shoes, the air had a peculiar odor: freshly turned earth and decaying flowers, like a newly dug grave. He paused in a bower surrounded by towering Eucalyptuses, the air filled with the trees’ cloying chewing-gum scent, their swaying branches casting shadows on the green lawn. Having lost the tail for the time being, he continued on to the street and returned to the hotel. * * * Max eased back in his favorite chair and relaxed with a whiskey and a cigar. A Pacific breeze ruffled the curtains, filling the room with fresh, invigorating air. He released the tension from his body, the nerves, muscles and sinews that nevertheless remained ready to spring into action when required. Max recalled a pair of illuminating tales told by his judo instructor. The first involved the famous master swordsman, Miyamoto Musashi. Having once been surprised by his enemies while bathing, Musashi avoided the comfort and hygienic benefits of the Japanese bath. The second told the story of a diminutive ninja assassin who hid beneath a warrior’s privy. When the samurai came to take a dump, the dwarf dispatched his victim with a swift sword-thrust up the anus. The lesson learned from these two stories considered in juxtaposition is simple: despite a fighter’s skills and precautions, even the strongest and most clever have their vulnerable moments. You can go through life without bathing, but no one can avoid taking a shit. And to quote his judo instructor: “Even monkeys fall out of trees.” Max knew his limitations, and he feared being placed in situations where he might literally be caught with his pants down. But we all take risks, and he hated the thought of a dull life more than he feared the dangers of an exciting one. So he enjoyed booze and tobacco, which were not the healthiest of habits, and he liked a variety of women who could harm you or help you in any number of surprising ways. And he was also acquiring a taste for fast cars, the Van Dorn’s Packard, Merwin’s Mercedes, Duke Placco’s Apperson, a luxury he hoped he could soon afford. That need for excitement along with an acquisitive urge and passion for success refocused his mind on the job at hand. Solve Burgess’s murder and the mystery of Phantom Point first, and a satisfactory resolution of the Van Dorn matter would follow. At least that’s what he hoped. He remembered Burgess’s dying words: “Get...map. My client...Santa Teresa...take there.” Max had the map, he was in Santa Teresa, and he believed he was close to discovering the identity of the client. There was a loud knock at the door. Max set down the whiskey glass and dropped his cigar in an ashtray. Maybe it’s George? He walked to the door and opened it halfway. He was surprised to see the deputy who had crossed his path in the park earlier that day. “Good-afternoon, Mr. Rogers. Marshal Rivers would like to see you.” The deputy pulled back his jacket to flash the star pinned to his vest. “I hope this is a social call?” Max put on a friendly smile. “I don’t have a warrant, if that’s what you mean. But the marshal wants to see you... now.” There was not the slightest hint of a grin beneath the deputy’s thick handlebar, and he gave a good imitation of his boss’s gunslinger stare. “All right, pal. Give me a minute to get my hat and jacket. By the way, I was just finishing a smoke and a drink. Care to join me?” “No, sir. When the marshal says now, he means now.” Max nodded. “Right.” He returned to the table near the window, stubbed out the remainder of his cigar and downed what was left of his double shot. Then he grabbed his hat and jacket from a closet and followed the deputy. As they walked through the lobby, the deputy and Max drew the attention of the desk clerk, bell captain, the house dick, George and the shadow who, after losing Max, was at least smart enough to return to the hotel.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
