“Really? That usual?”
“More or less. Depends. Sometimes it's a religious thing, sometimes the family wants the death certificate to hurry up the probate process and get the inheritance.”
Gordon made a note to check on the family. “Let me ask you something: medically speaking, what would make a man think there are phantom cars so much so that he'd jump in front of one to prove or disprove the point?”
Elmer snapped his fingers. “I was waiting for someone to ask me that.”
“Didn't Wheeler?”
“Nope. I don't think he cares. He just wants the clearance.”
Gordon spread his hands. “Well, doctor, enlighten me.”
Elmer's smile froze in his face. He faltered slightly. “I can't. We'll, I can't yet. You see, I thought the victim might've been drunk or on some kind of medication. So I took some of his blood and sent it to a lab that'll do some tests on it. That way, we'll see if he was high as a kite or just crazy.”
“How long?”
“Days, most likely.” He shrugged sheepishly. “When's the story run?”
“Tomorrow.”
Elmer winced. “Cripes. Well, let me make a call.”
Gordon patted the smaller man on the shoulder. “Thanks, Elmer. I'll be sure to drop your name in the piece.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The spot where Victor Tompkins lost his challenge with a car was west of downtown at the intersection of Washington and Sawyer, two blocks south of the major westbound railroad. In his notebook, Gordon drew a crude map of the crime scene with Washington as the east/west street and Sawyer the north/south. In the northwest quadrant, he wrote “doctor’s office.” “Gas station” was in the northeast side while “Betsy’s Beauty Salon” filled the southeast area. For the southwest side, he wrote “Jake’s Diner.” There was a bus stop in front of the beauty shop. It was in this area that Tompkins leapt in front of the passing car.
Gordon entered the salon. A bell signaled his arrival. All the women, both the beauticians and the patrons in chairs, turned to look his way. Even the old women sitting under the hair dryers put down their magazines and looked at him.
Removing his hat, Gordon put on his million-dollar smile. “Morning, ladies. It's a fine day out, isn't it?”
“It is,” said a beautician with blond hair swept up on top of her head. She looked at him over her glasses, then back down to her client's hair. She made an extra snip. “What can we do for you?”
“My name's Gordon Gardner. I'm a reporter for the Post-Dispatch. I'm writing a story on the man who got hit by the car out in front of your store. I'd like to talk with anyone here who might've witnessed it.”
The clamor of voices that erupted all at once from everyone in the salon made Gordon jump back a step. His million-dollar smile dropped to a hundred grand as he took out his notebook. “I'm sorry, ladies, but could I have it one at a time, perhaps with some corroboration along the way?”
The blonde put her scissors down and wiped her hands. “I'll tell you exactly what happened.”
“And you are?”
“Betsy Beadilia. I'm the owner. As it happened in front of my salon, I'll be the one who speaks.”
Gordon moved to the window and gazed at the small group of people waiting for the bus. “Looks like y'all had a front row seat.”
Betsy came and stood next to him. Her perfume was light and elegant, a fragrance that matched her supple, strong hands. “You're not kidding. I have a rule in here that no one smokes. Ruins the atmosphere. I was outside taking a smoke break when I heard the crazy man.”
“Why'd you think he was crazy?”
Her look indicated she thought Gordon was crazy. “If a man starts shouting about cars vanishing into thin air and cars following people, don't you think that sounds a little crazy?” The more Betsy talked, the more her East Texas accent emerged. She managed to convert the word “air” into two syllables.
“I see your point. So, tell me, what happened?”
Betsy turned to the other women. “Y'all tell me if I get something wrong, ‘kay?” Heads bobbed up and down. The other beauticians stopped their jobs and settled in to listen.
“It was just a few days ago, Saturday it was. We were busy all day long. I had to call in Charlene on her day off to come in and do manicures. People were out and about and the bus stop was full of people. A normal Saturday, right?”
“As rain.” Gordon alternatively looked into Betsy's deep green eyes and his notebook.
“So, even though we turned on the radio and opened the windows, we still could hear this strange ranting. I stepped outside to smoke and get a look at what was going on. I walked out and Dottie Ballard came out with me. She's off today or else she would tell you the same thing. Any chance we can get her name in the paper?”
“Sure thing.” Gordon wrote Dottie's name in the notebook. “So the two of y'all are outside and Mr. Tompkins starts, what, talking about ghost cars?”
“Phantom cars,” said Betsy and a few other women, almost in unison. “He specifically used that word. He said the phantom cars disappeared into thin air only to come back and follow him.”
Gordon frowned. “This thin air thing, any clue what that was?”
“No. But he yelled loud enough to attract attention from just about everyone.”
“So he was waiting for the bus?”
“That's when I saw him, yes,” Betsy said. “And then he jumped, saying he was going to prove to everyone that the car wasn’t real.”
“And then it really hit him,” one of the other women said. “It was a dreadful sound, too. Like when my husband hit a deer while going hunting.”
Up until that point, Gordon had pretty much known most of the details. Now for something new. “What kind of car?”
“Black,” said Betsy. “Ford, Model 48, four-door. 1936 or 1937, I think.”
“Know cars, do you?” Gordon added one more thing to the ledger of Betsy's qualities. “I drive a Lincoln Zephyr myself. Best car I ever owned.”
“How many have you owned?”
“One.” He waggled his eyebrows. “What happened to the driver?”
“Got banged up. Had the ambulance come and take him to the hospital. Not sure if the police charged him or not.”
“Not that I've heard. The victim, Mr. Tompkins. Did he say anything after he was hit?”
Betsy looked away toward the spot in the street where the body had lain. She seemed to grow distant with the memory. “Not a word. Just lay there in his own blood and died.”
Gordon took his leave of the women with new insights into the death of Victor Tompkins. He stood in front of the beauty salon and gazed at the intersection. What was Tompkins doing here? He was obviously waiting for a bus, but how did he get here? Gordon figured he must have taken a cab or another bus to get to this spot.
He decided to canvass the three other businesses on the theory that the same events viewed from different angles might reveal something new. Jake’s Diner was first. They were gearing up for the lunch hour rush so the joint was hopping. Jake himself, all five-foot-nine of him, stepped out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on an already dirty towel.
“Nah, I didn't see it. I was working. Heard about it when all my customers started lookin' out the window. Even the wait staff stopped to gawk. It was a pain in the ass, too, because some little piss-ant got sick and vomited his lunch. Had to give him a damn refund.”
The front door of the doctor's office faced away from the line of sight of the accident. Only a side window gave a direct view. The shingle hanging from the door read “Dr. Kermit Kernow, Ph. D.”
No bell announced Gordon’s entry but a pleasant-looking secretary looked up from her typing. Her pleasant smile matched her pleasant clothes. “Good morning. May I help you?”
Gordon only gave her a thousand-dollar smile. He didn't want to outshine her. “Gordon Gardner, Post-Dispatch. I'm writing a story on last Saturday’s accident. Is Doctor Kernow in?” He prono
unced the word to rhyme with the word ‘low.’
“Kernow,” the secretary said. “It sounds like ‘now.’”
“Right. So, about the man who got hit? Was he a patient here?”
“I'm afraid I can't say, Mr. Gardner. Why do you ask?”
Gordon shrugged. “I’m canvassing the businesses at this corner, seeing maybe why he was here. He didn’t get his hair done at Betsy’s, he didn’t eat at Jake’s Diner, he was on foot so he didn’t need any gas. That leaves y’all.”
“Well, if he was a patient here, it would be the doctor's prerogative to reveal anything.”
“Well, that's just nice and tidy, isn't it?” Gordon put his notebook back into his pocket. “Was Mr. Tompkins scheduled for a visit that morning?”
“I couldn't say.”
“Couldn't or won't?”
“Won't.” The smile never left her lips.
“The doctor in? I'd like to speak with him.”
“He is, but he's with a client.”
Stymied, Gordon asked again. “So you can't tell me if the victim had an appointment the day he died or if he was even a patient?”
“Precisely.”
“I could infer.” He let the notion linger in the air.
“And you might be liable.” None of the joviality left her face.
“Right. Well, good day. Thank you for your time.” He turned and put his hat back on his head.
Outside, Gordon stared at the doctor’s office. He was stunned. That was the kind of business he usually dished out. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of it. Was that just an overprotective secretary or was there something here?
Gordon walked across the street to the gas station. The attendants all clustered around the reporter and corroborated most of what he already knew. Only when he glanced back across the street to Dr. Kernow's office did he notice two things.
The first was that the doctor's window faced in this direction, toward the intersection and accident site. The secretary had no way of knowing for sure whether the doctor saw anything.
The second thing he noticed was that someone was looking out the window at that very moment, staring directly at him.
CHAPTER FIVE
The address from Victor Tompkins’s driver’s license indicated he lived on the near east side of downtown off Polk Street. When Gordon pulled up in front of the house, a couple of things piqued his curiosity. One, was the house itself. It was an older house, probably forty years old. The distinctive turn-of-the-century vibe from the architecture made him wonder if Tompkins liked antiques. The second thing that surprised him more was that the house was still occupied.
Wheeler hadn’t bothered to tell Gordon about any background on Tompkins—“he’s a dead guy in the street hit by a car. It’s a shame, but there’s no case here.” As Gordon approached the front door, he legitimately wondered who was in the house.
He checked his watch and made sure he had time for this excursion. In an hour he was due to meet Bruno Clavell for their initial interview.
Peeling paint flecked off the door when Gordon rapped the old wood with his knuckles. The porch boards creaked under his weight and he didn’t think anyone should sit in the dilapidated porch swing. Try as he might, he couldn’t help forming notions of the type of man Tompkins was.
When the door opened, a woman of about forty looked out. She appeared haggard, with dark rings under her eyes. Her blouse was wrinkled and she wore a faded blue skirt. Her feet were bare. “Can I help you?”
He tipped his hat to her. “Gordon Gardner, Mrs. Tompkins, I work for the Post-Dispatch. I’m writing a story on your husband’s death.”
She chuckled dryly. “My husband’s still alive, Mr. Gardner. And I’m not Mrs. Tompkins. I’m Victor’s sister. For a reporter, you ought to get your facts straight.”
“My apologies. The good folks at the police department didn’t have a lot of information for me.”
She shrugged. “They don’t care about Vic. Did you say you’re writing a story about him?”
“I am.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Because he died in such a way that the public is curious. We’d like to set the record straight.”
“What needs straightening? He was hit by a car crossing the street.”
Gordon opened his mouth but paused a moment before speaking. “Ma’am, what did the police tell you?”
“They told me he stepped out into the street and was hit by some man driving too fast.”
“Did they mention that many eyewitnesses claimed they heard him talk about, well, they said he thought the car wasn’t real.”
The woman visibly slumped. “You’d better come inside.” She stepped back and opened the door. Gordon entered, removing his hat.
If the exterior needed painting, the interior was quite the opposite. Everything inside was neat and orderly. Doilies covered almost every horizontal surface, area rugs did the same for the hardwood floors, and the scent of jasmine filled the air. Gordon followed Victor’s sister. Why on earth would someone as young as Victor live in a house like this? He rounded a corner and found his answer.
The woman sitting in a wingback chair had to be at least eighty-five, maybe even ninety. She was thin and frail, her house dress lying limp on bony shoulders. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun that sat on the lower part of her head. The thick glasses she wore magnified her eyes so much that she looked bug-eyed. Next to her chair was a small table on which sat yet another doily, a row of medicine bottles, a magnifying glass, a folded newspaper open to the crossword puzzle, and a glass of water.
“Mr. Gardner, this is my mother, Gertrude Tompkins. My brother lived here with her and took care of her. My name’s Naomi Wilson, by the way.” She extended her hand. Gordon shook it before turning his attention to the elderly woman.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tompkins.” He knelt so she didn’t have to look up.
“What in the devil are you doing on the floor, Victor?” she asked. “Stand up.”
Gordon and Naomi exchanged a glance. Her expression was unreadable. He stood and sat in the chair opposite the elderly woman.
Naomi sat in a chair next to her mother. “Mom,”—she talked loudly and slowly—“this is a reporter from the paper.” She tapped the open crossword puzzle. “The paper. He’s here about Victor.”
“Is Victor home yet?” Gertrude asked, looking at her daughter.
“No, Mom, he’s not. Remember, he’s gone. He died.”
The old woman’s eyes opened wider, surprise creeping into them. “No, he’s not. He left on another business trip last Friday. He said he needed to head back up the road to an old prospect and try again.” She spoke with utter clarity and conviction.
Naomi frowned. “Right, Mom, but he had an accident. I told you he had an accident.”
Gertrude opened her mouth in a small o. “No, that nice man told me about Victor.”
Gordon pulled out his notebook. “What man?”
“The nice man with the suit. I’m not sure who he was. He told me he was a friend of Victor’s. I hadn’t seen him before Saturday.”
Again, Gordon and Naomi exchanged looks. “Are you sure it was Saturday, Mom?”
“Oh yes. I was listening to Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy on the radio when he arrived.” She turned and patted the large radio next to her chair. “It took me a while to get to the door, but he was there when I opened it.”
“And you had never seen him before?” Gordon said.
“No, I hadn’t. Victor doesn’t have many friends on account of his job. He’s a traveling salesman, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And he reads those encyclopedias. He’s a real smart cracker, my Victor. And he loves me so much that he stays with me.”
Now Gordon knew why the house felt like a time capsule.
He scooted to the edge of his chair. “Mrs. Tompkins, what did the man want?”
“He was a friend of Victor’
s, you see,” the old lady repeated herself. “He said that Victor sent him here to the house to pick up a few things. Victor was going to stay longer out on the road. I was surprised since Victor’s room has a lock on the door and only Victor has the key.”
Gordon glanced at Naomi for confirmation. “Yes,” she said. “It was Victor’s only stipulation when he and I and our older sister agreed that the best thing for Mom was for one of us to live with her. He gave up his own apartment to come back and live in his old room. He said that if he was going to give up his freedom, he still needed a place all to his own.”
“And have you gone in there since Saturday?”
She shook her head. “The police haven’t released his effects yet. The key’s still with them.”
Gordon arched an eyebrow and stood. “Would you excuse us, Mrs. Tompkins?” He nodded towards the kitchen and motioned for Naomi to follow.
“Do you have any idea who this mystery man was?” he asked her.
“Not at all. It’s true that Victor didn’t have many friends come over. When they did, they’d usually set out back on the porch and talked or played cards while Mom stayed inside. Why?”
Gordon put a finger to his lips. “I’m just wondering aloud here. Who would come by the house looking to go into Victor’s room on the very day Victor was killed?”
Naomi shrugged. “I don’t have any idea.”
Biting his lip, Gordon hesitated before asking the next question. “Would you mind if I tried to open the door?”
“How?”
He sighed. “I have a friend. He’s a private investigator and, well, he’s shown me how to pick locks.” He let a few beats of silence rest.
“Sure, if you want to try. Can’t hurt. Only other way in is the window.”
She led Gordon back through the house to the rearmost room. Like a salesman, Naomi presented the door to him. He knelt and examined the knob.
It was a common indoor lock that only needed a thin rod to be inserted into the hole. For those who knew how, it was a simple lock.
The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation Page 2