The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Reaching into his pocket, Gardner pulled out a pocket knife and turned it over in his hands. “This little gadget was made in Switzerland.” He showed it to Naomi. “It’s not just a pocket knife, but multiple tools. This one’s modified with a straight piece,”—he used a fingernail and extended a metal rod from the pack—“specifically for what we’re trying to do.”

  Again, he crouched and slipped the rod into the small hole. With a little flick of his wrist, the lock clicked open. He stood and stepped back, letting Naomi open the door.

  “That’s quite a trick for a reporter,” she said.

  “I don’t often do it, but when I do, it’s always for a good reason.”

  She turned the knob and opened the door. Both were instantly aware of the draft in the room.

  They walked in and saw the source. The raised window was shattered, glass pieces scattered all over the floor.

  “Oh my.” Naomi walked over to the window, then remembered she was barefoot. She looked at the floor, then up at Gordon.

  “How bad is your mother’s hearing?” Gordon asked.

  “Pretty much gone. When she listens to the radio, she’s got to turn it up pretty loud.”

  What surprised them both was the condition of the room. It was all but untouched except for the broken window.

  “Is this how his room normally was?” Gordon asked.

  “Pretty much. I’ve been in here a few times.”

  “Can you tell if anything’s missing?”

  She gazed around the room. The twin bed and the little side table, sans doily, sat across from the window. The bed was rumpled, but made. A bookcase flanked the wall next to the window and a chair was positioned next to the armoire. There was a small desk off in the corner and Gordon looked it over. There were sales receipts and itineraries.

  His toe bumped something metallic under the desk. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a cash box. Judging by its weight, it was full.

  “That’s odd,” Gordon said. “A break-in but the cash box is still here.”

  “I think I know what’s missing,” Naomi said. She pointed to the table next to the bed. There was an empty glass and a small notepad. She held up the pad for Gordon to read.

  Across the top were listed the days of the week. Under each date were marks, three each for each day. At the bottom of the page, Victor had written “10 mg daily.”

  “What kind of medicine was he taking?” Gordon asked.

  “I’m not sure, but all the bottles are gone.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gordon Gardner’s mind raced with the possibilities and their meanings as he drove his Lincoln Zephyr across town to the Plaza Apartment Hotel. He wanted to keep the momentum focused on the new wrinkle in the Tompkins story, but he had an interview to conduct with Bruno Clavell, the second story assigned to him.

  Another glance at his watch. He was going to be late. Talking with Naomi about the ramifications of apparently stolen medicine had taken longer than he expected. She wondered if she should call the police. The bark of laughter that erupted out of him made him suddenly embarrassed.

  “If they don’t care enough to even let me know about your brother’s living arrangements,” Gordon had said, “I’m pretty sure they’re not going to care about some stolen pills.”

  “But what kind of medicine was he taking,” Naomi had asked, “that someone would want to break in and steal them?”

  “That is a very good question.”

  The kind of question that demanded an immediate follow up from Dr. Kernow himself. But Gordon couldn’t do it now. When he had been assigned to do a write-up on Bruno Clavell and his new nightclub, Gordon became excited. He loved music and dancing and frequented the various dance halls at least once a week. The Clavell Club was the latest in a string of similar nightclubs all across Texas. The price for a ticket to the gala was going to be higher than most so a free pass inside the club was something to strive for. Or work for, as was the case for Gordon that night.

  Those were his final thoughts on that story as the Plaza came into view. Situated at the corner of Montrose Boulevard and Bartlett Street, the Plaza was built in 1926 and modeled after the Ritz-Carlton in New York. The eight-floor, brown-bricked structure had two wings jutting off a central axis. In a city with an ever increasing number of fancy places, the Plaza was among the fanciest.

  Knowing the paper wouldn’t cover the cost of valet parking, Gordon parked along Bartlett and walked to the lobby. He gave the concierge his name and waited while a call was placed up to Clavell’s rooms. With a grin that barely registered on the smile scale, the concierge directed Gordon to the elevator.

  The elevator doors opened and the attendant gave the reporter a broad smile. “Good afternoon, sir. What floor?”

  “Seven,” Gordon said. “Bruno Clavell’s floor.”

  “Yes, sir.” The attendant was an old Negro with a name tag that read “Moses.”

  “How are you getting along today, Moses?” Gordon asked. He made it a point, in his reporting career, to talk to all the service personnel he could. Often, they knew the best secrets because the people they serviced typically ignored them.

  “Fine, sir, very fine.” Moses stood while he operated the elevator. A folded newspaper lay on the thin stool where Moses sat during down times.

  “Chronicle or Post-Dispatch?” Gordon asked.

  “Chronicle,” Moses replied.

  “You’ll have to buy the Post to read my article,” Gordon said. “I’m doing a write-up on Mr. Clavell.”

  “Yes, sir. But you’ll have to get the Chronicle to read their story on Mr. Clavell.”

  Gordon frowned. “Have they been here already?”

  “Come and gone, sir.” The bell chimed and Moses activated the door. “Seventh floor. Mr. Clavell’s room is at the end.” He smiled.

  Gordon, momentarily surprised, shuffled down the hall to the last room. He knocked and waited. A moment later, the door opened and a man appeared in the frame. Gordon tipped his hat and introduced himself. The man glanced at his watch. “You’re late.” He stepped back and allowed Gordon to enter.

  The suite was spacious and luxurious, one of the four-room types throughout the hotel. The window faced northeast, giving Clavell a good view of downtown Houston.

  Bruno Clavell was tall, a shade over six feet, with his hair perfectly coiffed in the latest style. Even at this hour of the day, he was impeccably dressed in a tan suit and green tie. His shoes were shined to perfection.

  “You didn’t bring a photographer?” Clavell sat and motioned Gordon to a chair opposite him.

  “No, sir.” Gordon took off his hat and placed it brim up on the couch. He sat in a comfortable chair and brought out his notebook. “The photographer will be there tonight at the grand opening. I’m here for your story.”

  Clavell grunted. “The Chronicle reporter brought his camera man. Got a picture of me here in my rooms.”

  Gordon thought back to his discussion with his editor. Levitz told Gordon to get Clavell’s story first, even when specifically asked about bringing along a photographer. “I’m not running a show-and-tell on the Plaza,” Levitz had said. “Most people don’t care about that. They just want to know about the man behind all these fancy clubs.”

  Well, thought Gordon, strike one for Levitz’s acumen. The question Gordon really wanted to ask was the name of the Chronicle reporter. Few rival reporters intimidated Gordon Gardner, but he at least liked to know his competition. To Clavell, he said, “We can circle back later today, if you like, but it’s our opinion that most people want to have a look inside your club. It’s an exclusive ticket tonight. Who all is supposed to be here?”

  The change in Clavell’s face was immediate. He softened his countenance as he spoke, beaming with pride. “Benny Goodman and his orchestra are here. Joel McCrea’s in town. So is Gene Autry. Shirley Temple phoned but she’s not old enough. Our biggest surprise is Myrna Loy and William Powell, Mr. and Mrs. Thin Man themselves.�
�

  “Nice,” Gordon murmured, writing down all the names. “How’d you manage that?”

  “My line of nightclubs across Texas has become the destinations for night life. Houston was the last major city in Texas we needed to conquer before we go national. We already have plans for New Orleans, St. Louis, and Memphis. The Clavell Clubs feature the latest in luxury and entertainment. All the top touring orchestras want to play our clubs. The stars, when they travel through Texas, make it a point to be seen visiting one of my clubs.”

  Gordon’s pencil flew across the pages as Clavell spoke about his life, his stint working in a jazz ensemble touring Europe, and how he opened his first nightclub. It was all very effective. Clavell definitely had the telling of his story down to a science. It was no wonder he was among the up-and-coming celebrities in the field.

  “And the best and brightest here in Houston will be there tonight. Businessmen, socialites, lawyers, doctors, actors, sport stars—it’ll be the biggest event in Houston’s history.”

  One thing caught in Gordon’s mind. “Do you happen to have a guest list I can use and pull out the top names for the story?”

  Clavell arched an eyebrow. “You are going to be there tonight, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a tuxedo?”

  “Of course.”

  Clavell thought for a moment, and then rose. He strode across the room to a desk and shuffled through some papers. Finding what he was looking for, he showed it to Gordon who had come to stand next to nightclub owner.

  Gordon took the papers and reviewed them. He moved over to the kitchen table and wrote down a few of the major names: Jesse H. Jones, Governor W. Lee O’Daniel, and Mayor Oscar Holcombe.

  One name caught his eye: Dr. Kermit Kernow.

  Well, looks like I’ll get to ask my questions after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Are you kidding me?” Gordon’s voice rose with exasperation. “You want me to write the story now? I don’t even have all the facts.”

  Eli Levitz stared at his reporter over his reading glasses. “Did the guy jump in front of the car?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Did he get hit?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Did he die of his sustained injuries?”

  “Yes, but he…”

  “There you go. There’s your story.” He tapped his watch. “You got thirty minutes.”

  “But what about all the eyewitnesses claiming Tompkins was ranting about phantom automobiles?”

  Levitz cantered his head. “Why do we care what crazy people say before they do crazy things?”

  “Because there’s something more here, Eli. I can feel it.”

  Levitz rubbed his stomach. “I can feel my ulcer coming on if we keep talking.”

  Gordon snapped his fingers. “The pills. What about the theft of the pills?”

  The editor tapped his pencil against the desk blotter. “You said the old lady was deaf as a board. So what that someone swiped the pills? Doesn’t have any bearing on the fact that your victim intentionally jumped in front of a moving car and lost.”

  “Because he was taking those pills.”

  “You don’t know that,” Levitz shot back, “and you’ve got no way to prove it. But what you do have is four inches of space to fill with content. Now get to it before you go to your big shindig tonight.” Levitz leaned back in his chair. “And don’t get under Clavell’s skin like you did before.”

  Gordon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard you rubbed him the wrong way, that’s all.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It just filtered down from upstairs, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.” Levitz didn’t have to go any further. All reporters, copy boys, typists, and artists knew what “upstairs” meant. Robert G. Preston, III, the owner of the paper. He was connected all throughout the city and had his finger on the pulse of his paper. He let the various editors run the show, but would stick his nose in if he thought he could do anything.

  Gordon nodded, scowling. “Got it. Who’s doing photog with me?”

  Levitz visibly brightened. “New gal. Lucy Barnes. Comes highly recommended from Dallas. Even had a spread in Time last year. Vogue, too.” Vogue, in recent years, had begun to use more photography in its magazine rather than the traditional illustrations, something that helped cause the demise and merger of rival Vanity Fair.

  Gordon stood. “Why not Jimmy or Steve or Harry? They’re all good.”

  “And they’re all men. The Chronicle’s sending over a pair of guys tonight. We’re going with something different. You and she are going to wade out into high society and capture Bruno Clavell in his element. Think of it as a high-class safari. Who knows? You might even capture one. Just don’t mount them to your wall.” Levitz slammed his palms on the desk and stood. “Now, go get me my four inches on the jump and be done with it before you leave.” He snapped his fingers. “You’ve got a tux, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got a blasted tux,” Gordon said, “and I’ve even convinced the moths to take a vacation. How do you know the Chronicle’s sending over a couple of guys?”

  “Because they both went to Clavell’s apartment.”

  “Right. Speaking of that, why didn’t we send over a cameraman with me?”

  Levitz lit a cigarette. “Because we didn’t think it was necessary. We’re a newspaper, for Pete’s sake. We report the news.”

  Gordon grinned. “So Clavell called and complained.”

  “Like a little girl. So, we’re going to one-up the Chronicle and send you out with a lady. Clavell’s sure to forget our little misstep when he catches sight of the two of y’all.”

  Something in the way Levitz spoke those words made Gordon square his shoulders. He straightened his tie. “Where is she?”

  “Getting her orders from Jack. You’ll meet her later. Now go write the damn story so I can print it.”

  Gordon returned to his original reason for coming into the office. “Eli, I’m telling you there’s something more here.”

  “And I’m telling you it all adds up to a crime beat story you ain’t even gonna have your name on so get your rear over to your desk and write the damn piece.” He blew smoke through his lips and stabbed his half-finished cigarette in the overflowing ash tray.

  Gordon knew when to back off. He nodded and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stopped at Barbara Essary’s desk. The editor’s secretary was typing up a memo. On the side of her desk were two baskets, one for incoming copy Levitz needed to review and one for stories with the editor’s changes marked that the typists would correct.

  The top of the stack of already-reviewed stories was one by Johnny Flynn. It was the other story he had been assigned, the one on the rumors that local businessman Jesse H. Jones might be tapped by President Roosevelt to be Secretary of Commerce. Only a few marks were on the nearly clean copy.

  Gordon started leafing through the stack before Betty slapped his hand. “Get outta there, Gordon. You know better than that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was looking for Johnny’s other story, his crime beat one.”

  She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling. “It’s not turned in yet. He convinced the boss there was something more going on. The artist, William Silber, was up to something since he was killed in a part of town he didn’t normally frequent. Johnny’s got another day.”

  Gordon shook his head. “Figures.” He bit his lip, wondering if there was a way to slow down Johnny’s rise. He was just going to have to console himself by sitting in his big desk next to the window. “This new girl, the photographer Mr. Levitz paired me up with for the Clavell story, you seen her?”

  “Yeah, sweetie, I’ve seen her. We powdered our noses in the same ladies room. I’ve even seen her work. She’ll be a nice addition to the paper if she stays.”

  “If she stays?”

  “Yeah. This story is like a t
ryout. The big boss likes her, he’ll give her a job. If not, well, she’ll just move on to another opportunity.” She tapped the basket with the incoming stories still waiting for Levitz’s review. “He’ll need your story before your big party tonight. I’m so jealous.”

  Gordon glanced at the near pristine copy of Johnny Flynn’s story and stifled his own kind of jealousy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Levitz’s big plan was for Gordon and Lucy to arrive together, more like they were a couple attending the gala rather than a couple of reporters. “Those Chronicle bums are gonna look like a pair of squares showing up together. When y'all walk in, they won't know y'all are reporters. Sure, when she starts snapping pictures, they might have an idea, but they'll forget all that and just be dazzled by her looks.”

  When Levitz had said that, Gordon’s imagination had run wild. He'd known and dated plenty of beautiful women, but Levitz had been married twenty years. Perhaps his standard of beauty had diminished.

  It hadn't.

  As Gordon walked around his car after dropping off his keys with the valet, he took in the throng gathered in front of the club. The line of cars snaking around the joint made perfect viewing for all the onlookers. They didn't know what they were in for.

  Another valet opened the passenger door. Gordon, carrying the camera bag over his shoulder, was there to offer his arm to Lucy Barnes.

  Her black patent leather shoes were tall enough to elevate her a couple of inches. She stood and smiled for the cameras, deftly adjusting her black evening dress along the curves of her body. Her necklace matched her dangling earrings. Her brunette hair was swept up and over her shoulder, held in place by a barrette that matched the earrings and necklace. Her radiant smile was framed by red lips.

  Involuntarily, Gordon's stomach flipped twice. She was beautiful. He wasn't the only one who thought so. Photographers stationed outside the doors snapped pictures, the flashes illuminating the already bright night. One celebrity reporter who recognized him shouted, “Gordon, who's the gal?”