Now Gordon was there for a job and only a job. Even his connections might not have been enough to score him a ticket if he weren't attending as part of the press. It was rare that he was on this side of news. Every man has a natural tendency to brag when he has a beautiful woman on his arm. Gordon stifled that urge and merely stated, “This is Lucy Barnes of the Post-Dispatch. We're here to learn about Bruno Clavell. Read about it tomorrow.”
Lucy wobbled a bit and held on tighter to Gordon's arm. Under her breath and through a smile, she murmured, “Let's get inside so people will stop watching us.”
“I don't think people are going to stop watching you. Me? In a New York minute.”
They slipped inside and presented their tickets, along with their press credentials. They were ushered to a side area where Gordon plopped down the camera bag.
Lucy sat on a chair and extended her legs. She groaned.
“It's one thing to be on the back side of a camera taking pictures of celebrities in clothes and shoes that look great but are hell on the body”—she used the toe of one shoe to ease the pressure on the heel of the other—“but it's another thing entirely to wear them.”
“A girl like you isn't used to wearing clothes like that?”
“Oh, I can wear them. There are some benefits to working for Vogue. I just don't have a lot of opportunities to.”
She stood and unpacked her camera equipment with an efficiency Gordon had seen only when soldiers broke down their weapons. In no time, she was ready.
“Thanks, by the way, for saying what you said out there. I've dated some men who just want to show off with me on their arm. It's kind of insulting, to be honest.”
“Of course, my lady.” Gordon made a courtly stage bow. Inside, he was glad to have averted a crisis. “What do you need for your part?”
“Various shots of Clavell doing what Bruno Clavell does so well: mingling with the rich and famous, being a famous nightclub owner, you know, things like that. Also, I’d like to meet him, size him up, perhaps even get him for a posed shot.”
One side of Gordon’s mouth turned upward. “Might I trouble you for a dance sometime this evening?”
She looked at him. “I’m new in town. How do I know if you’re a gentleman?”
Gordon looked hurt. “Well, you’ll just have to find out. Come on, let’s get to work.”
Before leaving Clavell’s apartment that afternoon, Gordon had arranged for a few minutes with him during the festivities. Clavell’s only caveat was that Gordon kept his notepad out of sight. Having reporters was a necessary item on Clavell’s agenda, but they didn’t have to look like reporters. Photographers, on the other hand, were encouraged to snap pictures and be seen doing so.
Levitz had told both of them to get themselves introduced to Clavell early on. “I want him to remember that the Post is the only paper in town to send a guy and a gal to this party.” Gordon and Lucy meandered through the throng, Lucy keeping her camera by her side as discreetly as possible.
No one could wonder where Bruno Clavell stood. The small gaggle of people laughing, chatting, and angling to get closer was obvious from across the room. He stood near the bandstand radiant as the nucleus of the group. Benny Goodman walked over, clarinet in hand, and asked Clavell a question. The owner nodded and Goodman turned to his band. He counted off and “Sing Sing Sing” blasted out. The partygoers cheered and started to dance. The dance floor swarmed with people and Gordon and Lucy had trouble traversing.
“I almost want to start dancing,” Gordon said. “It might be easier.”
“Later.” Lucy’s eyes were fixed on Clavell. “Let me get my shots.”
Smaller in stature than Gordon, she snaked through the throng to the other side of the dance floor and approached Clavell. He hadn’t caught sight of her. Instead, he was gazing across his new establishment with the look of a man in complete control and in complete happiness.
The flash from Lucy’s camera brought him out of his reverie. He turned and caught sight of her. She grinned, not showing teeth, and approached him, holding out her hand. “I’m Lucy Barnes, Post-Dispatch. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clavell.”
He took her hand and shook it with both of his. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Barnes. And please call me Bruno. All my friends do.”
“Am I your friend?”
“I sincerely hope so.” Catching sight of Gordon, Clavell said, “Mr. Gardner, I can see why you kept her from me this afternoon. The reveal is much more spectacular than it would have been earlier.”
Gordon nodded once. “It’s all part of the news business, Mr. Clavell. Everything seems to be going well so far. Any issues?”
“Not a one.” Clavell released Lucy’s hand. “Things are going splendidly.”
Another woman approached them. “Ah, Mr. Gardner, have you met Mrs. Myrna Loy?”
Gordon turned and gazed at the beauty that was Myrna Loy. Trying to hide the fact he was star-struck, he extended his hand. Please don’t let me stammer. “Mrs. Loy, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Clavell said, “Don’t believe everything he says, Myrna. Mr. Gardner here is a reporter.”
The actress chuckled and took Gordon’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. And you as well.” She shook Lucy’s hand. “And you are?”
“Dancing with me.” Clavell took Lucy’s camera and gave it to Gordon. “Hold this, Mr. Gardner.” Taking Lucy by the hand, he led her to the dance floor. “Sing Sing Sing” had finished now the band was playing “Stompin’ at the Savoy.”
Myrna Loy tapped Gordon on the sleeve. “That’s the kind of thing that only happens in movies.”
He put the camera down on the stage. “So is regular joes getting to dance with beautiful actresses.” He gestured to the floor. “May I have this dance?”
She nodded. The two of them joined the dancers. They made small talk, mostly about her roles in movies, especially the three “Thin Man” movies that Gordon loved so much. She asked him about his work and he let on that he was a pulp writer on the side.
It was during the final minute of the song that Gordon spotted a face he was looking for. The same face that had looked out of the doctor’s office window that afternoon. Dr. Kermit Kernow. The doctor stood near the bar sipping champagne.
“Mr. Gardner,” Myrna Loy said, shifting her face so that she could get Gordon’s attention, “have you found something more exciting than a Hollywood star?”
“There's a man I have to see.” Gordon excused himself. A flash bulb went off but Gordon hardly noticed.
Kernow wore a fitted black suit with a red tie. The gray along his temples gave him a distinguished look. The lights of the hall reflected off his round spectacles. Depending on the angle, you couldn't even see his eyes. He chatted with a few other men as they looked at the gala.
“Dr. Kernow?” Gordon extended his hand.
The doctor's countenance changed. He shook the proffered hand stiffly. “Yes?”
“I'm Gordon Gardner of the Post-Dispatch.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Gardner. You came by my office this afternoon.” The gentlemen next to Kernow began to pay closer attention.
“I was wondering if you could comment on the types of medications you were prescribing a client?”
Kernow smiled thinly. “You know I cannot do that.”
“Yes, but the patient is dead. Doesn't that render whatever contract you had null and void?”
“Actually, no,” said one of the men in the group. “That contract extends past death.” He put out his hand. “Harry Haldeman, attorney at law.”
Undeterred, Gordon shook the hand. “What about during criminal investigations? Is there an exception?”
“What crime has been committed?” Haldeman asked.
“The death of one of his patients. Victor Tompkins.”
“Mr. Tompkins died a tragic death, but hardly a criminal one.” Kernow finished his champagne in one last gulp. “This is a party, Mr. Gardner. Why not try to have a li
ttle fun and leave off the snooping to another time? I'd hate to have my friend here contact your paper and report your harassment.”
CHAPTER NINE
Gordon walked into Levitz’s office the next morning and closed the door. “Who called?”
“Harry Haldeman,” Levitz replied. “On behalf of his friend, Dr. Kernow.”
“Who took the call?”
“Our ombudsman, John. You're familiar with him, I think?”
“Very much so. He's usually wrong on many things.”
“But he's not wrong on this. You stepped out of line. You messed up with Clavell. You messed up Lucy's material.”
“How?”
“By calling attention to yourself and this little thorn in your side.”
“Boss, you know my thorns are good, right?”
“Not this time,” Levitz huffed. “Besides, you left Myrna Loy alone on the dance floor. We have the photo to prove it. You’ve seen the photo, right? The one with you walking away and Mrs. Loy looking stunned.”
Gordon had seen it, in the Houston Tribune, the local tabloid. “Eli, there's a reason Kernow is shutting this down. He's dirty. He has something to do with this. Give me a few more days and I can...”
“No. I stood up for you with Mr. Preston but that probably cost me. They wanted you sidelined for a week. I told them you were the only one who could write the Clavell piece. So, go home, write the piece, and take the rest of the week off.”
Gordon sat in his chair open-mouthed. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. And they want you on a short leash when you get back.” Levitz softened his face. “Look, Gordon, this'll blow over and then you can get back to it. But, for now, lie low.”
Gordon didn't need to look out the office’s windows. He pretty much knew all pairs of eyes were watching him. So be it.
He stood and straightened his tie. “Make sure no one gets my desk, especially Johnny.”
“Sure.”
Gordon opened the door and walked out of the office. Most people did their best to look away. Johnny Flynn's eye followed Gordon out of the room, smirking the entire time.
Outside the offices, Gordon blinked in the bright Houston sunlight.
“Hey, wait up!” Lucy Barnes hurried up to him, her camera bag slung over her shoulder. “Tough break, Gordon. Sorry about that.”
“Thanks. I hope I didn’t embarrass you last night.”
“Not at all. While you got to dance with Mrs. Thin Man—before you ditched her—I got to dance with Mr. Thin Man, William Powell, and meet the mayor. Plus I got some good shots. I’m getting the prints developed in the dark room. And what are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “I have to write the Clavell piece.”
“How long will that take?”
“Maybe half a day.”
She angled her head. “How long will it really take?”
He cracked a grin. “Probably three hours. Why?”
She gave him a questioning look. “What’s the scoop on that other thing you were so passionate about?”
“The Tompkins story? It was printed in the crime beat this morning. Officially, it’s done.”
“You satisfied with that?”
“Nope.”
“You going to do anything about it?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“C’mon, buy me a cup of coffee and tell me what we’re going to do next.”
He frowned. “We?”
“Sure. I have a few hours before all the prints are ready for review. Then I have to wait on your story. Let’s have a business meeting to discuss how the Clavell piece is going to go. In the meantime, tell me about your other story.”
Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets. “Aren’t you worried you might get stained by my reckless nature?”
“I take pictures of celebrities and famous people. That can get boring. Maybe it’s time for a change.”
Gordon grunted. “It's your funeral.”
He led her to his car and they drove to a nearby Shipley Do-Nut shop. Over coffee and doughnuts, he related what he had learned about Tompkins—not much—his suspicions about Kernow—not much—and his ideas on how they were related.
“So you don't have much?” Lucy said.
“Nothing more than a hunch.”
“How far do your hunches usually go?”
“To the front page.”
She pursed her lips. “What do you want? The front page or the truth?”
He sat a moment thinking.
“Let me put it another way: are you still thinking about it because you want the story or are you wanting to uncover some secret?”
Gordon arranged the napkin and coffee cup in a precise order and used his finger to collect the crumbs. “With Victor Tompkins dead, Naomi and her husband now have to figure out what to do with their elderly mother. That was Victor's job. Now, whether it was merely an accident or an accident that could have been prevented, I aim to find out. Victor Tompkins clearly experienced something that made him think the cars were phantoms and I think it has something to do with the medicine he was taking. Why else would an otherwise normal man start thinking that kind of thing? So, that's what I'm gonna do. And I don't care if it gets me in hot water with Levitz. It's the right thing to do.”
Lucy Barnes stood. “That's my kind of righteousness. What's our next move, Ace?”
CHAPTER TEN
The Great Southern Encyclopedia Company was located in a cinder-block building down on the east side of town, a mile or so from the Houston Ship Channel. The company name and logo were painted on one side of the building and, on the other, an image of all sorts of things coming out of an open book.
“Guess that’s supposed to be a sales point,” Gordon said.
“Hang on, let me snap a picture.” Lucy pulled out her camera and captured the image.
“What’s all the fuss about this?” Gordon asked.
She looked at him, hair cascading around her shoulders. “I told you that you have my kind of righteousness. When we find the truth, we’ll need to lay it out to Levitz. It’ll help to have pictures.”
Gordon arched his eyebrow. “It’s a good thing you weren’t around a month ago. The story I uncovered with the help of my private investigator friend would’ve landed you in hot water.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“And you’ll stay that way.” He ran his thumb and forefinger across his lips. “Sworn to secrecy.”
She pouted. “Then don’t bring it up.”
The interior of the building consisted of white walls with additional paintings extolling the virtue of owning and reading encyclopedias. A couple of salesmen sat at desks with phones to their ears.
A young woman approached the two reporters.
“We’d like to talk with the manager,” Gordon said.
“What is this about?” the woman asked. She spoke to Gordon but kept looking at Lucy.
“Victor Tompkins,” Gordon replied.
Her face drooped. “Oh. I see. Excuse me.” She walked to the back of the office.
“Why didn’t you tell her right off you were the press?” Lucy asked.
“Sometimes it’s best to withhold that kind of information until you get to the person you want to see. That way, their natural reaction shows through.”
One of the salesmen hung up the phone and strolled over to them. “Did I hear you asking about Victor?”
“Yes,” Gordon said, “you knew him?”
“We shared the same circuit. Hal Andrews.” He extended his hand, Gordon shook it, introducing himself and Lucy.
“What can you tell me about Victor?” Gordon asked.
“Not much, really. Good worker, great salesman. He could convince a guy who already had a set of encyclopedias that he needed another. Shame about what happened.”
Lucy asked, “What did you think about how he acted this past month?”
Hal shrugged. “I didn’t know much about that, really. The boss just told
me I had to pick up some slack. I worked longer hours, but the paychecks were bigger, so that’s not a bad thing, huh?” He grinned. “The boss’ll tell you more.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is all that true, about what he said about those cars?”
“What did you hear him say?” Gordon asked.
Hal furrowed his brow. “That they were phantoms and disappeared into thin air.”
“Did you happen to know what kind of medicine he was taking?”
Hal shook his head. “But I saw him taking pills frequently.”
Another man walked up and introduced himself. “Alan McLean. I’m the manager of this branch. You were asking about Victor? In what context?”
“I'm Gordon Gardner. This is Lucy Barnes. We're from the Post-Dispatch. We're looking into Mr. Tompkins's death.”
Alan had a puzzled look on his face. “Why?”
Gordon's eyebrows rose. “Because of the odd circumstances surrounding his death.”
Alan nodded. “His death was odd, as you say, but what do you hope to gain by publishing the story?”
“We have reason to believe,” Lucy said, “that Mr. Tompkins might've been under the influence of some sort of medication and were wondering if you knew what he was taking and why.”
Alan's eyes took in his immediate surroundings. “Hal, do you know?”
“No, sir. Victor never told me.”
“He didn't tell me either. But it started to affect his work. Victor was a fantastic salesman. Could sell anything to anyone. But then about a month ago, he just up and stopped.”
“Stopped?” Gordon asked. “Working?”
“Yeah. He took a sick day and then another. Then he would just miss days.” Alan winced. “We talked about it and he promised to get back on track. But it didn't happen.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I had to let him go.”
Gordon and Lucy exchanged glances. “That's interesting,” Gordon said. “When we talked with his family, we didn't get any indication that he'd stopped working.”
“Perhaps he didn't tell them.”
“Maybe not, but his mom and sister were under the impression he was working until the day he died.”
The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation Page 4