The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Chet climbed aboard and flashed his badge. “I.C.P.D.,” he muttered to the conductor who stuck out a hand block Chet’s entrance. “There are two murderers on board. We need to arrest them before you leave.”

  The conductor looked shocked. “Are you sure?”

  “Without a doubt. Have you checked tickets yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Give me your hat.”

  The flabbergasted conductor stood open mouthed as Chet took the conductor’s hat and placed it on his head. He shoved his own fedora into the other man’s hands.

  “Make sure no one leaves this train. Period. My partner’s starting from the front and moving backwards. I’m covering the rear. Now, you are. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the conductor stammered.

  “And don’t mess up my hat.”

  Turning, Chet surveyed the interior of the rearmost car. It was the dining car. Only the wait staff milled about, readying for the evening meal.

  Not seeing anything amiss, he traversed the length of the car, exited, and then entered the rearmost passenger car. Here, soft benches lined both sides of the car. Families, single travelers, and attendants all readied themselves for departure.

  Through the far door, open to reveal the next car, Chet spotted Sam. His partner walked slowly to the rear. They made eye contact. Sam shook his head. No sign of the Joneses. That meant the fugitives were likely in this very car.

  Settling the conductor’s hat lower on his head, Chet moved forward. A couple of passengers asked him for help but he ignored them. Another man shouted for his attention. Chet put a finger to his lips and flashed his badge. The shouter quieted and sat, eyes wide. Other passengers had seen the exchange and grew still.

  The stillness increased as more and more passengers quieted themselves and watched the police detective canvas the railcar. The stillness didn’t go unnoticed.

  A man in the second booth from the front, his brown hat still atop his head, half turned. Chet stopped, narrowing his eyes, recalling what Sylvester Jones looked like. His eyes swept to the man’s traveling companion. She, too, wore a hat, a Florentine with a brim that swooped low across her cheek. But the lips were not covered and Chet knew those lips, had been mesmerized by them. He had nearly killed people because of them.

  They belonged to Calliope Jones.

  He shot Sam a quick look and a curt nod. The other detective, still moving forward in the other car, hurried forward.

  Sylvester Jones fully turned. He locked eyes with Chet. The doctor’s face registered surprise. It was quickly replaced by fear, then anger.

  The doctor stood and faced Chet Martin. Calliope looked to see what had captured her brother’s attention. Her jaw dropped.

  “Who’s the fool now?” Chet said through gritted teeth.

  Sylvester started to speak. Chet slammed his fist into the other man’s face. The distinctive crack of nose bones breaking filled the room. The doctor yelped once and fell to the floor, unconscious.

  Sam burst into the car, gun drawn. He glanced down at the bloodied face of Sylvester Jones then trained his gun on Calliope. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. You utter one sound, you’re dead.”

  Calliope Jones remained mute.

  “You want to do the honors?” Sam asked Chet.

  The big detective stepped over the fallen doctor and turned his attention to Calliope. He pulled out his handcuffs and slapped a ring on one of her wrists. “Doctor Calliope Jones, you are under arrest for murder.” With his free hand, he took his handkerchief and stuffed it in her mouth. “That’s just in case you gave us two commands.”

  The passengers in the car, witness to the events, burst out in applause. A boy who sat a few rows back grinned from ear to ear.

  Calliope Jones slumped. Tears formed then streamed down her face. She shook her head.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Chet said. He removed the cloth and dropped it on the seat.

  “How did you figure it out?” she asked. The tears had streaked her make-up.

  “We didn’t,” Sam said. He stood after handcuffing the still unconscious Sylvester. “He did.” He pointed toward the rear of the car.

  Lester Gibson and three uniformed I.C.P.D. officers walked down the aisle. Lester beamed with pride then took a small theatrical bow.

  “How?” Calliope Jones asked.

  Lester shrugged. “I study odd cases throughout the country. I look for patterns. I’ve even solved a case for the police up in Omaha. I found a pattern with y’all. But the clincher was this.” He turned to the grinning boy. “May I?”

  The boy nodded and gave Lester the thing he held.

  Like a magician who just pulled a rabbit out of a hat, Lester revealed a pulp magazine. The latest issue of Doc Savage. On the cover, the titular hero was scaling the side of a skyscraper.

  Calliope frowned, then wiped her cheek. “I don’t understand.”

  Lester flipped the back of the magazine where the advertisements were located. Smiling, he folded back the pages to show her what he saw.

  “Learn to hypnotize anyone!” proclaimed one of the ads. A hand-drawn image showed a man with his fingers outstretched to a fainting woman. Coming out of his hands were zig-zagged lines.

  “You’d be surprised how much you can learn in one of these,” Lester proclaimed, “especially the ads.” He handed the pulp back the boy. The youngster quickly flipped to the ads and started reading.

  On the floor, Sylvester Jones groaned.

  Chet Martin motioned to the uniformed officers. “Okay, boys, let’s get’em out of here so these good folks can be on their way.” He eased out of the aisle. The four officers escorted the murderers off the passenger car.

  Sam clapped Lester on the back. “Good work, Lester. We should let you out of the basement more often.”

  “Sure thing,” Chet said. “Maybe we can talk to the captain, see if he’ll let you consult on active cases when we’re stumped.”

  Lester Gibson beamed with pride. He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “That would be most welcome.”

  Chet Martin, Sam Malone, and Lester Gibson made their way to the rear of the car. Various passengers shook hands with the law officers. Chet and Sam were used to the public’s good view of the lawmen of the I.C.P.D. but Lester wasn’t. He drank it in like a thirsty man at an oasis.

  Chet retrieved his hat from the conductor. The lawmen exited the train car and made their way back to the main lobby. Word had spread throughout the concourse of the police action. Other travelers, clearly recognizing the trio as cops, further congratulated the detectives.

  “Detective Martin,” a voice called out. “Detective Malone.”

  Chet and Sam both turned, recognizing the voice.

  A medium-built man sliced through the throng. His brown suit was expertly tailored. His shoes caught the glare of the overhead lamps and reflected the light back. His hat, pushed to the back of his head, had a card slipped into the crown. On the card was the word “Press.”

  Sam Malone smiled. “Gil Gibney. Why am I not surprised you’re already here.”

  The reporter shook hands with both detectives. “I’ve got a nose for news, bub. I go where the action is. It also helps to have a police scanner.” He hooked a thumb at Lester Gibson. “Who let him outta the basement?”

  Not used to the repartee between Sam, Chet, and Gil, Lester Gibson was momentarily speechless.

  Chet Martin put a beefy arm across the shoulders of the smaller reporter. “Gil, get your pencil ready. Have we got a story for you.”

  Acknowledgements

  In the acknowledgements to Wading Into War, I thanked a lot of people. That was my first published book and I needed to lay out all the milestones it took me to getting that first book out. For The Phantom Automobiles, it’s largely going to be an encore.

  As with Wading Into War, Anna Marie Flusche read and edited the manuscript of The Phantom Automobiles with a fine-pointed red pen. She called me out on a few phrases that we
re too modern, verified my historical accuracy in other cases, and generally tightened up the prose. As always, any issues with the novel now are all on me. Thank you again, Anna Marie, for making this a better book.

  Of all the stories I’ve written to date, both long and short, The Phantom Automobiles is the only one where I had a title in mind during the writing process. It is also the only one where I had a vision for a cover. I made a mock-up and Ike Eichenlaub made it a reality. Thank you, Ike, for helping me “see” my vision in a much better way.

  And, last but certainly not least, my wife, Vanessa. Over the years, she has put up with me and my occasional brain dumps when I try and describe this “best story ever!” and I just yammer on and on. She’ll get this glazed-over look and, when I see it, I know I’ve gone too far into the weeds. She is the one who helps me distill my varied thoughts down to a coherent story. Much love and thanks to you, now and always.

  Other Books by Scott Dennis Parker

  You met Benjamin Wade as a co-star in The Phantom Automobiles. Now, you can read Wade’s first book.

  WADING INTO WAR: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

  Houston, 1940

  Benjamin Wade is a laid back private investigator whose jobs are so mundane that he doesn’t even carry a gun. He thought his latest job was going to be easy.

  He thought wrong.

  Hired by beguiling Lillian Saxton to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe, Wade follows a lead and knocks on a door. He gets two answers: bullets and a corpse.

  Now Wade must unravel the truth about the reporter’s death, Lillian’s brother, and the whereabouts of a cache of documents that uncovers a shocking story from Nazi-controlled Europe and an even more nefarious secret here at home.

  Chapter One

  Monday, April 22, 1940

  Even though I was new to this private eye gig, I knew something wasn’t right when I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of 518 Oak Street. It was definitely the house I wanted. The case had taken me that far.

  What worried me was the silence.

  It was the day after San Jacinto Day here in Houston. It was funny celebrating the anniversary of the victory that won Texas its independence while the Nazis were invading Norway. Everyone thought France might be next. We weren’t at war yet, jobs had returned to the city and lots of guys were working. That included me after my stint with the police and my subsequent enforced vacation.

  No, what bothered me was the quiet. This was a neighborhood of bungalow houses. Families lived here, families with the husband off working and the mothers staying home with the children. The Depression might have subdued the job market, but it didn’t subdue the baby making market. I stood there, sun blazing through my hat, and looked up and down the street. Nothing. No one was out playing in the yard, walking the dog, or planting daffodils in the front flower beds. That’s what people did when they weren’t working. But that wasn’t happening on Oak Street.

  Strange. As I looked up at the house, a nice bungalow with tan bricks and a small porch, something in my gut turned over. That kind of feeling had served me well back when I wore a badge, so I listened to it. Still, the leads I had uncovered pointed in this direction. It’s what Lillian Saxton had hired me to do: find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was a journalist who had gone missing a few days after he arrived here in Houston following a stint in Europe covering the war.

  This was the kind of job I did: find people. I did the same thing when I wore the badge. I just found it easier with the power of the people behind me. Flying solo as a gumshoe brought with it an uncertainty, one that kept me on edge most of the time. It made me wary, more wary than when I wore the blue uniform.

  I stepped up on the porch and listened. Still that strange quiet. Nothing, not even from inside the house. It needed a paint job. Houston’s heat and humidity can do a number on exteriors. Mine needed more than just paint.

  I rapped my knuckles on the door. Instead of hearing footsteps, I heard something I didn’t really expect: gunfire. Bullets slammed the door with dull thuds that splintered the wood. The thick door saved me. Had it been a thin one, like the ones on my house, I would have been thrown back onto the lawn with new holes letting the sun shine into my guts. As it happened, I had time to duck and roll forward. I thought I had done alright, until the bullets smashed the windows right above me and shards of glass rained down. Keeping my head down, I scooted forward to the edge of the porch. Thankfully, the little white railing that fronted the porch didn’t extend to the side or else I’d have been trapped.

  I slid off the porch and down the short cement steps, landing on the broken driveway. I won’t kid you: I was scared to death. My heart was pounding in my chest and I had to use the house as support while I tried to catch my breath. There wasn’t a car under the carport and the side-sliding garage doors were closed.

  My ears still rang from the gunshots. It took me a moment to realize the shooting had stopped. Glancing down the street, I still expected to see people coming out of front doors or peering out from behind curtains. No one emerged from any house, but I saw some blinds open. Good. There were witnesses. Always good to have witnesses when the cops show up and start asking the gumshoe pointed questions.

  As a rule, I don’t pack my gun when I’m doing footwork. I find it best to talk first, let the fists fly second, and lastly, bring out the iron if all else fails. My revolver was in the glove compartment of my car, but I was damn sure not going to run across the open lawn to try to get it. Doing so would put me in the firing sights of the shooter. It might even let him get away.

  There was a part of me that just wanted to hunker down where I was, let the shooter retreat and leave me alone. I’d tell Miss Saxton “No, I couldn’t find Mr. Rosenblatt at the address given to me by the snitch, thank you very much.” I’d just been shot at, so I considered adding to the list of expenses I’d provide her at the end of the case.

  But the itch inside my head turned me around. I wasn’t yellow, that was for damn sure. I preferred my fights to be as even as possible. I’d lost my share to my cocky mouth, so I had learned to tone it down a bit. Best practices and all. Getting shot at, however, did something to a man, showed his true character. And, there I was, trembling like a little girl while the sounds of footsteps in the house moved to the back.

  From across the street, the blinds moved again and I caught a glimpse of white skin against a green dress. I couldn’t see the face, but the head was cocked in a way that told me the woman was on the phone. Damn. The police would be coming, sooner than I wanted them to. But I was sure not going to be the shrinking violet Mrs. Green Dress was most likely describing me as right now.

  Steeling myself, I got up on my haunches and scooted near the back door. Without my gun, I resorted to clutching the only thing I could find on short notice: the broom leaning against the side of the house. It was so light I knew it’d be nearly useless. You never bring a knife to a gun fight and you sure as hell don’t bring a broomstick. Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of the West and, well, we know how that one turned out.

  I peered around the back of the house. As with the front porch, there were three cement steps leading up to the back door. There were two large windows presumably from a breakfast room facing the back. I couldn’t risk moving under them for fear the shooter would spot me and have a clear shot. Above me was a small window, probably the one above the kitchen sink, judging by the sponge resting on the window sill. That left me in a quandary: where would the shooter exit the house? Out the front door risking the eyes of witnesses or out the back? A chain link fence enclosed the entire yard and the detached garage. In the driveway of the backdoor neighbor’s house I saw a black sedan. It faced the street, ready to drive away fast. My intuitive gut told me this was the shooter’s car.

  I needed to end the stand-off. Picking up a few pebbles from the ground, I threw them at the front porch. They rattled around, sounding like boulders in the tense quiet.

/>   The footsteps in the house moved quickly toward my position. The back door flew open and the shooter emerged. With the broomstick, I did the only thing possible: I stuck it out and tripped him.

  He flew through the air, arms flailing. Truth be told, he looked pretty funny. He landed face first on the gravel. The impact knocked his hat askew but, surprisingly, he kept a grip on the gun. I sobered up when sunlight glinted off the polished metal of his gun, the barrel aimed directly at my heart.

  Available at Amazon.

  ALL CHICKENS MUST DIE: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

  Benjamin Wade Returns!

  May 1940, the last days of the Great Depression, and private investigator Benjamin Wade isn’t exactly rolling in the dough. He doesn’t even have a secretary. So he’s in the unenviable position of taking any client that walks in his office.

  Elmer Smith, a local farmer, has a problem: all of his chickens are scheduled for slaughter. He’s desperate to save his livelihood. He got a court injunction to slow the process, but time is running out.

  Instead of laughing Smith out the door, Wade suppresses his pride to take the case. It seems like a simple, straight-forward paycheck. He zeroes in on a central question: What really happened the night police chased someone through Smith’s farm? Wade isn’t the only one asking that question, but he could be the only one who might die for it.

  Excerpt:

  CHAPTER ONE

  Do you know how embarrassing it is to be a private eye without a secretary? It means that every potential client sees you sitting in the outer office, typing your own reports and notes, and not in your main office with your feet on the desk, whiling away a hot summer’s day looking at the Houston skyline. It would also have meant that clients such as Elmer Smith and his chicken problems would have been turned away and I never would have learned that a secret society existed here in Houston that had, as its one rule, the obligation to avenge any wrong done to any member, real or imagined.