The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Why I didn’t just type my reports in my own office, I’ll never know. I think, honestly, I wanted to convey the impression that I did, indeed, have a secretary. I didn’t have one—yet—but I was actively looking for one. I had placed a classified ad in all the local papers and I had been interviewing many of the candidates over a few weeks. I found the decision to be extraordinarily difficult. I wanted the perfect combination of beauty and ability. To date, that type of woman hadn’t walked in my door.

  That didn’t stop other types of women from waltzing in and looking for a job. This was May 1940 and the effects of the Depression still permeated the economy. It made me feel a little bad when I had to turn away a few applicants because they were not quite the type I was looking for. If you had put a gun to my head, I’d have admitted that the way a woman looked was pretty important. I’m running a small business and the first thing clients see is the secretary. She needs to be a knockout.

  Martha Weber was sitting in the interview chair when Mr. Smith rang the front bell. I’d faced men with guns, but for some reason, that day I didn’t want to face a potential client without a secretary.

  “You want to make five bucks?” I said.

  Martha looked at me with wariness. “What do I have to do?”

  “Pretend to be my secretary.”

  She frowned. “So, I have the job?”

  “No, but I’d like you to pretend to be my secretary for that potential client out there.”

  “Why don’t I have the job?”

  I winced. That was an argument best discussed among other men. Only they could understand the importance of an attractive secretary for private-eye business. Martha had the typing skills in spades. But her looks were on the homely side. She looked like she belonged in a school or public library, not at the receptionist/typist for a private investigator firm.

  “I have a few other applicants, and I need to give them a chance, you know?”

  “I’m a great typist. I can even do some field work, if you need it. Did I tell you I’m pretty good with a gun?” She said the last with a bit more emphasis than was necessary.

  The doorbell rang again. Work wasn’t flowing as I would have liked. I was in a dire position of having to take almost everything that came through the door. I desperately didn’t want any potential clients to leave.

  I gave her a double take. “Double my offer. Ten dollars.”

  Martha looked at me sidelong. “You really got it?”

  Sure, I just won’t get any gas for a week. “I’ll get the client to make a down payment.”

  “You’d better.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Wade.” She winked at me and sashayed out of my office. Seeing her from behind, I had second thoughts about doing this. What if she blew it?

  Through the closed door, I heard soft murmuring then Martha’s shape through the frosted glass door. Didn’t every private eye have doors with frosted glass?

  The door cracked and Martha stuck her head in. “Mr. Wade, there are two gentlemen here to see you.”

  Two gentlemen? I rarely got pairs of potential clients. “Please send them in…” I paused and my eyes raced across my desk until I found her file. “Miss Weber.”

  She narrowed her eyes. I shrugged. I cinched up my tie and sat up straighter in my chair.

  The first man who walked in I didn’t recognize. He wore, of all things, denim overalls. The hat he held in his hands looked nicer than his entire wardrobe, his pressed shirt notwithstanding. I pegged him for a farmer and quickly dreaded needing to take any job to pay the rent. I wasn’t up for some sort of cow theft.

  The second man, on the other hand, I knew. Burt Haldeman was a lawyer, a shyster if you ask me. He was the kind of man who used his size and bulk to get his way when his words failed him. Half the time, that’s what happened. His tie only reached halfway down his gut. Not flattering, but his looks were enough to land a semi-slob like me in Life magazine.

  I stood and came around my desk, extending my hand to the lawyer. “Burt, how you doing? What brings you in my door?”

  “Good to see you again, Wade,” Haldeman said. “I see you landed on your feet after that little incident.”

  I cleared my throat. “Sure did.” I pivoted and introduced myself to the farmer.

  He took my hand, his leathery, hard skin felt like some sort of moving beef jerky. “Elmer Smith.” He was looking around, clearly out of his element.

  “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.” I indicated the two chairs opposite my desk. To Martha, I said, “Thank you, Miss Weber. That will be all.” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in the universal sign of money.

  With their backs to her, Haldeman and Smith were unable to see Martha. I smiled and nodded once, then gestured her out.

  I sat and leaned my elbows on the desk. “What brings you into my office?”

  “Chickens,” Smith said.

  I looked to Haldeman for confirmation. He nodded in assent.

  “Chickens,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a case involving chickens.”

  “Judging from how long you’ve been doing this little job,” Haldeman said, “I’d have to agree with you. But, nonetheless, we are here on account of chickens.” He reached into his suit and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, put it between his lips, and lit up. “Tell him, Elmer.”

  The farmer cleared his throat. I got the impression he wasn’t used to speaking in public. “Well, you see, Mr. Wade, the agriculture man, the health inspector man, wants to condemn all my chickens and kill’em all.”

  I waited for additional details. Smith, his mouth a thin line with almost no upper lip, sat there as if he had just spoken a fact, like the color of the sky or the humidity level in town that day. Turning to Haldeman, I raised my eyebrows. “Burt?”

  Haldeman smiled. “It’s true. Mr. Smith’s entire brood of chickens has been declared unsanitary by the health inspector. They’re scheduled to be slaughtered in the next few days. I got Judge Briscoe to put a temporary injunction on the slaughter, but we’re running outta time.”

  “I’m still not seeing where I come in.”

  Smith frowned. “Ain’t it obvious? I need you to investigate that bastard inspector and figure out why he’s trying to kill my livelihood.”

  Now available at Amazon.

  Coming Soon: Lillian Saxton #

  You met her in Wading Into War when she hired Benjamin Wade to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe. Now, Sergeant Lillian Saxton, U.S. Army, stars in her own mission.

  Out of the blue, an old friend reaches out to her via secret channels. He says he has information vital to the war effort. He’ll only give the information to her. In person. Her assignment: meet her old friend and determine what he has that’s so important, and whether or not he’s a traitor to America.

  Here is a special preview.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, 23 April 1940

  “Sergeant Saxton, what do you think of when you hear the word ‘treason’?”

  Lillian Saxton stood at attention and frowned. She wore her assigned brown uniform, belted at the waist, tie neatly knotted, with a skirt that hung just at the knees. Since she was inside Houston’s Rice Hotel, her garrison cap was folded over the belt. Her red hair was pulled up behind her ears.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t I understand what you mean.” Her voice was curious but deferential.

  “Treason, Sergeant. It’s a simple concept. What does it mean to you?”

  The man who snapped at her she didn’t know, but his brown uniform displayed the rank of colonel. He stood to the side of a table in one of the upper suites of the famous Rice Hotel. The man who sat at the table, littered with stacks of paper and a typewriter, she knew. He was Captain Ernest Donnelly, her commanding officer. She looked at him for clarification.

  “I’m the one speaking to you, Sergeant,” the colonel spat. “If there’s ever a situation
where you think you need to look elsewhere for help, then we’ve got a bigger problem than I imagined.”

  Donnelly, dressed in his brown uniform but with the tie loosened around his collar, leaned back in his chair. “Honeywell, why don’t you just…”

  “Don’t tell me what I should so, Captain,” Honeywell blurted. “I’ve asked the sergeant a question. I expect an answer directly from her and not from her superior officer or anyone else she thinks can help her.”

  A little fire burst into existence deep within Lillian’s gut. She hated what many of the men in the United States Army thought of her: weak, not as good as a man, only good for typing up reports. She was none of that, and she strove every day to prove wrong that kind of thinking.

  “Treason,” Lillian began, speaking evenly but with force, “is the active betrayal of one’s country. In most cases, especially in war time, it is punishable by death.”

  Honeywell regarded her for a moment. His short cropped hair was receding across the top of his head. The gray flecks caught the lamp light and seemed to glow.

  “That is pretty much the letter of the law, Sergeant. Now, even though we’re not at war, what do you think should be done about someone who may commit treason?”

  “May commit, colonel?”

  A small twitch along the corner of his mouth might have grown into a smile, but Honeywell didn’t give it the chance. “Yes, Sergeant. Would you trust anyone whom you suspect of committing treason?”

  Lillian pondered the question for a few heartbeats. “It would depend on the circumstances, Colonel. If the person was only suspected, I would seek out additional information, either to clear the individual or convict him.”

  Another twitch, this time along Honeywell’s eyebrows. Lillian had to admire a person like the colonel who could so easily contain his outward emotions. She made a note never to play the colonel in poker although that likelihood would probably never come to pass.

  “So you would investigate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Undercover?”

  “If necessary, yes.”

  “What if you knew the person? Would that cloud your judgement?”

  Another few heartbeats. “No, sir. This is the United States of America. All citizens, military or civilian, are assumed innocent until proven guilty. Same goes with someone suspected of treason. You investigate, gather evidence, and, if the evidence points to treason, you arrest the individual. You bring him to trial and, if he is found guilty, you inflict punishment.”

  “Back to my second question: what if you knew the person? Would you hide evidence, alter testimony, or do anything to sway the arresting officer or jury?”

  “No, sir. Treason is treason, and if the evidence indicates that, there is no other recourse.” She glanced to Donnelly, then back up to Honeywell. “I would, of course, be upset, but that’s a personal matter, not a military one.”

  In the intervening silence, Donnelly spoke. “Well, Colonel, I think that should satisfy you.”

  Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied.”

  “Of course.” To Lillian, Donnelly asked, “Have you contacted Wade to get his report on your brother?”

  Donnelly was referring to the assignment recently completed. Samuel Saxton, Lillian’s brother, was lost in Europe. She feared the worst, especially with the Nazi army threatening to strike. A reporter, Wendell Rosenblatt, had information about Samuel. He was due to land in Houston, but vanished. Lillian hired private investigator Benjamin Wade to locate Rosenblatt. He did, but it was too late. Rosenblatt was dead, but Wade found the reporter’s notes complete with all the details about Samuel’s whereabouts.

  Lillian had been waiting for Wade to deliver his report when Donnelly summoned her to his room in the Rice Hotel.

  “No, sir.”

  Donnelly gestured with his head to the next room. “Why don’t you give him a call?”

  Lillian nodded once and left the room.

  ***

  “I think she passes your muster, Colonel,” Donnelly said.

  “You’re just too close to her and the rest of your little squad.” Honeywell walked over to a bureau where a single bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey rested. He poured himself a couple of fingers and downed half in one gulp. He held the glass in his hands and mulled over something in his head. “But the communique was to her personally. Do you think Monroe is trying to recruit her?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Donnelly blurted. He realized he was addressing a senior officer and stood. He poured his own glass of whiskey. “As far as I know, Frank Monroe is only an investment banker. His job takes him all over the U.S. and Europe. He has contacts everywhere. Sure, he’s been over to Germany since they invaded Poland last year, but there’s no cause to think he’s turned traitor.”

  “Why else would he insist on seeing her? You think he knows she works for the Army?”

  “Lillian Saxton’s job is no secret. What she does for the Army is. Look, they’re old friends from back when they attended college in Europe in the ‘30s. He says he has vital information about the war, but will only talk to her. And the meet’s in D.C. They’re not even leaving American soil. What’s to lose?”

  “I don’t trust anyone who has business dealings with the Nazis and then turns around and asks to meet with one of my soldiers.”

  Donnelly did not have time to respond. The adjoining door opened and Lillian Saxton walked in the room. She must have tried to mask her emotions, but Donnelly noticed the red rimming her eyes.

  “Is everything okay, Sergeant?” Donnelly asked.

  Saxton merely nodded.

  “You find out about your brother?”

  “He’s dead.”

  The two senior officers gave the revelation a few moments of silence. “I’m sorry,” Donnelly said. He reached into his pocket and held out a handkerchief. She walked over and took it.

  “Thank you, sir.” She dabbed at her eyes. She stood straighter and pulled herself together. She handed the handkerchief back to the captain. “What’s the next assignment? It’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”

  Donnelly said, “Sergeant, this is Colonel Clive Honeywell. He will explain the situation.”

  Honeywell stepped forward. “Sergeant, do you know a Frank Monroe?”

  Donnelly watched the emotions cross Saxton’s face. He prided himself on not just being a commanding officer to his squad, but to know his officers as real people. Saxton had a circuitous route to the United States Army, but she had acquitted herself beyond even his expectations. The name “Frank Monroe” hit a nerve.

  After a moment, Saxton said, “Yes, sir. He’s from a prominent family in Boston. He and I went to the university back in 1934. He’s some sort of banker now, I think.”

  Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated. Why?”

  “The name came out of left field, Colonel. We haven’t even seen each other in years. It just wasn’t a name I expected you to say.”

  Pursing his lips, Honeywell said, “He’s asked to meet you.”

  For the second time, Donnelly noted Saxton’s surprise.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Personally.”

  “Where?”

  “Washington.”

  Saxton frowned. “Why?”

  Honeywell raised his glass and pointed a finger at her. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  The first Lillian Saxton novel will be published Spring 2016. Sign up for my Newsletter to hear about this book and other exciting events from Quadrant Fiction Studio.

  Triple Action Western

  Triple Action Western is an imprint of Quadrant Fiction Studio focusing on short stories and novellas of the Old West.

  The Box Maker

  Emory Duvall practices his simple carpentry trade, knows everyone in town, and stays out of trouble. But when a young gunslinger pulls iron on him and makes an unusual request, trouble lands in Duvall’s lap. Now, the carpenter must figure out how to
avoid getting shot…and how many coffins he will have to make.

  The Agony of Love

  John Hardwick loves his wife like a Shakespeare sonnet: full, complete, and without equal. Unfortunately, John now finds himself in the crucible of infidelity. He knows the other man’s name: Alton Raines, a professional gambler. John is a good man, not prone to violence, but the images in his mind’s eye—of his wife in Raines’s bed—puts murder in his heart and a gun in his hand.

  The Tale of the Naked Man

  It’s not every day that the passengers of a stagecoach in the Old West see a naked man hiding behind a rock. But the motley group of people on a stage bound for Uvalde, Texas, stop and question Finnegan McCall, naked as the day of his birth. He says he is the new manager at the bank in town and a thief stole all his clothes.

  But if Finnegan McCall is telling the truth, then who is the stranger at the bank claiming he is the new bank manager? And why is this stranger asking the assistant manager to open the safe?

  Anthologies

  TALES FROM THE OTHERVERSE

  Other times, other places, other stories than the ones we know...These are the Tales From the Otherverse, where anything is possible and things never work out quite the way you'd expect. Some of today's top talents in popular fiction turn their hands to tales of alternate history. Featuring new stories by bestselling, award-winning authors Bill Crider, Lou Antonelli, Scott A. Cupp, Robert E. Vardeman, James Reasoner, and more. Explore the Otherverse and see what might have been!

  Excerpt from “The Great Steamer Riot of 1936” by Scott Dennis Parker

  The trumpeter played a total of five minutes without taking a breath before the people in the dance hall realized he was a steamer.