Phantom Point

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 2: Los Angeles

Do you know the land where citrons bloom, Golden oranges glow among dark leaves, A gentle wind blows from the blue sky... That was how Max imagined Los Angeles. He recalled those lines from Mignon’s Lied, Goethe’s poem set to music by several of the nineteenth century’s greatest composers. Max committed those lines to memory, both in English translation and in his parents’ native German.

Three and a half days in a California Limited Pullman had terminated at La Grande Station, a red-brick Moorish-inspired confection at 2nd Street and Santa Fe Avenue. Max carried his suitcase to one of the hacks lining the curb in front of the station. He had wired ahead to Burgess. They would meet at the detective’s downtown office; afterward Max planned to take a cab to the Arcade Depot to catch the afternoon train to Santa Teresa.

The hack made slow progress through streets bustling with activity: newly paved thoroughfares with electric cars clanging and rumbling along their tracks. A welter of horse-drawn wagons, carts and carriages mixed in with a sprinkle of motorized traffic. Pedestrians dodged through the vehicular stream at every major crossing.

Los Angeles had grown into a city of 100,000 with a hot economy stoked by the oil bonanza. The balmy land where the citrons bloomed was also the boomtown where the derricks mushroomed, where black gold bubbled up in back yards and average Joes and Janes became millionaires overnight.

The hack pulled to the curb in front of a six-story office building near the County Court House and Hall of Records. Max paid the driver, stepped down from the carriage and carried his bag into the vestibule. He headed for the elevators at the end of a long, marble-walled corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing on tile flooring.

A gray-haired elevator operator gave Max a weary smile, opened the collapsible brass gate and said, “Where to, boss?”

“Burgess Detective Agency, 602,” Max replied.

The elevator lurched and made its slow upward progress. The old operator eyed Max and his suitcase. “You passing through, mister?”

“That’s the idea, pop,” Max said.

“Too bad. Los Angeles is a nice place for a long stay.”

“I’ll bet. You been here a while?”

“Thirty years and some. Came out here to make my fortune.”

“You don’t say. How did it work out for you?”

“Not as good as I expected.” The operator gave Max an almost toothless grin. Either he appreciated the sarcasm or he was so accustomed to it that he didn’t care. “Well, mister, here we are. Sixth floor. Burgess Agency is to your right. Follow the arrow.”

“Thanks.”

Max walked down a musty hallway to an office located next to a fire escape exit. Faded lettering on the frosted glass door read: Arthur Burgess Private Investigator. A cardboard sign hanging from a worn brass doorknob advised: The Office is Open: Ring for Admittance. Max pressed a button, heard a muffled buzz and waited for a response. A moment later, there was another buzz and the door opened a crack with a loud click of the lock.

Max entered an office that had seen better days. A threadbare carpet covered buckling floorboards; dusty shelves, mostly empty, lined the institution-green walls of a cramped entryway leading to a small office set behind a partition. The only light filtered in through a partially shaded window in the back office. It seemed as though Burgess were trying to save on his electric bill. A smell of stale cigar smoke and general decay permeated the atmosphere. The shabby surroundings raised a question: Why would Cassandra Van Dorn, who could afford the best, hire a bargain-basement detective?

Arthur Burgess got up from behind a desk littered with files of long-closed cases, which he kept on display for reasons known only to himself. Perhaps they were strewn about to impress new clients, or to remind himself of a past when he could still drum up enough trade to make a decent living. Regardless, the paunchy, middle-aged man in a seedy brown suit reflected the office as much as the office reflected the man.

“Art Burgess,” he said with an outstretched hand. The faded detective tried to smile and put some enthusiasm in his greeting.

“Max Niemand. Pleased to meet you.” Max shook the grubby hand. Burgess’s untidiness aroused more pity than contempt. He reminded Max of the old elevator operator.

Burgess studied Max with keen blue eyes. Max’s large, muscular frame and dark, rugged good looks made a positive impression, as did his expensive suit and accessories. But was Max to be trusted? Burgess desperately needed someone he could trust, preferably a fellow investigator.

“You came straight from the station,” Burgess said after an awkward silence. “I bet you could use a drink.”

“Sure could. Thanks.”

Burgess opened a desk drawer and retrieved a half-empty bottle of rye and two reasonably clean glasses. He pulled the cork and poured doubles. “I don’t have ice. You want water?”

“No, thanks,” Max said as he took the proffered glass. “I like mine neat.”

“Me, too. Well, here’s mud in your eye.” Burgess took his double shot in one gulp.

Max swallowed half his drink. It gave him a welcome jolt. He set his glass on the desk and eyed Burgess suspiciously. Bet he’s a half-bottle a day man. Maybe a bottle-a-day when he can afford it.

Burgess coughed into his hand to clear his throat before speaking. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Niemand—”

“Max,” he broke in.

“OK, Max. You’ve quite a reputation, even out here.”

“Is that good or bad, Art? Frankly, I was hoping to work incognito.”

Burgess scratched his stubbly chin before answering. “You’ll find it tough here in the city, Max. The cops know who you are.”

“That is tough, but I’m an ex-cop, so it might work to my advantage. What about up in Santa Teresa?”

“You might stay in the shadows for a while, until you start seriously snooping. It’s a small town, and they get suspicious of curious strangers right quick. Then you better watch out.”

“Watch out for whom and for what?”

Burgess didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he grinned and poured himself another shot. Then he corked the bottle and returned it to the drawer. “Did that Chicago rich bitch say anything about Phantom Point?”

“No, what’s Phantom Point?”

“It’s a place on the coastline a few miles north of Santa Teresa, adjacent to the Merwin estate. Mrs. Merwin, Paul Merwin’s widow, lives there in a so-called artists’ colony she set up with some of the dough her late husband left her. I suppose Miss Van Dorn told you about Mrs. Merwin’s hold on Hugo Jr.?”

“Yes, that much she told me. My job is to get the wayward brother out of Mrs. Merwin’s clutches and back home to the old man and little sister. I heard that was your job, too. Miss Van Dorn thinks you fouled up, but I guess that’s not news to you.”

“No, it isn’t.” Burgess lifted the glass and downed his second shot.

“Back to Santa Teresa and Phantom Point. I guess the Merwins are big shots thereabouts?”

“That’s for damn sure. John’s the big noise. He’s a widower with a young daughter. Paul was his kid brother. According to information I gathered from the locals, Paul married against his brother’s wishes. Consequently, there’s bad blood between Paul’s widow and John.”

“How did the Merwins make their dough?”

“Mining, lumber and railroads. The family’s originally from upstate New York. They’ve been out here since the Gold Rush days.”

“I see. What about oil?”

“You know anything about the oil business?” Burgess’s puffy eyes narrowed to inquisitive slits.

“Not much. Maybe you can educate me. But first tell me more about Santa Teresa. Who’s the law up there?”

Burgess laughed and then coughed for a while before saying, “I suppose you could say John Merwin is the law and everything else, too. There’s a town marshal named Earl “Red” Rivers, an old-time Wild West throwback like Masterson and Earp. Not a bad guy, though, but he and his deputies are on Merwin’s payroll. Same goes for the mayor, the town council, the county sheriff and the JP. And most of the townsfolk either work for one of Merwin’s enterprises or are involved in some trade servicing the townies and travelers.”

“Sounds like a sweet set-up for Mr. Merwin. Any rackets?”

“Yeah. Gil Doyle, a Barbary Coast hoodlum, owns two saloons, two whorehouses and a gaming roadhouse. He came to Santa Teresa last year after the quake and fire wiped out his dives. And according to local rumor, he has John Merwin’s backing. Seems they did business together up in San Francisco.”

“I guess John Merwin’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.”

“He’s got ’em deep and sticky in every pie.”

Max paused a moment before asking, “Did you talk to Hugo Van Dorn? Try to persuade him to agree to his father’s conditions?”

Burgess frowned and shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I never got past Mrs. Merwin. A stubborn bitch. Says she loves Hugo; he belongs with her and his fellow artists. And she has enough dough for both of them; they don’t need his old man’s money. I’d like to see a catfight between her and that snooty Miss Cassandra. I’ll bet you could make plenty of jack selling tickets to that Donnybrook.”

“I’ll bet.” Max reached for his whiskey and downed the remainder. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and set the glass down on the desk. Then he added, “Anything else I should know before I head out for Santa Teresa?”

“Yeah Max, there is something.” Burgess leaned forward over his desk as though he were about to communicate a secret of some significance. He had decided to trust Max up to a point. “Do you know what a plat is?”

“Sure. It’s a map that shows the location of real property. They’re filed in the county recorder’s office.”

“Right. When I was in Santa Teresa, I got hold of a special map, what’s called a supplemental plat, for Phantom Point and some other Merwin property. According to my client, there’s a dispute about the ownership of the land and certain of the rights. I can’t tell you any details... at least, not yet. Client confidentially, you understand. But yesterday I got a phone call from an individual who made a substantial offer for the plat. We’re to meet at one tomorrow morning, down by the river.”

“Sounds like it could be a set-up. Are you going?”

“Yes, I am. It’s in my client’s interest to find out why this person wants the map. I’m using it as bait. But you’re right about the danger. I could sure use you along to watch my back. Like I said, I know your reputation and seeing you in person confirms what I’ve heard. Most hoods would run from you on sight. If you back me up, I can give you more information that could help with your Van Dorn case. What do you say?”

“You mean you’ve got something that could get Hugo Van Dorn to dump Mrs. Merwin and return to his family?”

Burgess hesitated a moment before saying, “I might.”

“Let me think on it a minute.” Max reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two Havana Coronas. He offered one to Burgess and they both lit up. Max leaned back in his chair and smoked while considering the situation. If he helped Burgess, the down on his luck detective would owe Max a favor. That could be helpful in resolving the Van Dorn matter. On the other hand, they could both be walking into a death trap. Max took a couple of meditative puffs before asking, “Where’s the meeting to take place?”

“On the First Street bridge.”

“Any traffic at one in the morning?”

“Almost none. There’s a streetcar, but they run few and far between at that hour.”

“What about the cop on the beat?”

“There’s one on patrol, but he’s more likely to be off somewhere cozy than wearing out shoe leather on the bridge.”

Max nodded his head without comment. Then: “Do you have a gun?”

“I will this morning.”

“What do you carry?”

“A .41 Short Colt. What about you?”

“A Smith & Wesson. I’d feel naked without it. So we’ll both be armed. But we can’t go together. The guy might spot us and take a powder. I’ll get there early and set up a stakeout. Is there anywhere I can see without being seen?”

“The roadway is too open. You could hide somewhere on the riverbank. The river’s bone dry this time of year.”

Max shook his head. “I don’t like it. I’d be too far away to help you if things turned ugly.”

Burgess thought for a moment. “We’re meeting at the east side entrance to the bridge. There’s a warehouse across the street. It’s dark in that area, away from the lights. You can hide in the doorway. If I need you, you won’t have far to go.”

“OK. Does this person expect you to bring the map?”

“Yeah, but I’m keeping it in a safe place.”

“Where’s that?”

“The baggage room in the Arcade Depot. I put it in a valise and checked it. I’m carrying the ticket.”

“Don’t you think the joker might get sore if all you’ve got is a baggage claim ticket?”

“Maybe. That’s why I want you there.”

Max puffed smoke rings and then rolled the cigar around in his fingers. This was risky business, but Max had been taking risks all his life and, so far, he was ahead of the game. He looked squarely at Burgess and said, “All right. I’ll be there.”

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder