Racing Dames A Sam Spade Story

Author's Note

My first ever entry to the Mickey Spillane challenge,

The Maltese Pussy Cat

, garnered a number of positive comments, so here I am again. For this year's challenge, smart-talking, gun-toting Samantha Spade is back with another case on her hands. And you can bet another gorgeous dame will be doing her best to throw Sam off the trail.

* * *

For Brian. I think you would have liked it.

* * *

Prologue

I've never really had a nose for perfume, much less the fancy imported stuff. To be honest, my favorite scent on a woman is a bit too much whiskey or gin. It helps to loosen up the inhibitions and can go a long way to turn an otherwise dull gal into an interesting and exotic find for the evening.

But in the coming days, I would learn to appreciate the unique and intriguing intoxication that came from a snootful of what the French call

parfum

or

eau de toilet

. And by the end of it all, I'd come around full circle again to an allergic fit any time I got near the stuff.

It all started with a letter. Not a perfumed letter. The alluring waft of eau de toilet, that came later. This decidedly unscented letter came first, and it came from the very respectable estate of Madame Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand.

* * *

Racing Dames: A Sam Spade Story

Monday, 8:00 a.m.

The bicycle courier was pacing outside my office door when I showed up this morning. Young kid, fresh out of high school or maybe younger and working for a little extra coin over his summer break. The kid said he hadn't been waiting long, but he sure looked happy enough to get my signature for the proof of delivery and skedaddle back to whatever else he had going on today.

As for me, I knew exactly what I had going on today as soon as I opened the letter and read the words,

requests the pleasure of your presence,

and the signature,

Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand

. With that name behind it, request was just a polite way of saying get your butt over here, and pronto.

Miss Beatrix Archambeau was a big wheel. Quite the popular socialite in her younger days, and a regular feature in the society pages of The Chronicle and The Examiner. Always photographed in just the right light, surrounded by just the right people, and always from her good side. Beatrix Archambeau was a darling of the cultured elite who could do no wrong.

Somewhere between then and now, Beatrix Archambeau traded the honorific of Miss for Madame, and added Legrand to the end of her name. She still made the society page on a regular basis, though now it was usually associated with a fundraiser for her favorite children's charity, or lately, promoting her racing team.

Madame Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand had gotten it into her head to create an all-woman auto racing team with the grand and noble name of The Racing Dames. I guess that's the kind of thing you do when you're rich and you've crossed off everything else on your life's to-do list.

Can't say I didn't admire her for it, I just didn't have the same level of disposable income at my command to it pull off. My to-do list didn't extend much past the morning and consisted mostly of rifling through the cushions of my office davenport to scrape up enough coin to fund a hot cup of joe and cab fare out to Madame Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand's estate.

* * *

The Archambeau-Legrand Estate, 9:55 a.m.

The cabbie hollered out the window asking if he should wait, probably hoping to make some easy scratch while he sat on his duffer with the meter running. When I told him I'd be fine, he wasted no time spinning the cab around to beat it back down the long driveway. The cabbie's departure left me standing next to the only other car in the drive, a beautiful and exotic Delahaye Cabriolet. And topping off my morning's fortune was the even more enchanting young blonde rubbing the Delehaye's fenders with a chamois.

"Is that a 135?" I asked.

The young lady, dressed in a non-nonsense fashion, right down to the herringbone flat cap perched atop her head, paused her buffing and tucked the chamois in the back pocket of her trousers. She took a step toward me. "You know your automobiles, Miss..."

"Spade," I said, extending my hand. "Sam Spade. But, please, call me Sam."

For a gal with delicate fingers and a slender frame to match, she took my hand with with a grip strength that surprised me. And I probably held on a little longer than I should have, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Claire Martin," she replied.

"You must be Madame Archambeau-Legrand's driver, then?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

The tone with which Claire answered, let me know I had probably just stepped in it while guessing she was the hired help. And when my brain finally caught up to the whiff of her rather expensive smelling perfume floating over, I knew I had stepped in it up to my ankle. But the smirk crossing her face told me she found my mistake amusing rather than offensive.

"I'm the driver of Madame Archambeau-Legrand's Delahaye, Miss Spade. But not this particular model. I'm more at home behind the wheel of the 135MS. They're similar, but--"

"But the MS is more like a bullet on wheels."

"Exactly, Miss Spade. Open wheel design with a body that's stripped down to its bare essentials, coupled with an engine modified to output nearly double the stock horsepower of the one you're looking at here. It's quite an exhilarating piece of machinery."

"That's a lot of muscle under the hood. And you're the one steering it around the track?"

Claire nodded.

"The Racing Dames," I mumbled.

"You've heard of us, Miss Spade. I'm impressed." Claire Martin reached into the front pocket of her trousers to pull forth a business card tucked between her index and middle fingers. She held it inches from my nose. And with her other hand, she reached out to grip my bicep and squeezed. "Come down to the test track sometime if you want to see how well a gal can handle this much muscle."

I smiled as I plucked the card from her well-manicured fingers. "Wouldn't miss it," I said, not really minding the fact she still held my upper arm in her grip.

"Best not keep Madame Archambeau-Legrand waiting," said Claire, exchanging her grip on me for the chamois in her back pocket and taking a step back. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Spade."

"The pleasure's all mine, Miss Martin," I said, tipping my hat and pausing to inhale her heady scent one last time before I turned to march toward the house.

* * *

The Archambeau-Legrand Manor, 10:00 a.m.

The butler had led me through the sprawling expanse of the mansion to the relatively narrow, but high-ceiling, glass-walled orchid house attached to the back. "Miss Spade to see you," he announced. And after a barely perceptible nod from the old woman seated in a wheelchair, he departed.

"Good morning, Miss Spade," said the woman. "I am Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand. You'll have to pardon me for not getting up. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I stood like an idiot for a couple beats. I don't know if it was the heat in the greenhouse or the shock of seeing Madame Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand in a light so different from what the society pages always portrayed. After a second I got it together and whisked my hat from off my head. "The pleasure is mine, ma'am."

"Would you care for a drink, Miss Spade, or shall we get right down to business?"

The fact it was still morning was not lost on me, but two things influenced my answer. If Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand was drinking at ten a.m. I wasn't going to stand around like a dummy and let her do it alone. Plus, selfishly, a little snoot of something might help clear my head of Claire Martin's perfume that seemed to have taken up residence in my frontal lobe.

The butler appeared with two brandies before the words yes, thank you even cleared my lips, so I figured Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand's question might have been just a rhetorical formality. She didn't seem too keen on small talk either, so I settled for letting her take the lead as I took the elegant crystal snifter in my hand.

She got right down to it. "What do you know about The Racing Dames, Miss Spade?"

"Only what I read in the papers, ma'am. And what I learned this morning from Claire, your driver."

"My granddaughter, Miss Spade." Madame Archambeau-Legrand raised her glass to her lips as soon as she dropped this bit of truth on me.

"Claire Martin is your--?"

"My granddaughter, yes. And also my one of my team's drivers."

It was my turn to hit the brandy now, as I tried to get everything sorted out in my head. Mixed up in those thoughts was Claire Martin, massaging my bicep and telling me to stop by the track sometime to watch how she handles so much muscle. And all while looking like a peach of a gal and smelling like a small slice of heaven.

"She really is an accomplished driver, Miss Spade. I started this racing club as a hobby, perhaps on a bit of whim. And, I suppose, as a way to show the world a woman's place doesn't need to be limited to keeping the home fires burning. But the whole team, not just Claire, they've all wildly exceeded my expectations.

"Their second place finish at Monaco this year has secured the team an entry into Le Mans. I never thought I would see the day, you understand. Not that I lacked confidence in these young women, but knowing the uphill climb they faced in a male-dominated sport, Miss Spade. That was my worry."

Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand lifted her glass to salute me or the team, I wasn't sure which. "And that is why I'd like to hire you," she said.

I nodded. "I'm flattered, ma'am, but what exactly are you hiring me for? Everything I know about auto racing I just learned from Claire...um, Miss Martin, this morning on your driveway. I don't know that I'd be much help. If you think the ladies on the team might need protection, I know some bodyguards."

"No, Miss Spade. What the team needs is an investigator. And that's why I'm hiring you."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Madame Archambeau-Legrand raised her glass to drain about half the remaining brandy. After bringing it back to her lap, she paused long enough for me to think maybe her ticker gave out. But then she heaved a sigh and continued with what came out as slow, labored speech. "The Racing Dames have become mired in a bit of a scandal, I'm afraid."

"What can I do to help, ma'am?"

"Don't you even want to know the details?" she asked.

"I know we don't run in the same circles. And all I know about you is what I've read in the papers," I said. "But there's never been a disparaging word printed with your name attached to it. You seem like you're on the up and up. And honestly, the more I hear about your reasons for starting The Racing Dames, that a woman's career choices don't need to be limited to society's expectations, the more think it's an idea I can get behind."

Listen to me, talking like I'm some soft of idealistic crusader, ready to take up the fight against the patriarchy. But sitting in front of me, an old woman in a wheelchair was ready to jump into the fray. And the entire team of The Racing Dames was ready to join her. So who was I to sit this one out? The fact that the lovely Claire Martin was part of this progressive women's movement may or may not have had anything to do with it.

"I admire your bravado, Miss Spade," said Madame Archambeau-Legrand. "It's a simple thing really. The team has been accused of doctoring the car's fuel mixture with an experimental additive that's being developed for the Army Air Corps' next generation of fighter planes."

"That's what you call simple, huh?" I remarked.

"It's simple in that the race officials are crying foul and currently blaming the chief mechanic, though I know she is innocent."

"Pardon me for doubting, ma'am, but how can you be so sure?"

"When one comes from a wealthy family, Miss Spade, you don't get to be my age without encountering a fair share of nefarious characters along life's journey. I can sniff them out a mile away. Lily Von Schnadebach is a master of engine mechanics and nothing else. I trust her as I trust my own family. Perhaps more."

"Very well," I said. "Is there anyone you do suspect?"

Madame Archambeau-Legrand let out a sigh. "Unfortunately, Miss Spade, the list is long. I would imagine nearly anyone in the current league of motor racing would be happy to see the women's team disqualified if only to protect what they see as the sanctity of their male-dominated sport."

"That does make for a long list."

"And that is why I need your help, Miss Spade. I have enough influence to keep this quite for a time, but not forever. If word gets out, even if it's later disproved, it has the potential to destroy everything these women have worked for."

"And your dream as well."

"I'm an old woman, Miss Spade. Whatever you might credit me for starting, I most certainly won't be the one to finish it. That torch is for the next generation to pick up. I only ask that you help me ensure they are not sabotaged in their efforts by those who are small-minded in their thinking."

"You can count on me, Madame Archambeau-Legrand."

* * *

First National Bank, 1:00 p.m.

I made it to the teller's window just after noon to deposit the generous advance Beatrix Archambeau-Legrand had pressed into my palm. After seeing the trail of zeros after the number, I balked a little at first. But she insisted, saying it wasn't much more than her granddaughter's monthly allowance. And after that, with visions of Claire Martin filling my head, I shut my trap and took the check.

With the check now safely in the vault, the only other thing I had on my mind was the business card Claire had given me with the address of the Pine Point test track. I figured the track was as good a place as any to start my investigation, and if I'm being honest, maybe catch a glimpse of Claire walking out in a nice form-fitting racing suit. But it wasn't shaping up to be my day after all.

* * *

Pine Point Test Track, 2:15 p.m.

The only person I remotely recognized on the grounds was Eddie Monday, and fortunately it was from a distance. I wasn't surprised to see him hanging around a track. Eddie's operation runs the books on all sorts of illegal betting. Auto racing might be the new kid on the block, but just like the ponies, it wasn't immune from people stepping up to lay money on a win, place or show.

But I had other things on my mind. Specifically, Claire Martin and her perfume. I was so hung up on it I swear I smelled it in the air wherever I went. And after Lily Von Schnadebach, the team's chief mechanic, Claire was next on my interview list. Cross off the obvious innocents first and see who else shakes out.

I took a guess the six foot fraulein with the grease smudged coveralls and a wrench in her hand, the gal who looked like she could give the offensive line of the Los Angeles Rams a run for their money, was the most likely candidate for Lily. I also surmised her preferred perfume was not imported, but probably came in quart cans labeled 10W40.

"Miss Von Schnadebach?" I said.

"Jah."

"You got a minute?"

"I am very busy."

"It's about fuel additives," I said. "You got time for that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Please go. I am very busy."

"Relax, Lily. I'm a friend. Madame Archambeau-Legrand hired me to help clear up this little...misunderstanding."

Since I became a private eye, I've had plenty of dames break down and cry on me. Sometimes it was from grief. Sometimes it was when they realized it wasn't perfect crime they'd planned after all. Spontaneous breakdowns kind of came with the territory. But never in my career have I had a six-foot, grease smudged, wrench wielding, German racing mechanic break down and start blubbering on my shoulder.

"Miss Von Schnadebach," I said, laying a hand on her back in an attempt at comfort. "No one's accusing you. I just need you to help me get a picture of what's going on here."

"Jah," she said, straightening up and wiping her nose on the sleeve of her coveralls. "Okay."

"I'd offer you a smoke," I said, "but this doesn't look like the safest place in the world for that."

Lily Von Schnadebach shook her head. "I didn't doctor the fuel," she said, cutting straight to the chase. "The additives. That is not how I win races."

"I believe you. More importantly, Madame Archambeau-Legrand believes you. What I need to know is who else might have access to pull it off."

"Well, there is the pit crew," she said. "But I've worked with all of them before. Never any problems."

"I'd like to get their names, just in case." I slipped a notepad and pen from my inside pocket.

"Jah, I can do that."

"Can you think of anyone else?"

"There are the drivers, of course. And Madame Archambeau-Legrand has stopped by on occasion for...what do you call it? A pep talk? But sabotaging her own race team?" Lily shook her head. "I cannot believe she would do such a thing."

"Maybe she didn't think you could win it fair and square," I offered.

"Nein," Lily Von Schnadebach said, as she stared into my eyes. "Madame Archambeau-Legrand's pep talks are never about winning. She only tells us how proud she is of all of us. What we represent for future generations of women. The desire for winning, that comes from the team. From in here."

Lily Von Schnadebach pounded her chest twice, right over her heart, while I just stood there nodding and feeling like a ham for prodding her like I did.

* * *

Office of Sam Spade, 5:40 p.m.

I spent my day sitting down with just over half of The Racing Dames pit crew, and took my lunch as some of the blackest coffee I'd ever seen gracing the inside of a cup. As it was offered by Lily Von Schnadebach, I can't deny having more than just a passing vision of it being brewed with used motor oil. But if it was, Lily had the best tasting motor oil in the city, and it bolstered me to finish up the interviews with the remaining pit crew and Cosette Desjardins, the number two driver.

The problem was, at the end of it all, I was no closer to an answer of who could have been tampering with the fuel mixture than I was when I started. So after checking the doors and locks for signs of tampering or forced entry, I did what any good private eye does, I made a solid plan to head to the diner and put something besides coffee in my gut.

But I decided to stop by the office first, and that's where my plans derailed. I smelled her perfume before I even unlocked the door. She was sitting in my chair, leaning back with her feet on the desk. "How'd you get in here, Miss Martin?" I asked.

"Golly, Sam. You really have a way with the ladies, don't you?"

I reached into my coat and pulled out my pack of Luckys. I shook one out and held it to within Claire's reach. She had to move her feet off the desk, but she leaned forward to take it and let me light it for her.

"The building super let me in," she said, exhaling a cloud. "I assumed you'd want to interview me next, since you've been though everybody else."

"Sorry," I said, lighting up a smoke of my own. "I'm a little off my game. I've been running on empty all day with only a bottomless cup of coffee to prop me up."

"Lily's coffee?"

I nodded.

"You poor thing," said Claire, pushing back the chair and making her way over to my side of the desk. She blew another cloud of smoke over my head and laid her coffin nail to rest in the ashtray.

"Lily's coffee is legendary. But it's a Faustian bargain. A few hours after that burst of energy, you'll be ready to drop," she said, coming behind me to rest her hands on my shoulders. "And on an empty stomach? I'd say the clock is ticking Miss Spade. So you have a decision to make."