The Artimus Box

By Mike Downs

A skeletal arm protruding from the rubble of a seventy-year old building is an ominous warning of trouble for LAPD detective Van Taylor. Under the skeleton, the police find a box containing an encoding machine made by Artimus Designs. A bullet hole in the skull puts Van’s retirement plans on hold.

Van thought this was going to be an easy case. When he wakes up in a hospital wondering why a motorcycle gang forced him off the road demanding the box, he realizes this case is more complicated than he thought. Trying to put the puzzle together, Van, aided by his wife Kathy, finds a fascinating world of early American racing. Harry Artimus was the genius behind the fastest racing cars of the 1920s and 30s. Together they learn Harry’s brilliance at mechanical design led a Nazi agent to dupe him into designing a radical race car along with an encoding machine that would allow Germany to send unbreakable secret messages.

When the gang leader kidnaps Van’s wife as ransom for the box, Van, half-crazy trying to save her, finds his closest friend has betrayed him. They are all after the box in which Artimus allegedly hid stolen blue diamonds. Van resorts to brutal force to save his wife, and solve the seventy-year old murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Downs
• Release date: Nov 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465925770

Mike Downs

Mike Downs is the author of more than thirty children’s books. He lives in Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1932 Los Angeles California

Tim knew he was running for his life.

The deep shadows on the street jumped out as the moon danced in and out of the cloud cover on this cool L.A. night. Tim Wahl was the last man to leave the shop. Outside the door, he fumbled with his keys, darkness made it difficult to find the right key to lock up. He was later than usual, but Tim was used to long hours working for Harry Artimus. He was on his way to take the wooden box he made for Harry’s latest masterpiece to the boss’s apartment.

He wanted to show Harry he had the skills needed to make him a permanent part of Artimus Engine Works. The boss would see his careful crafting of the box. This would surely earn him a place in the machine shop. Harry had only the best men working for him and Tim longed to work alongside them. The slim blond-haired boy was just getting started in the racecar business and he was yearning to show Harry that he deserved a place with the men he idolized.

He walked down the deserted block, his mind fixed on visions of the future. Tim snapped out of his daydreaming when by the glare of a streetlight, he saw three men up the street watching him. He immediately recognized them as the same men he saw arguing with Harry in the shop’s office. The men were coming toward him. One of the men shouted to Tim in broken English, Halt boy! We must speak, Halt! Tim turned to run. He heard a gun shot and felt brick dust sting his face. The men would have a clear shot if he tried to get back to the shop.

It was a cool night but sweat was breaking out over his body. His heart was pounding hard in his chest…his legs began to tremble. The gunfire terrified Tim. It did not seem real to him, that someone would shoot at him here. He was home in the city he grew up in, not some battlefield. Tim never fired a gun, the Great War had ended before he was born. He knew now the men were after the box and would do anything to get it. Tim did not need to be able to speak their language to know they were killers. He had been a fool to take the box out of the shop, now he was going to have to run for his life.

Tim passed by a new building going up on Washington Boulevard on his way to work every day. He thought if he could just make it there, he could lose them in the huge piles of building materials and the heavy machines. He could find a place to hide in all the construction work. After they quit searching for him, he could go to the police. He would still have the box to show Harry. He would be safe…everything would be all right.

He ran down the street, his pounding footsteps echoing in the quiet night. He slowed and turned down the dark mouth of an alley. Tim began taking quiet steps to the building site. He looked for a safe place to hide in the darkness of the lot. The huge piles of building materials and the machines were gone. The lot was cold, still, and very empty. The construction crew must have cleared the entire lot during the day. The steel beams of the upper floors were in place and there were wood planks forming temporary floors. At ground level, wooden forms enclosed the support beams, ready for the construction crew to pour concrete that would provide the foundation.

The shock of realizing the lot was empty froze Tim to the spot. His legs turned rubbery. Rough guttural voices carried in the stillness…the men hunting him were closing in. For the first time in his life, Tim felt real panic. The hair on his neck bristled with sweat. His shoulders tightened, he could almost feel a long rifle sighting in on him. His eyes darted over the empty lot.

He searched for some kind of cover, but he could not see anywhere to hide. The fear coursing through his body was consuming any rational thought. He wanted to be free from this crippling fear, to be safe, but he could not see any place to go. He had to run---he had to climb. The boy clutched his treasured box tightly under one arm and pulled himself up to the first floor steel beams. He crept cautiously on a steel I-beam to a corner to try to find cover behind one of the big vertical beams.

Shots rang out with brilliant flashes of light. Darkness closed over Tim, he dropped with a dull thump to the dirt below. A cloud of dust billowed up, and then settled silently over the body.

Tim’s hunters faded into the darkness when dogs began to bark, lights snapped on, and people peeked out from the neighboring buildings. Men dressed only in pants and tee shirts, women in robes, their hair up in curlers poured from the houses. All eager to see something extraordinary, maybe gangsters at play, blood in the street.

Chapter 2

Present Day Los Angeles

It was a cold beginning to a gray overcast day in Los Angeles. The morning fog hung in the air like a dank sheet.

Workmen, holding steaming cups of coffee, gather together in animated conversation at a secluded corner of the lot. An idle backhoe sits in another corner of the foundation. The men are talking about a skeletal arm protruding at an odd angle in the rubble of concrete that the backhoe had ripped up. Blue uniformed police are securing the area. Bright yellow crime scene tape snaps in the cool breeze. A few reporters are milling around impatiently waiting for some kind of story.

The building was another of those great old brick two story buildings built in the early thirties to house businesses on the ground floor and tenants above. No matter how much people wanted to save the artistry of the past, the future must prevail, so the beautiful old building was coming down. New blood was moving in again and new buildings had to follow.

A young patrolman calls his report into the department. The Captain in this small division station receives all reports and decides what action to take. Captain James Stoneham, is a veteran of thirty-five years of police service. Over the years, he has grown heavyset and balding. His gruff exterior sometimes hides the protective nature he feels for his men, and his division. The door to his office is seldom closed.

Van Taylor is the Captain’s best detective. He relies on Van’s experience the man does not coast. After all the years in service, Detective Taylor still works hard at the job. Stoneham is concerned that the detective is thinking too much lately about retiring, he is not ready to let Taylor go. The Captain knows the man needs a rest but this should be an easy case, a quick one to put away.

Captain Stoneham sits behind his old scarred wooden desk passed down from previous generations. He has kept it as a reminder of the men who sat behind it before him. The cigar burns that mark the edges are from the hard-boiled chiefs of a bygone age. He checks the current caseload and looks at the duty roster. The roster tells him the time Van checked out. He leans back in his chair and studies the view from his window. Ah, hell, this one’s easy. He picks up his phone and dials Taylor’s number.

The phone rings incessantly. Van Taylor has gotten just about four hours of sleep. He had been chasing bad guys into the early morning hours and thinks the phone is still a part of the dream he is having. He untangles his legs from the covers and reluctantly answers the phone.

Van is not new to the game; he has been an L.A. detective for twenty-eight years. He is a healthy six-foot tall man with thinning iron gray hair, and at 200 pounds, he thinks of himself as being overweight.

Van’s stand out feature has always been his deep blue eyes. From childhood, people have commented on the intensity of his eyes. Van has found to his delight over the years, that women look into his eyes with fascination also. Now close to retirement, he has earned some privileges.

While still a member of the L.A.P.D., Van is working in a small division headed by Captain Stoneham, his long time friend and mentor. He did not like the fact that the Captain had decided that he would get this gig. It was too early in the morning on a freaky cold L.A. day.

What he knew from the brief phone conversation with his boss was that a demolition crew found a skeleton with a bullet hole drilled through the skull. The remains were in some new construction on Washington Boulevard.

By the time Van got to the scene, the forensic people had already taken the remains out of the old concrete flooring. Under the body, they discovered a wooden box.

It was rough in spots, but still with some polished surfaces. The box, about fourteen inches square, was unopened in a large clear plastic evidence bag.

The first thing Van needed to do was to identify the body and determine when the murder had occurred. The body had fallen, or been placed into a foundation pit and was then buried in poured concrete. Most remarkable was the condition of the remains and personal items. The police found an old pocket watch and a wallet with a still legible 1930 California driver’s license issued to a Timothy Wahl with the remains.

Van calls in to check with the department to see if they had any record of a Tim Wahl. The woman in records could not find anything on Wahl in her computer. Records that old would be in file boxes downtown. She thought that Van might have better luck with the newspaper morgue. They still kept old files on microfiche.

Van had not eaten breakfast and knew a place near the paper that still served real buckwheat hot cakes and eggs, with the eggs basted just the way he liked them. L.A. may be a crime capital but it still offered some old time comforts twenty-four hours a day that you could not find anywhere else on the West Coast. With all of the changes Van had witnessed during his lifetime in L.A. (and not many to his liking) he still loved this city. After satisfying his appetite Van is off to the Times building to check the morgue for clues as to the identity of Mr. Timothy Wahl.

He identifies himself to the newspaper morgue custodian, and takes a seat in front of a computer screen. The custodian instructs Van in the use of the program operation. The department keeps the detectives updated in the operation of computers, and new programs in order for them to be able to access the information so vital to police work. Van kept up on his computer knowledge, he has found to his own surprise that he likes computers and new electronic gadgetry. He finds the newspaper program easy to use.

Van decides to start with the year 1930, the date of issue on Wahl’s license. After scrolling through the years of 1930 and 1931, he comes to an article in 1932 to do with the disappearance of Timothy Wahl. Wahl’s mother, and his employer Harry Artimus, had reported him missing.

Apparently, from what the article reported, his employer was very disturbed by Wahl’s failure to be at work. Artimus had sent his entire work force to look for him. The years went by without any sign of Timothy Wahl. Searching the paper in the years after the disappearance, he could find no mention of Wahl. Van finds reams of stories about Harry Artimus. The name Harry Artimus brings back memories of his visit with his wife Kathy to Palm Springs. He thinks it must be the same Harry Artimus, who built all those fabulous racecars.

Kathy Taylor is a very pretty woman; she is a five foot six inch dynamo with short black hair that has some streaks of gray she does not hide. They have been married for twenty-five years. She is, by Van’s own admission, his guiding light. She persuaded Van to take some long over due vacation time to attend the vintage races in Palm Springs.

Kathy’s grandfather was a racecar driver in the 1920s and 30s. He had given his pictures and sizeable trophy collection to Kathy before his death. Van had always been a fan of auto racing and particularly of early West Coast racing.

It had been a fabulous spring weekend in Palm Springs, the air clear and the weather warm. Van and Kathy stayed at a beautiful old hotel. They relaxed by the pool, and hiked a few of the mountain trails. They took the tram almost to the top of San Jacinto Peak. The floor of the tram rotates to give fabulous views. The tram, packed with sightseers from all over the globe, swayed back and fourth over the sheer cliffs of Chino Canyon. Kathy squeezed Van’s hand for the entire 15-minute trip to the 8500-foot high mountain platform.

When they arrived at the racetrack, Van commented that variety and number of cars attending was amazing. The people displaying the cars were extremely gracious with their time. Many of the cars at this event were vintage sports cars. Some dating back to the pre World War One era. The cars were on display for everyone to see. The different designs from era to era were readily recognizable to the most casual observer. The very early cars were tall, high off the ground with huge engines. A few had chains and sprockets down the flanks to drive the rear wheels. The later cars became low and sleek, wind cheaters built for speed.

The scene unfolding in the warm pleasant sunshine was of a big picnic party. Brightly colored tents dotted the landscape. There were huge trucks that carried six to eight cars. The trucks had awnings that extended out from the sides with the cars displayed under them.

For many of the people here, the spring event had become the big annual family outing. They came from all over the country to play. Palm Springs was warm and the winter had been a long cold one. Fathers and sons tinkered with the cars. Mothers and daughters set out food and snacks on small tables. The opposite roles took place in some families, with the women driving the cars. On display for all the cars were plaques to describe the car’s history: the races won or famous drivers who piloted them. Some families dressed in the period costumes matching the era of their cars.

A row of food venders along one side of the lot had various foods, ice creams, and drinks on display. The desert lot was one big party. The beautiful people came to posture and pose. Irish wolfhounds, groomed to perfection, led their stylish masters on leashes.

Old white-haired men climbed aboard their trusty race cars to roar out on the makeshift racecourse and relive the glory years. A trained ear could tell which era of car was on the course by the sounds it made. The sights, sounds, and smells could put the senses in overdrive.

Kathy walked with Van through the rows of cars. She smiled knowingly when Van darted away to see some new source of fascination.

The owners of the cars had lavished many hours of loving care and considerable money on the sparkling beauties. Most were willing to share the histories of their cars and their own experiences. The cars that really turned Van’s head were the cars that Harry Artimus built. These were by far the cream of the crop. As one proud owner told him, Harry’s cars were made by the best craftsmen in L.A., if not the world. The man boasted that in the 1920s and early 30s some 6500 man-hours went into the building of each one of these cars. Between 700 and 1000 hours were dedicated to the fantastic finish work that Harry demanded his cars have.

The man bubbled over with Artimus chronicles. He told Van that Harry Artimus was a fabulous and well-loved character. He suggested that Van might want to read more about old Harry. He said there was a great deal of historical data on Artimus and his cars, as well as some of the wild inventions that Harry had thought up that were years ahead of their time.

At the end of the weekend, some of the cars owners invited Van and Kathy to enjoy glasses of champagne with them. They listened to the excited voices of different groups that gathered around and recounted vivid stories of their racing adventures. They stand together and watch the sun sink behind the mountains that surround the desert.

As Van reminisces about the wonderful weekend, he flashes on the old wooden box found under Wahl’s remains. He is anxious to get back to the department to see if forensics was finished with the box, so that he can get a look inside it.

Chapter 3

Van drives back to the department to check in. Captain Stoneham and Van have been working together since Van joined the police department. Stoneham had been on the force for years by the time Van joined. He taught Van the street cop lessons you did not get at the academy. Over the years, they have cemented a strong bond. Van wants to tell him what he has found out about the remains, and get down stairs to the evidence room. He taps on the doorframe to the Captain’s office and enters to give him a brief run down.

The Captain listens to the excitement in Van’s voice; he reminds him of the pending cases they have.

I gave you this one to go easy on you. Don’t make a big deal out of it, boyo. The thing is over seventy years old for Pete’s sake. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Captain has the word; I’m not looking to make it a career. I’m kinda’ looking forward to finding out how Harry Artimus figures into this.

Van leaves the Captain’s office and heads for the stairs of the old, but well-cared-for building. The well-worn stairs creak in protest as he pounds down the steps.

At the cage opening of the evidence room Van signs out the wooden box. The forensics techs have already opened the box, checked it out for content, and duly signed it over to evidence. He takes the stairs up the two flights to his desk in the squad room and sits down with the box on his desk.

It is heavy, but makes no noise nor rattles from inside it. The beautifully made box feels solid. Someone had spent a lot of time making the box and polishing the cherry wood to a luster that still shines in places. Van notes that the tech dusted the box for any prints and that the tech had taken time to wipe off the dust. Only a small amount of residue remained at the seams. It was unusual that a tech would take