The Quantum Hypostasis: San Francisco 1938

By Brett Eastonfield

Part one of the Quantum Hypostasis series. The world consists of San Francisco and the surrounding nine counties circa 1938. Is it the past, the future, another dimension, the dream of someone from another planet, or the vision of someone from ancient history? Only the brilliant detective, Samantha Spade, is up to the challenge of discovering the truth. All she has to do is decipher her own past, decide which of the quirky characters in her world to believe, and survive the dangers of knowing too much. A novel of science intrigue in the classic noir style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apport Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005623098

Brett Eastonfield

Soldier, adventurer, raconteur, restless layabout when not working on my Bug-eye Sprite. Lost my heart to the incomparable Dejah Thoris one summer in my youth, bounced around with Billy Pilgrim, and learned, as an axe-man, to never give an inch. I write using a drafting pencil, gum eraser and graph-lined pads. I exploit children to convert my careful printing into bytes.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sam pulled the wide brim of her fedora down and tightened the belt on her trench coat to keep out the fog as she walked along Post Street toward the bay. The snub nose .38 caliber pistol snugged in her purse made it bounce heavily against her side as she walked down hill. She saw in her right eye her account value increment slowly as she walked, like the odometer in a car. She smiled at being rewarded for something she liked to do.

As she approached Kearny Street Sam noticed something new. There was a newsstand jutting out onto the sidewalk where there had previously been a typewriter repair shop. A sign overhead read Rags and Mags. San Francisco had changed very little in the decade she had lived there; so, a new shop of any kind interested her. She ducked in under the awning when she arrived and pushed back the brim of her hat.

There were newspapers from around the nine counties stacked on low shelves. It must be a slow news day because all the headlines were famous ones from the past about dire predictions for a war in Europe she had seen more times than could be counted. People liked the familiar, even if it was about a prediction for a war that would never happen in a place that no longer existed.

She glanced at a paper from San Jose with her picture on the front. It was an old article about a diamond theft case she had solved. She remembered when Jack Flash had taken the picture. Sam wanted it to be in her trench coat and hat holding her .38. He had made her sit on the desk in a white silk blouse with her legs dangling down through a long skirt, holding a cigarette so that the smoke filled the air around her.

Sexy, he had said. That’s what sells newspapers. Let me shoot you in a bathing suit, and I could make you even more famous.

I’m famous enough, Sam had said.

Above the newspapers was a good selection of magazines, which Sam looked over to see if there was anything of interest. On the off chance there was a new issue she looked for the familiar banner and typeface of the magazine Scientific American. They occasionally published a new topical issue reprising articles published before or during 1938. Finding nothing, she turned to leave, and a voice said, Can I help you find something?

A slightly pudgy man had popped up from behind the counter and Sam caught a whiff of something sweet, almost licorice that was instantly familiar. As she took him in, she said, "Well, well, as I live and breathe Old Spice, if it isn’t Aiken Heart."

The swarthy, dark haired man of about thirty said, In the flesh. His teeth shone brightly from behind thin lips parted in a meek smile.

It’s been… what? Sam mused, over a year?

One year, three months, and two days since you sent me to The Rock, Sam. You didn’t forget about me, did you?

Well, I didn’t forget the good parts of you, Aiken. Are they still there?

They’re a little rusty.

The salt air on Alcatraz will do that to you, Sam said. You going to keep your nose clean now that you are a free man again?

Yeah, I think I’ve learned my lesson. A visit from you would have helped.

Sam looked chagrined. I would’ve… You know… All that water…

Yeah, I remember.

She couldn’t disguise her admiration as she said, You were quite a guy, though.

Look where it got me, he said displaying another meek smile. I’ll be selling newspapers for a long time until there is enough in my account to move up.

The Rehab people like to make sure the lesson sticks, don’t they? Sam almost regretted the obvious effect rehabilitation seemed to have had on Aiken. He was still attractive, no longer with the furtive look of a young outlaw, though, and somehow not as interesting, like a neutered dog.

Sam picked up a copy of the San Francisco Herald, reached for the coin in her coat pocket and flipped it in Aiken’s direction. Her account decremented as he caught the coin in one hand.

"Hey Sam, I read you’re the guest emcee for the annual War of the Worlds rebroadcast. I have to contribute to the community, and all that, as part of my rehab so, I’m volunteering as part of the technical crew. Any chance, you and I could… maybe… go for a drink after?"

Another sly smile slipped into her expression as she inhaled his scent again. That’s not for a couple of months. It could be a different world by then, but a… polish up those good parts and… we’ll see. Sam enjoyed his hopeful look and headed down the hill unfolding the paper.

The banner read: San Francisco Herald - Monday, September 3, 1938-224.

There was an article on the New Deal’s Public Works Art Project to paint murals inside Coit Tower. That was a popular attraction in the city and Sam had read all of the articles about the various stages of the work, and toured the lighthouse shaped building herself.

The murals continued to be repaired, restored, and maintained frequently, meaning the work would never be finished and the artists would continue to have their accounts increment as long as fog slunk under the Golden Gate Bridge. Like most things in The Nine, once set in motion, they rarely changed.

Some people liked the comfortable familiarity of things not changing. Sam would have liked some change once in a while; like when were television sets going to be available? She had seen demonstrations of picture and sound transmission through the airwaves across the bay, and heard the predictions of the device replacing radio, but it never happens.

Sam scanned several other oft seen stories as she walked, looking for something new. She found that on page two.

Mr. Flapdoodle Finds Another

By Jack Flash

Bernard Harrison, known throughout The Nine as Mr. Flapdoodle, has found yet another scientific anomaly, bringing his list of documented flapdoodles to 129. It follows his last discovery by only a month of a manhole cover in a street with no hole, as though it had been filled in. He suggests this may be an indication that flapdoodles are increasing in frequency.

Mr. Harrison has long been interested in flapdoodles, which he describes as ‘Observations that defy the laws of science as we know them.’ A common example is the edge bounce phenomena (If you drive your car into the edge of The Nine you will invariably bounce back, or return going in the opposite direction.) Another is the way you always have the exact amount of money you need in your pocket and your account counter increments and decrements accordingly.

No viable scientific explanation can be made for these observations and they are regarded by some as magic. However, Mr. Harrison does not believe in magic and is confident that with careful study a scientific explanation will be found.

Mr. Harrison further states that such magical thinking leads to excessive religiosity, a tendency to join cults and secret societies, and a propensity to commit suicide.

Instead, Mr. Harrison believes flapdoodles are tears in the fabric of the universe, and that the universe tries to repair itself, when it can. He likens it to a lizard growing another tail after losing it in an escape from a predator.

When asked the age-old question why the world is now limited to the nine counties surrounding San Francisco, when everything in recorded history indicates there used to be a much larger world, he replied, We don’t know, yet, but we will someday.

If you encounter a flapdoodle Mr. Harrison requests that you contact him with the details and he will investigate. He can be reached at the University of California at Berkeley.

Sam tucked the paper under her arm and started her climb up the hill. There was another long climb up the stairs to her office, and she was breathy when she reached the top.

A woman was waiting in the hall outside the office. She had dark skin, as dark as Sam had ever seen, which gave her an exotic look. She wore a red V-neck dress, the length down to her mid-calf and black high heels. Her hair was black, straight and topped by a red hat with a half veil. If that wasn’t enough to give the appearance of wealth and style, a mink stole fit around her shoulders so well you would have thought the mink had grown up there.

Are you Spade? she asked. Sam Spade?

Sam stuck her key in a door with the words Samantha Spade - Private Investigator printed on the textured glass, and opened it. The one and only, she said.

The woman followed Sam inside to an empty office, closed the door, and followed her again until they entered Sam’s larger office. I was afraid you weren’t coming.

Sam tossed her hat by the brim to catch on the top of the wooden coat rack, and then hung her coat below it. Sorry, ran into an old friend.

Oh, of course, the woman said.

Your name?

The woman carefully removed her kid gloves and clasped them with her purse before saying, Brigid Wonderly.

Sam swallowed the intrigue the name provoked by seating herself in the squeaky wooden chair behind the oak desk. She leaned back, took a breath and asked, What can I do for you?

I uh… need your help, Miss Spade. I don’t know where else to turn.

Gone missing, has he?

Well, yes, Brigid said as she sat in the chair across from Sam. "How did you know?

You’re sad, Miss Wonderly. You try to hide it, but it’s there all the same. There are only three kinds of sadness; money, grief, and love. You’re not money sad, because… well, look at you. You’re not grieving because you’re not wearing any black. So it’s love lost, or at least gone missing.

I see now why you come highly recommended, Miss Spade. Do you think you can find him?

That depends. I’ve found that when a woman loses a man she is usually better off without him. Why do you want him back, exactly?

I… uh, just want to talk to him. You know, patch things up between us.

What did you fight about?

What do lovers always fight about? Something silly. Things that don’t really matter when you think about it later. She stared out the window with a very distressed expression. I didn’t think it was possible, but he just disappeared.

Suppose he doesn’t want to patch things up? Suppose he’s through with you?

Oh, please, Miss Spade. You must find him. If you can just tell me where he is, I know I can make it right.

Sam thought a woman like her knew a lot about making things right with a man. She pushed a silver box of cigarettes toward her and opened the lid. Smoke?

Yes, thank you. Brigid extracted a cigarette and wooden match, struck, and lit it. She blew the smoke to the side through a curve of her very red lips.

You know, Miss Wonderly, when a guy and a girl go bad, it’s usually hard to tell who is in the wrong; so, a lot of detectives won’t take domestic cases.

But you will?

Oh, yes. I don’t have that problem.

Why not?

I always blame the guy. Now, suppose you tell me a little about Mr. Wonderful.

My name is Wonderful. His name is Cato… Felix Cato.

"I thought your name was Wonderly?"

What? Yes, yes, it is. Brigid Wonderly.

You see, I was making a little joke. You’re Wonderly. He’s Wonderful, but not really because he is at fault.

Oh, yes. Very amusing. She chuckled unconvincingly.

Where does he live?

I don’t know. He never said. You see, we met on… vacation. It was a vacation for me, at least. He lived there.

Is he vacationing in San Francisco, or is he on business?

I’m afraid I don’t know. Is that important?

If he’s on vacation I’ll find him in a hotel near a tourist spot. If he’s here on business I’ll ask around those types of businesses. What’s his line of work?

He’s a… fighter. A boxer, I guess you would call it. I have a picture of him, if that would help.

Sam expected a photo but, instead, Brigid handed her a very detailed pen and ink drawing of a man dressed like a solder of ancient Rome. He held a plumed helmet under his arm, had curly black hair and distinctive dark eyes. Sam felt sure she could recognize the man from the drawing if she saw him. Was this for a publicity poster for one of his fights?

Yes, that’s right.

Good looking fella. I can see why you fell for him.

Brigid let a grimace inhabit her face for an instant before it was replaced by a plea. Miss Spade? When you find him. Don’t tell him I’m the one looking for him. He’s angry at me, and I’m afraid I won’t get a chance to explain before he disappears again.

Very well. When I find him, I’ll let you know where he is.

Thank you, Miss Spade. Brigid stood and started to leave.

I think your forgetting something, Miss Wonderly.

I’m sorry. What?

My fee. That’s twenty dollars a day, in advance, plus expenses. I’d say, three days ought to do it.

Brigid reached into her purse and handed Sam several crisp bills totaling $200. I’ll pay you another $200 when you locate Felix.

That is well beyond what is necessary.

I want to be sure you are motivated, Miss Spade.

Oh, I’m motivated. Sam folded the bills and stuffed them into the pocket of her skirt, watched her account increment, and then let out a smile. She knew exactly how she would spend it. Her landlord, Aunt Bea, would be very happy to have several months rent in advance. Miss Wonderly, where was this vacation where you met Mr. Cato.

Rome.

Puzzled, Sam said, I’ve never heard of a town called Rome in the nine counties.

Rome, Italy, Miss Spade, she said. Oh, I see you don’t believe me, do you?

For $200 you could have vacationed on the Yangtze River, or the mountains of the moon. I doesn’t matter. San Francisco is full of Italians, and I’ll find him.

Very good, Miss Spade. She handed Sam a card from the Mark Hopkins hotel with a handwritten number on it. You can reach me here.

As she watched her leave Sam wondered what a woman who looked as good she did had to do to drive away a man. Sam then opened an empty manilla folder labeled Open Cases, put in the card, and closed the folder with a smile.

Chapter 2

Meeting Minutes

Board of the Invisible College

August 14, 1938-224 - 0800 Hours

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed gaveled the meeting to order and called the roll. All members of the board responded to the roll except Lieutenant-Groovy-Baby. It was asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of Lieutenant-Groovy-Baby. Several members reiterated that they did not know her whereabouts the last time he asked, they do not know her whereabouts now, nor would they likely know her whereabouts in the future. He might as well ask the whereabouts of Mother-Of-Us-All.

Ensign-Cherry-Orchard suggested that to continue doing the same thing again and again in the hope of getting a different result was the very definition of insanity, and he should check himself into an asylum and request a cold sheet wrap. He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed mumbled words to the effect that it was too early for Ensign-Cherry-Orchard’s nonsense.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed posed a (now deemed rhetorical) query, ‘Where could she be?’

Mr-Know-It-All stated the possibilities of Lieutenant-Groovy-Baby’s whereabouts as somewhat less than infinite, yet too large to be a useful parameter. He further questioned what good would it do to know where she was, when if she had wanted to return, she would have by now.

It was requested Mr-Know-It-All restrict his contributions in the meeting to those occasions when it was specifically requested.

Mr-Know-It-All responded that the hardest part about knowing everything is keeping it to oneself. Even an answer to a simple question can lead to a dissemination of everything he knows. In fact, he often played a game with himself in which he composed a single question which, when answered, would force him to state all that he knows.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed forcefully recommended that Mr-Know-It-All close his mouth (thus preventing unrequested dissemination of knowledge) and if he was unable to do so, He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed would be more than happy to forcibly assist.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed then stated that the Board bore sole responsibility for the lading, and that the Lieutenant’s function was necessary for the well being of every player. Should her characters fail to function properly it could precipitate another round of self-destructive behavior. The consequence would be a complete failure of the mission. He reiterated that; Failure is not an option. He also reminded members that attendance at the board meetings was mandatory.

Ensign-Cherry-Orchard exclaimed, ‘Yada yada, Warden.’ Several members expressed confusion as to the meaning of this comment.

Beam-Me-Up-Scotty stated that the lack of regulations covering this situation certainly was an oversight on the part of the board’s predecessors, as anyone with classically measured intelligence above a single digit knows a fundamental principal of human constructed systems is; ‘If something can happen, given enough time, it will happen.’

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed stated that since design restrictions are in place to prevent board members from leaving HILA, there was no reason to assume they would leave.

Beam-Me-Up-Scotty reiterated that their predecessors did not anticipate a board member with the motivation to get around the restrictions, and this was a fundamental design flaw in the system.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed stated emphatically there was no design flaw, as free will is a design parameter, and that their predecessors must have anticipated such a situation. He then asked Mr-Know-It-All to verify that this was true.

Mr-Know-It-All responded that a board member developing the motivation to circumvent the restrictions on leaving HILA was anticipated, and assigned a probability of 1 in 10²³, which Mr-Know-It-All characterized as likely as ‘An octopus riding a bicycle to town for a date with a lady.’

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed then asked what the recommended response for such a contingency was, to which Mr-Know-It-All responded, ‘Fake it.’

Several members asked the meaning of the expression, and Mr-Know-It-All stated that their predecessors were subject to frequent bouts of whimsy, and the expression was intended to be open to interpretation.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed muttered unintelligibly, and then asked for motions from the board on how to proceed.

Nurse-Steeple-Peep-Hole stated that with Lieutenant-Groovy-Baby missing there was no quorum, and business could not be conducted, Adjustment Reports made, nor motions entertained.

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed queried how the board was supposed perform its functions if they can’t at least hear Adjustment Reports?

Nurse-Steeple-Peep-Hole suggested that since he is the one who insists on scrupulously adhering to the silly Rules of Order during board meetings, that he had been ‘Hoisted with his own petard.’

He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed adjourned the meeting.

Chapter 3

Sam could feel in her bones this was going to be a good case. The excitement of a new case always made her feel like she was vibrating inside, like a bumble bee in a jar. She thought it funny how she went for a long time with only missing cats to find, and then a plum like Brigid walks into her office. Solve a case like this and Sam could get more clients, and earn enough to go to Rome herself. She chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. Not that she would ever go if she could. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere else than San Francisco.

Extracting the newspaper from her coat pocket, she laid it out on the desk, and began to read each article carefully. Most days it was simply a rehash of pre-1938 news interspersed with business notices, classifieds, local gossip, and Sam’s favorite; crimes. However she read most anything that was new.

A pole was being erected on the corner of Ellis and Hyde with a platform on top as part of a new advertising campaign for White Star Tuna. Someone was going to sit atop the pole and try to break the city record for flagpole sitting. Starting tomorrow a man would go up and be provided with a different dinner dish made from tuna every day. The last, record breaking day would be the same night as the War of the Worlds rebroadcast, also sponsored by White Star Tuna. A cookbook would be published with all the recipes. Sam couldn’t remember the last time she had heard about a flagpole sitter.

The cast for the annual radio rebroadcast of the War of the Worlds had been selected and rehearsals would begin in a couple of weeks. Sam smiled proudly as she saw her name listed as the special guest emcee for the evening. It’s good to be famous, she thought.

The door to the outer office opened and Sam heard heels clack on the wooden floor. A timid voice said, Hello?

I’m in here, Sam yelled. She didn’t look up from the paper and waited until she heard the heels take a few more steps, stop, and then said, Sam Spade, at your service. Whatever you have misplaced; cats, jewels or lovers, if you’ve got the cash, they’re as good as found. When she didn’t hear a response, Sam looked up.

A very young woman in an oversized trench coat and wide brimmed fedora stood in the door to the inner office, peered at Sam with sharp blue eyes, and then smiled with a broad shyness. I’m afraid I haven’t lost anything, Miss Spade.

Except maybe your way. If you don’t need me to find something, you’re wasting my time.

Oh, I’m sorry, she said beginning to spew her words out like a tommy gun. I’m Alexandria Friday, but you can call me Friday. Everyone does. I don’t know why. I guess because Alexandria has too many syllables. They could have called me Alex, but that sounds like a boy, so just Friday, if–

Sam held her hand up to halt the spray of words. I got it, Friday. Why are you here?

I want to be you, she said.

I’m already taken.

Oh, shoot, the girl