San Francisco, 1936. The lights were taking forever to change, and Phoenix Malone cursed in her native French. It had been one of those nights when it seemed that everything was against her. Finally, the traffic began to move and the private eye, not dick, came to a halt outside the nondescript building shrouded in darkness. She got out of her car. A Derby Bentley with a three-and-a-half-litre engine, widely regarded as t...