Off-Beat Seattle Detective's Lifestyle Is No Accident

We connoisseurs of private detectives are used to the Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe kind of snooper. We have this image of them.

They set the pattern for a whole genre of detective stories with private-eye heroes. They were tough, fast-talking free-lancers who used to work for $25 a day and expenses.

They would tangle with hoods, get beat up by cops, frequent seedy and dangerous precincts, absorb saps to the head; they were hard-drinking, fatalistic adventurers in the world of crime.

Up to this week, the only private investigator I knew was John Straley. He is a fellow who investigates criminal and accident cases out of Sitka, Alaska.

Now his life seems changed. He wrote a mystery novel, "The Woman Who Married a Bear," based partly on his experiences as a private eye. The novel was very well received by critics and he now is at home pounding on his word processor with a complete change of profession in view.

The other day I met my second version of a real-life private dick.

His name is Lee Phelps and he has an office with his partner down in the industrial area at Sixth Avenue South and South Lander Street. He is a far cry from Marlowe and Spade.

Lee Phelps does not shadow suspects. He does not tap phones. He wouldn't dream of poking around in someone's private life.

On his office wall is a framed letter, among many other memos he has. It is an affectionate "Merry Christmas" message to "Lee Phelps, a consummate professional."

It is signed by five justices of the Washington State Supreme Court.

Can you imagine Dashiel Hammett's Sam Spade receiving something like that?

For that matter, can you imagine the "Maltese Falcon" protagonist, that same Mr. Spade, being a good golfer, a squash player (at the College Club), a private airplane pilot, a heavy-weather sailor, and an accomplished bass player?

Lee Phelps is a trim, athletic-looking fellow, a graduate engineer, probably in his 50s. He happens to be a buddy of Mike James, the KING-TV news anchor. When I told Mike I wanted to examine this private investigator from close up, he rattled off several superlatives.

"Lee is the kind of guy who is always around on your birthday, and he's always there if you're sick. He's a great friend to have."

Something almost eerie happened while I was talking to Phelps. In mid-sentence, he snapped his fingers and went for his telephone. He called and asked for a party named Hugh Miracle. When Mr. Miracle came on the line, Phelps rendered "Happy Birthday" with a tuneful sound he calls "nose trombone."

"I just remembered it was Hugh's birthday," he explained.

Phelps got into the private investigating business in the late 1950s. His partner is a boyhood friend, Dick Cole. They have been together more than 35 years.

Through some lawyer friends, he learned that there is a great need for research in accident and personal-injury cases. "I was amazed at how badly prepared some lawyers were," he said. "Within a matter of weeks, I signed up several clients for investigative work."

I asked him if he did anything exciting yesterday. "Not really," he said. "I spent all day in a rendering plant in Toppenish. An industrial-accident case."

Basically, Phelps said, he is a researcher who painstakingly can reconstruct accidents. One example might be the scene of a serious traffic accident. He surveys and measures the site, marks the key locations with white paint, then goes up in his Cessna 150 and takes aerial pictures of the "reconstructed" accident scene.

As a young man, a musician, Phelps became sort of an American expatriate in Paris. He shared quarters with an aspiring artist named Robert Redford. This was when they were both about 19, long before Redford became THE Robert Redford we all know about today.

On another visit to Paris, Phelps bought a 32-foot offshore, heavy-weather sailboat. With a companion, he sailed it across the Atlantic, through the Panama Canal and on up to Seattle.

"I have another distinction," he said, smiling, taking a picture off his wall. "I am the only person ever to take an automobile through the Hiram Chittenden Locks."

It was true. The whole thing was a promotional stunt cooked up by the late deejay, Bob Hardwick. Phelps rigged up a Volkswagen Beetle with flotation devices and an outboard motor.

When he isn't investigating accidents, Phelps still plays bass. He teams up with his friend, pianist Paul West, at the La Rive Gauche in Pioneer Square.

"I can't imagine what you find about my life that is worth writing about," Phelps said. He is a modest fellow, indeed.

Emmett Watson's column appears Sunday and Thursday in the Northwest section of The Times.