Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (3 page)

I
stood and leaned in close to whisper and
caught a whiff of her skin and hair. Any other time, it would have been a nice
distraction. “I’ll get behind the door.”

She nodded. The edge of her mouth twitched.

I got in position, readied myself and nodded.

“Who is it?” she said.

A muffled voice said, “I have new information on your brother.”

Her brows furrowed. Suddenly another bad taste formed in my mouth.

She turned the knob and opened the door. Whoever it was kicked the door
wide. It caught me on the forehead. If that was the intention, it had worked. I
made a mental note to keep my hands up the next time this kind of thing
happened.

A man dressed in a dark suit stormed into the room. He grabbed Lillian by
the wrist and wrung it behind her. She yelped and her knees gave away.

“Where is it?” he demanded, his voice an odd accent I couldn’t place
immediately. “It has to be here.”

I shook my head to clear the stars, then charged the guy. I’m not
anywhere near linebacker size, but I plowed into him just like he was a
quarterback. I caught him off guard and sent him sprawling onto the floor. He
released Lillian’s wrist and she scrambled away from the melee.

My momentum carried me on top of the guy. I was in the process of getting
up when he elbowed me in the ribs. The wind flew out of my lungs and I rolled
off him, gasping for air. We had landed between the coffee table and the sofa,
so he had to extricate himself. That was all the delay I needed.

Still heaving for breath, I stood and held up my fists. The man stood and
turned to me. I recognized him.

He was the shooter, the man who murdered Wendall Rosenblatt.

He used the momentary pause to his advantage. He put up his fists and
assumed a fighter’s stance. With his leg, he moved the coffee table aside,
giving him more room to maneuver.

I grabbed the lamp from one of the end tables and hurled it at him. When
he ducked, I moved in. I flew with my right, but he parried with his forearm.
Good thing I was left-handed. My fist crashed into his jaw with a satisfying
crunch. He uttered one word as he fell to the floor.

“
Sheisse
!”

I blinked at the word. Breathing hard, I turned to Lillian. “You hear
that?”

She nodded.

“He’s German. Come on,” I said, motioning to the door, “let’s get out of
here.” 

She raced around the slumped figure and grabbed her purse from a side
table. Then, hand in hand, we ran to the elevator. The car arrived and we got
in, plunging straight for the ground floor.

We hurried through the polished marble lobby and out into the gathering
dusk. We ran up Texas Avenue to Travis. Dozens of parked cars angled along the
curb. Mine was along the north side of the hotel. Seeing my Pontiac, I reached
into my pocket to pull out the keys. Then a strange thing happened.

Doors from three of the parked cars opened simultaneously and out stepped
a half dozen men. All wore dark suits. Their builds told me they were well
muscled. They weren’t holding guns, but I realized they probably had them at
the ready. They effectively blocked our way.

We turned away and stopped. A man in an Army uniform stood before us. On
either side of him were two MPs, each with a hand resting on their guns.

“Mr. Wade,” the man said, his voice gruff, “you and I need to talk.”

Despite
the threat these men seemed to pose, I
couldn’t help but be relieved.

Pointing at the hotel, I said, “There’s a blasted Nazi in room 1010!”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll check it out. That’s even more reason to
make our escape.” He motioned with his head to a dark sedan with an open door.
“Get in.”

Things began to falter in my brain. These Army men not only knew my name
but also where I was located. Was I being followed? Now, they wanted me to get
into their car? Alarm bells clanged in my head.

“Now, Mr. Wade.” This time, he motioned with his hand.

Pulling Lillian with me, I started for the car.

“Not her, Mr. Wade,” the Army man said. “I think it best if she goes with
Lieutenant Small.”

She and I looked at each other. The fear that had erupted in her eyes
from the upstairs fight was still present, but fading. “It’ll be okay,” I said.

“How do you know?”

Well, I didn’t, but that’s what you say when you have no choice, right?

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wade. We’ll meet at a new location, one that can’t be
traced.”

We parted and she was whisked away to one of the other cars. I climbed
into the sedan and the man settled beside me. I glanced at the man’s name tag:
Donnelly. The driver gave one glance at the traffic and then pulled out.

He turned, taking the car onto Main. The evening lights were flickering
on and I saw a few couples already in their evening wear. The symphony was
playing at the Music Hall. The Metropolitan Movie Theater, with its
stories-tall vertical sign illuminating the street, already had lines.

Donnelly extended a hand. “Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff, Mr.
Wade. I’m Captain Ernest Donnelly.”

I shook the hand but didn’t say anything. It was Donnelly’s show and he
was in charge.

“I guess you’re wondering what’s going on.”

“Understatement of the year,” I muttered. I massaged my left hand still
smarting from the blow I had landed on the Nazi.

“I’ll tell you,” Donnelly said, “but first let me ask you a question:
what were you hired to do?”

I kept my lips tight thinking over my response. Donnelly seemed to know
quite a lot, but maybe not everything. “What do
you
think I was doing?”

Donnelly smirked. “I think you were hired by Miss Lillian Saxton to
locate the reporter Wendell Rosenblatt, recently returned from Europe. I
believe she said her brother was missing in the war zone and she needed
Rosenblatt’s help to find him. Having located the brother, Samuel, Rosenblatt
was making his way back to Houston to give Miss Saxton a report. Soon after
disembarking in Galveston on an unannounced stop by his liner, Rosenblatt went
missing.” He paused, glancing over at me. “That about it?”

I was mute. He had just nailed everything I knew. “How’d you know?”

“Because that was the story we invented in case anything went south and
certain operatives were captured.”

I knew my mouth was hanging open. I took a deep breath and the air slid
over my dry lips. I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. I
lit one and offered the pack to Donnelly, who took one. I didn’t offer one to
either the driver or the man riding shotgun.

I used the time to mull things over. Everyone in my case, the last week
of my professional life, was a lie. Well, not entirely. Burman was his usual
self. Maybe Lillian wasn’t who she said she was, but she still wanted whatever
documents Rosenblatt had brought back from Europe. And the Army seemed to be in
on it, too. Still, no matter their precautions, it seemed the Nazis also knew
about it and had followed Rosenblatt all the way from Spain.

Either that or they had radioed ahead to operatives here in the States.
The thought chilled my blood. We weren’t in the war, but was the war coming to
us?

Finally, I said, “I see. So is Rosenblatt an Army officer?”

“No. He’s a private citizen, doing work for his country.”

“Did you send him there or did Miss Saxton?”

Before Donnelly could respond, the driver said, “Sir, I think we’re being
followed.”

“Blast it.” Donnelly turned around to look out the rear window. “That was
fast.”

I craned my neck to see what Donnelly saw. Dozens of headlights burned
into my eyes. “How can you be sure?”

Donnelly gave me a scornful look. “Mr. Wade, we’re the United States
Army. This is what we do. I trust Sergeant Gregson when he says we’re being
followed.” He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Don’t lose them yet, but be ready
when I tell you. As far as they know, we’re out for a nice evening ride.”

He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Back to your question,
Wade. We have certain assets that we like to use in order to keep Uncle Sam’s
name off the ledger. Some of those names help us because they’re on our
payroll. Others help out from a sense of duty. You do know the war’s coming
here, right?”

I squinted at him through my cigarette smoke. It’s the kind of truth you
don’t like to admit even when you know it’s right. War meant a lot of things,
mainly death, to a lot of guys. I liked the fact that Roosevelt had kept us out
of the conflict. So far. I was two for two in voting for him and he hadn’t let
me down yet.

But now agents of his own military were whisking civilians off the streets
and we were being followed. This didn’t ring right to me. It wasn’t the way
things were supposed to happen.

“What’s Rosenblatt got that everyone’s hot under the collar to get their
hands on?”

Sitting half-turned to me, Donnelly considered his answer. “He learned
important things that could shape how and when we enter the war. He wrote it
all down and was to deliver it to us here in Houston.”

“Why here?”

“Because it’s not Washington. Our enemies expect us to make these kinds
of exchanges in Washington or New York or Philly. Maybe even New Orleans, but
not in Houston. You’ve got a nice little town here, Wade. Let’s hope it stays
that way.”

This “little” town had nearly 400,000 folks living in it. I questioned
his definition of “little.” Then, a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
“Except now, the Nazis know about Houston. It’s why the ship stopped in
Galveston.”

Donnelly nodded. “That’s my assumption. Rosenblatt was a good reporter.
He had picked up some skills in stealth during his time overseas. He sent us a
coded message to waylay the ship in Galveston, but he didn’t tell us where he
would be disembarking. He slipped through our net, and he also slipped through
theirs.”

Gregson the driver spoke up. “Sir, there might be two vehicles now.”

Donnelly turned his head sharply. “Radio Lawson and tell him to merge
up.” He turned to me and grinned. “We have a few chase cars that follow us to
watch for anyone who might be tailing us. Here’s where the fun begins.”

I bit my lower lip, pondering the implication that Rosenblatt or someone
else had the clout to stop the ocean liner at an unscheduled port and then
somehow slip away. “So, what we’re looking for is Rosenblatt’s written report?”

Donnelly nodded.

“You searched the liner when it docked here in Houston?”

“Top to bottom. No trace.”

“So he kept it with him when he got off in Galveston.”

“Apparently so.” Donnelly fished out his own cigarette and put fire to
it.

“But it wasn’t on Rosenblatt when the shooter cornered him. That’s why
the Nazi had to return to Miss Saxton’s hotel room.” I gazed blankly out the
window at the passing store fronts. “That means he hid it so well that we don’t
know where it is. Neither do the Nazis.”

Donnelly exhaled his smoke in a ring. “That’s the big question: where’s
the report? Where’s the evidence?”

I stared out the window, thinking. The storefronts blurred by, creating a
mosaic of light and words. People milled about on the downtown streets, having
only the normal cares of normal people. I, on the other hand, was stuck in this
car with US Army officials being chased by Nazis in an American city. An image
flashed in my head: a normal neighborhood, children playing in the yard, the
sun beaming down, fathers mowing lawns, mothers tending gardens, the mailman
being chased by a dog, the ice cream truck trundling down the street. It was
normal. It was where I wanted to be.

Then a new thought occurred me. There was one place Rosenblatt could have
hidden his notes. I turned to Donnelly. “Do you trust me?”

He scowled, more at the headlights behind us than my pointed question.
“Mr. Wade, I barely know you. Why would I?”

“Because I think I know where Rosenblatt might have hidden the
documents.”

Donnelly
snapped his head toward me. “Where?”

I jerked my thumb out the rear window. “With those clowns chasing us,
we’ll never have a chance to find out if I’m right.” I gave him a mischievous
grin. “But if I can get out without being seen, you can lead them on a wild
goose chase while I follow up my hunch.”

Donnelly considered it for a moment. “Where’s the car?”

Gregson replied, “He’s moved a few car lengths closer.”

Donnelly tapped the shoulder of the other soldier. “Give me the radio.”

He complied. Donnelly gave the chase car instructions to move up and
temporarily block the Nazis’ car from us. He checked his watch and timed it.

He pointed. “You’d better be right. Where do you want to meet?”

I thought it over. “Where are your offices?”

He gave me the address and phone number. I committed them to memory.

Behind us came the sounds of screeching tires. A pick up truck had tried
to turn and had clogged the street.

I frowned. “When did the Army start issuing pick up trucks?”

Donnelly grinned. “We don’t always use just what the government gives us.
Turn here,” he said to the driver.

Gregson took a right turn onto Elgin and slowed. I opened the door and
dove onto the street, taking cover behind a few parked cars. Donnelly closed
the door behind me and the car sped off.

Less than a minute later, another car turned right. Keeping my head low, I
caught the silhouettes of two men in a black car speeding to catch up with
Donnelly’s car.

Holy cow
, I thought,
it worked
.

I doubled back onto Main and hailed a taxi. It took me back to the Rice
Hotel. My car was still where I had parked it. I climbed in and threaded my way
through Houston traffic back to the house on Oak Street. I took a roundabout
route, turning and doubling back, trying to see if I had a tail and, if so,
trying to lose it. Finally, sure I wasn’t followed, I entered the neighborhood.
I drove down Oak Street, giving the house the once over. A few other cars were
parked on the street. I couldn’t tell if any of them held Donnelly’s men or the
police. I assumed Burman didn’t know about Donnelly.

I parked on the next street and crept up the driveway of the house
directly behind the one where Rosenblatt died. No dogs barked as I passed the
living room window of the rear neighbor. It was around 8:30. I heard the
distinctive opening monologue of the
Superman
radio show muffled through
the walls. Since nearly getting shot today, I couldn’t help envying Superman’s
invulnerability to bullets.

Opening the gate of the chain link fence between the two houses, I
quickly found myself at the back door. I loosened the police tape, letting it
hang on the wall. I would replace it when I left. Taking out my small pocket
tools, I easily picked the lock and entered the quiet room.

I took out my lighter and snapped on the flame. The small light was all I
needed. I could easily keep it from being seen from the front of the house on
the off chance there was surveillance. It wasn’t like I was going to make a
long canvas of the house. I knew exactly what I needed and exactly where it
was.

The pile of debris was right where gravity had left it. I crouched down
and held the lighter close to the floor, sifting through the stamps and other
paraphernalia of this little home post office. I found what my eyes had seen
earlier today but my brain hadn’t registered at the time: receipts for a post
office box.

My assumption was that if Rosenblatt knew he was being followed by the
Nazis, he needed to get the documents into an easily accessible location. It
stood to reason that mailing his notes to his own box or that of a trusted ally
was a perfectly safe way to accomplish this. I thought myself pretty smart at
that moment.

Until the voice from the shadows said, “What is so special that made you
come back here and break into a crime scene?”