Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (4 page)

I
froze. Since the police tape was in place,
it never occurred to me that someone else might be here. I didn’t know if he
had a gun. But I recognized the German accent and knew he was a Nazi.

My back was to the man, shielding the little pile of debris. In a second,
I made a decision: I held the receipts over the lighter. They flashed with
fire. I angled the paper, creating a larger flame, then tossed it onto the pile
of envelopes.

The odor of the burning paper tipped off my assailant. “Hey,” he yelled,
striding forward.

I kicked out my leg, catching him in the shins. He tumbled on top of me,
but I still had one knee under me. I rolled him up and over, keeping his
falling momentum going. He landed next to the burning pile of paper. The whoosh
of his air sent sparks into the air. Some landed on his face. He frantically
brushed them off, cursing as he did so.

I stood and made to kick him. He caught my foot before it struck his
face. Turning his grip savagely, he twisted. I crashed to the ground, smacking
my face on the floor. I kicked out with my other foot and managed to connect with
something. His grip loosened and I scrambled away from him, trying to turn in
time to intercept whatever he was about to dish out.

From outside the front window, headlights came on. The light beamed
straight into the kitchen window on the side of the house. I heard the sound of
a car door opening and closing.

Damn.

My assailant’s back was to the light, leaving his face in shadow. But I
could easily see his size as he stood and raised his mitts. He had me by at
least five inches and fifty pounds. I’m not a pip-squeak, but compared to him,
I was a lightweight.

He advanced. I grabbed a chair and swung it at him. He blocked it with a
forearm, splintering the wood and jarring my skeleton from the inside out. I
tried yanking it back for another blow but the thug held it in his iron grip.
He shoved it and I tumbled backwards, falling on my ass and into the sideboard.
Bottles and glasses tinkled and fell over. A bottle of whiskey crashed and
broke, its distinctive odor wafting in the room.

The thug had the chair in his grip and raised it over his head to deck
me. I was up against a wall with nowhere to go. I cursed myself for leaving my
gun in the glove compartment. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket for the
only other weapon I had, but I needn’t have bothered.

From the darkness, two flashes of light lit up the room. The deafening
sound of gunshots rang in my ears. The thug crumpled to the floor, the chair
crashing down on his limp form.

I thought I heard someone screaming, then I realized it was me.

Facing the doorway from which the blasts had come, I saw a figure. Smoke
from the gun was wafting up into the shaft of light from the blinds. As the
person stepped forward, lowering the gun, I caught the red hair and the eyes.

Lillian Saxton.

“Most people say thanks when someone’s done them a favor,” she cooed,
“especially if that favor is saving a life.”

I stood, my legs a bit wobbly. Forcing myself to breathe normally, I
tried to regain some of my manly demeanor that had been ripped away by my
girlie scream.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice not quite steady.

She smirked. “You might need to grow a backbone if you expect to last as
a P.I.”

“As long as no one’s shooting at me,” I said, “I should be all right.”

“In this line of work, not likely.” She paused, looking out the window.
“We’d better get out of here. That’s the second set of gunfire in this
neighborhood in a day. The police won’t take long in coming.”

I cocked my head. “What do you mean ‘we’? I have something to do. Why are
you here?”

She motioned with her head. “Think we’d better take this conversation
outside. Someone’s coming.”

I spun around and peeked through the blinds. From down the streets, two
men in suits were walking cautiously up to the house, the street lamps
elongating their shadows.

“You’re not coming with me,” I said, putting the gun in my suit pocket.
“But I’ll get you out of here. My car’s on the street out back.”

“I know where your car is. It’s where I got your gun.”

Her words puzzled me. My gun?

She continued. “And I’m coming with you or I might have to tell those
plainclothes officers outside that you were the one who killed this man.”

I
pulled out the gun and held it to the
light. Sure enough, it was my gun, or rather, my father’s gun that I had
inherited. The corpse had bullets that matched my gun. Burman would run
ballistics tests himself and then plaster the results on a billboard. He’d have
way too much pleasure in bringing me down.

“You don’t play fair,” I growled, putting the gun back in my suit pocket.
“C’mon.” We tiptoed toward the back of the house.

“Who said anything about fair?” she retorted, following close behind.
“This is war, mister. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can start
doing something about it.”

“But we’re not at...”

“Yes,” she spat, “we are.”

Footsteps sounded on the front steps, the wood creaking under the weight.
I held my finger to my lips. I opened the back door and the police tape
fluttered in the breeze.

We hurried across the back yard and through the rear gate. We were just
making our way along the driveway when the neighbor’s wife looked out the
window and saw us. She let out a piercing scream.

I grabbed Lillian’s hand and we ran to my car. I didn’t have time to be a
gentleman; she would have to open her own door. We climbed in and sped off.

After a few minutes of weaving in and around traffic and doubling back, I
gave her a sidelong glance. “How’d you follow me?”

“I didn’t.” She fished a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. “I knew
that if you had the chance, you’d probably return to the house. I didn’t have
time to go inside before the police showed up. I just camped behind the garage
and waited for you.” She blew smoke out of her nose. “Find anything?”

I paused a moment, debating what to say. Donnelly had pretty much implied
Lillian was a spy.
Could I trust her?
I stayed silent.

“What did Donnelly tell you about me?”

I equivocated. “Not much, really. Said you were helping him.”

“That’s true.” She blew smoke out of her mouth. “But it’s not the whole
story.”

“What’s the whole story?”

“I’m not sure I want to tell you. The less you know, the less you’ll be
able to hinder me. But I’ll say this: the part about my brother is true. He
really is in Europe, probably running for his life.”

“You sent Rosenblatt to Europe? Or did Uncle Sam?”

“A bit of both. Our interests were aligned so we worked out an
arrangement that was good for the government and for me.”

I scowled. “What happens if the interests no longer align? Which side do
you choose?”

She blew a smoke ring that lassoed the rearview mirror. “You’re the
detective. What do you think?”

I tried a new angle. “What are these documents Rosenblatt had? Why are
they so important?”

She killed the cigarette in the ashtray and stared out the windshield.
“That information is almost more important than my brother. And I’m definitely
not going to tell you details about them because frankly, I haven’t seen any of
them.”

“What?” I said. “You have no idea what they are?”

“Not really. I know Wendell considered them crucial to the war
effort”—she held up a finger—“I know we’re not at war, but it’s coming. I think
even the isolationists, deep in their hearts, know we can’t avoid it.”

I mulled that over for a minute. Whatever Rosenblatt had was worth his
life, but it was also worth the efforts of both the US government and Nazi
sympathizers here in America. And it seemed to me that Lillian was using
whatever leverage she had to inject herself into this equation. And damned if I
didn’t find myself in the middle of it, too.

But I had had an idea. Surely I wasn’t the only one who had suspected
Rosenblatt might have mailed the documents to himself or to someone else. Hell,
I would probably do it, too, if I were in his shoes. And I had an angle on
where they might be.

“I need to make a phone call and get a beer,” I said. “We’re going to a
little diner that might be a bit lower than you’re used to.”

“I wasn’t always this wealthy,” she purred. “I was born poor and worked
my way up.”

I didn’t ask her what kind of work she had done to advance her place in
society.

Bubba’s BBQ was located south of downtown just off Fannin. It was one of
the places to go for the best tasting BBQ this side of Austin. It barely
qualified as a restaurant; it looked more like a rundown shack than a fine
eatery. The air was pungent with smoke and meat, and Lillian visibly cringed
when we walked in.

I nodded to Bubba. He was stationed behind the counter by a large cutting
board wet with grease and fat. His dark skin shone in the overhead heating
lamps, a sweat ring banding his chef’s hat.

“You want something?” I asked Lillian.

“To leave here.” Derision dripped from her voice.

I smiled and turned to Bubba. “One chopped beef sandwich and two Lone
Stars.”

A few minutes later, I picked up the food and the cold bottles, sweating
from the condensation, and paid for them. We got a table near the middle, to
keep an eye on the front door while providing an easy escape out the back if
necessary.

Leaving Lillian to wipe the table with a series of paper napkins, I
moseyed back to the phone booth. I closed the door and pulled out all my coins,
stacking them on the phone. Remembering the name of the post office store
printed on the receipt I burned, I called to find out when they closed. They
stayed open late during the week. Good. Next I dialed Gordon Gardner. He picked
up on the first ring.

“Gordon,” I said, “it’s me. You busy?”

“Only covering your ass and mine trying to explain to the cops why I
drove you over to get your car.” From behind him came the sounds of typewriters
clanking away.

“You were just helping a friend.” I tried to soothe him before I dropped
my request. If there was a tally sheet, my side would be full of debts owed to
Gardner. Time to add another to the list.

“Listen,” I said, tracing my finger along the edge of the booth’s little
glass window, “I need a favor.”

Gardner snorted. “Of course you do. What is it now? Lie to the police?
You know I got put on a short leash after that thing with the horses.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, I know, but this one’s big.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“You have a point. But this one really is. It involves the war.”

“Yeah?” he said. I knew Gardner had just sat up straighter in his chair.
He thought a lot like Lillian Saxton: war with Europe was inevitable. It was
only a matter of time.

“Yeah,” I repeated.

“What do you want?”

“I need you to impersonate a dead man.”

After
giving Gardner his instructions, I
eased myself out of the booth and walked back to the table. The smell of the
beef and sausage was making my mouth water and I was eager to chomp into my
sandwich.

As I neared the table, I stopped dead in my tracks. Lillian was still
there, but Captain Oscar Burman was sitting next to her, hands clasped in front
of him, his thumbs doing a little dance around each other.

For a second or two, I thought about exiting out the back door, but
Burman’s gaze was fixed on mine. That ended that thought.

“Well,” he said, a thin smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach his
eyes, “look what I found here. The elusive private dick. I introduced myself to
the lady. She has to be your client because she’s way out of your league.”

“I’ll decide who’s in or out of my league, Captain,” Lillian snapped.

I appreciated her retort. He didn’t. He had lost some of his edge. The
smile on his face faltered and vanished. Still, he had me. “Sit down.” The
authority in his voice prompted me to pull out my chair and comply. We had a
staring contest for a few seconds. I lost. “May I?” I said, indicating my
sandwich.

The smile returned. “By all means. It’ll be the last good sandwich you’ll
have for a long, long time.”

I lost my appetite as my stomach flipped. I thought I knew what he meant,
but wanted him to say it. To appear nonchalant, I took a bite out of the
sandwich. The usual hot and sweet tang of the sauce tasted bland.

“We found another body at the crime scene,” Burman said, leaning back in
his chair. “Know anything about that?”

Something nagged at the back of my mind. How had Burman found me? I would
have sworn I’d lost the tail when we fled the crime scene. I said nothing, just
kept chomping on my sandwich.

“Must be a good sandwich,” he said. “I’ve had a few here myself. Bubba’s
a friend of mine, helps me see things I don’t normally see.” He grinned, like a
teacher who had just instructed the pupil. “Maybe I ought to order one. That
one’s so good it made you lose your voice.” He arched an eyebrow.

I chewed and stared at him. “I haven’t lost my voice. Not much to say.” I
didn’t risk a glance at Lillian.

“What?” Burman said. “I just accused you of murder.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said. “You asked if I knew anything about a dead body
at one of your crime scenes. How many crimes have happened in this town over
the past few days? I wasn’t sure which one you meant.”

He pursed his lips. “You’re being cute.”

“That’s what the ladies at all the dance halls call me. Glad you agree.”

In my peripheral vision, I saw Lillian crack a smile. She reached out and
slid her untouched bottle of beer over in front of Burman. “You might need this
more than I do.”

He ignored her. Only half of Burman’s face smiled. “I see you’re a
joker.” He stuck a finger at me. “You know damn well what crime scene I’m
talking about. The one you were at today.”

My thoughts went back to the events of the last twelve hours and the
number of crime scenes I had witnessed. Being shot at, being attacked, being
kidnapped by American agents, being accosted by a man who was likely a Nazi
sympathizer, being chased by those same folks, and, finally, getting a
front-row seat for the death of a man who tried to kill me. Sure, I had been to
many crime scenes today. I was ready to stop seeing them.

“Oh, that one.” I took another huge chomp out of the sandwich. My cool
demeanor shattered when I realized that I had sauce dribbling down my chin. “I
was there today. You know I was.”

“But did you go back?”

“Anyone see me go back?”

Burman shook his head. “I ain’t helping you with this. I can bring you in
right now just on suspicion.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

I glanced at Lillian, then back at Burman. “Because I know who killed
that man at the crime scene.”

Burman leaned back, not sure what to say next. “You see him in the
mirror, right?”

I thought back to the image of the man’s face, half-covered in shadow,
the look of pure hate in his eyes as I cowered with nowhere to run. Yes, I’d
see him in the mirror from now on. Probably in my dreams, too.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

Burman smirked. “Okay, wise guy. But know this: it’s only a matter of
time before we dig out those slugs from the wall and the corpse. We’re going to
run ballistics on them and then start seeing if we can find a match in the
books. We might even ask some folks for samples of bullets fired from their
guns.” He leaned on one elbow and gave me the stare that had withered so many
criminals in the interrogation room. “If I asked for a sample from your gun, do
you think it would match?”

I tried very hard to maintain my outwardly cool demeanor. I picked up the
Lone Star and drank off a third. Burman’s reputation was legendary and came
with more than a grain of truth. His eyes, dark as ebony, bore into me. My
stomach sank. I needed a few moments to think. The beer was already turning
warm in the humid evening. I replaced the bottle on the exact same ring of
condensation that had already formed on the table.

From the rear of the restaurant, the pay phone rang. I gave Burman
another stare. I hoped it was hard. I waited to see if Bubba called my name.
Sure enough, he did.

Burman said, “Expecting a call?”

I stood, picked up my beer by the neck, and let it dangle between my
fingers. “Depending on what the caller has to say, we all might be getting some
good news.”