Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (5 page)

I
strolled to the rear of the joint and tried
to give an air of someone in complete control. The phone was hanging on its
cord. I put it to my ear. “This is Wade.”

Gardner’s voice crackled through the static. “Holy smokes, Wade, what the
hell have you gotten me into?”

I slid into the booth and closed the door. Through the grimy little
window, I watched as Burman and Lillian talked. I wanted to be in two places at
once.

“Tell me what you found.”

Gardner strung a bunch of words together, among which were “Germany,”
“Nazi bastards,” “camps,” and “murder.” That last one got me.

“Hold on, Gordon, slow down. Take it from the top. Tell me what you
found. Did you have any trouble getting to the mailbox?”

I heard deep breathing on the other end of the line. “Not really. The
owner looked at me funny, but I spoke all four of the Hebrew sentences I knew.
Must’ve convinced him because he walked around to the rear of the mailbox and got
the one thing that was in there: a manila envelope about an inch thick.”

Across the restaurant, Burman said something that made Lillian smile.

Gardner continued. “I opened it right then and there. Inside were pages
and pages of notes, some typewritten, others handwritten.” He paused long
enough that I thought the line was dead. “And there were photographs.” His
voice changed when he said that.

“Of what?”

“Bodies,” he said, giving the word some weight. “Bodies of people
murdered by the Germans. Murdered, I tell you.”

“Hey, Gordon, lemme ask you this: how do you know they were murdered?”

“Come on, Wade. I’m a reporter. I’ve seen my share of stiffs. I know what
dead bodies look like. Especially when they’re piled together like logs for a
fire.”

“The notes in the envelope. You read any of them?”

“Enough to know the gist. This Rosenblatt guy was on some sort of
mission. He didn’t say for whom. There are lots of references to a Samuel
Saxton, and much more. Seems like he was looking for this guy but then stumbled
upon a campsite filled with murder and dead bodies.”

I pondering a moment. “So, I’ve got two people dead because...”

“Two?” he sputtered. “Who else?”

“Don’t know his name, but he nearly killed me.”

“You kill him?”

I gazed out at Lillian. “No, not me. A friend. Well, I think she’s a
friend.”

“The ‘shes’ in your life are almost always your ‘friends,’” he said, a
little more of his non-excitable nature returning to his voice.

“Funny. I’ve got two people dead because of this. Army guys picked me up
earlier tonight and I’ve got Nazis chasing after me and Miss Saxton.”

“Oh, she has a name, does she?”

“Quiet. Tell me what’s so important that everyone’s after that envelope?”

His voice strained with incredulity. “Are you serious? Rosenblatt
uncovered a war crime. And he has the evidence. What the Nazis are doing is
illegal.”

“Gordon, the whole damn war is illegal. And might I remind you that we’re
not in it?”

“Yet.” Over the line came the sound of rustling papers. “You remember the
Zimmerman telegram?”

I sighed. Gardner loved history. I only knew the history I lived. “No.” I
pulled out my notebook, ready to jot down comments if they proved relevant. I
sat on the little seat, turning my back to Burman and Lillian.

“The Zimmerman telegraph was intercepted by the British back in 1917. It
was a message from Germany to Mexico asking the Mexicans to attack America if
Uncle Sam went to war. The Kaiser promised the Mexicans he would help them
reclaim all the territory lost during the Mexican-American War in 1848. It was
one of the factors Wilson used to convince the public to go to war.”

I sighed again. “How does this pertain to now, in 1940?”

“Dammit, Wade, don’t you see? When I publish this stuff, the notes and
the pictures, it’ll be like that. It’ll be one more notch we can use to stop
the Nazis.”

“Wait a damn minute,” I said, my voice loud in the small compartment.
“You can’t publish that information. All hell would break loose if that stuff
saw the light of day.”

“It’s the light of justice that I want to shine. You know the Nazis are
wrong, and FDR is just sitting by while Hitler carves up Europe. You want a
world that’s safe for democracy? Pretty soon, if this keeps up, we’ll be the
only democracy left.”

“That’s all well and good, Gordon, but you simply cannot publish that
material, no matter what it is. There are some scary men looking for it—killing
people over it.” In my frustration, I issued a threat. “If you publish it,
they’ll come after you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. They’ve already tried to kill me. In fact, one would have
succeeded if Miss Saxton hadn’t shot him.”

He paused. “What? What happened?”

“Never mind that. It’s done. In fact, I’ve got Burman right now trying to
pin the shooting on me. But we’re talking about that evidence and the pictures.
You simply can’t go to the press with it.”

Gardner said, “You forget something, Wade; I’m already the press.” He
hung up.

Damn
, I thought,
if he goes through
with this, we’d both be in serious trouble
. Knowing Gardner, he was already
on his way to the newsroom. I had to stop him.

I peered out the booth’s little window and saw Burman. Alone. Lillian was
making her way toward the back. Since I hadn’t hung up the phone, I made like I
was still talking and gave her a little nod. She passed me and slipped into the
ladies’ room.

Making sure Burman never saw me. I hung up, exited the booth, and walked
to the back of the joint. I gripped the handle of the back door and slipped out
into the small alley.

“Good evening, Mr. Wade,” an icy voice cooed.

I had to admit that it was getting old to have people sneaking up on me.
I took in the situation.

Among the rows of trash cans and the spattering of cars parked behind the
restaurant, two men stood to one side of the alley. They weren’t the ones who
had spoken. That one was behind me. I considered the options: three against
one. The two goons were far enough away that I might be able to take out the
one behind me before they reached me. Then, of course, there was always the
option of running back into the restaurant.

The sound of a gun hammer being cocked eliminated all other options. “I
would advise you not to try anything, Mr. Wade. Turn around.”

That wasn’t good. Anyone with a gun willing to let the victim see his
face was destined to end up dead. I turned and my eyes widened in surprise. It
was the original shooter, the one I had tussled with both at the crime scene
earlier today and again at Lillian’s hotel room.

Something on my insides melted away, but I hoped my exterior hid it. I
put my hands in the air. “I wasn’t planning on anything else, mister....”

A smile creased his face. I was happy to see the purplish splotch marring
his face and knew I had put it there. “You can call me Dietrich.” Holding the
gun aimed at my middle, he nodded to the two men. They walked up and flanked
me. One of them reached into my pocket and withdrew my gun. He handed it to
Dietrich who put away his own weapon and trained my gun on me.

“Where are they?”

I indicated the restaurant. “Inside. Want me to go get them? The woman didn’t
order anything, but the police captain might be hungry now.”

Dietrich chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not talking about them. I want the
documents. You found them.” It wasn’t a question.

“Maybe.”

“The phone. Who were you talking to?”

“My lawyer. Seems the captain thinks I killed a man today. One of yours?”

This time, he snarled. “Of course. Hans was following you to see where
you went, see if you knew where the documents were. Guess he was right. Good
thing he reported to me before you killed him.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Never mind who killed him. You will answer for it nevertheless. Where
are the documents?”

“What would you do with them anyway?”

“Destroy them, of course. Then find out how they got out of Germany and
make the people responsible for their creation pay as well.”

Thinking of all the parties trying to find the packet--the Germans, the
Army, Lillian, and me--maybe letting Gordon publish them wasn’t the end of the
world. It might do some good.

“That’s what I thought. Sorry. No dice.”

The blow to my right ear came out of nowhere. The pain was white hot. I
crumpled to the ground. One of the goons then kicked me for good measure, the
hard leather of his shoe colliding with my kidneys. I doubled into a ball,
bracing for more.

But none came. Instead, Dietrich said, “The only other person you have
contacted today is the reporter.”

My mind was clear enough to marvel at how well these guys had tailed me.
If I got out of this alive, I resolved to improve my ability to evade tails.

A new thought occurred to Dietrich. He looked down at me. “He’s not
thinking of publishing those lies, is he?”

I took shaky breaths, trying to calm myself and put some force behind my
words. “Maybe. If it means you don’t get the packet and all that valuable
information, then good for him.”

Dietrich shook his head. “Bad for him, Mr. Wade.” He glanced at his
watch. “The paper doesn’t go to press until after midnight. We still have a few
hours to track him down. And chances are, there are very few places he’d go.
Unless you want to help us find him?”

I said nothing. My ear was swelling and I was losing hearing in it, but
the sharp pain to my kidney had subsided to a dull ache.

“Very well. Whatever happens to him will be on your hands.” He motioned
with the gun. “Imagine the police captain’s surprise when the reporter is
killed with this gun, the same gun used to kill Hans...”

“Wait,” I said, spit flying from my mouth. I rose to my knees, hands in
the air. “He’s probably in one of two places, his apartment or the newsroom.” I
nodded to the goons behind me. “Send them to his apartment. I’ll take you to
the newsroom. I might be able to talk him out of publishing any of it.”

Dietrich considered for a moment. Then he spoke to one of his men. “You
remember where the reporter, Gardner, lives? Good. Go there and keep watch.” He
extended a hand to me. “Mr. Wade and I are going to the news room.”

The
offices of the
Houston Post-Dispatch
were located at Fannin and Texas. The twenty-two-story building was the largest
in downtown when it was built in 1926. Its Neoclassicism ran counter to the Art
Deco style that had emerged in the 1920s. To complete the look, molded
gargoyles looked down from the top edge.

Behind the building, the parking lot was illuminated by four arc lamps,
their conical glow dimly keeping out the darkness. In this late spring night,
the humidity could almost be seen wafting under the light.

I had played the only card I possessed—splitting up that trio of devils.
I knew Gardner’s work habits pretty well. When he was on a hot story, he didn’t
always work in his apartment. He had a small cubby in the main newsroom with a
table and a typewriter. At home, he had a slightly larger work space where he
banged out all those pulp yarns he tried to get published with only moderate
success. I’d also known him to write news copy at home and then take the
finished piece to the typesetter.

But on bigger stories, he liked to go to the office and spread out his
work. He took his typewriter and confiscated a break room table. It was an
idiosyncrasy that some of his fellow reporters looked down on, but it got
Gardner’s work noticed. He was thorough. That was what both impressed me about
his work and had me worried for his safety now.

I was hoping the sensitivity of this information would compel Gardner to
head to the office. If not, then I had just signed his death warrant.

Gardner had his car, but he also liked to take the bus. It got him in
touch with people, he always told me. He found stories no one cared to write about.
I often wondered if he ever thought people might not want to read those types
of stories. If so, it never seemed to bother him.

With a story this big, however, Gardner was bound to drive.

Dietrich and I had stationed ourselves across the street from the back
corner of the office building. We were in a small alley that gave us a clear
view of the entire parking lot. It would be easy to spot Gardner’s car and then
catch him before he entered the building.

Dietrich said, “I hope you know your friend well enough, Mr. Wade. I’d
hate to think you were trying to stall me. Or worse, lead me astray and allow
Mr. Gardner to publish those lies.”

I nodded. “The thought had occurred to me. But there’s a part of me that
just wants to see you behind bars, and the best way to do that is to make sure
you find your way there.”

Dietrich chuckled softly. “You may not believe me, but I’m American. And
I do love the American bravado, even in the face of certain defeat.”

I chewed my lower lip. “We’ll see.”

Off to the east, we heard the sound of a car approaching fast. I didn’t
think it was Gardner—his apartment was west of the newsroom. But as a Lincoln
Zephyr turned into view, I realized it was him. He must have gone a roundabout
way, thinking he might be followed. Smart man. I only hoped he had left his
apartment before the goons showed up.

“Let’s go.” I started walking to the parking lot.

Dietrich fell in line behind me. “Remember I still have your gun.”

I smirked even though he couldn’t see my face. “How could I forget?”

Gardner had parked nearer to the building than I would have expected. I
had to half-run to catch up with him. I slipped my hand into my pocket.

“Gordon,” I said, loud enough to get his attention but soft enough to
avoid notice. At this time of night, the traffic was steady, but not full.

“Wade?” Gardner turned to face me. He clutched a slim leather briefcase.
“What are you doing here?” He thought for a moment, then said, “No way. There
is no way you’re stopping me. This is too big.” He pointed at the building.
“I’m going in there and publishing this.”

I shook my head. “That isn’t a good idea.” Dietrich had just walked into
the light. “This man wants those documents. I, um, think you’d better give them
to him.” With infinite slowness, the right hand that I had slipped into my
pocket while running, slid out of my pocket. In it, I held my trump card.

Gardner looked behind me and his eyes widened. Dietrich, his face
shadowed by his fedora, merely smiled. “I’ve read your work, Mr. Gardner. Very
passionate. I’m almost tempted to see how you would write the story. You have
read the information, I take it?”

The ire in Gardner’s face started shining through. “You’re damn right I
read it. Enough to know that the Nazis are murderers. When we win this war,
they’re going to pay.”

“Mr. Gardner,” Dietrich said, “the United States isn’t even in this war.
And if they join, they will lose, just like everyone else.”

I said, “Tell that to the Soviets.”

Dietrich laughed. “Even if they stop the
Führer
, they won’t be
able to do anything. They’re as good as defeated.” He indicated the briefcase
with my gun. “Now, the case.”

Gardner didn’t move.

Dietrich said, “Since you know what’s in those documents, I’m not sure I
can let you live. You might still write a story. You’ll have no proof, of
course, but you could rouse some anger over here.” He cocked the gun, the click
a sharp sound in the night.

Gardner, anger clearly flashing in his eyes, tensed. I saw it. From the
corner of my eye, I could tell Dietrich saw it, too. We were all tense but none
of us moved.

Then things all began to happen at once.