All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

by Scott Dennis Parker

  I walked through one of the side doors. Martha had gone in ahead of me to get herself situated. It was twelve thirty. Plenty of time to flush out Marlowe and nab him for the cops or Aldridge.

  The main seating areas were inside the larger central room. Not nearly as grand as the stations in New York or Chicago, the Houston main train station was plenty large for the biggest town in Texas. Of course, this being Texas, there were murals on the walls depicting Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin.

  I approached through the west wing of the station and took my position behind a newsstand. Martha, wearing the clothes Danielle had been wearing, including a broad-brimmed hat, read the Post-Dispatch and wore sunglasses. Again, I noted her figure and her natural curves. Perhaps I had been a little too hasty in my judgement of her. She would do just fine as my secretary. The fact that she could use a gun was a bonus.

  A few minutes later, a man entered the station. He looked like the man I had seen meet Danielle. He stood, lighting a cigarette, and scanned the room. Seeing Martha dressed as Danielle, he made his way across the semi-crowded waiting area toward her. He bobbed and weaved through all the milling people and sat down next to her. Poor girl. She actually jumped.

  Martha put down the newspaper and folded it neatly. Next, she reached up and removed her sunglasses. I couldn't figure out why she was blowing her cover. Marlowe leaned in and said something in her ear. Without speaking, she reached up with her hand and pointed directly at me. Marlowe followed the direction. We made eye contact. A big grin creased his face. He beckoned me. Mute, but fuming, I complied.

  While I approached, Marlowe and Martha carried on some sort of conversation. She shook her head twice, then nodded once. He patted her knee in a somewhat reassuring fashion.

  “Sit down,” he instructed me. “Let's make sure everyone here sees nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Biting my inner lip in order not to say something wrong, I took the place next to Martha. Marlowe sat next to her.

  He reached out his hand. “I suspect you already know my name, but let's get introduced formal, Mr. Wade. My name is Preston Marlowe.”

  I took his hand and shook it. The tendons and muscles in his hands felt like a vice.

  “Your new secretary was just telling me this is her first day on the job. And you have her out in the field, getting caught by someone like me. That's not good. It's your job to protect her, make sure she stays safe in your office.

  Martha bristled at that but remained quiet.

  “I presume Danielle is in custody,” Marlowe said.

  “You presume right. And she's talking up a storm.”

  The shake of his head was dismissive. “Unlikely.” He reached over and plucked the purse Martha was holding. Danielle's purse. “The tickets are in here?”

  “You seem to know all the answers, Marlowe, but you still don't have what you want.” I grinned at him.

  He arched an eyebrow at me. “Not yet, but you’re going to give me the diamond now.”

  I barked out a laugh. “Assuming I even have it.”

  “It would be in your best interests if you did or could procure it in short order.”

  “Oh yeah, why's that?”

  Marlowe looked across the station and back toward the offices. He nodded. “Take a look.”

  From behind an open door, the figure of Amos Peete emerged. I had a second or two to ponder why that was supposed to scare me until I realized Peete was holding Clara. Even from this distance, her eyes were wide with terror.

  “Now, Mr. Wade, the diamond.”

  He didn't stick out his hand with an open palm. He just looked at me with an expectant expression, waiting.

  I reached into my inner suit pocket.

  “No funny business.”

  “I don't know any jokes.” My arm was like rock. I pulled out the small envelope and handed it over to Marlowe. His fingers, long and lithe, took it in the way a spider captures a fly.

  With a sly look, he slid the diamond into his palm. The gemstone glittered in the overhead lights. Martha let out a small gasp at the beauty. I resigned myself to losing the diamond. Which meant Aldridge would not make the call I needed to have him make, Smith’s chickens would all be slaughtered, and I’d have a very unsatisfied client.

  “Tell Peete to release Clara now.”

  Marlowe stood. “Come with me.”

  I stayed seated. “Why?”

  “Because it's part of the deal.” Marlowe’s voice was laced with sudden menace.

  I stood. So did Martha.

  “Not her.”

  “She works with me,” I said. ‘She goes where I go.” Not really sure why those words suddenly blurted themselves out of my mouth. Might have been I wanted to have two against two.

  Marlowe's shrug was nonchalant. “Have it your way. It's on you if she gets hurt.”

  He strode across the lobby. Martha was giving me an odd look I couldn't place. I held out my hand, motioning her to go first. She did and I followed.

  The three of us arrived at the doorway where Peete was still holding Clara. I got a better look at her face. Yes, she was truly scared, but, then again, I'd be, too, if a man were holding a knife to my side.

  “It's okay,” I told her. “It'll all be over soon.”

  Marlowe tsk-tsked. “Wade, you need to figure out who to bring into a case and whom to leave safely back home. This is a far too dangerous business for amateurs, especially female amateurs.”

  Martha, having had it with Marlowe's offhand comments, jabbed an elbow into his side. He nearly doubled over with the sudden pain.

  “That's for thinking so slightly about women.” She spat out the words.

  Marlowe rose and glared at her, full-on hatred in his eyes. That's when Peete hauled off and slugged me once in the jaw. The hit knocked me back into the open door. I banged my head and saw stars.

  “That's for the other night.”

  Martha knelt down next to me. For a moment, I couldn't figure out which one of the three images I saw was the real one. A shake of my head cleared it.

  “You certainly have a way with people,” my new secretary said.

  I offered her a lopsided grin. From across the station, the loudspeaker called for boarding of the 1:10 p.m. train. Folks stubbed out cigarettes, folded newspapers, and made their way to the train.

  “You don't have your tickets, Marlowe,” I said. “What are you going to do now?”

  He gave me another pitying look. From inside his coat, he withdrew two tickets. “Use these. You knew I’d have a backup plan, didn’t you? You are dense.”

  I stood and faced him. Instinctively, he took a step back. Straightening up, I tilted my head to look at him down my nose. “Not so dense as you think.” I raised my hand and offered him a mocking salute.

  With all the folks milling about in the station, the new players in this game weren't immediately obvious. Slowly, however, as we all looked around, men in suits started moving toward our position. A few wore police uniforms.

  Marlowe whirled on me. “You didn't.”

  I shrugged. “You know me; too dense to know any better.”

  The train whistled for final boarding. Marlowe looked to his right and the north door. Two uniformed cops stood just outside. Across the station at the south door, two other policemen stood at the ready. And in the middle, moving slowly but steadily toward us, was a small cadre of officers led by none other than Captain Oscar Burman.

  Was there a news camera nearby? It was about the only reason Burman would be out in the field. Nevertheless, his clout meant that the boys in blue were taking this seriously.

  And why shouldn't they? Oliver Aldridge was involved.

  Marlowe turned to Peete. “There a back way through here?” He meant the small room right in front of us.

  “Think so. Might get us to the train.”

  “Blast the train, idiot.” Marlowe spat out the words. “We just need to get to the car.” He motioned Peete toward the inside of the room. “Let
's go.” He wheeled. “My turn,” he said, walloping me in the gut. I doubled over, but caught his arm in both my hands. Barely breathing, I held on once as he tried to yank his arm free. Another slug to my jaw loosened my grip. I crumpled to the floor.

  But I had slowed him down. That was all I wanted. Peete and Marlowe scurried farther into the station's offices, knocking over people who happened to get in their way. I wasn't going to let Marlowe’s slugs be the last word. I got to my feet. After a couple of deep breaths, charged after him.

  The fleeing pair weren't hard to follow. No, the hard part was getting around all the onlookers who were too busy watching where Peete and Marlowe went even to consider there'd be someone else right behind them. I started hollering, trying to clear the way. It worked well enough.

  Peete was a good ten or so feet ahead of Marlowe. He was better at dodging and weaving through the offices and onlookers. But he was no match for the two patrol officers he ran into just as he opened an outer door. True, all three of them tumbled to the ground, but the cops used their bodies and kept Peete pinned to the ground long enough to slap the cuffs on him.

  Marlowe saw this in a glance and took a side hallway. A few seconds later, I skittered around the same corner. This hall was lined with various offices on one side and the dispatcher on the other. Charging ahead, I started to gain on Marlowe. It was a stroke of luck that he banged into an outer door and it didn't open right away. That enabled me to close the distance and tackle him. The combined weight of our bodies forced open the door. We both tumbled down a short stairway and sprawled out on the ground. The sun was blinding and the dust that kicked up got in my eyes. I couldn't see Marlowe, but I sensed he was trying to get up. I swung my leg out toward a sound and made contact with someone.

  Blinking the dust out of my eyes, I realized I had tripped Marlowe and he lay on his back. The roar of the train's engine starting up drowned out most sounds, but a few choice words escaped Marlowe's lips. I grabbed a handful of dust and threw it at him, but it didn't do any good. I tried to get up, but my ankle gave way as soon as I put weight on it. Must have sprained it. In any other circumstance, that wouldn't be a big deal. But in this one, with a crazy man trying to escape, it was a huge deal, especially when he put his hand in his suit and pulled out a pistol.

  “I should shoot you, Wade,” Marlowe rasped, “just for the hell of it, but I just don't have the time. But, I can't have you following me either. Remember I have this.”

  From beyond my vision, another hand appeared. It grasped Marlowe's gun hand at the wrist. His knuckles whitened as the mysterious hand ground down Marlowe's bones. There was an audible pop as something broke. Marlowe screamed and dropped the gun.

  It was only then that the body of the man to whom the hand belonged came into view. Oliver Aldridge. Next to him were a couple of goons. And, from seemingly out of nowhere, police officers and Captain Burman ran up to our location.

  “I want the record to show,” Aldridge said, “that this man has stolen something from me and I aim to get it back.” He said these words, not as though he was asking for permission but as if he were a lawyer in court.

  Burman felt obliged to nod, but Aldridge, still with Marlowe's wrist firmly in his grip, was already searching all his pockets. He withdrew the small envelope and let Marlowe's wrist go. The entire arm fell limp. Two patrol cops got the thief to his feet and cuffed him.

  Aldridge opened his palm and shook out the diamond. If the thing was brilliant under a lamp, it blazed in the sunlight.

  Burman pushed his hat to the back of his head and absently scratched his hairline. Even Marlowe stopped whimpering long enough to marvel at the gem's beauty.

  Aldridge spoke first. “I want to thank you, Mr. Wade, for retrieving my stolen property.”

  I looked up at Burman. “I thought you said there was no crime.”

  The police captain merely shrugged.

  Martha sidled up to me and tried to get me to stand. She had me put my arm around her shoulders. Together, we stood.

  “Who's this?” Burman asked, head nodding our way.

  “This is my new secretary. Martha Weber, meet Captain Burman. You'll need to know him because he and I have, um, history.”

  Burman scowled. “You sure you want to start in with this guy? He can be a pain in the ass.”

  Martha patted my hand. “I'll keep my own counsel, thank you, Captain. But can I get one of your men to help me? Mr. Wade here is rather heavy.”

  Burman raised his eyebrows, then motioned one of the cops to help me.

  In front of the station and around us, a crowd had gathered. From inside the crowd, reporters with notepads and cameras moved forward and began snapping pictures.

  Burman turned his back on them, straightened his tie, and put his hat back down firmly on his head. He gave me a wink and turned. He put a hand out to Aldridge meaning for the banker to walk forward and greet the reporters, but Aldridge begged off.

  “Mr. Aldridge, sir,” Burman said, “would you like to make a statement to the press?”

  Aldridge slid the diamond back into the envelope. It disappeared into a pocket. He glanced over at me, then back to Burman. “Yes, Captain, I would.” He held up a finger. “But first, I have to make a phone call.”

  “A phone call?” Burman said, puzzled. “Who do you have to call?”

  Aldridge had already started walking back toward the station. “I have to call a friend in Austin about some chickens.”

  Acknowledgements

  Back in May 2013, I wrote Wading Into War, Benjamin Wade’s first story. I went on to write a couple of book featuring a completely different set of characters. Late that year, I wanted to return to the world of 1940 and Benjamin Wade. Thus, All Chickens Must Die was born. At the time, I hadn’t written The Phantom Automobiles, Gordon Gardner’s first novel. The ending of that book meant that I had to fix up a few things here in Chickens. It proved to be a fun challenge.

  The title of All Chickens Must Die proved elusive. For the longest time—up to and including when I delivered the manuscript to my editor—I had no title. I can’t even say for sure how the phrase “all chickens must die” entered my head, but it did. And it stuck. With a title that would have been at home on an old 1950s or 1960s pulp novel, I wanted a cover that matched. I love the two intricate covers of Wading Into War and The Phantom Automobiles but I wanted a different vibe for this novel. After examining all the old novels I have here in my office, the concept of a solid color “main field” and a secondary color/field at top gave me the old-school pulp fiction look I wanted. For the longest time, I had a stock image of a silhouetted man, kneeling, and aiming his gun off screen. I liked it. A lot. You’ll see it in the future I assure you.

  At my day job, David Hadley is our company’s graphic artist. We have many similar interests—Star Wars being one—and we stuck up a good friendship. Along the way, I’d ask him design questions as I tried to train myself in the art of cover design. I showed him my first concept. He appreciated the old-school look and feel and offered a few suggestions. Then, one day, he asked if he could just work with an idea he had. No problem. I was eager to see what he would do.

  The cover was so much better than I had imagined. He used my kneeling man figure and introduced the arcing bullet you see on the cover. But I had a problem: there was no shootout at the farm. I’d either have to write one, or come up with something else. I suggested showing a man fleeing and viola. Front cover done. He suggested the idea of the front and back covers showing one scene. He made it happen.

  So, thanks to David for making All Chickens Must Die look so much better than it did.

  Regarding the words, I can write them, but I can’t make them shine as well as they without the help of my editor, Anna Marie Flusche. As with all my 1940s-era stories, she called me out on a few phrases that were too modern, verified my historical accuracy in other cases, and generally tightened up the prose. Every page had marks, of course, but I always look for the little check
marks near certain passages. It meant she enjoyed parts that I hope all readers enjoy. As always, any issues with the novel now are all on me.

  Thank you again, Anna Marie, for making this a better book.

  Reader Response

  Thank you, dear reader, for reading All Chickens Must Die. I'd love to hear what you thought of All Chickens Must Die. Your feedback is important to me and for helping other readers find books they like. In this new age of publishing, word of mouth is just as important as it has always been in spreading the news about good books. Online reviews are a new form of word of mouth.

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  Other Books by Scott Dennis Parker

  WADING INTO WAR: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

  Benjamin Wade’s first case!

  Houston, 1940

  Benjamin Wade is a laid back private investigator whose jobs are so mundane that he doesn’t even carry a gun. He thought his latest job was going to be easy.

  He thought wrong.

  Hired by beguiling Lillian Saxton to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe, Wade follows a lead and knocks on a door. He gets two answers: bullets and a corpse.

  Now Wade must unravel the truth about the reporter’s death, Lillian’s brother, and the whereabouts of a cache of documents that uncovers a shocking story from Nazi-controlled Europe and an even more nefarious secret here at home.

  Chapter One

  Monday, April 22, 1940